The Order of Grimm: The Tales of Märchen

CHAPTER ONE

Visit the Healing Springs of Gewässer!

Deep in the Arnwick Mountains, just a half day’s carriage ride from the city state of Märchen, amidst looming pine trees, cliffs and valleys, lies the town of Gewässer with its healing springs renowned through Alsatia! Warm mineral springs offer cures for whatever ails you.

Bunions! Flesh wounds! Boils! Melancholia! Our springs can heal you.

GEWÄSSER BOARD OF TOURISM

Never let your guard down. That lovely little epitaph would probably wind up on her tombstone one day, Samara reflected.

But not today.

She discovered the tourist town when she still worked for House de Mörde ten years earlier. In between tracking down Antoine Lafaille, a diplomat from Perceforest, and killing him with a poison dart (she made it look like he had fallen asleep and drowned), Samara fell in love with the town.

She had never visited a place like it. A town that existed just for pleasure. Now, whenever work became a bit much, she would make the trip to Gewässer to take in its charming architecture and clean mountain air.

Less than an hour ago she practically dissolved into one of the small rocky pools of heated water. Her body too tired to even mind the faint smell of rotten eggs. She could feel the healing water doing its job to leach away her stress, along with the dirt and grime of the city.

Now, however, she was fighting for her life. And oh, the irony did not escape her that she was about to be murdered in the town she first discovered while working as an assassin.

It started just as she was drifting off. She heard the slap of feet on the grass. It was much too early in the day for most tourists. She blinked her eyelids open to find a spa attendant holding out a small washcloth. She accepted it, grateful for the chill coolness of the cloth. Only briefly registering how toned the attendant’s arms were before placing the cloth on her face and closing her eyes again.

But something niggled at her brain, warning her to stay alert. The attendant was still standing there. As her internal warning alarm began to blare she felt warm water rush up her nostrils as someone shoved her head beneath the surface, gripping her skull with hands like a vice.

I’m about to die in a tourist trap, she thought hazily as she swallowed the foul-tasting water, uselessly trying to remove the hands from her skull. Then, I’M ABOUT TO DIE IN A TOURIST TRAP!

With a sudden burst of speed, she took hold of the arms, those muscular arms, and with one great tug upended her opponent who landed with a splash in the pool beside her.

Freed from her opponent, Samara surged upwards, coughing and gulping down air. Through stinging eyes she blinked at the person who tried to kill her: a young girl, barely a teenager. The girl wiped water out of her eyes and grinned wickedly, before lunging towards a stack of towels. The assassin grabbed both ends of a towel wrapping it tightly in her hands to create a makeshift garrotte.

Samara growled. She was not about to let the little imp get the drop on her again. She thrust a foot out, hitting the girl squarely in the chest. Wrenching the towel away from the girl she was about to follow up with a punch, but the assassin was already up and out of the pool, bare feet expertly navigating the slippery rocks.

Samara heaved herself out of the pool, allowing a moment to catch her breath. As water rolled off her naked body, she watched the girl take off running. Just as the girl disappeared, Samara calmly wrapped a towel about herself and took off in pursuit. She knew the right thing to do was to stay and call for help, but this little girl had tried to take out the Hisada, and there needed to be consequences.

A thirst for vengeance fuelled her. But in the time it took to cross the property, she was also plagued by pesky doubts. Certain promises she had made to herself. When Samara finally caught up with the assassin, she found her waiting by the wrought iron fence which marked the eastern edge of the property.

The girl grinned at her. Took your time, she taunted, and with a flourish she ripped off the soaking wet skirt she wore to reveal riding trousers. Vaulting to the top of the fence, she spun to face Samara.

Your sister sends her greetings, she called, before leaping away.

Samara stopped mid-stride, stumbling to her knees. Soon, her shoulders were shaking and a giggle escaped her lips.

Callista. Of course. Only she would send an assassin to deliver a message.

It was chilly that night in Märchen. The air ruffled Samara’s dark hair as she took the knife she held between clenched lips and wiggled the blade beneath the window, adjusting her footing on the brickwork. The window gave, just enough that she could catch her fingers underneath and slowly ease it up. She was happy to see she hadn’t lost her touch. Although she was used to breaking out of House de Mörde, not breaking into it. But whether in or out, she has always been good at evading the daughters of the House who patrolled the roof.

She paused for a moment, feeling some trepidation. It had been a long time since she last visited. A visit she recalled well. She’d returned to the House three months after walking out the door, vowing she would never come back. But she’d needed to come back. She needed to make things right with Callista and, more importantly, make her see sense. Even though it was dangerous for her to return.

Daughters of House de Mörde were allowed to retire eventually, but not just quit. The House had invested too much money in them, and would never simply allow a daughter to leave. Samara had taken advantage of a small window of opportunity when the Matron suddenly passed away. Even then, she didn’t take any chances. She lived in hiding for three months. Trying to secure a place to live. Searching for employment. Waiting for her assassin sisters to find her. But they never did.

And so she plucked up her courage to return to House de Mörde and speak to Callista. She was devastated when Callista flat out refused to join her. She’d lost one family, and now she was losing another. Samara was self-aware enough to know she could’ve handled things better. And with three months’ perspective, she understood that Callie had been scared to leave. So she came back to reassure her sister that it was okay. That they could really do this.

Except when she returned that night, she discovered that everything was different. Callista had moved up in the world. Taken the job of Matron. The job Samara had also been offered and refused. And suddenly she felt as though perhaps she had never known the girl she shared a room with for nearly ten years. The fact that Callista had cravenly chosen power over their friendship broke Samara, even if it was also why none of her assassin sisters had ever come after her. That was the last time she visited House de Mörde. Until today.

Pulling her thoughts back to the present, she used her lower body to push herself up on the ledge and in seconds she was climbing through the small opening, unhooking herself from the rope dangling outside, and closing the window again. She took a moment to gather her bearings. She stood in a spacious bedroom, much bigger than the room she and Callista had once shared, decorated in earthy tones. A grand four-poster bed dominated the room, while a dresser stood opposite, an ornate oval mirror hanging above.

The steady patter of footsteps caused Samara to dive behind one of the heavy velvet curtains. Peeking out, she spotted a fair-haired girl entering with a tea tray. The familiar scent of saffron chai wafted into the room. The girl, one of the younger students of House de Mörde, set the tray on the dresser and went to stoke the small fire before withdrawing. Moments later, Samara heard voices coming from the hallway and watched as the person she had come to see entered: Callista, her assassin sister and former best friend.

She still remembered the first time they met, years ago. Callista was nine when she came to the House. Three years older than the typical girl entering House de Mörde. Samara had been 11 at the time. She had spent nearly half her life at the House. While the other girls presumed Callie to be a stuck-up rich girl, Samara recognised someone just as lost as she had been. Someone who, like Callista, would never quite fit in. So she took her under wing. Spending many late-night hours training Callista so she could catch up with the rest of the girls. Callie being stubborn and determined, did indeed catch up.

And now she was the youngest Matron in the history of House de Mörde.

Her stomach clenched as Callista padded across the room to the mirror. She looked tired. Dark smudges gathered beneath her green eyes. Her red hair, longer than Samara remembered, was scraped back in a plait. Samara watched as Callista poured herself a cup of tea.

You can come out now, Samara, Callista said softly, taking a sip of her tea.

Schiesse, Samara silently cursed, stepping out from behind the heavy drapery. After spending the entire carriage ride from Gewässer planning this confrontation, she realised, now the time had come, she didn’t know what she wanted to say.

You came, Callista said, the ghost of a smile touching her lips as she studied Samara. She almost looked relieved.

I came, Samara agreed. Her chest felt tight as she girded herself for the confrontation. Had trouble finding the place though. A bit different to the room we shared.

Samara sat down at the end of the bed, gazing brazenly about the chamber. Not bad. If I’d known the job of Matron came with a room like this, I might’ve stayed too.

Callista dropped her cup onto her saucer with a clatter. Are we really having this conversation right now?

Samara leaned back on the bed, trying to look casual. Well we could talk about how you sent someone to kill me.

I didn’t send someone to kill you⁠—

A third rate slip of a girl, I might add.

I didn’t send someone to kill you! Callista repeated, more loudly this time. She released a loud exhalation and closed her eyes. I assume you’d prefer I didn’t wake up the entire house full of assassins. Would you please come here and have some tea?

It was then that Samara eyed the tray and noticed there were two cups. She pressed her lips together, annoyed at herself for not noticing earlier. Gritting her teeth, she stood up and approached the dresser.

I didn’t send her to kill you. She just got… Callista gestured helplessly. Carried away. You remember what it was like at that age.

Samara stiffened. So what? This was a test? Like how Ursula used to test us? Manipulate us? Is that it?

It wasn’t a test. Not exactly.

Not exactly? How could Callista not see she was behaving exactly like the previous Matron?

Callista handed Samara a cup and saucer. Drink your tea. It’s saffron chai. Just like Ursula used to keep in her private stores.

Samara stared at the cup without taking it. The truth was, she did remember what it was like at that age. The anger and drive to prove yourself by taking on the strongest fighter. Pitting the girls against each other was something Matron Ursula loved to do. And here was her former sister, behaving exactly the same way.

You know I never once saw her drink this herself, Callista continued, placing the cup and saucer back on the dresser. Sometimes I think she only kept stuff like this around to help us practice our training.

Samara’s mind went back to those clandestine nights when they would sneak down to the kitchens together to enjoy the tea from Akkad, Samara’s homeland. One of the few memories she had from her homeland was the smell of that tea. It wasn’t until she was much older that she learned this was part of Ursula’s training. She’d keep treats for the younger girls, so they could practice their stealth skills.

Samara’s mouth twisted into a sneer. If Callista hoped it would bring back fond memories of their childhood, she was mistaken. The tea was just another way in which Matron Ursula continued to manipulate them.

What do you want Callista?

It’s been eight years. I wanted to talk.

Samara stalked around the perimeter of the room. Callista brought out her worst impulses. She found she had to forcibly remind herself that when she had walked out the doors of House de Mörde, she had vowed never to take another life.

Callista was not making it easy to keep that vow.

Instead she replied, "You’ve had eight years and now you want to talk?"

Callista swallowed, then lifted a placating hand. I don’t want to fight.

If you don’t want to fight, then don’t send an assassin after me! Samara snarled.

Callista placed her hands on her forehead, resting her elbows on the polished dresser. You are so maddening sometimes. I can’t believe I used to look up to you.

She was pretty sure Callista hadn’t meant to say that part aloud, but once it was spoken Samara felt the words sting her like a slap on the cheek.

Samara picked up the delicate teacup, tossing back the tea. It burned on the way down, but she wasn’t about to let good saffron chai go to waste. Unfortunately, the taste of genuine saffron tea only served as a painful reminder of how far apart they had grown.

Thanks for the tea, she declared, spinning on her heel and marching to the window.

I came to you for help, said Callista, a shaky note of desperation lacing her voice.

Samara froze for a moment, then lifted up the sash window and said, without looking back, "I don’t do that type of work anymore. You’d know that if you’d bothered to contact me even once in the last eight years."

"I don’t need the Hisada. I have no use for a reaper. I need you. Out of the corner of her eye, Samara saw Callista shrug helplessly. I need your expertise. There’s a safe I need to get into."

Samara reached through the window for her safety rope, choosing to tamp down on her feelings.

I work for the Lions. You want a job like that done. You speak to Tormod. Tormod hires me. That’s how it works.

I don’t trust Tormod Lyons, replied Callista.

Samara’s lips twitched. Callista was wise not to trust the head of the Lions. Samara certainly didn’t. Oh, but you trust me?

Callista frowned, lips pressing into a thin line. Of course I trust you. She started to reach a hand to Samara who had turned to face her, but she dropped it midway. I need someone with discretion. There are sensitive documents I need recovered from the safe. Things that might be of interest to you too.

Who’s the mark?

Chetwin Humphreys.

Upon hearing the name Samara could practically feel her pulse speed up. She could tell Callista was watching her for a reaction but refused to give her one.

Ursula told you about him, didn’t she? Callista pressed. That she acquired most of her girls from Humphreys. That he’s a human trafficker. My sources tell me you spend most of your free time breaking into Humphreys’ various businesses around the city.

Had Callista been having her followed? Samara swallowed down the sickening feeling of glee that thought gave her.

I don’t know if you’re trying to find your family or just trying to halt his operations, but I know you’ve made it your business to take Humphreys down.

Samara crossed her arms over her chest. She knew a thing or two about things being too good to be true, and this seemed like just one of those times. Callista was dangling a carrot.

You know my interest in Humphreys. What’s yours? She raised an eyebrow. Cutting out the middle man?

She couldn’t help the dig, and to Samara’s satisfaction, that seemed to break Callista’s controlled façade. The redhead twisted her face and almost physically reeled back. I don’t get my girls from slavers, she snapped.

Your girls, Samara repeated, shaking her head. The girls she had chosen over their ten-year long friendship.

Callista met Samara’s dark eyes defiantly. "Somebody needed to take over as Matron, and I took the job. So yes. They’re my girls, and I don’t buy from slavers. Ever."

Samara searched Callista’s face, trying to tell if she was lying, but in truth, she had no bloody idea. Too much time had passed. She was practically a stranger to her. I ask again, what is in that safe for you?

Callista shifted. Touched a hand to her hair. Ah. There it was. Callista’s old tell. Perhaps she hadn’t changed that much after all.

I want to get the names of the slavers. I want to take them down, so girls like you and me aren’t ripped from our families to be raised as killers. Or worse.

Samara considered the prospect. Callista was playing her. She was hiding something. At the same time, there was a voice in her head reminding her Callista could easily have gone after her eight years ago when Samara deserted the House de Mörde. Instead, she had been allowed to peacefully stay in Märchen. That was down to Callista.

Moreover, could she really say no to this opportunity? The chance to take down Chetwin Humphreys? The possibility of finally finding her family?

This is a safe job, you said? Samara asked, keeping her voice cool and detached.

Yes, Callista replied, anticipation in her eyes, as though she knew she had Samara hooked and just needed to reel her in. I have plans to his home. I know exactly where his office is located. I just need someone who can deal with the security and break in.

Why don’t you send in one of your girls? Maybe the one who got carried away. She seemed pretty sure of herself.

I told you, it’s a safe job. Callista grimaced. Besides, after I cut ties with Humphreys… Let’s just say I don’t think some of the other sisters of House de Mörde would appreciate me stirring up trouble.

That part, Samara felt sure, was the truth, and verdammt, if she didn’t take a little pleasure in hearing that Callista’s position didn’t go unopposed. Samara let out a breath. She felt herself relaxing a little as her mind went to work on the problem of breaking into Humphreys home office. She’d of course put a lot of thought into it already. For her own purposes.

This isn’t a one-person job. Security is heavy there. I might need another person to handle security. Samara tapped her chin thoughtfully. Definitely, I’ll need a safecracker.

Callista bit her lip, a frown on her face. Not someone from the Lions? I really hoped this was something you could do by yourself.

It’s a four-person job, at least.

"Four? Callista asked with some dismay. Are you sure bringing other people in is a good idea?"

Don’t worry, I won’t go to the Lions. Tormod doesn’t like his Lions participating in side jobs. I’m freelance. I can do what I like. A half-truth. While Tormod wouldn’t object to her having a side hustle, he was the head of the thieves guild and wouldn’t appreciate her stealing in his town.

Samara chewed on her lower lip, running through her list of skilled safecrackers she trusted. She came up empty.

I know people who could do it, she lied. "But it’s going to cost you. Are you sure you have the coin for this, Matron?"

Samara’s lips twisted into a grin as Callista poured more tea. Sure, her vacation had ended early. And Callista was definitely still keeping stuff from her. But if it meant taking down the man who had sold her to the House, then perhaps things were looking up.

CHAPTER TWO

Those who enjoy strolling about will find much to discover in the City-State of Märchen, such as the peaceful district of Elphame Park, so named for its expansive park dedicated by visiting members of the Seelie Court in 1410. This charming neighbourhood is known for its vibrant cafes, galleries and bookshops. It is where the well-heeled of Märchen reside. Nearby Old Town is an eclectic area with a busy shopping district. A visit to Old Town would not be complete without catching a show at the Palladium Theatre. Hollowhorn, known fondly by locals as The Hollow, is for the more adventurous traveller. The Royal Zephyr is Hollowhorn’s most renowned gambling hell, but be sure to hold onto your purse.

A GUIDE TO MÄRCHEN

Arthur Templeton sat on a window seat enjoying the view while making smoke rings. The late morning sunlight spilled in, creating a pool of light on his Aubosson rug. It didn’t seem to disturb the sleeping couple, who, during the night, had entwined, edging Art out of bed.

He didn’t mind. They were a delightful couple who clearly loved each other. In Art’s experience, typically when he entertained a couple, one person would be the instigator, while the other was dragged along, forced to partake in their partner’s appetites with little enthusiasm themselves. Not these two. They couldn’t keep their hands off him. Or their mouths. He let out a satisfied sigh. Last night had been a good night. Plus, he made some coin which helped sustain his own lavish lifestyle. He considered it a win-win.

Ah, if his father could only see him now. The elderly Lord Templeton would probably have a heart attack and disown him for a second time. Was this the lifestyle his father had feared for him when a wide-eyed Art announced a desire to tread the boards at the age of eight? Did his father know it would lead to a ménage à trots with strangers. Money received for illicit activities?

But of course, by disowning Art, the elderly Lord had virtually driven him into the life he so feared for his second-born son. True, it wasn’t the life Art had imagined for himself when he first fell in love with the theatre. But, he thought, glancing over at the couple asleep in his bed, it could be fun sometimes.

Finishing his hash, he was just beginning to wonder if the exhausted couple might be interested in paying for breakfast, when he heard a light tap on the bedroom door. Scowling, he glanced at the couple, but they were still deep in sleep, so he got to his feet, grabbed a maroon dressing gown draped on the back of an ornate chair, and slipped out of the bedroom and into the outer chamber. There he was met by a petite, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman, dressed all in charcoal and still wearing her climbing harness.

Most people wait to be invited in, he said to Samara with a scowl.

You told me to use the window, remember? Didn’t want your landlord spotting me and knowing you were home?

Ah yes.

Besides, I didn’t think you’d want me disturbing your guest, Samara replied with a snicker.

"Guests," Art corrected with a proud smirk.

Samara raised her eyebrows in surprise. How on Earth do you manage that? She seemed genuinely curious.

Despite himself, a feeling of superiority came over Art. Samara might have an intimate knowledge of the underworld, but Art was definitely more well-versed in other areas of life.

Now I know you didn’t climb through my window to discuss my personal life, Art replied, sprawling himself on a chaise longue.

Is it safe with… she tipped her head toward the bedroom.

Oh, don’t worry about them. They’re fast asleep. Art began to refill his pipe. Why all the subterfuge?

Samara stalked over to the chaise longue and sat beside him, keeping her voice low. I have a job.

Indeed? What kind of job are we speaking of here? Art asked as he lit his pipe with a match.

I have a client who needs us to break into a safe. Security is tight. I need someone on the inside.

And you came to me because of my magnetic personality?

Samara grinned. That and because you’re one of the few people I know who don’t work for Tormod.

Art slowly inhaled on his pipe, taking his time before replying.

Who is the target? he asked, blowing out a puff of smoke.

Samara grimaced. Chetwin Humphreys.

Art almost dropped his pipe. "Chetwin Humphreys? The Chetwin Humphreys? He glanced over at the bedroom door, then lowered his voice. Who is your client that they think they can ruffle Humphreys’ feathers and get away with it?"

If you agree, I’ll introduce you. But trust me when I say that she can handle any blowback from Humphreys.

Art considered her words, leaning in closer. What’s the pay?

A thousand gold crowns for each member of the team.

Art inhaled sharply. A thousand gold crowns would do a lot to clear his debts at the Zephyr, his favourite gambling den. It might even be enough for a downpayment in a better part of town. Somewhere outside of The Hollow.

Was it worth the trouble though? It was foolish going up against one of the most powerful men in the city. But he’d known Samara a long time. If she said a client was solid, that was good enough for him.

If your client can promise no blowback, then I’m all in.

Samara raised her eyebrows. Whilst I’m grateful to hear that, are you sure? You and I both know your history of going all in on a bet.

Art chuckled. I’m ever the optimist. Frowning, he added, I’ve never once known you to do a job outside of the Lions. Why now?

Would you believe me if I said it was for the money?

Not for a second. You’ve never been motivated by greed. Unlike me. So why did you really decide to take this job?

The client is an old friend of mine, Samara admitted.

Art couldn’t help noticing a hitch on the word friend. Most people would believe the Hisada had no friends, but Art knew otherwise.

And? he prompted, taking another puff from his hash-filled pipe.

And you’re right. It’s not about the payday. I’m not taking any of the money actually. Samara