TSA: Chapter Thirty-Eight: Audit

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Audit

Rasselane - Tequila, 4th Moon, 20th Day, 1624 Symfora Telos

The brig slid into the bustling port of Rasselane under a sky heavy with pale clouds, its sails furled and its oars cutting the water with measured precision. The city loomed ahead, a labyrinth of stone and timber clinging to the edges of the harbour. Its quays were a chaos of movement and sound: fishmongers shouting their wares, dockhands cursing as they hauled crates and barrels, and sailors bellowing to one another over the din. The air stank of salt, tar, and rotting fish, a pungent blend that spoke to Rasselane’s lifeblood.

Veiled, Vaiu stood at the prow, her dark eyes sweeping over the scene without a flicker of emotion. Her robes, a deep red trimmed with gold, were plain yet carried an unmistakable air of authority. The salt wind tugged at the edges of her hood, but she did not lift a hand to steady it. Beside her, Lovell adjusted the plain hood of her cloak, her features also well-obscured behind a veil. Behind them, a retinue waited in silence: priestesses in robes of muted white, Abbesses in simpler grey, and a half-dozen Nameless Men. The latter were unmistakable even in the crowd, their plain wooden masks with narrow pill-shaped eyeholes rendering them faceless and alien. Their presence alone was enough to part the crowd at the docks, though none of the onlookers dared meet their gaze.

The gangplank creaked as Vaiu descended, her steps measured and deliberate.  The city pressed close, its streets alive with movement, the voices of merchants and beggars mingling in a cacophony that seemed to echo from every stone. Her retinue followed without a word, their robes flowing in the sea breeze, the Nameless Men’s footfalls eerily silent on the planks.

At the heart of the port, nestled among warehouses and merchant stalls, stood the Merchant Guildhouse. Its facade was ostentatious, a veneer of wealth and respectability—polished stone columns and a brass-bound door that gleamed in the grey light. To most, it was a hub of commerce and negotiation, but Vaiu knew better. This was a house of secrets, its opulence a mask for the Creed’s true purpose.

Two guards flanked the entrance, their halberds crossed to bar the way. They wore the livery of the Guild, but their eyes betrayed unease as they took in the approaching group. When their gaze fell on the Nameless Men, their hands tightened on their weapons. Still, they stepped aside without a word, allowing Vaiu and her retinue to pass.

Inside, the Guildhouse was cool and dim, the noise of the port muffled by its thick stone walls. The main hall stretched before them, its high ceiling supported by wooden beams carved with intricate patterns. A long table ran the length of the room, flanked by rows of chairs, though it stood empty now. At the far end, a figure waited.

Rabia.

She stood near the hearth, one hand resting on the back of a chair, the other draped loosely at her side. The firelight danced across her face, highlighting the scar that marred her left cheek. It cut a jagged line from her temple to her jaw, a stark contrast to her otherwise flawless features. In all other respects, she was Vaiu’s mirror: the same sharp cheekbones, the same dark eyes, the same air of quiet authority. Yet where Vaiu’s expression was inscrutable, Rabia’s held a glimmer of disdain.

“So, the Matriarch deigns to leave her master’s side,” Rabia said as Vaiu approached. Her voice was smooth, but the venom beneath it was unmistakable. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d abandoned the Creed altogether to chase your lord’s affections. Lord Aden must be most displeased to part with you, Vaiu.”

Lovell stiffened at the remark, but Vaiu’s composure remained unbroken. She stepped past her sister, addressing one of the priestesses instead. “Inform the Elders that I have arrived. They will wish to know immediately.”

The priestess bowed her head and hurried off, leaving Rabia and Vaiu with her retinue alone in the hall, save for the silent Nameless Men who lingered near the walls like forgotten statues. Rabia’s smirk deepened as she sauntered closer, her tone soft but cutting.

“You ignore me, sister? Or have you no words to defend your… indulgences?”

Vaiu turned, her dark eyes narrowing. “I see the years have not dulled your wit or tongue, Rabia. A pity it serves only to sharpen your bitterness.”

Rabia’s expression flickered for the briefest moment, the crack in her façade swiftly hidden. “Bitterness? No, Vaiu. Merely observation. The Elders summoned you for a reason, and I’m sure it’s not to congratulate you for the mess that was the loss of Bycrest.”

“Enough,” Vaiu said, her voice carrying the weight of command. “If the Elders wish to speak of my conduct, they will do so. Not you. I tolerate you only because many amongst the Elders favour you still. Do not give me a reason to reconsider that decision, sister.”

The tension hung heavy between them, the silence broken only by the faint rustle of robes as the priestess returned, her expression composed but her steps brisk.

“The Elders await you in the inner sanctum, Matriarch,” she said, bowing low.

Vaiu inclined her head and strode past Rabia without another glance. Lovell followed in her wake, her silence speaking volumes as they made their way deeper into the Guildhouse. 

The room was circular, its walls lined with shelves that bowed under the weight of ancient tomes and scrolls. Flickering candlelight cast shifting shadows on the cold stone floor, and the air was thick with the mingled scents of beeswax, parchment, and faint incense. A round table of dark wood dominated the chamber, its surface polished to a dull sheen, surrounded by chairs that creaked with age and use.

Vaiu entered with a measured step, her robes trailing softly behind her. Her veil remained in place, though she pushed back her hood as she approached the table. Around it, the Elders were assembling, their movements slow but deliberate. The women ranged in age from late fifties to truly ancient, their faces marked by lines of age, wisdom, and sometimes bitterness. Their robes varied in cut and colour, but all carried an undeniable air of authority. These were the women who had once led the Creed, or aspired to lead it, and whose judgment could shape its future even now.

Vaiu took her seat at the head of the table, her fingers brushing briefly against the smooth wood as she settled. She met the gaze of each Elder in turn, her dark eyes unreadable behind her veil. Silence hung in the room, broken only by the rustle of robes and the faint creak of chairs as the older women finally settled. When the last of them sat, the youngest among them leaned forward slightly. She was a tall woman, her frame still regal despite the stoop of her shoulders and the weight of her years. Many knew her as Mother Sarela, and she had been Matriarch before Vaiu.

Sarela’s voice was low but steady, carrying the authority of one who had long wielded it. “We are gathered, and so we begin. Honoured Matriarch, explain yourself. How did the Creed fail so utterly to foresee the Fall of Bycrest? All knew the Herteleans planned to invade Algrim, to seize the capital. That much was whispered in every court from Rasselane to the Ashen Isles. Yet we, the Creed, whose eyes and ears stretch farther than any kingdom’s, were caught unawares by what should have been impossible to miss. How is it possible that we were not aware of our involvement in a matter this far-reaching?”

Vaiu inclined her head slightly, her voice calm. “Truly, this is a strange dilemma,” she said. “Yet, not one entirely unbelievable. After an exhaustive inquiry into this matter, I have determined in that traitors within our ranks instructed some of our own to act against Bycrest.”

A murmur passed through the Elders, low but sharp as steel scraping stone. Sarela’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”

“A handful of Nameless Ones were ordered to instigate mutinies, assassinate loyal noblemen, and sow treachery within the capital’s defences,” Vaiu said. Her hands rested lightly on the table, her composure unbroken. “Their actions played a pivotal role in the fall of Bycrest. And to ensure their silence, they were instructed to… remove themselves once their tasks were complete.”

Another murmur swept the table, this one edged with disbelief. One of the older Elders, a sharp-faced woman named Elzora, leaned forward. “You’re telling us there is no way to trace the source of these orders?”

“That is correct,” Vaiu replied evenly. “All involved are dead, and the handlers who instigated this debacle remain… elusive. I am pursuing the matter, but it is delicate. The damage is done, but I will find the traitors within our ranks. Of that, you have my word.”

The Elders exchanged glances, their expressions ranging from doubt to grudging acceptance. Sarela’s gaze lingered on Vaiu, her lips pressed into a thin line. At last, she nodded slowly. “Please see that you do, Honoured Matriarch. The Creed cannot afford such lapses. Now, another matter demands our attention.”

It was Elzora who spoke next, her tone sharp. “There are whispers, Matriarch. Whispers of your… indulgences at the Creed’s expense. We hear you are aiding the von Grifenburg heir with resources that could be better served elsewhere. Given your past with the boy’s father there is a cause for concern that this gathering has deemed portent. Tell us, why does the Creed’s Matriarch concern herself with the petty squabbles of lords?”

Vaiu met Elzora’s gaze with an arched brow. “Levi von Grifenburg is no mere lordling. He is the heir to a strategically vital fief. More importantly, I believe he might be key to securing the Creed’s influence in Faywyn, especially now that our prior courtship with the King’s court has proven futile. He has agreed to facilitate our presence across the lands he controls, to recognize our priestesses officially in his court. In exchange, we aide him with whispers, and should it prove dire, blades. This is not charity, nor indulgence. It is a simple exchange of value.”

A ripple of scepticism passed through the Elders. Another woman, frail but sharp-eyed, spoke up. “And can we trust this Levi to honour his promises? Or are we merely a means to an end?”

“The boy is not foolish,” Vaiu said. “Levi understands the value of the Creed, and he knows the price of breaking faith with us. He will uphold his end of the bargain.”

The Elders fell into hushed debate, their voices rising and falling like waves against the shore. Some argued against the wisdom of such an alliance, citing the Creed’s long-standing policy of neutrality in the squabbles of lesser lords. Others saw the potential gains, the foothold Levi’s lands could offer in a region where their influence had waned.

At last, Sarela raised her hand, and the room fell silent. Her gaze swept the table, then settled on Vaiu. “The Matriarch has made her case. The Creed gains much from this alliance, provided Levi keeps his word. For now, we shall accept it. But I implore you to see to it, Honoured Matriarch, that your dealings remain above reproach. The Creed must never be seen as a servant to any lord.”

“Of course,” Vaiu said, inclining her head. “The Creed serves the will of the Twins, and no other.”

Satisfied, Sarela leaned back in her chair exchanging glances with the other Elders before speaking again. “Then this meeting is ended,” she said, inclining her head.  “We shall watch your progress with great interest, Honoured Matriarch.”

Vaiu rose, her movements smooth and deliberate. She inclined her head in response, then turned and left the chamber, her robes trailing softly behind her.