Games of Subterfuge (Chapter One)

Chapter One

With a soft click the padlock opened. Smiling triumphantly, Myla steadied herself on the small perch she was sitting on. She removed the torsion wrench and the pick from the lock and stuffed them between her waistband. Myla had scaled the wall of the townhouse and used one of the wrought iron bars that protected the building’s narrow windows to support her. She thought it ironic the bars -- mounted in front of the windows to keep burglars out -- now helped her get in. With her free hand she removed the padlock, the other hand still wrapped around a bar for support.

Myla cast a quick look over her shoulder. She saw the light of the guards’ lantern disappear at the end of the road. Reassured that no one could see her in the darkness, she opened one of the doors and then climbed inside the storehouse loft. Once inside, she stopped to close the door, making certain a sudden wind wouldn’t blow it open again.

Like most attics, the space had a stuffy smell to it. Myla coughed on her sleeve as she ventured further into the room. It was packed with crates and shelves but there was little of value to be had. The attic had once been used to store trading goods. The pulley near the great doors was a silent reminder of its previous destination. But trade had dried up in Biélod and now it was used, like most attics, to store worthless junk. The only reason Myla had climbed the wall to get inside was because the loft doors were the weak point of the townhouse. All the windows had bars and the front door was reinforced iron. Myla was certain she could pick the lock given enough time but not quick enough to avoid the night watch passing every few minutes. That’s why she had agreed to scale the wall and try her luck with the attic. All she had to do now was open the front doors and let her associates in.

Myla made her way through the attic, heading to the door at the far end. She paused halfway through to get a look at one of the items. It had a handle made from a strange white material with the top part made of some kind of hair. She wondered what it was used for, an expression of rapt fascination on her fine-featured face. Lost in thought, she examined the object end over end before she realized the others were waiting for her. Silently admonishing herself for her lack of concentration, Myla tuck the item between her waistband and headed for the door. When she reached it, she squatted down and looked at its hinges. If they hadn’t been oiled properly, the creaking sound they’d make would surely stir up trouble. After a brief assessment, she tried the handle, content that the hinges seemed in a good enough state. When the door opened with a simple push, Myla smiled. The family who lived in the townhouse had spared little effort securing the outside from the thieves and burglars of Biélod but they’d stinted on the inside.

The door led to a landing with a staircase. There were several other closed doors nearby. Most likely the bedrooms. If she made a sound now, she’d wake someone up. Her heart beat a heavy staccato as Myla snuck to the stairs. She tested the first step by tentatively placing one feet on it. She winced when it made a faint creaking sound. The townhouses in Biélod were old and the woodwork was ridden with termites. From experience, she knew creaky stairs were a burglar’s worst enemy. Creaky stairs and dogs. She didn’t dare move for at least a minute until she was convinced the sound hadn’t alerted anyone.

Taking the stairs step by step, Myla made her way down. Her slender figure blend in well with the darkness with the help of her dark colored clothes. When she reached the front door, she started to undo the latches. Myla stole a quick glance through a narrow window and saw the guard had already passed the house and were almost at the end of the street. She pushed open the heavy door to let her friends in.

Strong hands seized her the minute the door opened. Myla let out a stunned cry as she was dragged out and shoved against the wall. Two Biélod guardsmen were restraining her. More of them held her associates. A quick headcount told Myla two out of three had been caught. She recognized the downbeat faces of Radoslav and Lyuba but Yefrem was nowhere to be found. That kopile has betrayed us, Myla thought. When her eyes met Radoslav’s, he confirmed her suspicions with a subtle nod.

Gloved hands pulled down Myla’s hood as her arms were pressed against the wall. Against the superior strength of the guardsmen, there was little Myla could do. She could see the surprised look on their faces when they saw her hair was shaved to a stubble. Myla stifled a smirk. When people saw her they often reacted strangely to her haircut.

She’d cut her hair short for else it hindered her in her work. And because she hated lice. Lowtown Biélod was positively crawling with those. People didn’t seem to understand that girls with long hair made bad thieves. And the hangman didn’t care about your pretty long hair either. Not until he could shave it of your corpse and sell it to a wigmaker.

“Seems like we got quite ah catch here lads,” said one of the guards.

Despite his condescending manners, Myla didn’t give him a dirty look. It didn’t pay to act tough to the guard. The only thing it’d give you was a good beating. Instead, Myla tried to calm her racing heart. It’s just a minor setback, she lied to herself. I’ll find a way to get out of this. And then I’ll find a way to get money and get out of this forsaken place.

“Off to the dungeons with ‘em,” said another guard, “It’s getting late an’ else they’ll be tired for their hanging an’ all.”

Two of the armored men sniggered and then the guard started to jostle their prisoner’s in the direction of Biélod keep. Two of the burly men seized Myla’s skinny arms and she stumbled down the road. Trying to keep a level head, Myla struggled to conceive a plan. A quick look at the guard told her they were of the tough and experienced sort. Veterans of the army or perhaps they’d been recruited from the lowtown thug population. The distinction between the law and the gangs was notoriously thin in Biélod. The only difference between a ganger and a guard was the armor. Put a thug in lamellar armor and replace his cudgel with a halberd and you’ve got a new guard. That was the policy of Biélod’s Vikont.

The sound of heavy boots on cobblestone sounded through the night as the procession made its way to the keep. Already Myla could see the towers and a deep sense of foreboding filled her. Her hands turned to fists and she bit her lip as she tried to conjure up a plan. Her brain refused to work and as Myla’s frustration rose so did her despair. She watched her feet carry her to the keep, feeling less and less in control. She hated not being in control. Focus Myla, she told herself. You can get out of this. You’ve faced worse.

The road was in bad shape. Myla knew several stones were so loose they could be pried out without any effort. It was just another reminder of Biélod’s decline. And then she finally thought of something. When they reached the next crossroads she let herself trip on one of the stones dislodging it in the process. At first it seemed like her plan had failed and guards would keep her upright but then they let her fall with a nasty chuckle. Myla smiled when she hit the cobblestones despite the pain that surged through her limbs.

“Watch yer steps,” the guardsman said, “Don’t want you to be all banged up before yer big day.”

He knelt next to Myla’s prone form, putting a hand on her shoulder to help her up. Up close, Myla could see the man’s face. It was partially covered by the helmet and the chainmail coif, but she could see the amusement in the man’s eyes. And she could see those eyes roll back in their sockets when she hit him right in his face with the cobblestone. An alarming cry sounded through the night as Myla bounded to her feet. Metal met the stones she’d been lying on moments before. Not looking back, Myla made a run for it, heading to lowtown.

She didn’t have to look over her shoulder to know the guards were in pursuit. She heard the sound of their lamellar armor. There was a reason lowtowners called guards ‘rattlers’. When the sound of armor could be heard, lowtowners made sure to keep a low profile. There wasn’t much keeping low profile now and Myla knew she wouldn’t be able to outrun the guard for long. Each moment now, she could run into one of the night patrols and then she’d be in trouble.

Racing through the streets, Myla made a sharp right into an alleyway. Judging from the sounds, her pursuers were losing ground on her, hindered by their armor. When she exited the alley, her momentary relief disappeared like snow before sun. The patrol didn’t need long to figure out what was going on. Stopping dead in her tracks, Myla spun around on her axis and turned left into another alley. She cursed her luck for picking that one when she found out it was a dead end. At the end of the cul-de-sac a few people loitered in front of a shady establishment. Better than nothing, Myla thought, running to the sounds of merriment. She pushed through the drunkards and into the warm interior of the tavern.

No one paid her a second look as she weaved through the crowd. Where moments before her slender figure had been a disadvantage to the guard, it now helped her navigate the crowded room. She climbed the stairs two steps at a time as she heard the loud cries of the rattlers trying to cleave a path through the common room. They were hindered by the besotted patrons but it would only buy Myla a bit of time. She was trapped in the building and couldn’t get out. Soon, the guard would search the rooms and then she’d be properly screwed. Maybe, she reasoned, she could make her way out the back, through a window of sorts.

Hope returned as she dashed into one of the room’s for hire. She slammed the door shut behind her, turning the key in the lock before she stumbled to the window. Her breathing was ragged and her hands fidgeted with the iron latch on the window’s woodwork. Then she noticed the iron bars on the window. Cursing her luck she turned back towards the door.

“What’s this,” said a tall woman standing in front of the door. “I’ve only just rented this room and I’ve got an intruder already?”

Myla could feel the window sill prod into her back as she sized the woman up, like a cornered animal. The most striking thing about her was her cropped white hair. It was hard to judge the woman’s age but Myla reckoned she wasn’t old enough for grey hair. She slid her left hand down into her coarse linen jerkin feeling for the heft of her hidden knife.

“Lost your tongue? Don’t worry. I don’t care much for the Vikont’s men.”

Heavy boots on the stairs.

“Prokletstvo,” she cursed. “Into the closet, you. Now.”

Drawing her knife from its hiding place, Myla scampered to the closet. It was one of the sparse pieces of furniture in the small room. The ramshackle thing looked like it could come apart at any moment. When Myla heard a knock on the door, she opened it and climbed inside. After casting a suspicious look at the woman, she closed the door and waited. She clenched her hand tight around the haft of her knife as she heard the door open.

“We will search the room,” the rattler said matter-of-factly. “Please stand back or we’ll clap you in irons.”

“Of course. What is it you’re looking for?”

“None of your business.”

Myla felt like her heart could explode any moment. She could hear the floorboards creak under the guard’s weight. It was hard to judge where the man was based on sound. Everything sounded strangely muffled through the closet doors. She could already see herself swinging from the gibbet. The purple discoloration of suffocating clashed with her pale skin.

“I’m done here.”

Myla felt her muscles relax a little when she heard the footsteps go away. She could hear the door being closed and then-

“Wait.”

Not for the first time, Myla felt a deep sense of dread. The footsteps approached and then… as the guard pulled open the closet, Myla stabbed forward - stopping her thrust at the last moment. Perplexed, she watched how the guard looked right through her. Behind him, she saw the mysterious woman. Her lips were moving quickly and her face looked strained. Then the guard closed the closet and left. Once the door was shut, Myla leapt out of the closet making sure to keep her distance from the woman.

“You’re a witch,” Myla said.

“I prefer the term sorceress.”

“Hngh,” Myla snorted, “And why’d you help me?”

“Don’t care much for the Vikont’s men as I said. And I have need of a thief. You are a thief aren’t you?”

“I prefer the term. . .” Myla paused for a moment, struggling for words. When she couldn’t find one she uttered a dark curse, disappointed at the limits of her vocabulary.

“What use does a witch have for a thief anyway?”

“Sorceress,” the woman said. “I need to borrow something from a colleague of mine.”

“Stealing from another witch? Doesn’t seem like something a smart thief would do.”

“Sorceress. And you’re not a very smart thief if you get caught.”

“Hah! Not my fault I was betrayed,” Myla said, “If I’d known what a kopile that Yefrem was I’d never have been caught. Sure you expect them to turn on you once you’ve moved the loot but sellin’ us out to the guard. That’s just low.”

“Good, I have little use for a bad thief. As you’ve pointed out so delicately, stealing from my colleague won’t be easy.”

“I ain’t helping you.”

“Why not? Staying here isn’t an alternative anymore.”

“Is that so?”

“As soon as the guard recognizes you, they’ll haul you back to the Vikont’s keep and you’ll be swinging from the gallows at sunrise.”

“They won’t recognize me.”

“You’re a bald girl. . .”

“I’m not bald!”

“Almost.”

“Nothin’ a hood can’t hide.”

“So you’d rather hide here? In this dying little town? Instead of seeing a little bit more of the world?”

Myla was silent for a moment. The plan was to get enough money to leave. And now, after she’d just lost her best opportunity at getting the funds, she was handed a second chance on a silver platter. The only thing that held Myla back was that she didn’t trust the woman. Life was tough in lowtown and even more so for women. Most of them made a living whoring. Some managed to get into one of the gangs, but usually they looked for big, strong lads.

Myla was one of the few women that made a living as a burglar but the competition was stiff. It was a dog-eat-dog world out there and Myla hadn’t survived as long as she had by trusting strangers. As a rule, she never trusted anyone. And leaving with the mysterious silver-haired woman would take a lot of trusting on her part.

“Can’t see the world if your colleague kills me. Or you.”

“I could kill you right now,” the woman said. “I could call the guards. Could’ve let him catch you in that closet. You think you’d stood a chance with that letter opener against an armored soldier? Don’t think so.”

“I suppose not.”

“Listen. This might be your last chance to leave this place. Come with me and I’ll feed and clothe you and make sure you won’t die on the way to Miesograd.”

“See, the problem is I don’t trust you.”

At that, the witch let out a frustrated cry. She let herself fall to her bed, looking up at the rafters. Still holding on to her knife, Myla allowed herself to relax a little. The witch was right. She’d had her chance to kill Myla but she hadn’t seized it. She didn’t let her guard down but she stopped pressing her back against the wall like a cornered rat.

“I don’t know why you prefer to rot in this backwater town. There’s nothing here and there’s an entire world out there you can see. There’s more to Ferranaia than the dark, tall townhouses of Biélod.” She practically spat the last words.

“You’re surprised I’m not in a trusting mood after my brush with death?”

“You don’t have to trust me. You’d be a fool to trust a stranger. All I’m asking you is to take a chance. You can spend your days hiding here or you can make a bet by coming with me. If you change your mind about the job when we get to Miesograd I’m sure there’ll be slums there too and plenty of houses to burgle.”

“Miesograd,” Myla said. “Miesograd. . . What part of the tsardom is that?”

“It isn’t. Miesograd is a city state near the border. Of course it’s ruled by the Tsar’s sister nowadays but technically it’s not part of the tsardom.”

“What people live there?” she asked. “Timurid? Koshnav? Selduk?”

“Timurid mostly but Miesograd is one of the largest cities in Timuvium. I wager you’ll find every kind of Timuvian people there.”

“Never been out of Biélod. Miesograd sounds like a nice place though.”

“It is.”

There was a moment of silence and Myla sat down on the floor. She still didn’t trust the woman but she didn’t want to leave the room before she was certain the guards were gone. And she had to admit the possibility of visiting Miesograd was exciting. As she reclined against the wall, Myla noticed the strange object stuffed between her belt. She smiled as she took it in her hand, subjecting it to a second examination. Her fall on the cobblestones had scratched the hilt and the hairs were in disorder but it was mostly intact.

“Where did you find that calligraphic brush?” The woman was sitting up now, looking at the brush.

“The what?”

“The calligraphic brush. The Selduk use it to paint their horses. They believe the symbols will bring good luck when they ride into battle.”

“Ca-lli-gra-phic,” Myla said, as if savoring the alien word. “Ca-lli-gra-phic brush.”

Then a gap-toothed smile lit up her face and she started to clean the hairs of the brush, picking out little rocks and cleaning off dirt with her sleeve.

“How do you think it got here,” she asked.

“I don’t know. Don’t think the Selduk would ever give away their lucky brushes. Their warriors make them themselves, using their horse’s hair. I don’t think they’d ever part with it willingly. Could be a Timurid soldier brought it home after the last war.”

“Hmm,” Myla replied absent-minded.

“I’m Dariya,” the woman said. “If you’re going to hide in my room it’s only proper we introduce ourselves.”

“Myla.”

“Liudmyla? Named after the Tsarina then?”

“Myla. I don’t have anything in common with the Tsarina.”

“Myla,” Dariya said.

“Dariya isn’t a Timurid name, is it?”

“I’m Koshnav,” she said.

“How are your lands?”

“All these questions,” Dariya said. “You can ask me questions all night long but you still won’t know what it’s really like to see the upper north of Timuvium. The snow and the glaciers. Or the colorful streets of Miesograd. The people of the Reich. . .”

The Reich. Myla had entertained thoughts of going there. Timuvium was at war with Tannenberg, one of the Reich’s elector kingdoms. Myla had considered following the army and then sneaking over the lines into imperial lands. She’d never gotten her hands on enough money to leave.

“I’ll go,” she suddenly said, surprised at herself.

“Good,” Dariya said with a bright smile. “Saves me the trouble of going to lowtown.”

And with that, they lapsed into silence again. After a while, Myla noticed Dariya had fallen asleep. Still not capable of trusting her, Myla nestled into a corner of the room observing the strange witch as she slept until sleep finally took her too.


Her new boots felt strange on her feet. She couldn’t stop wriggling her toes in them, trying to make a more comfortable fit. Myla wasn’t used to leather boots. She’d spent most of her live barefoot, only ever wearing her poor quality shoes when she went out thieving. The heels of her boots made a strange tapping sound on the cobblestones. Myla realized it was the sound that bothered her most. She almost felt like a rattler making that much sound. Every time her heel struck stone she winced a little. Myla saw Dariya hide a smile and she wondered if the witch could read her mind.

Trust was still an issue between her and the white-haired woman but after mulling it over some more, Myla was happy with her choice. Biélod was becoming an increasingly dangerous place to live and pickings were meager for thieves and burglars. More important still, the lure of adventure spoke to Myla. She was trying to convince herself that she’d made the decision based on rational arguments but deep down she knew her curiosity and the prospect of new and exciting experiences had decided for her.

Her boots weren’t the only thing knew on her. She was wearing a rough woolen cloak with a deep hood that hid her face. The grey colored garment was warm inside and Myla liked how the wool tickled her skin. She almost felt like she belonged in the hustle and bustle of the market. None of the guards paid her a second look as they navigated the streets towards the gates.

Ahead of them, the gates of Biélod appeared and Myla felt her heartbeat pick up the pace. She had never been through those gates before. She’d often dreamed about it but without money for clothes or food, she couldn’t survive on the road.

Next to the gate, three corpses hanging from a gibbet swung gently in the wind. Their heads were colored in a purple hue which could only mean the fall off the scaffold hadn’t broken their necks. That had probably been arranged to prolong the spectacle.

“Friends of yours,” Dariya asked.

A wry smile played on Myla’s face when she recognized Yefrem. He was hanging between Radoslav and Lyuba. A fitting end, thought Myla.

“Associates. Thieves don’t have friends.”

Myla almost hadn’t recognized Lyuba. The girl looked strange with her brown curls cut off.

(comments/critique welcome here: Chapter One