A Right Pickle

Adventures of Lady Sola "Pickle" pt. 1

Imperial year - 2637

At the moment, Pickle felt very small. She was in fact quite short, standing just five Imperial when on her toes. But the stuffy confines of the capital city of Longdoria made her feel every bit of her small stature.

Pickle sidled down the alley, keeping an eye to the looming wall on her left. She only paused a tick when she spotted the chalk slash under an alley window. Turning away, her hand brushed the opposite wall, leaving her own mark. Her business there done, she slid out of the alley into the busy street and disappeared into the crowd.

-

The Beggar on the street corner noticed the new mark on the alley wall. Whoever had made it was very good. He had seen nothing and it seemed only to have suddenly appeared. Satisfied his signal had been received, he slouched away into the city.

-

Pickle sat in one of the ancient trees by the Lion fountain plaza. The Lion fountain plaza was the easternmost of the four main plazas in Longdoria. At its center was a large fountain with four of its namesake animals on a pedestal, water pouring out of their mouths. Benches and gardens were scattered over the grounds of the plaza.

It would be several hours before her contact would drop a note at the prearranged location near the fountain, so she watched the passersby from her hidden vantage. Street children played near the fountain and farmers and merchants sold their wares on street corners. Slaves in their black iron collars shopped or trailed their masters.

The echoes of an Imperial steamtank chugging by several streets over reached Pickle’s ears. Pickle was tempted to go investigate the steamtank. She had always been curious, often to the point of trouble. Which is how she had acquired the name Pickle.

-

And speaking of trouble, a squad of Justicars came marching down the boulevard towards the fountain plaza. The Justicars in their lacquered black armor and grey cloaks trimmed in crimson were judge, jury, and executioner. Their breastplates were embossed with the Imperial sigil, a heraldic eagle, wings poised to dive, a crown in its beak and a sword in one outstretched talon and a branch of the victus (victory) tree in the other. Any citizen or slave judged to have broken the law in their sight could be executed on the spot.

Pedestrians stumbled over themselves as they scrambled to get out of the way. Catching sight of a man with a long knife at his belt, the officer pointed towards him and several Justicars gave chase.

The man, in disbelief, backed away, tripping over the basket of carrots he had been shopping from moments before. The two Justicars grabbed him and dragged him towards the plaza, the officer following. The crowd parted in silence.

“For the offense of carrying a forbidden weapon, you are found guilty and sentenced to die.”

The man wailed and shouted “I’m a fisherman. I need the knife for my trade.”

The officer drew his ornate pistol and leveled it at the man’s head. “It is forbidden to have such long blades in the city. The law is final.”

At the crack of the shot, the man’s head jerked back with finality, and somewhere in the crowd a child began to cry.

-

Pickle curled up a little smaller in her perch. Such sights were commonplace in the Imperium. Almost every Imperial city had its own version of the Justicars and the bloodiness of their “justice” hardly registered in Pickle’s mind. She just didn’t want to be spotted by them, since it would be hard to not look guilty twenty feet up in a tree.

Pickle, for all of her youthful appearance, was a hardened fighter. One day as a child she had awoken in the camp of a group of rebels called the Frata with no recollection of her past. She couldn’t even remember her birth name. Choosing to go by Sola, she was adopted by the rebel unit and trained to fight as an archer and Ranger. Of course, her comrades called her Pickle.

Now she was 23 by her own reckoning and a seasoned veteran. Pickle had become the Frata’s best assassin and spy. When the Frata needed a spy to set up operations in the Imperial capital of Longdoria, Pickle was the natural choice.

The Frata were gaining strength in the East. War was coming to the heart of the Imperium and the rebel commanders needed information, so Pickle had come to Longdoria to set up a ring of spies and agents.

With Pickle had come two other Frata Rangers to relay messages and set up an escape plan. It had taken her two years to set up her current ring. Now it was time to see what it would yield.

-

The Beggar waited until the sun reached the tops of the trees before making his way to the Lion fountain. Going up to a man sitting on one of the benches, he held out his cup.

“Alms?”

The man slapped the cup away and the Beggar reached out his other hand to the bench to steady himself.

“The Brothers be with you.”

With that, the Beggar shambled away.

-

Pickle saw the arrival of the Beggar. His bright green scarf caught her eye, but as he worked his way around the fountain she ducked back into her cover. Just one among the throngs of poor.

Until he said the secret phrase. Pickle put up her head to see to locate the Beggar, again. Spotting the Beggar, she noted the bench for later.

When the sun disappeared below the distant mountains, Pickle slipped out of her tree and scampered towards the fountain. Thanks to her slight build and short grubby hair, she might have been one of the older street urchins. Pausing at the bench she sat down and pulled an alms cracker out of her pouch.

Munching on the cracker, she made as if to throw her crumbs to the birds and in the process brushed her hand under the bench feeling for the note. Her fingers brushed against the marble of the bench, but felt nothing where the note should be.

At that moment, Pickle felt the metallic cold of a gun barrel pressed against her neck.

“Slowly, look up.”

Shit.

-

The Beggar, against his better judgement had stayed near the fountain, just down a side street in within eyesight of the bench. Groups of street children dashed around the fountain. One girl sat down on a bench to nibble at the wafers the temples handed out as alms to the children.

Suddenly, a figure in an expensive blue cloak appeared next to the waif and the Beggar caught the glint of gunmetal in its hand. The girl must be part of the ring. And she was about to be snatched, by the looks of it.

Shit.

-

“Come with me.”

The man in the blue cloak tucked the diminutive Pickle under his arm and pressing the gun into her neck, he began pushing her down the street.

They walked for several blocks before turning down a side street and then turning again down an alley. The man pushed Pickle into an open doorway and the door closed behind them.

Pickle turned and found herself face to face with two men. Both men had strangely small and thin pistols out and pointed in her direction. The handles of swords or daggers were apparent on their belts.

A quick glance around the room did not give Pickle any inspiration. The room was small, windowless, bare, and made of stone. There were two doors, the one they had just come through and another in the corner over her right shoulder. Torches burned in sconces on the wall.

“Please sirs, I don’t have nothing.” Pickle struggled to keep the nervous warble out of her street waif accent as she held up the palms of her empty hands.

The man who had snatched her lowered his pistol a touch and smiled tightly.

“You are lucky we are not Ratikai.” Pickle nodded her nervous agreement. The Imperial secret police were legendarily cruel when interrogating suspected dissidents.

“You should also be more careful with things like this.” The man handed Pickle a note, still sealed in red wax and the bear sigil of the Frata.

Pickle’s irresistible curiosity began to bubble up. “Who are you?”

“Who we are is of no consequence. All you need to know is that we are interested in the success of the Frata cause.” Pickle nodded. Whether they were telling her the truth or not, she had little choice but to go along with them.

The man handed her another note, sealed in blue wax with what looked like the Imperial eagle. On closer inspection the eagle was different, with its wings outstretched, rather than folded in a dive, and the talons clutched a bunch of arrows and a scroll.

With questions swimming in her head, she looked up to begin her barrage of questions, but found an empty room.

Pickle suddenly had the urge to vomit. Fighting to keep her bile down, she looked more closely around the room. She tried the door in the corner, but found it locked.

Suddenly the door to the street exploded inward. In the doorway stood the Beggar, breathing heavily, pistol and dagger in hand. Seeing the room empty except for Pickle, the Beggar seemed to deflate a little in confusion.

Pickle motioned for the Beggar to close the door behind him. Pulling back his hood, the Beggar held out his hand and Pickle grasped it forearm to forearm. She looked up into the familiar face of one of her Rangers.

“Iver, it is good to see you again.”

“And you Pickle. I didn’t recognize you. Have we been compromised? Who was that man?”

“Men.” Pickle held up two fingers. “And I don’t know if we have been compromised.”

Pickle held out the other note the man had given her. “What do you make of this?”

Iver took the note and held it up to examine the seal.

“I’ve never seen such a seal before. It’s addressed to you.” Handing the note back to Pickle, Iver shrugged.

Pickle nodded and cracked the seal. Unfolding the parchment, there was a letter addressed to her and another sealed note inside.

To Lady Sola of the Frata,

For your eyes only. Please know that you are in danger. One of your sources has been turned. Apologies for the fright, we could not think of another way to warn you in time. While only you can decide your course, may we recommend that you leave the city at once. We would be happy to continue to forward intelligence to you for as long as we can.

Please deliver the enclosed letter to Lord Cragnah. It contains important intelligence and an offer of aid. Do not allow this letter to fall into Imperial hands.

If you need assistance, come to the docks and look for the SS Finn.

Your humble servants.

Pickle handed both sealed letters to Iver.

“We are compromised. Make sure this gets to Lord Cragnah. Take Molison with you.”

Iver saluted, clearly worried. “What about you m’Lady?”

“I have business to finish here in the city. I need to know more about these potential ‘allies.’ And I am not a lady.”

Iver saluted again. “The Brothers be with you, Pickle.”

“And with you.”

-

Pickle slid through the night. She needed rest and a change. Finding a riverside entrance to the city cistern, Pickle skipped in. (Most spies get caught looking shiftily around for people following them. If someone were following Pickle, all they would have seen is a street urchin skipping into the city sewer, not an uncommon sight.) She skipped her way down the sewers, making random turns, until she was sure she hadn’t been followed.

Pickle slipped into an alcove that appeared to be boarded up, but the boards turned easily at her touch, revealing a long, dry hallway. Closing the door behind her, she lit a torch held in a nearby sconce. Skipping deftly over several triplines, she made her way up some stairs to another door at the end of the halway.

Taking out a key, she unlocked the door and made her way into her sanctuary. Sighing with relief, she locked the door behind her and sat on her bed. Her head was still awash with unanswered questions. But with her nerves still singing, no answers were forthcoming.

Pickles room must have been an old storage room or a caretaker’s apartment. In one corner was a spring fed fountain with fresh water and in the other corner a fireplace. On the wall opposite was a rack for tools of some description. With significant effort, Pickle had provided herself with a bed and desk. A trunk at the foot of the bed held her clothes and equipment.

On the wall racks she had hung her weapons. Her blades were a thin stiff rapier and off hand dagger both, simple and unadorned with black ebony handles. Several throwing knives hung on a bandolier, as did two flintlock pistols. Even though she was a Ranger, her preferred weapon was a long flintlock rifle rather than the ubiquitous longbow. Slow to load and noisy, it could kill a man at two hundred paces with precision and punch through the thickest armor. On this mission of stealth and subterfuge, however, she had only her blades and pistols with her.

Stripping herself of the urchin rags, Pickle drew a bowl of water from the corner fountain and began to scrub the dirt and grime off of her face. The sharp cold of the water quieted her anxiety and cleared her mind. Clean, she went to her trunk and dug out a clean, plain brown shift.

Pickle lit a smokeless charcoal fire in the fireplace using the note from the men of the blue seal as tinder. She brewed herself a cup of tea. Into a pot of water went oats, dried fruits, and dried meat. Bland fare, but hearty and (most importantly) it did not give off many aromas that might give her away.

Sitting cross legged on her bed, Pickle sipped her tea, ate her dinner, and examined the events of the day. Clearly her operation had drawn the notice of someone. Whether they were sincere about their goodwill towards the Frata or not, the men of the blue seal knew who she was, even her real name. That meant there was a very good chance the Rakitai knew who she was, as well.

Fuck.

But Pickle’s curiosity was brimming and she needed a few more answers before leaving the city. She would stay as long as she could and learn about this man of the blue seal.

Before going to bed, she donned her hardened leather armor and laid her weapons close to hand. She doused the fire in the brazier and laid down. As she drifted off to sleep, she dreamed.

Pickle dreamed of her childhood, of walking through fields and woods. She sensed someone following her, but everytime she looked over her shoulder, there was no one there. Deep in her chest she felt that the person following her was her mother. But still she was not there when Pickle turned to look.

Suddenly, a deep feminine voice cut through her thoughts. Comforting at first, it took on a sharp edge of warning.

“My child. My sweet. Get up. Danger comes. Wake up!”

“But mother! I want to see - .”

“Wake up!”

Suddenly, gasping for air as she surfaced from deep sleep, Pickle sat up, hand on her sword and a pistol in her hand. From the hallway there came the sound of steps and glass breaking as her first trip wire pulled several bottles off a hidden shelf. The steps paused.

Several long minutes later, the steps resumed, much more cautious. Few steps later, the footsteps found Pickle’s second trap.

With an almighty crash, the bomb exploded. The force of the explosion caused the door to buckle, but it did not break. Outside, men cursed and coughed and hasty footsteps retreated down the hallway.

Knowing they would be back, with reinforcements, Pickle grabbed what things she could hang from her belt. Some food went into a pouch and a canteen of water was slung over her shoulder. Then she piled her mattress and extra clothing into the fireplace. Taking a flask of gunpowder, she ran a train of the black grains from the fireplace to the trunk at the foot of the bed.

With that done, Pickle started climbing the chimney flue of the fireplace. She had done it once before, to test her escape route. But now, weighed down with weapons and water, it was a tighter squeeze. Her weapons and pouches snagged every few feet. Still she made good progress.

As Pickle neared the top, the door into the room below crash in, voices of frustration reaching her ears. Reaching the top, she pulled herself up through a grate. Turning, she lit a torch and tossed it into the dark below. Fighting temptation to stay and watch, Pickle turned and sprinted into the dark.

The torch tumbled down the chimney. Landing among the piled clothes and bedding, the torch sputtered a moment before the whole pile went up in flames. Suddenly, the bomb in the bottom of the truck erupted with a thunderous clap.

-

The chimney from the room below had emerged in a vent in a wall below a warehouse in the river district. The explosion rumbled deep under the district, but then all went quiet again.

Pickle was already several blocks away. She dodged into a doorway as a troop of Imperial militia ran by to investigate the disturbance. Drawing the hood of her cloak up higher, she turned up a side street headed towards the docks.

As Pickle made her way in the shadows towards the docks, fire claxons started to clatter in the direction of the river district. A troop of wardens came stomping down the street from the docks and Pickle had to duck behind some boxes. Down from where she had come, a horse drawn fire engine raced by.

Pickle sighed and continued up the street, keeping to the shadows. The street headed north and slowly ascended the hills overlooking the river. When the street reached the top of the hill, it flattened out. On the right side of the street, the side away from the river, were warehouses, built of stone. On the left was a long row of piers for airships. Each consisted of stairs leading up to a platform, rectangular or circular in shape, to which two or three airships could moor. Pickle made her way along the row of moored ships.

One airship caught her eye, as its steam engine was hot and running. Hand on her rapier, she approached it silently, her Ranger cloak hiding her outline in the dark. Drawing closer, the legend on the stern read “SS Finn.”

Still cautious, she mounted the steps to the pier. Peeking over the edge of the platform, she spied the man in the blue cloak, his back to her, looking out over the city. Tapping her rapier on the steps to gain his attention, Pickle drew the hood of her cloak back.

The man turned and a slight smile played across his lips.

“Quite the scene you caused Lady Sola.”

From the top of the platform, Pickle could see the whole river district. Several blocks were now in flames.

“My bomb wasn’t that big!”

“No, but we helped a little.” The smile widened a little.

“Well, I think I need to get out of town. And I am not a lady.”