(Formerly Lady) Renise Rimeaux's mini-arc. 1/4.

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Renise smelled trouble.

That wasn’t unusual. As the informal head of the Kingdom of Tirea’s very own budding clandestine organisation for wayward misfits, trouble was less something she stumbled across and more what she voluntarily headbutted with her face. 

But trouble usually smelled like the salt air of Reitzlake’s docks, the sweaty rags of  those who prowled the back alleys there, and the unfortunate puddles left behind by those who failed to flee fast enough.

Now, Renise smelled an altogether different form of trouble.

Fruity and sweet. Versatile and approachable. A rich cherry and ripe plum. 

Enough to fill the common room of the upscale Rosehearth Tavern with the sounds of raucous laughter. And if she knew anything from her many days spent at Reitzlake’s docks, it was that laughter was temporary while violence was forever. 

Especially when the alcohol was free.

“Hic … another! Maid, bring me another!”

Renise heard the demand bellowing like a drumbeat. 

She expertly navigated through the stifling throng of taverngoers, before answering the plea of a man who managed to keep his glass empty even as Renise filled it. Only when she saw a smile marked out by the ring of liquid around his lips was she given permission to slip back into the crowd, her presence invisible until her superpower to provide happiness on demand was required once again.

Château de Riaré Hensoise. It was a highly regarded label. Or so she was told.

Renise never cared for wine.

She cared for it less since her parents succumbed to the fae variety. 

Not a day passed where she didn’t strive to see their eyes waken to the unforgiving ceiling of Reitzlake Castle, even if what awaited them was worse than the harsh stone and the unsmiling sister who dutifully poked them each hour. Even so, it was not so much a burden that she couldn’t carry a rapidly depleting bottle upon a platter as she meandered through the gathered crowd of revellers.

An unusual collection of local dignitaries, especially as far as the standards of nobility went.

For the aristocracy, there was no blurring of the line. It was red and firm as the blood spilled to cross it. And despite the barons of the kingdom being the least of the titled landowners, the distinction between them and commoners was one they wished to highlight more than even royalty. 

An odd thing, then, to see so many commoners in a tavern which catered expressly towards the elite of Hartzwiese, and those who wished to buy their way into becoming one.

Few here could lay claim to any great wealth. 

Fewer here could lay claim to the wine glasses in their hands, stumbling as they went. 

Yet they were all people of influence, one way or another. 

Fishermen. Farmers. The town crier. Even the strange mumbling man who spent his day sitting by the well all day, his dishevelled rags bulging pilfered bottles.

They were all here. Those whose faces were seen and whose voices were heard in Hartzwiese. And for House Sandholt, who made their wealth in trade and gossip, it was a far cheaper investment than bringing out the sauvignons the nobility would have insisted upon insulting.

The result was nothing short of cacophony. 

There were no illicit whispers in the background. No silent trading of crowns beneath tables. Only the toasting of good health without the usual sarcasm laced in poison. 

Within the Rosehearth Tavern, a boisterous fervour to match the Salty Mermaid was allowed to radiate–even if most here at least tried to dress slightly better.

Well, everyone except the strange mumbling man who sat by the well.

Renise liked him the most. He asked before pilfering each bottle.

Most didn’t.

Pwwiisshh.

The sound of the inevitable filled the air.

Silence fell over the hall, the revelry cut short like an orchestra muted by a conductor’s jab. And thus awkwardness mixed with bemusement took its place.

An entire tray smashed against the carpet. The result was hopeless. A flood of happiness melting through the fabric and dripping into the floorboards. And most of all, the loss of a vintage known for its potency. Not quite enough to make anyone join her parents in the land of eternal slumber. But enough to make tongues as loose as decorum.

A useful tool. And though it made her skin crawl to admit as much, wine was the great equaliser. 

With enough, any commoner could think themselves a king. 

And any baroness could think themselves a princess.

The People’s Princess.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean–”

Renise watched as a maid trembled where she stood, the empty tray shuddering in her hands as she stared down at the leaking bottles and glass. 

That it was the fault of the bumbling man already slinking away was irrelevant. A public mistake by a servant could not go unanswered. 

And Baroness Arisa Sandholt was nothing but strident in her reply.

Wearing a dress of white silk boldly lacking any embellishment, the young baroness made a striking figure. Even were this tavern filled with the lords of Reitzlake, Renise was certain she would have drawn the eyes of both them and their eligible sons.

Hearthfires and commoners alike retreated as she approached the centre of the commotion, her elegant steps wasting not a single movement. 

She paused before the maid too paralysed to know how to drop to her knees and futilely try to stop the spillage with her apron or her bare hands. For a moment, she merely brushed aside a fringe of golden hair, her grey eyes peering upon the bottle awkwardly spilling inches from her shoes as hushed faces and curious expressions watched her in turn.

Then, with a gentle smile, she picked up the wine bottle … before promptly bowling it down the length of the common room, spinning liquid everywhere as it went.

“Oh goodness,” she said, hand raised to her mouth in feigned shock. “How clumsy of me. It seems I’ll need to buy new carpets.”

A wave of cheers erupted.

All at once, those in attendance began toasting to Baroness Arisa’s forthcoming new carpets. 

Toasts which continued unabated as the same bottle was earnestly tossed across the carpet, beginning a new tavern game which would last all the way until the proprietor reminded them that only she could ruin her own furnishings.

She never did.

Renise watched as Baroness Arisa Sandholt gave the maid a kindly smile before she turned. 

The maid’s tears were as strong as her relief as her employer rejoined the few other baronesses in attendance. All wore stretched smiles as they considered the unusual charity of their host. Standing beside them in their colourful dresses, the girl in white stood even greater in contrast. 

A baroness amongst baronesses. A princess amidst the people.

Whispers which were at best curious, and at worst seditious.

… And how much did a baroness from the north have to pay, Renise wondered, for such whispers to reach as far south as the office of the Crown Prince?

Indeed, Rose House had been busy. 

And not only with the docks and sewers of Reitzlake.

It was time.

With the common room in full motion, Renise held her now emptied platter to her chest, using it as her shield as she exited the fanfare. All the guards were in attendance now, and none would question a newly hired maid getting lost as she searched her way to the wine cellars.

Wine cellars which were clearly found on the top floor–along with Arisa Sandholt’s private room.

Once again, Renise smelled trouble. 

That girl possessed youth and prettiness in excess of what she had in status. 

But more than that, she held considerably more wealth as well. 

As impressive a business as the tavern she inherited was, it did not excuse the meteoric rise in fame or fortune. One which went far beyond her kind smile and fluttering eyelashes. She may capture hearts. But that did not entail capturing coin purses.

Barely past her social debut, Baroness Arisa possessed a presence which even the most drunken of nobility could spot for ambition. Her path to greater holdings than a tavern was already etched in stone. For most baronesses from the countryside, this meant marriage to a lord in the capital. 

She married her mercantile endeavours instead.

The traders under her employ may not be as obvious as the maids of her tavern, but what she sold was no less valuable than the bottles of Château de Riaré Hensoise she offered. And at a price considerably below what economics suggested was prudent. Now her success coincided with the parade of merchants as they increasingly made their way north instead of Trierport. 

Hartzweise had pine trees and wheat fields, and yet its market now boasted spices and jewels from as far as the Dunes and Lissoine. 

Interesting as it did not have ready access to the sea.

What it did have, however, was Granholtz.

Smuggling, then.

Although much of the movement of illicit goods in the royal capital was now blocked, Renise had yet to have her happy ending. Those of the Thieves Guild and Smugglers Guild who’d neither yielded nor accepted a pardon in Rose House had gone to greener sewers. 

But it wasn’t the lifelong career criminals of the streets Renise was concerned with.

It was those who traded with them.

The border with their largest neighbour was well regulated, in large part by the efforts of the Grand Duchess who demanded exceptional loyalty from her border officials. But it was no more immune to the economics of greed than her uniform was to creases. 

And so the task of investigation fell to one who knew more than any other about the business of smuggling, save her own parents. 

Her answers would be achieved through the simplest of means.

Numbers and letters.

Ledgers and correspondence.

Striding with purpose, Renise made her way through the impressively decorated corridors of a tavern resembling more a lord’s estate than a tap room. She followed the portraits of family members forgotten even while they lived, stopping before the least modest door available. 

With a glance behind her shoulder, Renise lifted a knife from the hidden belt on her thigh.

Then, she stuffed it into the keyhole. 

Her tenure as the head of more miscreants than she cared to admit gave her many insights into the world of criminality. And while most were best ignored, some were at least practical. 

Using the serrated edge of her knife, she lifted the locking mechanism and made her way inside.

She paused for a moment, confused as much by the small space as she was by the lack of furnishings. 

The living space of a baroness seemed more like any common guest room than her private quarters. Even in Reitzlake Castle with its brutal stone design, there existed enough decoration to welcome the dignitaries expected to visit it. In her time, she’d visited sewer quarters covered in filth and royal residences embellished in gold, but few things in between. 

Still, Renise went to work. 

She searched through drawers both obvious and unseen, pulling up false bottoms and the false bottoms beneath those as well. She peered beneath lamps and their shades. She flicked through books for hollowed pages. She poked through the soil of a potted rose. And she also looked in plain sight.

There was nothing. 

Any correspondence and ledgers were kept or written elsewhere. Here was a room only for the important task of sleeping.

Or so she would have thought, if not for the only point of suspicion amidst the modest setting.

A small banner of the Kingdom of Tirea.

A common enough sight in all noble establishments, hoping to curry favour or fill up a blank wall. 

But for those seeking to undermine it for their own ends, it presented a different message altogether. One far more ironic.

Renise approached the banner, then ran her hands across the wall beneath it, feeling for recesses within the surface. She found the latch at once, then pulled until the wooden panels of the wall gave way, the hidden doorway revealing itself as it swung open.

Renise found what she wanted, even if the discovery brought her little joy. 

After all, Rose House was busy enough as it was without the need to expand outwards. 

She stepped through the doorway. And what she saw caused her mouth to widen, for it was more than letters or smuggled wealth which was kept hidden here.

It was … ‘Juliette’.