The Historian’s Novel

Having heard of Thompson Brown’s arrival in the capital city, the items Amelia requested from him in the letter she’d written the night after her outing with Grace arrived after only a few days, just in time for her interception of Martel Managing. Nothing special, just an unremarkable second-hand dress which would serve as a disguise, and a cylindrical metal object of a contingency plan, in case the curtains of night now lowering over the city grew too dark for her wits.

   Although, Grace asking why Thompson would send a young woman clothing had come as a nerve-wracking surprise. She would need to eventually apologize, for having thrown the merchant under a proverbial carriage by joking without thinking that maybe he did like her, just a wee bit.

   Grace hadn’t been pleased to hear that. The woman really did seem to have a chip on her shoulder when it came down to Thompson.

   Amelia nervously played with her hair as she double checked the town-house bedroom one last time in case she might have forgotten anything, then took a gander at where Grace slept soundly in bed. It had felt downright awful to use her sleeping pills on the princess. But it couldn’t be helped. The idea of meeting a prospective killer alongside Grace carried with it a risk far too great.

   Maybe that would have been an option if she could manifest at will the strange magic she had experienced when dealing with Jessen. But since then, Amelia hadn’t managed to do so even once. Nor was she sure how useful a confidence boost that let her think faster and talk louder would be against a fully grown man trained in how to dismember a person. 

   Not even her father was able to offer an explanation. “Perhaps your bloodline has been dormant? “Havoc had suggested, “Try finding the trigger, that should get the ball rolling.”

   While food for thought it didn’t help much. Amelia dropped the idea of using such an unreliable power. Checking the window, she found that the sky, which threatened to break out in rain, had finally grown dark enough for a young woman to hide herself in its shadows.

   This was it. The night Martel would strike. Beginning the bloodiest one-man murder spree the Velvetican Kingdom had ever seen in its long, illustrious history… Unless you counted Havoc. But war involved a slew of factors which made it an unfair comparison. No matter how noble The Historian might have made Martel’s quest for revenge. In the end, murder was murder, and the man should be treated with caution.

   Even so, Amelia was determined she could convince Martel to not go ahead with his intentions. The capital was already destined for enough mayhem as things stood, thanks to the Marquess of Rutherford, who might even now be laying the groundwork for a sinister scheme involving the hearing Amelia would be attending in only two days. She could already envision reading the morning papers to find them painting her father as a heartless monster who would brutalize even his guests.

   For the third time in an hour, Amelia inspected the velveteen pouch she kept close to her heart which contained the backup to her backup plan; finding the dragon tooth her father had gifted her stored safely inside.

   “Going alone is for the best,” Amelia whispered, in an attempt to convince the little voice in her head that her actions were most certainly not a betrayal of their friendship. Not when Grace might tell on her to her father. Just as Amelia believed to know what was best, so too could the princess.

   Taking notice of a pillow Grace must have shoved onto the floor in her sleep, Amelia decided to do one last good deed for luck before leaving and went to return it.

   She nearly screamed in shock when an arm shot out to grab onto her own.

   “Will you still be my friend, after learning how dirty I am?” came a trembling question which filled the candle-lit room.

   Grace’s grip then went slack, letting Amelia know the princess had talked in her sleep.

   A nightmare perhaps? Amelia’s heart hurt at the thought. She knew all too well of Grace’s time in the orphanage, where The Historian had made it clear the princess in her youth was little more than a rascal willing to lie, steal, and cheat to get what she wanted.

   “You goof, there’s no need to worry,” Amelia said, as she finished fluffing Grace’s pillow and put it under the princess’s head, “I’ll be your friend… So, keep sleeping for me.”

   She hoped her words might enter the nightmare. And if not, she would only need repeat them upon returning.

   Time to depart. Amelia snuffed out the candle. Her method of sneaking? A window. Already open to allow for a quieter exit onto the townhouse’s porch roof, from where a tree with low growing branches let her ladder climb slowly down onto the grass. Not straying from the streets where lampposts dotted the way forwards with their light, Amelia travelled through the city which never quite slept.

The same path she had walked with Grace appeared much scarier at so late an hour. Neither did the few people walking about seem quite as friendly. She could only hope the worn dress, paired alongside a brown hooded cowl would be enough to fool them into thinking her a servant out on an errand.

At least, her disguise seemed to work in helping not draw unwanted attention, for Amelia soon arrived a block away from her destination; Where a heavy police barrier now extended from one side of the street to the other.

   “A gas leak’s been reported,” explained the policeman on duty to two drunks who leaned on each other for support, “We’re sectioning off this district until a mage can be bothered to fix it tomorrow. Feel free to go in if you’re hoping for your family to live a better life after you’re gone.”

   In truth, the gas leak marked Martel’s deception. Who, with a few bribes here and there had managed to lessen the amount of traffic around his crime site.             It was a sign her calculations on when Martel would strike, were right. Amelia prayed she wasn’t too late.

   Judging the drunks would hold the officer’s attention with their bickering complaints until they passed out, Amelia kept low, and tip-toed her way under the barricade without getting noticed. Continuing onwards, the merchant’s conglomerate building loomed in the distance. A sight which made Amelia realize she had thought of everything except what to say upon meeting Martel.

   She couldn’t act haughty like with Vanridge, for Martel had been humiliated by those who were especially vain in the past. Neither could she utilise seduction as Grace had done in The Historian’s novel, since Amelia knew such skill lay outside what she could manage. In the end, her best approach appeared to be in acting mysterious enough to throw Martel off guard. Surely, waiting for him near the portion of wall he intended to climb would be enough to make the man pause long enough for a hearty, ally inducing, ‘hello’.

   But when Amelia turned the last bend, only to find herself face to face with a nightshift guard lying prone on the ground in a puddle of blood, with his co-worker in the process of being garrotted by a hooded, heavily clothed, masked figured through the merchant conglomerate’s fenced gate, she found herself frozen, and unable to talk.

   “C-Call… For h-help,” Gasped the guard, as his fingers tore against his neck to try and find purchase beneath the wire that cut. A poor choice, since this gave Martel leeway to pull even tighter while Amelia wondered.

   What had she done wrong? Shouldn’t Martel have snuck past the guards? What was The Historian doing, getting all their details from second hand-accounts of what had occurred?

   Fiddlesticks. They probably had. 

   Which left Amelia with little else to do but improvise and yell, “Martel, killing people is bad!” 

   Her shout proved effective, in stopping the strangling… It also succeeded in a way Amelia did not expect. Since Martel shoved the guard who fell unconscious away, and began climbing the fence.

   Towards her.

   Revealing in the process a large number of knives lining the inside of his cloak.

   “I’m… I’m not anyone suspicious!” Amelia said, as her feet on their own accord began to reverse. A step ahead in judging where their owner should be.

   Seeing how quickly Martel reached the top of the gate, Amelia concurred with the lower half of her body, hiked her dress with both hands, and began running. Away from the noise of an agile assassin leaping to expertly land an almost four-meter drop.

   Cutting her losses, and glad enough to have stopped Martel from killing maybe one, possibly more, people, Amelia fled while profusely apologising aloud to the ever-growing noise of footsteps behind her.

   “I thought you were a guy I knew, but I was wrong! I’m sorry!” she yelled, knowing her words sounded as flimsy as her constitution which started to complain at having to both talk and exercise at the same time.

   Surprisingly, Martel’s footfall began to recede in response. And when Amelia dared check behind her, she found the man had outright disappeared. A sight as worrying as the prospect of a rain-drop which did land on Amelia’s cheek, and cause her to look to the sky as she ran.

   In time for a flash of lightning to illuminate the figure who was now following her at a distance using the roofs of the street city lined buildings. His mask, never once turning away from anything but herself.

   Thunder rumbled. Amelia began to panic. The only time Martel had stalked someone like this in The Historian’s novel… it had ended with him leaping to plunge a knife through the skull of his quarry.        

   Escape, seemed unlikely. Amelia, remembering her walk with the princess began swiftly filtering for any good potential hiding spots.

There was one.

   Pulling free the metallic cylinder Thompson had got her, along with the lighter tied to it, Amelia fumbled to undo its string and set fire to the wick. Dropping the can behind, she veered hard right to round the street’s bend. As a grey smoke began billowing out from the device, creating a very dense fog. Amelia turned down an adjacent alley, in an attempt to further confuse Martel, who would need to guess in which direction she’d gone due to the smokescreen.

She thought it ironic that a trick Martel had explained to Grace in The Historian’s Novel, might help her elude him.

Thanking Thompson in her heart for not having even once asked why she would ever need a jam-packed mixture of sugar and potassium nitrate, Amelia rushed to slide open the lid of an old wooden barrel, which luckily remained standing in the same place she had earlier seen it. Filled half-full with apples, her hiding spot was more cramped than expected. Requiring she contort into the shape of a ‘U’. But having her feet higher than her head would be a worthy price paid if it meant staying safe.

   At this point, Amelia figured she had tried her best to stop Martel from becoming a lunatic. If he still insisted, well shucks, she wasn’t Grace. Her heart could only hold so much empathy in it. She wasn’t afraid to use her father’s tooth… Right?

Suddenly, through the oval shaped hole in the barrel’s lid, Amelia spotted a blur pass over the alleyway roofs. Followed by a heavy metallic noise touching down far too close for comfort nearby.

   When the hissing began, Amelia got a sinking feeling her plight might soon take a turn for the worse. A sensation which intensified further as a lavender colored smoke, different from the one she had made, began leaking into the barrel.

   Believing it to be some kind of poison, Amelia tried not to breathe in the sinister violet which blinded her vision. Finding she couldn’t even reach the dragon tooth if she wanted, Amelia held out for only a minute before the smoke entered her mouth and invaded her lungs.

   Amelia’s world went topsy-turvy as she struggled to escape from her hiding spot. The rocking of the barrel ended with it tipping, to drop her at the feet of a man who she knew held the potential to be a sadistic, merciless killer.

   “Found the mouse that thinks itself clever,” growled Martel, who stabbed a knife into the ground; just in front of Amelia’s face. “Nobody should have known of tonight. But you’re cute… And somewhat prepared… I’ll let you tell me what you know before cutting this short.”

   Martel’s voice, Amelia thought, sounded awfully young. Boyish even. But she wasn’t about to waste what words he was willing to give her to point such a fact out.

   “It’s not what it looks like sir Martel Managing!” Amelia said hurriedly, only to shut up when Martel’s gloved finger pressed itself against the centre of her forehead.

   “I’ve chosen to abandon my family name,” Martel whispered, crouching down low, “Except… I don’t remember having met you before. But you’re acting like you know me… Why don’t we start by explaining how that can be, hmm?”

   “No, we’ve never, ever met!” Amelia said, the words flowing free from her mouth as if they were water let loose from a tap, “I only know about you from a book!”

   Amelia hadn’t meant to say that last part. But the smoke circling the ground around them like a floating carpet was too distracting to think straight. It enveloped her thoughts as if trying to loosen her tongue.

   She needed to escape… She needed to… needed to…

   Strange. Hadn’t there been something else she could use in case the night ever went south? And wasn’t there a detail about Martel she ought to have remembered by now?

   Amelia couldn’t recall. The only clear thing now seemed to be the mask Martel wore. A strange, leathery device; outfitted with two opaque glass ports where his eyes ought to be.

   “A book?” Martel probed, tracing the tip of his gloved finger down Amelia’s face as if drawing the carving lines up, “Or do you mean a newspaper? No, that hardly matters… What I want to know, is how you knew I would be here.”

   Again, Amelia spoke without needing to think, “I knew because of the merchants! But… But you really shouldn’t hurt them! It’s a terrible idea!”

   “…And why not?” Martel asked rhetorically, “The conglomerate is a den for liars. Those inside are spiders willing to bleed anyone dry. Do you know what they did to me child? Can you say that you know me and still claim there are none among them who deserve death?! What do you actually know about me that isn’t delusion!”

   Martel’s finger pulled back, only for his hand to snap open; curling to wrap around Amelia’s throat with force enough to make it clear he had finished playing around.

   Like clockwork, Amelia’s mouth opened to rasp her very first thought.

“They… They t-took your m-mommy from you,” she wheezed, letting slip Martel’s greatest hurt. Which he had only admitted to Grace before he had died in her arms.

   Martel dropped Amelia, who yelped in pain as her elbows, then her head hit the ground.

   “This smells of magic,” Martel said, glancing to his left and right as suspicion crept into his voice, “You know both my name and my… situation. So, unless you’re the nicest, dumbest person in the world…” he reached for another knife, as if expecting someone to jump out, “Are you bait? Is this a trap? Because I swear to God, I will take you down with me.”

    “My name isn’t bait,” Amelia said, the shock to her forehead a trigger in remembering Martel’s ability of seeing through lies in The Historian’s novel. Except, and she was getting quite tired of it at this point, The Historian had gotten it wrong. Since his powers were most likely derived not from magic, or a secret bloodline, but the colorful smoke. 

   Judging her best chance for survival lay in making herself appear as unthreatening as possible, Amelia took a gamble, and deeply breathed in as much of the dissipating lavender substance as she could.

   “Hold on, what are you doing?” Martel asked, as if unable to quite believe what Amelia had done. But it was too late. Amelia’s mouth, now filled with truth, opened and began babbling as fast as she could.

   “My father is the Baron of Strightsworth!” she shouted, “My… My mother is also dead! I miss her! I’m lonely! I swear on my family’s name this… this isn’t a trap! Nobody even knows I’m here. My only want is to help you in exchange for a favor, and your promise that you won’t go murder crazy!”

   Martel’s head tilted like an owl. “Wow, okay, you’re the daughter of the King’s sword. And you’re insane. And definitely delusional. There’s no way your monster of an… esteemed father, could ever turn a blind eye to a person like me.”

   “Well, I’m not done talking!” Amelia said, loud enough that Martel nervously clapped his hand over her mouth.

   “Holy crap, speak quieter. I’ve decided not to hurt you, so please lower your voice. I was prepared for death tonight, not whatever your father might do to me if he hears our words on the wind.”

   Amelia couldn’t stop. Because she knew the moment she did she would probably start crying from relief and not be able to get another word out.

   “My dad can understand justification,” she said, pointing in the direction of the merchant conglomerate’s building, “They’re the bad guys for hurting you and your family, right? Maybe some of them do deserve death. I don’t know. But here’s what we’re going to do! You have a history as a tutor, don’t you? I think I remember reading something like that. So… I’ll persuade my father to keep you on as mine. That way, you can live a normal life, while we figure out a way to satisfy your urge to hurt people without cutting them up!”

   “What —”

   “And you’ll get paid lots of money too! I know better than anyone my dad isn’t a ‘good guy’. He’s as big as an ogre and can be as mean as one too! I’ve seen him eat meat raw! Even if we did tell him about your plans to kill every merchant in the kingdom, I can promise he would at least hear you out.”

   Amelia only stopped talking once she ran out of air. Shaking her head to clear what hair had fallen over her face, she looked hopefully to Martel who got up, rested his back against the alley’s wall, and slumped down as if he too were exhausted.

   There they stared at each other. The pitter-patter of rain breaking the only witness around.

   “You… sure like to ramble,” Martel said.

   “It’s because I don’t want to die! And I’m worried you might change your mind!” Amelia said, unable to stop herself from bawling any longer.

   Breathing a long, deep sigh, as if reflecting on a series of mistakes, which had led him to this moment, Martel made a flicking motion with his hand; pulling back towards him the knife which he’d stabbed into the ground, using an attached wire so thin Amelia only saw a hint of its presence.

   By now almost all the smoke had finished dispersing. His blades once more sheathed, Martel removed his mask, and Amelia’s hiccupping discovered something so surprising they outright vanished in shock.

   “You’re a woman!” Amelia gasped, at the mature brunette who gave her a face a mother might make when unable to understand why their child couldn’t stop yapping.

   “You know everything except for the fact my dad raised me as a boy?”

   “But that doesn’t make sense! How are you supposed to fall in love with the princess while you’re dressed up and pretending?!”

Martel threw her mask away; sending it rattling to reside in the overturned apple barrel. “Well, I guess that answers my question about what happens when someone overdoses on truth serum,” she said, watching Amelia struggle and fail to stand, “You know our Kingdom doesn’t even have a princess, right?”

“But you’re a woman!” Amelia repeated, still unable to wrap her head around the idea.

“I’m a near middle-aged woman who likes mature older men, not princesses,” said Martel, moving closer to pick Amelia up once it became clear she couldn’t manage to do so on her own. “Come on, let’s get you home before you catch a cold in this rain.”

In the arms of Martel, Amelia only then began to truly realise how far she had pushed her stamina. Though the faint scent of a lilac perfume emanating from the older woman certainly didn’t help keep her eyelids from drooping.

She pinched her cheeks to stay awake, having not yet heard Martel’s reply to her offer.

“Were you being serious? About hiring me as a tutor?” Martel asked as she walked, “Because you’ve completely spoiled my plans. And the merchants will be on such high alert from now on I doubt I’ll have the chance to try again any time soon.”

“I mean… you didn’t kill that guard, did you?” Amelia asked, biting her tongue one second too late.

“He was on my list,” Martel answered, “It’s why I only strangled the other unconscious.”

Her answer made Amelia feel a tiny bit better. Knowing for every name Martel thought worthy of hunting, there had been a very good reason.

At least, that’s what The Historian had said…

“How bad was he?”

“Serial rapist.”

“Then my offer still stands!”

Glad the issue ended up being so black or white, Amelia’s thoughts took a zig-zag. She began wondering whether Martel’s hidden gender meant the princess might hold inclinations towards women. Since, in The Historian’s novel, Grace and Martel had gotten undressed to perform the hanky-panky, no less than three times.

Which didn’t add up. Or at least, Amelia didn’t think it made sense. Because if Grace did like women, she would have most assuredly noticed. They were friends after all.

“I bet The Historian isn’t even accredited,” Amelia huffed, earning her an odd look from Martel who leaned down to press their foreheads together.

“Doesn’t feel like you’ve got a fever…” Martel muttered, adjusting her cloak to shield Amelia from the rain, “Better get you home quick, which side of town are you staying? The ritz? Can’t imagine someone with your legs managing to walk any further than that.”

“I’m not sick,” Amelia mumbled, while pointing the way, entranced by how gentle the older woman could be when not hunting her down, “Do you know you smell pretty?”

   Martel laughed, her smile to Amelia looked especially stunning. “I haven’t heard that in a while… Say, I saw you were reaching for something when hiding inside that barrel, whatever it is you should probably keep it in an easier spot to get at if it’s some kind of weapon.”

   Amelia thought Martel made sense. “Want to see it?” she whispered.

   Pulling out the velveteen pouch, Amelia’s light headed mood, now no longer stressed by an overwhelming sense of danger, found tremendous amusement when Martel’s eyes opened in the exact same way her own mother’s eyes had widened upon once being gifted a frog.  

   “It’s a dragon tooth,” Amelia said proudly, holding it up. “I really didn’t want to have to use it, so I’m glad you agreed to help me.”

   Martel clicked her tongue. And then sparingly slapped Amelia’s butt.

   “Hey!”

   “Hay is for horses. Don’t give me that look. You were planning on having your way or you would detonate a bomb! I’ve heard what dragon relics can do — and oh god it’s even worse isn’t it, did that belong to your father?”

   “Maybe,” Amelia said quietly, not wanting to be spanked again.

   Martel only sighed, “Forget it, the past is the past,” she said, adjusting her grip, “Now… No more milk. Only meat. What is it you could possibly want me to do that would justify sneaking outside by yourself. Because while I might be rich for a fallen noble, I’m not really in a state to help in any meaningful way.”

   Amelia yawned; the streets were growing livelier the further they went. The first stranger they passed being a lamplighter in a rain-coat going about his night job. The police barricades were gone too, but it would still take until morning for the businesses and shops of the district to care for anything other than sleep. 

   Seeing they had arrived at the road crossing which led to the townhouse she stayed in, Amelia patted Martel’s arm, asking to be let down. “That’s okay, I’ve already got a person who’s good with connections,” she said, enjoying how odd the rain felt.

   “Mhmm… Yeah… So, what is it I can offer that your daddy couldn’t do for you?”

   Amelia spun in the rain, coming to a stop with a finger pointed resolutely at Martel.

   “I need you to torture information out of someone for me,” Amelia said.

   “Oh my,” said Martel, beaming as if she had realised Amelia might be a true kindred spirit.