The plan was set. The leverage was in his inventory. All that remained was the execution. Jon, Kaelo, and Orbelo spent the morning observing the manse of the Lady Zarrina from a safe distance, watching the flow of servants, merchants, and guards.
"She holds court in the late afternoon," Orbelo explained, his voice a low, conspiratorial whisper. "In the southern garden, by the canal. It is where she conducts her most important business."
"Then that is when I will meet her," Jon said, his voice calm.
He approached the main gate in the early afternoon, dressed in the finest, simplest clothes his new coin could buy. He was not Corvus, the hooded duelist from the Moon Pool. He was attempting to be a young nobleman from a minor house, seeking an audience.
The guards at the gate were not the thuggish sellswords of a lesser lord. They were tall, impassive men in ornate, polished scale mail, their faces hidden behind visors shaped like snarling panthers. They carried long, curved Lyseni blades, and their auras, under Jon's [Sight], were a cool, professional blue. [Intent: Dutiful. Watchful]
"I am here to see the Lady Zarrina," Jon said, his voice even.
One of the guards looked him up and down, his gaze lingering on the wolf's-head pommel of Jon's sword. "The Lady Zarrina only meets with a special clientele," he said, his voice a bored, Braavosi drawl. "By invitation. You do not have one."
"I bring information that would be of great interest to her," Jon pressed.
"I am sure you do," the guard said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "As does every other hopeful boy in Braavos. Be on your way."
It was a polite, absolute dismissal. Jon had expected it. He nodded once and turned, melting back into the crowds. The front door was closed to him. He would have to use his own.
He returned to the dyer's district as the sun began to dip towards the horizon, casting long shadows across the canals. The manse was alive now, the sound of soft music and laughter drifting from its high gardens. He scaled the familiar drainpipe, a ghost in the twilight, and made his way across the rooftops.
The house was a hive of activity. Servants with trays of wine moved through the corridors, their auras a mix of hurried blues and resentful greys. Jon moved through the upper levels of the manse, a shadow in a world of light and music. He used his [Sight]to navigate, the glowing lines of patrol routes and the auras of the occupants a perfect map of the house's internal currents. He avoided a pair of gossiping handmaidens, their auras a bright, frivolous pink, and flattened himself into an alcove as a guard with a suspicious, alert orange aura made an unscheduled round.
He finally reached a balcony that overlooked the southern garden. He slipped out into the warm, perfumed air and looked down.
The scene below was one of opulent beauty. The garden was a riot of color, full of exotic flowers Jon had ever seen. A small fountain tinkled in the center, and a dozen of the city's most powerful men—merchants, magisters, even a Keyholder of the Iron Bank—lounged on silk cushions, sipping wine and listening to a musician play a soft, sad melody on a harp.
And in the center of it all, holding court, was the Lady Zarrina.
She was one of the most beautiful woman Jon had ever seen, but it was a beauty that was as sharp and dangerous as Valyrian steel. She was tall and slender, with skin the color of pale cream and a river of jet-black hair braided with silver rings. She wore a gown of deep purple silk that seemed to shimmer, and her eyes, as she laughed at something one of the magisters said, were like polished obsidian. Jon activated his [Sight]. Her aura was a complex, mesmerizing storm of colors—a cool, calculating blue at its core, surrounded by swirls of amused gold and a sharp, dominant red. [Intent: Calculating. Amused. Dominant] She was utterly, completely in control.
Jon watched for what felt like an hour as she moved among her guests, a word here, a laugh there, a subtle touch on an arm. She was a master of her craft, a spider in the center of a web of influence and power. Finally, the guests began to depart, leaving her alone in the garden with only her two panther-helmed bodyguards.
She stood by the fountain, her back to him, trailing her fingers in the cool water. This was his moment.
He dropped from the balcony above, his [Feather Fall] skill turning the twenty-foot drop into a silent, weightless descent. He landed in a perfect crouch in the shadows of a great, flowering bush, not ten feet from her. The two guards, their attention on the departing guests, saw nothing.
He rose from the shadows, his movements as silent as the grave. He was directly behind her now, so close he could smell the faint, exotic perfume of her hair.
"Lady Zarrina," he said, his voice a low, quiet whisper that cut through the sound of the fountain.
She froze, her entire body going rigid. He saw the guards tense, their hands flying to the hilts of their swords.
"I would advise you not to scream," Jon continued, his voice a calm, dangerous murmur. "And to tell your men to stand down. I have not come here to harm you. I have brought you a message concerning a traitor in your house."
Zarrina did not turn immediately. Jon watched her, his own senses stretched taut, waiting for the scream, for the order to her guards. But it didn't come. He saw the subtle tensing of her shoulders, the way her hand, trailing in the water, went perfectly still. He activated The Sight. Her aura, a complex storm of colors, flared brightly, the dominant red of her anger momentarily eclipsed by a sharp, analytical blue. [Intent: Assessing. Calculating]
He understood then. She knew, that if he had wanted her dead, she would already be dead. This was not an assassination. This was a negotiation. Then, she slowly turned, her face a mask of cold, perfect calm. Her obsidian eyes swept over him, taking in his hooded face, his simple clothes, the quiet, dangerous way he held himself. There was no fear in her eyes, only a sharp, assessing curiosity.
"The evening grows late, gentlemen," she said, her voice a smooth, melodic purr that carried easily across the garden. Her words were for her guards, but her eyes never left Jon's. "Leave me to my solitude."
The guards hesitated, their hands still on their swords, their gazes flicking between their mistress and the shadow who had appeared from nowhere. "My lady?" one of them questioned.
"You heard me," she said, her voice dropping a fraction, the purr now underscored with a hint of steel. "Go."
The guards bowed stiffly and retreated, their heavy footsteps receding on the stone path, leaving Jon and the most powerful courtesan in Braavos alone in the torchlit garden.
She turned her full attention back to him, a slow, languid smile playing on her lips. It was a smile designed to disarm, to charm, to control. "A man who appears from the shadows and speaks of traitors," she said, her voice a low, intimate murmur. "How very dramatic. You have my attention, little crow. Now, what could a man like you possibly have that would be of interest to me?"
Jon did not react to her charm or her condescension. He reached into his tunic, and as he did, he focused his intent. A flicker of thought, and the sealed scroll he had taken from the warehouse materialized in his hand from the [Inventory] where it had been safely hidden. To Zarrina, it simply looked as though he had pulled it from an inner pocket. He held it up.
"This," he said, his voice flat. "A scroll of instructions from Magister Borro to his spy, Tregarro. The contents are a detailed list of the secrets he is to steal from you next. I believe you will find it very interesting."
The smile on Zarrina's face did not vanish, but it froze, becoming a brittle, perfect mask. He saw her eyes, those beautiful obsidian pools, narrow with a cold, murderous light. She was no longer trying to charm him; she was assessing him, the gears of her mind turning at a furious pace.
"A bold claim," she said, her voice losing its purr, becoming a quiet, dangerous hiss. "And who is the brave little crow who brings such dangerous whispers to my garden?"
"My name is Corvus," Jon replied evenly.
"Corvus," she repeated, tasting the name. "And what does Corvus want in return for this... information?" She took a step closer, her movements fluid and deliberate, the scent of her perfume washing over him. She was trying to regain control, to turn this back into a transaction she understood. "Gold? A position in my household? A night of pleasure you will tell stories of for the rest of your short life?"
Jon did not move. He did not react. He was a stone wall against which her charms broke. "I want three things," he said, his voice a cold, hard list of demands. "First, you will publicly clear the name of the scholar, Orbelo. You will announce that Tregarro framed him, and you will restore his honor with a generous pension. Second, you will provide my new company with a fully-equipped Longship. And third, you will give us a chest of coin sufficient to fund our operations for a year."
Zarrina actually laughed, a short, sharp, incredulous sound. "A bold ask," she said, her composure returning, "but should your information be correct, you shall have what you asked for."
Jon simply held out the scroll. "See for yourself."
She took the scroll, her elegant fingers breaking the seal. Her eyes scanned the page, and Jon watched, his own [Sight] active, as the colors of her aura shifted. The amused gold vanished completely. The calculating blue intensified, and the dominant red began to burn with a cold, murderous fury. Her knuckles went white as her hand crumpled the parchment, her entire body rigid with a rage she was struggling to contain.
She had lost control. And Jon knew, in that moment, that he had won.
Zarrina took a single, deep, shuddering breath, forcing the mask of perfect calm back onto her face. The rage was still there, a fire behind her eyes, but it was now a cold, controlled thing. "You shall have your ship and your coin, Corvus," she said, her voice smooth as silk once more. "And the scholar will have his name back. You have done me a great service." She turned and clapped her hands twice, a sharp, imperious sound that echoed in the quiet garden.
Her two panther-helmed guards reappeared instantly, their swords drawn. "Bring Tregarro to me," she commanded, her voice a low, dangerous whisper. "Now."
The guards bowed and vanished back into the manse. Zarrina turned back to Jon, her expression unreadable. "There is no need for concealment. You are a guest in my home now, not an intruder."
Jon held her gaze for a moment, then slowly, deliberately, lowered his hood.
The woman's perfect composure finally broke. A small, sharp intake of breath was the only sound she made. She had been speaking to a shadow, a dangerous man with a list of demands. The face that was revealed to her was that of a boy, no older than fifteen, with a solemn, handsome face that was far too young for the cold and calculating violet eyes.
"You are just a child," she whispered, a look of genuine, stunned surprise on her face.
"I am old enough to know the value of a secret," Jon replied, his voice quiet but firm.
Minutes later, the guards returned, dragging a confused and protesting Tregarro between them. "My lady, what is the meaning of this?" the braavosi demanded, his eyes wide with shock.
Zarrina did not answer him. She simply held up the crumpled parchment. "Magister Borro sends his regards," she said, her voice a deadly purr.
Tregarro's face went white. He fell to his knees, his bravado shattering. "My lady, I can explain! It was a misunderstanding! I was forced!"
"Were you forced to take his coin?" she asked, her voice dangerously soft. "Were you forced to whisper my secrets in his ear? You, who I took into my home, my confidence... my bed." The last word was filled with a venom so pure it made the air feel cold. "You were not a lover. You were a rat, gnawing at the foundations of my house."
"Forgive me, my lady! I will do anything!" he begged, tears streaming down his face.
"Yes," she said, a slow, terrible smile touching her lips. "You will." She turned to her guards. "Tregarro has committed treason not just against my house, but against the Sealord himself. Take him to the Sealord's dungeons. Tell them he is a gift. From me."
The guards hauled the weeping bravo to his feet and dragged him away. Jon watched the entire scene dispassionately, his face a mask of stone. He saw not a man begging for his life, but a piece being removed from the board. He saw the cold, brutal calculus of power, a lesson he was learning with every passing day. The game was a dangerous one, and he knew, as he stood in the torchlit garden, that he was just beginning to learn how to play.