Nathan Free, Natalie Bound Chapter 143: The Crime

He doesn't have much ti, but he knows he can pull this off. It's a simple enough mission. It has lots of steps, and lots of different points of failure, but individually each step is easy, and while the cost of failure is high, the odds of failure is low. The first step is to get into the records office. He already knows which room. Point of approach: window, door, or unconventional? Most unconventional approaches will leave evidence, such as a sawn wall or floor, which will attract attention. He needs to make entry without anyone knowing, even well after the fact, that an entry was made. So, window or door? If this were the only step of the evening, he would use the window. Small opportunity for exposure, easy to guard approaches. But he would need the hall of records and the registrar's office and the duty desk. Scaling between those windows to make three infiltrations would be foolhardy. The most risky point of a window entry is the mont you enter without knowing exactly what is inside, or exit knowing exactly what is outside. Six opportunities for disaster? Unacceptable risk. He did not dart and slink across the quad to the door. If he was spotted he was a student out for a walk. If a guard spotted him and was close enough to identify him, he would incapacitate that guard. Everything is situational: trying to use lightfoot techniques and concealnt movents while approaching the building would only attract attention and shouting. No, he was going to sneak in by the most surefire thod there is: knowing the guard schedule. He had morized that months ago. The front door was locked but only slightly. A brass lock on an exterior door, exposed to the elents. It never rains in Skyside but the humidity is constant. Exposed bronze corrodes. He does not so much pick the lock as he does argue with it, and it concedes imdiately. Just waggling a steel comb against the pins defeats their springs and he turns the barrel, and lets himself in. The interior doors will be harder. But while he's working the interior doors he will not be standing with his back to the world. An acceptable trade-off. He knows this entrance is not guarded because it is an exterior door, and locked, and because there is nowhere inside of here to put a chair down. This is the back stairwell, with narrow landings. And nobody needs to post a guard here because "we've got locks, right?". Listening, he makes sure nobody is approaching. He brings one foot up at a ti and takes off his over-boots. They are damp from the grass outside and could have clippings, dirt, or insects he would be tracking in. He has lightweight slippers on underneath them. A bag on his hip is unfolded and untied, and he drops the boots inside, and cinches it back. It fits neatly under his voluminous cloak. The cloak is double-sided, and drapes to his knees. On one side, it is the sa matte marble-white as the walls of this building. On the other, the sa satiny navy-blue as most of the drapes and fabric fixtures in here. It is neatly pressed so it will hold straight lines, and conceal his silhouette. People recognize "people-shaped" objects before anything else, so not being people-shaped will give him ti and opportunities. On slippered feet, he moved upwards. He did not move from shadow to shadow because doing that would only make shadows dance and catch the eye of anyone glancing that way. Moving into and out of shadows makes shadows stretch and move, and moving shadows get attention. Instead he just stayed out of the middle of walkways and kept himself near cover and kept to consistent lighting levels so as not to create disturbance. The eye is drawn to movent and change. Do not be that. And more than anything else, he endeavored to always be in a position to see soone approaching before they saw him. Having superior visibility is the easiest road to stealth. Rounding the third floor landing, he saw a guard's shadow moving on the wall, and he moved to an alcove where he would only be exposed as the guard passed by away from him, and wedged into the space, and lifted his cloak around so that the marble-white flat-matte lay against the flat-matte white marble of the wall. It was not perfect camouflage. If the guard had a way of spotting a bulging texture in a normal wall in the dark from the back of her head while she was bored, she'd have an almost-even chance to spot him. He waited until she turned down the cross-corridor, and he moved fast after that. The guards would not bunch up. They were not friends. So the area around one would be clear. Moving fast now ant he would clear the area before the next arrives. The hall of records had a glyph-powered key system to keep anyone from breaking in with lockpicks, skeleton keys, crowbars, sorcery or teleportation. So instead he pulled out a small steel hook on the end of a length of string, and a magnet in his other hand. Along the top edge of the door, a tiny crack. He fed the flat hook through so it would dangle over the other side on its string. He fed out more string to bring it the proper length. When he pressed his magnet against the door, it would attract the hook, and drag it with him. He could move the hook where he needed it from this side of the door. It took him fifteen seconds to unlatch the door from the inside while he was still outside. He pushed the door open, stepped inside, and pressed the door nearly shut. He took the latch, carefully turned it to flush the strike plate, then closed the door all the way shut, then slowly released the latch so the spring-loaded bolt would not click as it slid over the strikeplate. Then he turned, and started searching for the correct drawer. G. G-a, G-e, G-e, G-e to G-i. He opened it, riffled the folders, settled on the correct one. Gianwen. The stitched tip of his glove's finger caught the manila and tugged it open. From his bag, a flat wooden box of woven wooden lattices. He opened it and removed the topmost page. He held it to the light at an angle to make sure there was no reflection, that the ink was dry. Perfect, of course. One could compose a long list of things he is very good at. But there is only one endeavor that he has pushed himself to be perfect at. There would be others, later. He was young, still. He slid the perfect page into the folder, and pushed the drawer shut. One down. Now the hard part. Crouching at the door, he pressed his hand flat to its wooden surface and gently pressed it until it was flattened against its jamb, so it would not rattle or tap. Then he pushed his ear against the wood, first near the keyhole and then again in the middle of the inset panel. After a second, he was confident enough to crouch low, and slide a small narrow tool from his pouch, with an angled arm and a mirror on the end. He fed it through, swept it left then right, and saw that the hallway was clear. Only then did he open the door. He slipped out, and pulled the door shut. The administration had gotten a lot more cautious lately, with these new sigil-locks and glyph-keys, and increased guard patrols. Soone must have tried breaking in here, less successfully than his last attempt. He hunkered low as he checked the lock behind him, and then moved towards the stairs. The next area would be more tightly guarded. He moved slowly- if he could hear himself, he assud anyone else could hear him also. And if he could hear himself, that would cover the sounds of soone else moving. Slowly, carefully, he knew nobody would hear him and he could hear anyone else. There are many elents to stealth. Preparation is a big one, having the right kind of shoes for the job, the right tools to pass chokepoints quickly, mirrors and clothing. Another big elent is patience. When one is doing sothing that they ought not to do, and that one could get caught doing, and that one could get punished heavily if caught- it was normal and natural for anxiety to rise. And with it: adrenaline. The emotion made one want to hurry so that this activity would be over with quickly. But quick is caught. Slow is slippery. Knowing the right ways to move, toe-to-heel, knees soft, arms for balance- that is all well and good. But knowing how to wait is exponentially more important. Bottom of the stairs. This area had different decor. He took the edge of his cloak and pulled it way over to the side, then unclasped the hook at his throat, and pinched one shoulder to move it over from left to right. Last, the hood. He slipped the reversed cloak back over his shoulder, and clasped it back, and then tugged it snug. The navy-blue side would blend into the lush wall hangings along these halls. Those would make his work harder. The fabrics were sound-muffling. He was confident he would not be heard, but sound-muffling fabrics made it easier for a guard to approach him without his awareness. Downstairs the guard had been patrolling a long route. Up here, the doors to important offices were all clustered together, so one guard was watching a single hallway. She was bored, because this was a boring post- keep an eye on these doors and this hallway, make sure nothing happens. So for such a boring post, it was natural that the guards would force this to the youngest and most junior of their ranks. The guard did not carry a weapon, not even a truncheon, but a shiny silver whistle hung on a velvet rope around her neck. He would have preferred she were ard. He pulled his head back around the corner, and reached into his bag. One of the situations he had co prepared for. He took out a small stiffened-leather box, just the size of two fists. He opened it carefully, and took out a small dead bat from the grounds. He closed the box, and put it into his bag. It did not make any sound against the woven-wicker box. Holding the dead bat in his two cupped hands, he wound up and flung it with all his strength straight at the high window at the corner of the hallway. And then he carefully, slowly, pressed himself flat against the wall, cloak blending into the wall hangings. Behind him, the young guard froze. She heard a sound, and it was nothing like the other guards coming to check that she wasn't asleep. It was a small crackling noise. She grabbed the whistle in her hand and jogged to the sound, ready to blow it loudly if there was thieves, pranksters, assassins, monsters, hoaxers, or auditors. Instead, her eye was grabbed by a small limp shape on the ground. She crouched, and almost touched it. She stood, and looked up, saw the small cracks in the window. It was not broken through, nothing could co in that way. But... "How did you get in here?" she asked the dead bat. It was mangled, its tiny body broken from the impact. She pursed her lips. Her orders were simple: stay up here and blow the whistle if anything happened. Does this count as sothing happening? It is potentially sothing. Or maybe she was overreacting. Her post was awfully boring. This bat could have been hiding in the rafters all day and just now tried to escape through a window. On the other hand, maybe there was an open window sowhere and barbarians were invading the building and they would need to do a room-by-room check. This might be nothing. Or it might be the most important thing all night. And she had not been on this job very long. She checked the hallway, and then darted down the stairs to consult her sergeant. He stepped away from the wall and flowed down the corridor. She would not be gone long. This was ti-sensitive. He used his fishing line to open the door, so much easier than fussing with warded locks. He did not shut the door, either she would be back in ti to bust him or she would not. He opened the wickerwork box, took out the second sheet, checked it, compared it to the pages already on the desk, and then slid it into the middle of the stack in his outbox. Then the interloper backed out, and pulled the door shut. The young guard would be returning by the sa route she left. He darted down the other side of the hallway, and got himself around the corner. Pause. Rest. Control his breathing. Patience. He had another stairway he could travel down. It was the main stair, and had wide landings with no cover, and it was the central artery for the building, it was guaranteed to be guarded. He moved just as carefully, just as slowly. Turned corners a piece at a ti, always watching every angle as he moved into a new sightline. As he expected, the guard was on the main landing between the first and second floors, facing out towards the front door. After all, the guards don't assu they're trying to keep anyone from leaving. With patience and stillness, the intruder put one leg over the banister, and then caught a grip on the rail. He reversed his hands, threw his other leg over. Sinking on his knees, he moved his hands down from the handrail to the decorative crossbars, and let his legs lift free and dangle downwards, one at a ti. He held his weight on his biceps and lowered himself slowly, until his feet found the handrail of the staircase below, leading from the first floor to the basent. One foot then the other, he moved his weight to this surface, and then he waited. So sound. Any sound. The guard cleared his throat. The intruder let go with his hands and crouched, moving his balance quickly to the lower rail. It took a second, but it could not be done silently. But it only took one sound to cover it. The thief moved his slippered feet down to the floor, and without a whisper moved down the hall, heading for the most open, least secure areas of the building. From his wicker box, one final docunt, set among the pages of the duty desk. All done. Now, to escape. He stuffed his cloak into his bag, and took out a small cap. He put his boots back on. He hefted his bag over his shoulder, and strolled out the front door. Waved to the guard. Just another groundskeeper taking out the trash. The cap pulled low, the hand and the bag it held between his face and the guard, under questioning this sentinel would never know who he had waved to that night. No sign, no indication. Everything normal. Quiet night. Hamantha found a bat next to a cracked window, nothing else to report. Out the door and across the lawn, he tucked the cap back into his pocket. Moved the bag around to his front so it looked like belongings and not refuse. Changed his posture and stride. All is well. Innocent and unworthy of suspicion. He reached his dorm building and walked through the back door. He had long ago worked out the trick for this lock and he barely had to break stride to pick it. He walked up the servant's stairs to the sixth floor, and moved to the end of the hall. With no other ducal princes or earls enrolled, he had the room entirely to himself. So he was surprised when he opened the door and soone was sleeping in his bed. After a mont of hesitation, he slipped inside and shut the door behind. He advanced slowly and carefully, even more cautious of his quiet than he had been during the burglary. Creeping closer, concentrating on his balance, he drew close enough that the diluted light through the curtain could make out the face of the sleeping figure. Hair as red as a candied apple. Deeply tanned skin. High flat forehead, strong symtrical chin, chiseled cheekbones and broad shoulders. He looked at the man in the bed. Glanced down at himself. He looked over at the wardrobe, and noted the clothing that was hung there. The bag strewn across the footlocker, the wicker-weave box on top of the writing-desk. He looked at these things, and he thought them over. Ca to the conclusions. One of them is fake. It is probably not the one laying in bed. If he is fake, he was created as a fake. That could be done by magic. He was not sure how, because his education as to what magic can and cannot do had been rather vague. He had been told once about illusion spells to make one person appear as another, but he had never heard of a fake version of a person being created. It was very late right now, and there was only one person he could speak to about complicated magical issues so long after the last bell. He slipped back out of the bedroom, and locked the door behind him. No sign. No witnesses. Again he strolled across the quad, looking inconspicuous and nonchalant. His path was not direct but it did take him past all the most-frequented walkways. It was very bright out for the night ti, which was disconcerting. For weeks now it was well-lit at all hours, in a city that is normally twilight-dim year-round. He reached the girls' dormitories, and there was no question whether he would go in through the front door, it was the middle of the night and these buildings were not co-ed. So he would have to take his chances. He scaled the drainpipe at the corner of the building. On the one hand that was the easiest route up. On the second hand, it was riskier because it made him visible from two sides of the building. On the third hand, if he was spotted he could slip around the other side of the building and hopefully disappear. But ultimately he did it because the other options were worse. Reaching the top, he gripped the gutters and scooted out down the side, moving down the row of windows. He paused, gazing in on the first one. Princess Lachel was there in her bed, with a sleep mask pulled over her face. He smiled, but if he was the copy then he absolutely should not contact her. He scooted further. He could see that fortunately, the next window was already open a crack, the only window in this whole row that was not fully shut and locked. He set a foot down on the windowsill, and carefully pried the window from a half-inch to full open, and then he slid down inside, and tugged it shut behind him. A glance to his right showed him a lavender-haired girl with outrageously fluffy duvet. A glance to his left showed him an empty bed, the sheets neatly drawn up and un-slept-in. Damn. He really needed her advice, and she was gone. Where the hell would she be at this hour? He would have to wait. Hopefully she would be back soon. He could not wander looking for her. He could not wander in general, really. He needed cover, he needed shelter, and he needed answers. As long as he could avoid waking the evil-minded bitch in the other half of the room, he should be fine here. When they had been children, that had been his post. Sharing a room with her. Back then, she had windmills outside the window, and wax candles burning at night. He was glad she had gotten over that. But she still kept this tin box with weird snippets and keepsakes, bits of odd material. He ran his hand over it. She was a creature of odd habits, responses to her odd condition. Not for the first ti, he wondered what it was like to be her. It would have to be unique circumstances, to create such a unique outco. He could never decide if he envied her or not. There was plenty to covet- power, grace, wit, insight. But the costs were high- for all that she had those things, she was troubled and unhappy. The way her smile was often bittersweet, and her losses were rueful. All her emotions seed so muted, that she could never be purely happy or purely angry, always other feelings were twining themselves in. She lived in a world of her own, and it was a complicated place. Sothing tugged inside him. Like a corner of his soul really did know what it was like to be her. He paused, and reflected on that. Odd. The more he examined those feelings the stronger they got, like a seed of Natalie sprouting inside him. Would he change places with her if he could? He was not sure. But he almost felt like he knew her entirely, as well as he knew himself. Had he always felt that way? He could not rember experiencing that affinity. Affinity for her. Her Essence. He knew who spoke like that, he knew those words. Lightheaded, he frowned but pursued this thread of emotion. He fed the seed and let it grow, feeling the soul of his sister growing and swelling and bursting- I gasped, and dropped to the floor, heaving for breath. The rug was rough under my knees, I was back in my nightdress. Nathan was gone. He was banished. The real brother was back in his bed, other side of the quad. He would never know. Nobody would know. But it had worked. It worked. As of now, it's official: anything he can do, I can do too. If I'm willing to take the risks and pay the price. And those thoughts opened the door for a shiver that ran down my spine and stayed there; what started as cold quiver beca a deep-seated trembling that gripped my limbs for a long ti. For the last few hours, I've been Nathan. His thoughts don't feel like mine, his entire experience is completely unlike mine. And I'm not sure, but it kind of feels like I almost didn't make it back. Shapechanging is scary as hell. Converting my basic nature, the very core of my being, at such a fundantal level that it takes my physical form with it. Difficult at low affinity levels, dangerous at high levels. In the ga, without the special conditions the goddess endowed , the highest possible affinity is 99%, and it's damned hard to achieve. You have to make all the right choices and get fairly lucky with the RNG seed. Not impossible, but if you get really hung up on getting 99s you'll have a frustrating playthrough. I've got more than five dozen affinities at 100%. Extrely useful for conjuring, curving, and channeling! Extrely dangerous for converting myself into any other forms. Every ti I do this, there's a very real chance I won't co back. So far I've been lucky. But, you're only lucky until you aren't. And the stakes here are really high. It took a long ti to stop shaking. And a long ti to get to sleep.