Marion

The show’s audience wasn’t nearly as full as it would’ve been for Love at the West’s Edge — but “My Wretched Soul” had already pulled Piccaron in five separate times since the Marion troupe first arrived in Marina. No tears. No tension, no delight, nothing readable in his eyes as he watched it again. Less a devoted fan losing himself in the story, more a graduate student picking the thing apart for research.

A few days earlier, Piccaron had taken a contract. Investigate a human trafficking ring whose method of choice was recruiting theater performers. Human trafficking, on its own, was common enough — ordinary enough that something this “minor” shouldn’t have warranted Baum’s attention at all. But a kidnapped noble changed that math entirely.

“King Armen. What a wretched fate that man had.” A woman’s voice carried as she stepped out of the theater.

“The Marion troupe are true artists.” The man beside her agreed.

“Such a shame, truly — they’re only staying the week.” Another woman’s voice chimed in.

“If only I’d arrived sooner. If only the sea storms had passed quicker, if only the desert winds around the Three Colored Needles weren’t so vicious this season — I might have caught Love at the West’s Edge, that legendary epic.” A man behind Piccaron sighed, wistful.

Hearing was basic to every human — what turned it into something closer to a golden blade was knowing exactly where to point your ears. A theater that regularly drew foreign visitors, merchants, and a healthy scattering of nobility was, as it happened, exactly the kind of place a mercenary went hunting for intel.

“Trapped, are they.” Piccaron’s voice was barely above a murmur. “Seems the storm’s working in my favor. Oh, me. Let’s hope the luck holds.”

“Our schedule’s brutally tight, boss. Think it’s time we bring on someone new?” Cindy, one of the Marion troupe, asked.

“Our leading ladies, I think we’re set there.” Deacon, the troupe’s leader, considered it. “Would be a good day if we finally found one more leading man.” They sat in a lavish drinking hall, unwinding, savoring the fruits of their work.

Sometimes a mercenary had to choke down stale liquor in some rundown bar just to squeeze out a scrap of intel — but a little luxury, when it came, was worth just as much. Piccaron ordered wine and took a seat at the table beside the Marion troupe’s own.

Deacon’s eyes lit up faintly at the sight of him. Without any preamble, he crossed over to Piccaron’s table.

“Young man. Care to join Marion?” Deacon asked.

“A generous offer, truly.” Piccaron’s smile was easy, apologetic. “But I’m afraid I’d be a terrible actor. Couldn’t cry on command if my life depended on it.”

“I think you’d fit in with us well. The main requirement, you understand, is simply the face — and with our discipline behind you, turning you into one of our finest wouldn’t take much effort at all.” Deacon’s tone was warm, persuasive.

“I see…” Piccaron’s smile stayed polite, apologetic. “My apologies, though.”

“No trouble at all. We’ll be in this city for the next two days, until the sea winds settle. You can find us at the Lavender Inn, if you change your mind.” Deacon’s easy confidence never wavered.

Piccaron wandered the city until nightfall. Then came the next order of business — surveillance. He spent until three in the morning trailing Deacon, and came away with nothing. Was this man simply careful by nature? Restless and out of patience, Piccaron made his way to a brothel.

“Madam. I’d like to request the lovely Lexi.” Piccaron’s tone was easy.

“You and the hundred men ahead of you, young man. Shame — Lexi’s been out these past few days.” The madam’s smile was knowing.

Piccaron went quiet a moment, though not from disappointment. He tossed ten gold coins onto the counter.

“Madam. I imagine plenty of nobles and foreign visitors have come asking after Lexi. Tell me — was Marion among them?” His voice stayed light.

“You buy more information out of me than women, you know that? No. No Men from Marion. I’d stake my word on it.” The madam’s certainty didn’t waver.

Roughly a day remained before Marion left Marina for good. This should have been simple enough — Piccaron could just wait at the harbor and catch them there. But he wanted this settled before it came to that. The written contract was explicit: the noble’s identity, wherever possible, was not to reach the authorities. The worst-case scenario, if it came to that, was Marion changing course toward Luna Pienna — a kingdom Marauder had expressly forbidden Piccaron from operating in.

Piccaron’s frustration mounted, bar to bar, city block to city block, and still nothing solid. What he did have was thin, almost too thin — Marion’s trail in all of this barely existed at all. Were they even the ones behind the kidnappings, truly?

Piccaron finally stood still in the middle of the city, resigned to a different approach — cast the net wide, gather everything at once, however unreliable the source, and let luck do the sorting.

That was when he spotted a procession of holy pilgrims entering the city.

“Their numbers are down from before.” A man buying a newspaper muttered it to no one in particular.

“Before? When was that?” Piccaron’s voice was casual, curious.

“About a week back. They came through with somewhere around a hundred people that time.” The man answered without looking up from his paper.

“That earring…” Piccaron’s voice trailed off, something catching his attention.

“Friend. You seem like a man who keeps his ear to the ground.” Piccaron drew out two gold coins. “Tell me — this might be a sensitive question.”

“Do you happen to know Lexi, from the brothel?” His voice stayed casual.

“Been looking for her myself, actually. Shame, that.” The man’s eyes flicked to the coins. “And, well — this might be a secret, but…”

Piccaron produced three more gold coins.

“Word going around is Lexi once served one of the holy men. And with that particular secret sitting on him, that priest’s been looking rattled lately. Scared she’d let it slip — you know how loose those mouths can get. Seems Lexi’s been trying to find a way out of Marina entirely, start fresh somewhere else.” The man’s voice dropped lower with each word.

“Interesting. This is valuable, whatever it’s worth.” Piccaron’s tone stayed even. “Confirming it real or not is another matter. This priest have a name?”

“Eugene.” The man’s eyes darted briefly around them. “And — never say you heard this from me.”

The holy man finished his prayers, wished the world a good night, and prepared for bed. Who would’ve guessed the company he’d keep tonight — not some lovely woman, but a mercenary.

“Eugene, right?” Piccaron’s voice cut through the dark.

“Who are you?! How did you get in here?!” Eugene’s voice cracked with panic.

“If this is what passes for a trusted intermediary to the all-forgiving, then—“ Piccaron ran a thumb along the edge of his dagger, unhurried.

“What the hell are you talking about?!” Eugene backed away.

“Oh? Praying with that mouth of yours, are you?” Piccaron’s smile was thin.

Eugene grabbed a fencing sword mounted on the wall and lunged — but the movement was slow enough that Piccaron sidestepped easily to the right, then cut clean across his right arm. Eugene screamed. Damn it — Piccaron hadn’t actually wanted to start slaughtering holy men en masse over a scream loud enough to draw a crowd.

“Huh. No one’s coming?” Piccaron tilted his head. “Sleeping like the dead, apparently.” Or maybe they simply weren’t sleeping at all — knowing this man’s character, they probably didn’t care either way.

“I don’t want to kill you. Tell me where Lexi is.” Piccaron’s voice sharpened.

“I don’t know, argh—“ Eugene clutched his bleeding arm. “Last I saw her, she said she was leaving Marina for good. A woman came, offered her a chance to become a performer.”

“A woman, huh.” Piccaron’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Where are your houses of worship in this city?” Piccaron asked.

“Two of them. One’s grand, newly built. The other’s fallen out of use entirely.” Eugene’s voice was strained, still clutching his arm.

Piccaron watched from behind the treeline, gauging the security around the worship house from a distance. Several guards stood posted — members of the Light’s Snare cult, if the rumors held true. This was a group whose defensive barriers, rumor claimed, could even snare light itself. Piccaron charged straight at them anyway.

“An intruder, is it? Bold of you, coming alone.” One of the Light’s Snare members regarded him almost lazily.

Piccaron drove his dagger forward, again and again, the blade skidding uselessly off whatever shield surrounded them. He kept at it — strike after strike, angle after angle — while the Light’s Snare mages watched with the bored amusement of men swatting away a fly. One of them actually laughed outright.

“Persistent little thing.” One of them grinned. “Adorable, almost.”

By the time the doors of the worship house swung open, the clearing had gone quiet behind him — five bodies on the ground, none of them his.

A hundred and fifty men and women filed out in a neat procession, dressed as holy pilgrims — every one of them striking to look at. Piccaron’s eyes caught on one man in particular.

“Well. Would you look at this ‘independent’ nobleman.” Piccaron’s voice went cold. “Walked out of his own house, abandoned his duties, all chasing some dream of becoming an actor. Tell me — when does your little play open?”

Then his gaze landed on Lexi. Ah. Sweet Lexi.

“If I’m the one who saves you, I get to go first.” Piccaron’s voice dropped, almost to himself. “I’m not standing in line.”

A woman’s voice snapped him out of the daydream.

“Hello there. I saw you earlier — sitting near Deacon, weren’t you? Cindy, if I remember right. Ah, no — my mistake. Marion Jr, isn’t it?” Piccaron’s tone had gone perfectly level.

“You… how do you know that?” Cindy’s face drained of color.

“Your mother. Marion. She took help from the holy order early in her career — paid it back by staging epics that flattered them. That closeness between your mother and the pilgrims gave you exactly the channel you needed to smuggle victims through.” Piccaron kept his voice even, methodical. “As for Deacon — he handed me the crucial clue without meaning to. Marion looks for faces. You wouldn’t go hunting for talent at an art academy. You’d want to shape someone from nothing. So where do you find someone beautiful, or handsome, desperate enough to say yes to anything? A brothel. My trail went cold there for a while — until the real pilgrims came through, and between what I learned from them, and that earring of yours… I’d already seen its match on one of the pilgrims”

“Damn it! Damn it!” Cindy’s mind raced, the image of five dead Light’s Snare mages still fresh behind her eyes. Then it hit her — the contract. Weeks ago, word had reached her through the grapevine that someone had put a price on her head, and specifically routed the job through Baum Goldenir. She’d dismissed it at the time, too busy, too confident in her own protection to take it seriously.

She wasn’t dismissing it now.

“Let me go.” Cindy’s voice went hollow, resigned.

“Then go in peace.” Piccaron’s answer came without hesitation.

That morning, Piccaron made his way to Deacon’s chambers, Marion Jr’s body carried over one shoulder. The contract itself had already been settled elsewhere — with House Quentin’s own envoy, the man who’d hired him in the first place. This visit to Deacon was something else entirely. A courtesy, maybe. Or simply loose ends that needed tying.

“I imagine you should know what happened to your stepdaughter.” Piccaron laid the body down without ceremony.

Deacon looked at it a long moment. No tears. No outburst.

“There were rumors.” He didn’t meet Piccaron’s eyes. “Nothing solid enough to act on — the kind of thing you hear and pray isn’t true. A few performers turned down offers to join us this past year, quietly, no reason given. I told myself it was nothing.”

“You understand — this was your own stepdaughter.” Piccaron let the sentence hang, watching him carefully.

Deacon said nothing for a long moment.

“She was never mine to begin with.” His voice had gone flat, stripped of any pretense. “Marion built this troupe with her own two hands, long before I ever came into the picture. I married a widow with a daughter already grown — and once Marion herself passed, the name, the reputation, all of it should have gone to me outright. Cindy was always going to be a complication I’d inherited, not a child I chose.” His eyes lifted, cold and clear. “The rumors were already staining a name I fought hard to make entirely mine. This settles that, one way or another.”

“Sure. Whatever you say.” Piccaron’s shrug was tired. He turned to leave, then paused at the door. “You’ll take over Marion yourself now, I take it?”

“Of course.” Deacon’s smile was thin, satisfied. “There’s no one else left with any claim to it.”