The music was soft and soulful, filling the Wretched Heather's with the never-ending dulcet sound of violin. Zlata hung on songs, and only a third of the reason was the beautiful woman who held the bow of the instrument.
She was tall and slender, the type of slender that spoke to lean years recently in her history. Her hair was wild and black, like a cascade of crows falling from her head down her shoulders. She swayed with her music, eyes closed, engrossed in what she was playing.
Zlata wished she could get that lost in the music tonight.
She knew she was playing a dangerous game even coming to the Wretched Heather at all. The Wretched Heather had a reputation, a reputation that Zlata knew even having never been here. It was, in fact, that reputation that brought her tonight.
Not that Zlata was looking for trouble. But, she knew trouble was not far from what she was looking for.
A few months ago, Zlata had heard her superiors in the Church speaking of things they shouldn't be, and they absolutely would not have wanted Zlata to hear them speaking of. Things that soured Zlata's entire view of her church and the people who run it.
It had taken those months, spent in deep contemplation as well as research to confirm that what she'd heard was not just a misunderstanding, but Zlata found herself, once almost profanely loyal to God and Country, turning towards revolution.
The Wretched Heather was supposed to be the place where she could find others who had turned their heads in a similar direction.
She didn't know what, exactly, she was looking for. She actually felt a bit foolish about even coming here.
What?
Was she expecting a sign-up sheet on the door to the back room?
"Want to Rebel? Tired of the Shamay Empire? The Church of the One? Come inside for Revolution Brunch!"
The very thought made her blush, despite herself.
She gave one last glance to the violin player, then pushed away from her table. She stood, drained the last few sips of her mulberry wine in one gulp that would have made Lady Demsa sigh in contempt, and headed towards the door.
As she passed the stage, she pulled a Shamaian Mark from her belt pouch and set it gently in front of the violin player. It was one of the few moments that the musicians brilliant brown eyes were open while she played, and when she saw the coin, she smiled to Zlata.
Zlata blushed again, and hurried outside.
It was just far enough along in spring that the nights still dropped to uncomfortable cold. Her cloak wasn't thick enough to really fend off the temperatures, but it was what Zlata had, so she pulled it tight around herself.
Feeling foolish for wasting a whole night looking for Revolution Brunch, she kept her head down and headed back towards the cloister where she slept.
When she passed between buildings, not far from the Wretched Heather, someone slammed into her, shoving her deep into the dark alley.
The impact was enough to knock her off her feet, and she skid on the damp ground.
From the darkness, a second set of feet, in heavy boots with the type of armor plating on them that spoke poorly to the situation Zlata found herself in.
"You're Zlata," the first man, who had slammed into her to force her into the alley, said.
He was big. Not just tall, but broad as well. Short legs from wide hips, long arms from sloping shoulders, a hairy face hiding round features: all in all he reminded Zlata of a wild bear.
His words were a bit of a growl, too.
Zlata glanced over her shoulder at the second pair of boots. This man was not nearly as large as the other one, but had a dangerous air about him that cemented Zlata conviction that she was, indeed, in trouble.
"The Wretched Heather is an awfully dangerous place for someone who's been poking their nose around the things you have the last few weeks to visit. Bad intentions on your mind, Zlata?"
"Who are you," Zlata asked warily, hand going to the hilt of her sword as she tried to push herself to her feet.
The man behind her kicked her swiftly in the shoulder
"None of that," he said.
"Stay down," the bear man said dangerously. "We're what happen when good Knights stray too far from the One. The Cloister has decided that you're not worth the effort anymore, so we're zeroing the ledger. Fighting isn't going to...."
Before he could finish his statement, his throat exploded with the tip of a dagger.
"What," the second man exclaimed, but Zlata was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
She rolled to her side, grasped him by the leg, and twisted. He called out in pain as his knee bent the wrong way and he tumbled to the ground. Zlata followed his fall, straddled his hips, and brought her fist down on his face.
Then the other.
Again and again until the man stopped moving.
"Brutal," came a voice behind her.
Zlata turned quickly, hand darting to the hilt of her sword, ready to keep the fight going if need be.
Standing over the body of the bear man, who she'd stabbed a half dozen times after opening his throat from the back, was the violinist. She still held the dagger she'd used to kill him.
Not a drop of blood from the assault had gotten on her black dress.
"What's going on," Zlata demanded.
"Can I offer you some tea?"
***
"You were very obvious," the violinist said, setting the cup of tea in front of Zlata.
She'd led Zlata to an upstairs apartment near the Wretched Heather. It was small, one room, with a bed and a stove and a small two person table all in the same space.
"Obvious about what?"
"Obvious about all the reasons Cloistered Knights always come to the Wretched Heather wearing civilian clothes."
She set a second cup of tea in front of the second chair, but moved to sit on the corner of the bed instead.
"How did you know I was a Cloistered Knight," Zlata looked down at the cup of tea, but let it steam there for the time being.
"Oh honey," the woman said, "I can spot you lot from a mile away. It's in the way you walk, the way you hold your shoulders. The way you braid your hair and wear your sword and a million other little things you do with every breath. I pegged you for a Cloistered Knight the second you walked in the front door."
"Didn't realize I was so obvious," Zlata blushed.
She watched as the violinist started to unlace her leather boots, from just under her knee, all the way down to the top of her foot.
"Don't be like that," the violinist laughed, slipping the first boot off and setting it aside before moving on to the second boot. "Spotting Cloistered Knights is a survival skill. Every time one of you walks into the Wretched Heather, trouble seems to follow in your wake. Most of the time, I end up having to kill someone."
The second boot came off, and the violinist set it beside the first. She took a moment to rub the ache of the day out of her shins and calves.
