In the early morning sunshine, light and delicate as new it rises, and through the summer mist that swims and swirls still through the streets of the Imperial City, from off of the rivers and waterways that thread their weary way through it; in that sunshine and mist they move. A small group, all dressed in smoky grays and blacks, emerge from a small gated door in an otherwise unimpressive wall, rapidly establishing themselves in a pattern, up and down the alley. Low whistles, signalling the all clear, are heard, two from in front, three from behind, almost replying to each other. A single figure in the doorway raises a fist and makes a series of hand gestures to those behind him, out of sight, and then the movement begins – like a sinuous snake the small column eases the rest of itself out of the doorway and winds quickly down the alleyway. From the body of this main column individuals break off as they pass those who had been emplaced, while those they replace return to the constantly moving group in a continuous cycle.
Doorway by doorway, corner by corner, junction by junction this creature moves, slick and skilled in its continual replenishment and movement; all done at a dazzling speed, while at its heart is a sedan chair is carried by some of the men that move so silently. Clearly the load is heavy but no one speaks or complains in the entire exercise. Those who do observe this whispering parade, from behind creaking shutters or the pulled back edges of heavy curtains, do not actually see any weapons, but that threat is present in the faces of those who move, when the watchers manage to grasp a glance at such, behind hoods, hats and scarves.
But with haste it makes its way to the quarter dock, where a sleek-hulled, fast vessel awaits, ramps only dropped from its decks as the first of the mist-wreathed figures set foot upon the jetty. The box is quickly brought to the foot of those deck ramps but instead of a figure with all the grandeur of a Lord it is a young servant, dressed in the black and red livery of his master, who steps out of the sedan chair, carrying with him a satchel laden with books. From around the jetty now those who have travelled with such precision begin to move aboard the ship in pairs, striding onto the deck with no lessening of diligence to the task at hand.
It is only when they are all aboard, sedan chair dismantled and stowed and open sea between all aboard “The Gull” and the City shore that one of those figures, in the privacy of his personal cabin, removes the mantle, hood and scarf that hid his face and shrugs off the cape to reveal Ghorien Hriele, Duke of Ghieste, his right arm bound up in bandages still, but seemingly no less skilled than any of his men.
