She reread the page in front of her, curling her fingers against the polished desk and forced herself to release her breath condensed with her fury.
It had taken weeks for an in-depth underhanded investigation of her region's businesses, and now that the report was laid out, there was a clear underlying issue—Thane Worrow. A man who had seemingly come into a lot of money out of nowhere, pauper turned banker as he became the primary named benefactor of majority of the businesses in both Valewyn and Lockstow—her county regions.
If there was a clearer declaration of war, Rhosyn hadn't seen it, and she'd seen war firsthand.
Caerwyn shifted on the spot, reading her anger and trying to discern the danger. She's sat back and done nothing about this issue for long enough. Now was time for action and hopefully a little blood.
"Sir Caerwyn," she said, rounding the desk marching for the door. "I need a horse, now."
"My Lady—"
"I don't have time to wait for a carriage," Rhosyn cut his caution clean. "Besides, the ride would do me good."
It'll give her time to breathe, calm herself down before she confronts the man who's been twisting her people's arms, and creating a quiet little empire to root his influence into her domain. Her boots clipped against the stone halls, a rhythm she could concentrate on as her mind ran wild.
She could've paced outside the stable for several minutes, but they vanished under the whispers creeping and curling in her mind, cloaking everything and she hardly noticed herself clawing at the skin of her thumb—a nasty habit. Only when the horse was looming next to her did she snap out of her tunnelling.
"My Lady," the stable boy murmured.
Rhosyn was already swinging up onto the horse and encouraging it into a canter. Caerwyn muttered a curse as he grabbed the lacking horse and charged after her.
Her mind narrowed onto the road, wind pulling through her hair and filling her lungs—she's missed riding. She knew it wouldn't last, Caerwyn would restrict her in a carriage again before long and she'd be disgruntled to the point of dejection.
What disappointed her most was that she looked forward to the week's end. As if the north would cast something more for her to tackle, and even though she had her own paper-trail of a hunt to track and execute, it didn't feel the same—and that's what bothered her most.
Dirt turned to cobble, thundering through her mount and drilling into her. Rhosyn slowed her horse, Caerwyn pulling in close and together they trotted through the streets of Vale-on-Tide, the main holding of her region. The famous River Byrn stretched the distance from bank to bank on her right, tide high as noon neared.
A bell towed out, the tang of brass in the air mixed with scents of salt, sweat and something she'd rather not say. Conversations were snatched away by the river wind or drowned out by the ringing alarm.
The Turnspan swing bridge was going to open shortly, and whoever wanted to cross the river had to do it now or risk waiting until after the hour long ship traffic had passed. Vale-on-Tide sat near the mouth of the river, a swing bridge for traffic and a tidal barrier for defence.
The Tidewell tidal barrier was one of Valewyn's early accomplishments. A wall bridging the gap between the wider banks, a structure that had a gate that could close with the use of cogs and a pulley system—to be used in times of flood risk or war. The town was mostly built around these things, replacing the older town further upstream.
Her horse nickered as she neared the centre of town, the ships already rolling in slower than she expected. It was busy today, the sky crowded with masks. At this rate, there'll be a jam in the system backing everything up all the way to the capital, Averlay—if not across the sea to Celandre.
Then all traffic ceased. Ships lingered mid-channel, sails flapping uselessly while smaller boats bobbed in their wake. On the northern quay, a knot of bodies had formed—too tight, too still. No one worked. No one was loading.
The noise reached her over the bells and river-wind: not workman's calls, but shouting. A jeer. A laugh that didn't belong in any civil quarrel. Her mount's ears flicked toward it and, a heartbeat later, so did Caerwyn's head.
A dock master thrust a piece of parchment into the chest of a man, a malicious smirk curling at his mouth, along with words ate up by the river wind. The retaliating men were distinctly different, and with a quick glance at their nearby ship, Rhosyn realised immediately what the issue was—they were northerners.
She could see the escalation before she could dismount. The docks were another link to Thane Worrow. The man had started in the docks before he became a 'found man,' and where there was Worrow, there was corruption.
Rhosyn's feet met the ground and the northern leader grumbled something harsh—or maybe it wasn't, only his accent made it so. Caerwyn yelped after her, but she was already running.
She dove around one dock officer—alarmed by her sudden appearance. A few of the northerner crew spotted her sprint, but it was the dock master her eyes was on.
He sneered a low remark, something cutting and cruel—but she didn't hear it, only the loud drumming of heartbeats and a clamour of shouting.
Steel was drawn. A strike. Then metal soured the air.
Caerwyn called close behind her, but Rhosyn slipped past the dock master, catching the northern leader as he fell, hand clamping at the wound staining his throat, and his weight dragged her to her knees.
He gargled for breath, a fight he wouldn't win. What blood she prevented from spilling out, churned from the man's mouth and her breath caught. He couldn't die... shouldn't, it was madness. Yet his life slipped through her fingers and his eyes stared blankly at a sky that wouldn't look back.
Her tears quietly washed his cheeks and she realised she was shaking—her breath, her hands, eyes blinking to make sense. It was a terrible sadness. But mostly anger.
The world came screaming around her, men shouting, Caerwyn warning and edging everyone on either side of her. Rhosyn had no time to unravel, she needed to take control.
Feeling the calm of composure steel her, laying the lifeless man gently to the ground and plucking the parchment from his grip—the dock tow payment receipt. She stood, her blush pink skirt drenched in blood and mud, yet no one stood taller and more compelling than Rhosyn.
Facing the dock master with cold resolve, Caerwyn's sword's tip pressed decisively to the man's chest, his off-hand, a short curved blade ready to defend Rhosyn's rear—they were flanked and weapons drawn everywhere. Tension hummed in the air, but words shrunk behind clenched teeth.
"Tell us your name, Master," she demanded and everyone stilled, wondering how and when the fight would escalate.
The man shifted on the spot, as if testing Caerwyn's attention and finding it compelling. He almost seemed bothered that he'd been inconvenienced—that he'd be called to heel. But her expression told him she expected an answer, and Caerwyn's blade reminded him that her patience was dead.
"Master Jute Sarren, My lady," he all but grumbled.
Someone shifted behind her and Caerwyn adjusted, but Rhosyn didn't flinch. She knew that northern men stood at her back, weapons drawn and one of their numbers dead—dead, because one of her men. It was a southern-northern disaster, and if she missstepped, it could mean not only war, but her life.
"You've committed murder, Master Jute Sarren," Rhosyn's voice rang out through the quiet of a crowd amassing.
One of the Master's men poised, where another squared her up, and she could feel Caerwyn's disgruntled eye roll at the situation she managed to get them in the middle of.
"And the punishment for murder is death," her voice punctured the silence, everyone anticipating a clash to erupt. "You will be tried—though I suspect it won't take long—and your punishment will be executed." Rhosyn turned to address his men. "You all will be required to give witness statements and if you comply you'd be free to go. If not," her voice dipped harshly, "you will be tried as an accessory."
A look was exchanged between the two muscle men and their weapons lowered.
"Serjeant," Rhosyn called and a large man stepped forward and bowed. "Take this man into custody."
She turned before the officer had seized the master, Jute's yelp and outcry background noise as he was pulled away. Her gaze travelled across six faces, rage mixed with confusion, their grip on their hilts wary.
They all had builds and heights that dwarfed Caerwyn, though she knew her knight could take about three of them before he started to get overwhelmed—and that was if they all surrounded them.
"I apologise for the injustice you've suffered," she offered the men, seeing suspicion shift throughout. She didn't blame them, she'd be the same if it was the other way around.
She bowed her head in respect for their deceased.
"I will get a priest to offer a blessing and wrap the body carefully. We'll transport his body back home immediately, so he can be returned to his family to be buried properly." A man at the front hesitated, eyes shifting unsure to Caerwyn before taking a step forward.
"May I ask, why?" his northern accent thick, colouring his words deep.
"Because he deserves respect and I will not have a criminal stain my hands too—he'll have justice, as would we all."
He simply offered a nod and she handed back the receipt.
"Your ship has paid passage, you may continue your journey, but I require one of your men who knew..." Rhosyn glanced down at the body on the floor, unsure how to refer to him.
"Hark, My Lady—Hark Weller," the head man offered and she smiled her thanks.
"I need someone who knew Hark to help me return him home—but it will be a long journey."
The head man glanced over his shoulder. "Tor," he called, a lean lanky man stepped forward, his eyes lingering on Hark's lifeless form. "Tor Wyke knows the Weller family well, he can escort his body home."
"Thank you," Rhosyn said, Tor's attention snapping to her and his hostility dissolved when he took her in.
She wasn't sure if they could see her turmoil, she was sure her mask was on, but maybe it loomed over her. It had been so long since she'd seen death. In some ways, it felt normal—and that's what disturbed her most. She's felt the life drain out of enough people already, their warmth turning stone-cold.
Caerwyn stood statue still next to her, watching everyone, but weapons had been sheathed and the north men slipped back to doing work, readying their vessel. Tor remained close to Hark, his head bowed and she wasn't sure if it was due to his height or his sorrow.
The crowd dispersed with help from town reeves, ships sailed through the open bridge, masks dying in the sky as they went on their journeys. It hadn't taken long for a priest, a crowner—to examine the body legally—and two bearers to come.
Soon the body was carefully moved onto a canvas bier and they hauled him to a local church. Tor never left the man's body, and neither did Rhosyn, which earned her his questioning gaze.
"Take this." Rhosyn offered a coin to a teenage boy. "Take my horse back to my estate and request they send the carriage for me," she instructed, the boy taking the coin hesitantly, but with a nod from the priest, he was running.
"Why do you need a carriage?" Tor asked, an expectant sound catching in the priest's throat and the man added, "My Lady," mostly as an afterthought.
"I'm going to ride with you and I'm sure Sir Caerwyn would prefer me in a box, than on a horse's back," she answered, eyes flickering to Caerwyn and spotting the sour look of a man resolved that they were going on a long journey.
He didn't like them taking risks, especially heading north—toward the risk—and through land where her kin was killed. It was all a bad omen, but she was sure nothing could be worse than what already ensued.
Tor looked her over, judging. "Well, you might want to change into something... less..."
Rhosyn glanced down at herself, her skirt sopped in congealing mud and dark dried blood, stained and ruined. It probably wouldn't do them any good to pay their respects to the family literally wearing their son's blood.
"You're right," she murmured, turning to the priest. "Do you have anything I can change into and somewhere to change? It doesn't have to be silk, something plain would do."
The holy man stuttered a little, seemingly embarrassed to offer what common clothes they had. "One of the deaconess' could find you something, I'm sure." The priest called over his shoulder and a young woman appeared wearing a simple but well made dress with a white collar. "Can you help the lady find something appropriate to change into, Kleria?"
Kleria curtsied, nervous panic entering her eyes at the request.
"Anything not covered in blood and mud would be fine, Kleria," Rhosyn reassured, colour returning to the young lady and relief.
Again, her attempt to uproot Worrow and corruption would have to wait. It was a phantom breathing down her neck and a rope looping around her throat. If she didn't fix the problem soon, she'd have nothing with life left to save.