An Invitation
Slowly. Carefully. A bit to the left - easy - there!
His triumph was signalled by a satisfying click as the tiny mechanism fell into alignment. The lock released with a gentle tap of his finger, and the lid of the strongbox sprang open to reveal its contents. The glitter was his favourite; whether it was ruby, sapphire, opal, diamond, or another equally beautiful stone didn't matter to him. He was just as enthralled by the sparkle of gemstones now as he'd been as a child. He lined his pockets with the bounty, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. As long as gemstones waited for him under lock and key, he thought to himself, he was sure to find his way in.
"Seriously?"
He turned on his heel in the direction of the notably unimpressed voice. He'd never met this woman, but she was instantly recognizable; the style of her clothing and the air of authority which preceded her told him everything he needed to know.
"Weyrwoman Rimaea," he addressed her with a slight bow and a coy grin. "A pleasure to meet you at last."
"You're in my jewelry box," she stated. "Explain."
The boy took a step toward Rimaea, ever smiling, deftly rolling a fire opal-studded brooch across his fingers. "Call it a security check," he remarked. "Weyrwoman, your jewels are a precious symbol of your status - and this box is woefully vulnerable. The lock practically falls off the moment one brushes past it."
Rimaea reached out her hand, conversely unsmiling. She waved her fingers in a silent command to give it here.
From his right sleeve, the boy produced one of the Weyrwoman's necklaces, a simple gold chain with a peridot pendant. He offered it to her with a grin, the white of his teeth a stunning contrast against the unusual scarlet of his skin. Rimaea caught the necklace as he dropped it into her hand, meeting his ember-orange gaze with stubborn intensity.
"The rest of it."
The half-genasi laughed, a sound not unlike music, and clapped his hands. When he parted them, each held a small hoop earring made of twisting silver filigree. "Clever," he praised, dropping each earring into Rimaea's outstretched hand with a flourish. "As expected of Meridian's Weyrwoman! Now, where could those be..."
He reached out his hand to Rimaea (who was yet unmoved by the impromptu sleight-of-hand performance) and feigned surprise as he produced one, two, then three rings from the space behind her ear. Each was returned to her waiting palm. "Aha! You would not believe, Weyrwoman, what some people keep back there. And how spacious that little nook is - ah, here's another!"
Another glint of gold, and Rimaea's favourite bracelet appeared in the boy's hand. He handed it over with a wink.
"Returned as requested. And if I may be so bold, Weyrwoman-" He reached for her free hand and brought it up to kiss it, never breaking eye contact. "-you are every bit as beautiful as the Weyrfolk whisper."
"I'm gay," she replied flatly. "You can save the silver tongue for another escapade."
For the first time in what felt like his entire life, he was caught off guard. His eyes widened, if only for a blink, and he dropped her hand abruptly.
Rimaea smiled, raised an eyebrow, and regarded the thief expectantly. "The ring."
Sheepishly, but with no less elegance to his movements, he plucked the offending piece of jewelry from his shirt pocket and delivered it into Rimaea's waiting hand.
As the Weyrwoman returned her jewelry to the strongbox, the thief chastised himself for failing to do his research. He found himself shifting his weight back and forth, an uncharacteristic awkwardness about him in the silence. Rimaea was humming contentedly to herself as she replaced her jewels and secured the box. An invitation to meet with the Weyrwoman, and he'd almost completely bungled it. He'd been practicing since he was tall enough to pick a pocket - how could he lose his composure here?
"You dropped your tool of the trade."
Suddenly Rimaea was in front of him, holding a single lockpick between her slender fingers and clearly stifling a laugh. Breaking character and leaving behind evidence - what was happening to him?
"Thanks," he mumbled, retrieving the pick and pocketing it. "That is - you have my gratitude, Weyrwoman-"
"Save it, Hzash." The sound of his name made him flinch. She slid into the chair behind her desk and beckoned toward another on the opposite side. "Sit."
Seeing no other options (at least, none that would end in a successful jewel heist), Hzash sat.
"I appreciate you bringing the security shortfall to my attention," she continued once he'd made himself relatively comfortable. "But, believe it or not, I didn't call you here for that particular service. I wanted to talk to you about this."
A letter was set in front of him. Hzash marvelled at the precision of the calligraphy, the elegance of the stationery, and the flourish of the signature at the bottom. He felt his smile return.
"My reference letter for Shy at the Vella Crean," Hzash affirmed, brushing his fingers across the dried ink. "Has something happened to the messenger? A flitter lost between? I do know the Vella Crean is offworld, perhaps-"
"Hzash." The sharpness of her tone made him look up. "For someone who couldn't get enough of singing my praises just moments ago, you sure do seem to think I'm an idiot."
"Weyrwoman, I'm afraid I don't understand."
"You need it spelled out, then," she sighed, exasperated. "You forged this."
How? Even with all of his experience, Hzash was struggling to maintain his composure. Rimaea was clever - her reputation as a lover of puzzles preceded her - but that letter was a masterpiece of forgery, his greatest work! He'd rewritten it countless times, scrutinized every stroke and quirk in the handwriting - how could she have seen the difference? He was silently thankful for the unnatural crimson colour of his skin; instead of flushing under the Weyrwoman's steely gaze, Hzash simply started to heat the air around him.
And does this woman ever blink?
"Only when it suits me."
"Wh- you're-"
"A telepath?" She giggled, a sound he hadn't expected from her. "No. But my dragon is. And you aren't the only one who can pull off a few magic tricks."
He found himself speechless yet again as the Weyrwoman's form shrank before his eyes. Her caramel-coloured hair extended to cover her body, her pupils morphed into slits, and a lithe tail curled from behind her. A shapeshifter? The cat - Weyrwoman - before him licked her paw casually, then stared at him again with what seemed to be a mischievous grin.
Before Hzash could properly process or react to any of the information he'd just been given, Rimaea was herself again, and was scanning the letter with her jade-green eyes. "You really are quite the performer, Hzash," she admitted, recalling the deftness of his hands and the way he never broke eye contact while he was returning her jewels. "But dragons aren't quite as easy to fool as people. Did you really think that you could fool them into believing this was genuine? And to send it to the Vella Crean through my office so I'd take the fall if they found out... it's almost comical how confident you were."
"Call me an opportunist, then." Hzash thought about shuffling his chair back to put his feet up on Rimaea's desk for effect, but decided against it. "I can't claim to be the authoirty on dragons, but I know a good rumour when I hear one. This clutch was asking for the cream of the crop - and you're looking at him."
Rimaea looked unimpressed. "Clearly."
"So it's a 'no' on the Vella Crean, then." Hzash admitted to himself that he was dejected, but he did his best to remain as casual as ever. "A shame. I was looking forward to some different scenery."
"Well," Rimaea folded the letter and placed it in an envelope, "it would be. But the irony is that your weeks of work on this letter were, besides dishonest, completely redundant whether you'd been caught or not."
Hzash cursed himself for the incredulous look he felt form on his face. "Pardon me?"
"You need a lot of things spelled out, don't you." She turned her eyes away from Hzash to concentrate on something else. Hzash looked on, dumbfounded, as Rimaea applied sealing wax to the envelope and stamped it with her personal seal. "I did my research, Hzash. Aalimeth was intrigued by you even though she knew you committed a forgery. And there are surprisingly few people with skin the colour of literal blood around Meridian. One is you. One is your sister, Zta."
Hzash raised an eyebrow at the name. He and his sister weren't exactly close. He knew of Zta, but she was older than him by a number of Turns and he'd been largely raised at the Crafthall while she'd stuck to the wandering life, training in magic with...
"And one is your father, Caust." Rimaea touched the wax seal to check that it was solid. Then, to Hzash's surprise, she handed the sealed envelope to him. "Who you have to thank for this opportunity."
"What does my father have to do with-"
"Nobility," Rimaea interjected before he could finish. "The only requirement for candidacy at the Vella Crean clutch. You were under the impression that you didn't have a drop of noble blood in you, hence the forgery. But you assumed wrong."
"My father is royalty?"
The Weyrwoman shook her head. "Your father is a wanderer. But it isn't his current status that matters, it's his race. Your father is a fire genasi, a race I'd never heard of before I met your sister. And, as it turns out, fire genasi are noble by blood. However your father ended up on Pern, your ancestors offworld were kings and rulers. And technically, that makes you of royal blood - genuine nobility. There was never any need for you to forge that... though I have to admire your eye for detail."
Hzash gaped at the official wax seal for a moment before his lips curled into his signature smile. "Genuine nobility," he marvelled, then turned his eyes up to meet Rimaea's. "I suppose that's about the only thing genuine about me."
To his surprise - and delight - the Weyrwoman winked.
"Your transport leaves at dawn tomorrow." She stood from her chair. "And keep the brooch, Hzash. I always found it too ostentatious for my taste."
Hzash pulled the pilfered brooch from his pocket and pinned it to his collar, too giddy with excitement to feel embarrassed at the call-out. Sincerity rarely suited Hzash, but he found himself genuinely thankful. He stood, faced the Weyrwoman, and bowed - deeper this time, though he held her gaze throughout.
"You have my gratitude."
She dismissed him with a grin. "And don't you forget it."