I. Smoke
Raymer detested the rain. He hated the smell of it, hated the danger it posed to his hair’s delicate sheen; he hated the smell of it the next day that lingered even after it was gone. The downpour had slowed over the last hour, but he was content to duck into the dilapidated shell of a building and escape the drizzle, even as the building’s walls threatened to collapse in on themselves.
The place was a hovel, a dump, but so was nearly every structure in Valstead these days. Raymer had no reason to visit the country before this week. The headlines he half-remembered about Valstead were always joined by words like murder, famine, and disease. But he knew from paintings and recollections from old tutors that this suffering nation’s beauty had once rivaled even Gildia’s, with its domed architecture and rolling flint hills. That was all, of course, before the war, before the Scarlet rebellion, and before the Styx quashed that rebellion in one violent night.
As he stepped into the building – no door needed, the hole in the wall could fit at least three people – he peered around the rubble for signs of life. Miserable sooty rain leaked through the roof, soaking into the floorboards that sagged slightly under his weight. Any furniture that once occupied the room appeared to have been broken apart for firewood.
A trashcan fire sat in the middle of the main room, smoldering sulfuric ash and the large plume of smoke that had first alerted Raymer to this location. But the fire’s owner was nowhere in sight. Holding his hand near the embers, Raymer could feel heat through his glove; his target couldn’t have gone far. He brushed aside some litter on the ground, looking for…what? A secret door? Footprints? He didn’t know yet, but he’d know once he found it.
As he walked to the other side of the room, his footsteps rang heavier, the floor reverberating with a hollow echo. There. Something under the floor. But how would he get there? Pulling aside the moldy carpet revealed writhing black beetles that scattered in the light. Nothing. He walked back outside the building, and there it was – a decaying cellar entrance, barely hidden, almost inviting Raymer to enter.
Raymer had expected a fight, something where he’d get to put his trick shooting skills to use, but there was no muscled warlord down here. Just an older man with sunken eyelids, sallow cheeks, and a pale face that hadn’t seen much daylight. His ratty buttoned shirt bore the insignia of a captain, and a faded crimson scarf hung around his neck. He was a Scarlet. Raymer kept his pistol trained on the man’s forehead, and the message was clear – no sudden moves.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” the man sneered.
“You’re one to speak…Oleksander, is it?” Raymer asked, though he knew the answer. Olek stared through him. “You’ve been charged with desertion, treason, sedition…do you know the punishment for those crimes?”
“There can be no treason against an illegitimate state.”
Raymer reached into his long red coat and pulled out a wrinkled slip of paper, waving it in front of Olek’s face. “Eh, I’ve got the bounty right here, and it’s pretty clear about the treason.”
“I was expecting the Stygian agent who massacred my people. Not some Gildian errand boy.”
Raymer gasped facetiously. “Errand boy? You wound me! I’ll have you know, I was mentored by the very agent responsible for your group’s…liquidation.”
Olek scoffed. “Your manicured nails betray you, you’re no member of the Styx. What death could you possibly deliver?”
“Olek, my dear friend,” Raymer said, his charming voice infiltrated by a tinge of irritation. He pressed the barrel of his pistol between the Scarlet officer’s eyes, slowly walking him backwards into a wooden support beam in the center of the room. “I have lived many lives and ended countless more. Do not begin to mistake my friendliness for weakness when it’s out of pity. I’ve worked side by side with my mentor, and we both know how your story ends.”
At the thought of his mentor, and what she would do to Olek, Raymer almost shuddered. The Styx interrogation methods were already a most brutal affair when applied to young, healthy soldiers, but this man couldn’t possibly withstand even elementary torture techniques. As Raymer pulled a pair of handcuffs from his belt and cuffed Olek’s wrists, he examined the wrinkled flesh, already purple with bruises. Olek, for his part, remained still, complying, as if he had stopped registering Raymer’s presence. He wouldn’t be going anywhere. Raymer began to wonder – when his mentor tortured Olek, would he even have the strength to scream in pain?
Raymer squeezed his eyes, shaking off the thought. He couldn’t worry about Olek right now. He turned his signature charm back on and smiled, pushing away the dark clouds in favor of prettier images.
“You see, the Styx is fun, sure, but bounty hunting is much more lucrative than torturing outlaws, and unlike my mentor, my lady love has quite expensive tastes,” Raymer said, eyes almost glazed over in a daydream. He idly spun his pistol around his finger, until interrupted by another thought. “I must tell you, the other Scarlets were much more difficult to find! Between you and me, the campfire gave you away. I wouldn’t light one of those next time, it was almost like you wanted to be found with that thing smoking up the joint.”
Olek stared through Raymer. “Yes. Almost like I wished to be found.”
An unpleasant silence settled into the room as Raymer studied Olek’s grizzled face. This capture did seem too convenient — the campfire almost literally a smoke signal, the unlocked cellar door, and Olek showed no resistance. Even Raymer wasn’t conceited enough to think it was the gun in his face that contributed to that passivity. Something was afoot, but it was unclear what. There were so few Scarlets left, and nothing about this resembled a trap. So why would this one want to be caught? Didn’t he know the torment waiting for him?
“Look, mate,” Raymer began, before he could stop himself, “Do us both a favor and just answer her questions. If you stay compliant, maybe she’ll go easy on you.”
Olek’s stoic face flickered with amusement for a brief second. “We both know that’s not true.”
Raymer watched the man. Olek seemed impatient, waiting. He wanted to meet the assassin who had hunted down his compatriots. The agent of the Styx who tortured his allies. The woman who had put an end to the Scarlet Uprising in one bloody night.
And she’d be here soon.