Authors' Note: Thank you for your interest in Dames of Deceit. We are Mimi and Lucy, embarking on a first collaborative (and spontaneous!) story, which dabbles strongly in the fantasy genre, and will hopefully, in the near future, deal in themes of adventure, romance, deceit, court politics, and likewise lovely things.

To clarify, we will be writing alternatingly. First in line would be me, writer Mimi Solitaire.

Chapter 1

THE ACTRESS

The thought occurred to her, jolting her to brief dizziness in its passage, that she might die. She watched as men approached her, one a scraggly sort of fellow with a missing eye, and, more importantly, a foot-long shortsword swinging menacingly in his hand, and the other a shorter man wearing a vest that displayed bronze-hued arms the size of hams. At least, she thought with the faint beginning pangs of hysteria,—At least they are drunk. She hoped that what they had been guzzling earlier in the common room had been something stronger than brandy. She hoped so fervently.

Flicking her gaze covetously toward the mouth of the alleyway, she expelled the long, slightly curved knife sharply from the short leather sheath that hung from her belt, holding it out before her at a guard stance. The sliver of her reflection trembled just slightly, but she remedied that with a fierce cry and darted forward, ducking low at the last instant, stabbing, and pulling back at a roll. A scream. As she righted herself into a dusty kneel, she saw red blossom on the dark wool of the second man's pants . . .

But she dared not exalt in that small feat. In two great leaps that were only slightly wavering, to her great dismay, the man with the shortsword was upon her. It took all the agility she possessed to scramble up to her feet, and twist her knife in a reverse-grip that would counter his vicious downward slash. Perhaps if the brute had been a hair less drunk, or a hair more muscle-strung like his friend, it might have resulted in more than a glancing blow that bedded no steel into her, thank the heavens, but only jarred her teeth with the impact.

As the shortsword crashed glancingly into the wall behind her, she regained her grip and took the opportunity to attack into the man's belly—a single, clean thrust, with her left hand wrapped tightly around the hilt and her right palm ramming the end of the handle to lend it considerable power. Her hands almost instantly flashed a bright red, but instead of jumping back with horror even as the shortsword fell with a great clang somewhere behind her, she stared into the vapid eyes—empty, like pools that sat unnaturally still—shook herself, sank her left heel into the now inert man's hip and pulled with all her might.

A moment or two, and the knife gave way. The man slumped backwards onto his companion. She stood shuddering for a long moment, but at a soft moan from the second man, and the sight of a grisly ham-sized arm stirring, she quickly launched forward, wiped her knife with two swift motions on the dead fellow's coat, and fled toward the exit. She didn't look back.

The city of Tuvine was a haphazard network of dirt-packed streets and occasionally paved roads, not one of which ran in a straight line for more than a block or two, with roofs topped with reddish glazed tile and peaking in easy slopes; the afternoon sun, a ball of light obscured by scraggly spring clouds, set these rooftops afire and glittering. The doors to shops lay open and welcoming, with owners framed in their doorjambs, crying out their wares, dresses, ribbons, books, and pastries, pastries, sweet meat pastries!—and bells chimed softly in the belfries of shrines, prominent structures that lay scattered sparsely over the vicinity—Tuviners were not a religious folk, she had discovered—piercing the skies with their whitewashed spires.

A sure-footed boatman passed her by, so distracted by whatever propelled his rough passage that she had to dance a few steps wide in order to avoid running into him. Staring after him in consternation—the fellow didn't even look back!—she twitched her skirts into order and continued on her way. Sailors were a common sight in Tuvine. The Chesterdell Bridge spanned the width of the Yellow River, fashioning a good quarter-mile-long construction of wood over the boat-riddled waters, which constituted Tuvine's entire western bounds. The bridge alighted from near the port, one of the busiest areas of the city, yet traffic across its wooden lengths was sparse enough. Little good lay across the Yellow River, or so the denizens of Tuvine liked to believe.

At this time of the day, and particularly at this time of the year, she might have liked to tarry her steps a little, and enjoy what sights Tuvine had to offer her. And markets and bridges aside, Tuvine had much to offer. It was said that in Tuvine, nature and civilization cohabitated; the wider roads, located deep into the city proper where the higher merchant guilds and nobility resided, were avenues paved with smooth, white stone, and strips of lawn—revealing shoots of young grass at around this season, and bright verdant in the spring—divided the causeways, sprouting straight-limbed trees in precise intervals. Tuviners were fond of gardens, in which grew a dozen varieties of the common rose, but the decorative shrubs were hardly restricted to square plots behind walls. There was too frequently something that displayed itself—a smattering of color on roofs, consisting of wildflowers with tiny, violet bulbs, a matrix of deep-colored ivy canvassing entire walls, and, of course, one mightn't forget the abundance of the split-leaved vine that was also the city's namesake.

Tarry she might have, but she did not. Her steps were brisk as they carried her through twisting maze of streets and the occasional low-roofed tunnel, and she did not slow even when the crowd thickened on the main roads, with more than a sailor to jostle her way. Heavy-laden merchants' wagons lumbered past her, marked on the canvas with the guild's sigil, and she stepped gingerly, hands plucking her skirts away from the mud the wheels might splatter. It was an abstracted gesture, however; soon she was sidestepping in order to avoid a mousy-haired boy carrying a basketful of bright yellow apples, even as she attempted to ward away a street-vendor carrying a tray of . . . what appeared to be ear-picks, of all things.

She stepped backwards to lean, briefly, against a barrel-stack, once the obstructions had gone, but before she could catch her breath she had to turn her head towards the commotion that stemmed from around the corner. People were running, or stepping briskly out of the way, and in their wake rolled a coach, tall and in magnificent contrast with the drab of the streets, with a team of four horses that were sleek and dark. The coach rumbled by, past the barrels, past where she stood, studying silently from within her deep-shaded cowl, and she caught a glimpse—a briefly stolen glimpse of a head, maybe, through the satiny folds of window-curtains . . . but that was all. The coach rolled around the next corner, the street settled, and she continued on her way.

It was much too early to consider this city as harmless. Not for an Actress.

When she opened the door to her chambers and closed it behind her, Tiche was waiting for her. The diminutive, raven-haired child had been reading a novel from within the plush confines of the sofa, but she bounded to her feet upon her entry, and set the book on a low, oval table with curved legs. The girl gasped at seeing her, and it was only then that she remembered the dust-stained state of her dress. And her blood-crusted hands, of course, once she revealed them from within the deep folds of her cloak. "Miss Margrithe!" Tiche cried in her trilling child's voice, "What's happened to you?"

"Don't call me that," Lester said sharply, though her heart wasn't in it. Distractedly, she moved toward the wide window that peered out onto the streets, two stories below, though she took care to shelter behind the thickly billowing curtains to the side. She had not been followed; she thought she hadn't, but one could never be too certain. A small girl two or three years younger than Tiche played in the gutter, and a goodwife was beating a carpet hung from a laundry line. No, Tuvine looked innocent enough. Until you found yourself trapped in an alley with two rogues bent on killing you. The drunkenness must have been a coincidence. It must have been.

"Lester," Tiche's voice said, carefully, behind her, "Are you bleeding? Did someone chase you? Did they pursue—?" The most important question, and one that tapered off into unvoiced uncertainty.

"No," she answered after a moment, "they did not follow me here. They don't know where I stay." The girl let out a small sigh of relief, but she might as well have. It would have been disaster, the day they found her. It would not be a simple matter of capturing her and dragging her back, then.

An Actress spent nearly her entire life training at the Seminary of Emulation before she earned the right to that title. It was a steep process, reserved for an elect few; it was more likely that these members were hand-picked by the guild than not. An Actress, or an Actor, spent years studying the art of human mimicry, and once the skill was mastered to the requisite degree—it was impossible to master it absolutely; there was no such thing, as surely as there were innumerable personalities in the world—the individual of the title was formidable. After all, an Actress could be anyone, anyone at all. An Actress could fell nations, with some luck.

"I was frightened," Tiche piped, straying back to the sofa, and her book, "You were gone for so long. With Mrs. Lorry about to pop in through that door any minute, too. I can't talk to her like you do, and she frightens me so! What is wrong with the townspeople here, Lester? They appear so . . ."

Lester realized that she had drawn her knife out of its sheath, and had been turning the slim, slightly curved blade over in her hands. There were dark, persistent flecks still clinging to its edge, and seeing it made her shudder. "Cheerful?" she suggested, and saw Tiche nodding emphatically. Turning her gaze toward the scene past the window once more, Lester raised the knife and tapped her fingers gingerly over the steel point. "I fear we are outlanders here, Tiche," she heard herself telling her assistant. "We cannot know their ways until we must. And when we must, we will find out."

For all that she had every right to the ownership of this knife, it felt a cool, alien weight in her hands, as if she had never used it before. It was true that she hadn't, not in earnest, anyway—until just today. I killed a man. She suspected that the surreal qualities of that moment were cushioning her from the gravity, but at the moment, she felt quite calm. Collected, as if she were playing only another part. Perhaps she was. Actresses were supposed to not only play the part, but be the part. An Actress had the ability to metamorphose not only the outward demeanor, but the inner as well, until she was thinking and feeling as the character would and did. Until she became the character.

Or so people thought.

"I've made a decision," she announced, turning. "Tonight, we shall depart—" There was a curt rap-rap on the door, and she froze. Eye-blinks later she was Isolde, the wide-eyed countrygirl Mrs. Lorry knew her as, even as the door swung open to admit the round, kindly-eyed woman with a frilly apron fastened to her waist. It was not so much a physical transformation than a disposition, though her shoulders had huddled just a hair upon themselves, her feet just perceptibly leaning at the instep, and anyone looking at her face might have seen an open countenance made fresh by the supposed surprise at the older woman's entry—that was not entirely feigned, really—trusting, just slightly vapid eyes, and the hint of a petulant mouth. The knife had vanished somewhere within her cloak.

"Going somewhere?" Mrs. Lorry warbled at the sight of said cloak still hanging from her shoulders, and transferred her motherly gaze toward Tiche. "Hello, my darling one. Why don't you ever go play outside? Those cheeks will only grow paler if you stay cooped up in here all hours of the day. Tuvine is scrumptious in spring." That last was directed at Lester, as well; the woman knew well enough that Lester had curiously kept close to her rooms the past week.

"Thank you for your recommendation, Mrs. Lorry," Lester said now, in a consistently breathless voice that was Isolde's, "The streets are beautiful with all the flowers. Tiche told me you'd been looking for me. May I ask why—?"

Mrs. Lorry was suddenly very oblique, at least as far as her gaze went. It was a moment before Lester realized that she was apologetic. "I'll have to ask you to find elsewhere for lodging," she said with a regretful smile, "My son—he has arrived earlier than I thought." That was all, but the message couldn't have been more firm. She wanted them to leave.

"I understand, Mrs. Lorry," Lester said, "Please, it won't present a problem, as we had planned to leave just this day." She stepped forward and clasped the woman's leathery hands. "I want to thank you for all the kindness you've shown us." Mrs. Lorry pshed as if she knew nothing of the sort, but when she departed their chambers once more, closing the door softly behind her, she was wearing a largely satisfied smile. Lester turned. She walked over to the washroom, peeling the pale gloves off her hands as she did—the ones donned with lightning speed when the door first sprang open—and once she reached the waterbasin, she began rubbing her hands of the dried blood rigorously.

"Are we leaving immediately?" Tiche asked from the sitting room.

"No, not yet," Lester replied. Examining her hands, she nodded to herself and wiped them on a piece of toweling that hung near the doorway. Walking back, she unfastened her cloak with a deft movement of her fingers, and flung it over the head of the sofa. "Tiche," she said decisively, "Bring me my dyes." She unclasped the band that held her hair back, and stroked the tresses that hung loose over her shoulder. "It's time for another persona," she announced.