Sphinx 17

This a little something that came out of my nano novel last year. I thought I’d get it out before it gets buried beneath this years novel and totally forgotten. Reviews would be very much appreciated but are in no way mandatory. I will, though, make a conscious effort to reply to any and all reviews that I do receive! Thank you!

-Qwen

PS. All mistakes remaining are mine.


Chapter 1

Syrin lit up his cigarette, sucking in the lovely fumes with obvious relish. All around him merchants called out the prices of their goods as well as their “unmistakable quality”.

The sun beat down upon the sandy desert city main street relentlessly. But, he was used to it as was most anyone who lived here.

Breaking from the shadows, Syrin muscled his way through the crowd, ignoring the pleading shouts of sellers and the pickpockets who eyed his expensive boots with interest. They wouldn't dare try to steal from him, though. Thieves knew to stay away from anyone who wore leather in this heat-symbolism was everything in this town.

He'd been watching for the man named Loizy Jones, a prominent business and underground advocate for the Council. He had certain bits of parchment on his person that were vital to Syrin and his cause. The man was stupid for not burning the papers but he was what Syrin liked to call a “pack rat asking for it”. They were counted on to be only one thing; stupid.

And stupid Mr. Jones most certainly was-there was no doubt about that. He was also an irritating target which pissed Syrin off even more. The man was hardly ever consistent or on time which made it a bit difficult to track him.

Jones had an appointment at a salon on Main St. He hadn't shown; the irksome bastard. And now, Syrin had to go looking for the pompous business man.

Krane was hardly big but it was by no means small and had more winding alleyways and dead ends than a labyrinth could claim. Becoming very lost, very quickly was not uncommon for newcomers and tourists. That was the point of the design incase Krane was ever infiltrated.

Syrin had no problems navigating for he'd been living here for almost 1,000 years, running along these streets as a young, insolent Prince with no purpose or outlet for his youthful recklessness. That very rebellious and impulsive nature was what had driven him to his exile, ultimately. His past was full of mistakes like that but Syrin was loathe to divulge such events to anyone but his most trusted of companions.

Yet, he had grown up since then, becoming almost a household name though his face remained hidden from the papers and the police.

He was a leader among the Revolutionaries in name only because he had his own organization for the rebellion. It was called Sphinx 17 and they were elite.

'Seeing as he missed his salon appointment, Jones must have been kept late at his luncheon.' Syrin thought.

The man was impulsive like that. If he was late he would scrap an entire appointment, heedless to the effects it had on everyone else.

The Eagle, Jones’ favorite restaurant, was crowded; a perfect atmosphere for what Syrin wanted to do. It was ritzy too, the kind that took ones outer coat when they entered though not to the point where it had actual security.

He spotted the overweight man, laughing raucously with a group of nobles near the back.

Casually he ducked towards down the hallway towards the restrooms, avoiding the waiters and hostess who was attending another guest.

It was amazing how afraid people were of confrontation. Most of the time, the staff of wherever one was either didn't care or weren't paying attention to the acts of their patrons. They were just people after all, not superhuman know-it-alls.

The room where they kept the coats was empty for the moment, exactly how Syrin wanted it. Deftly he slipped inside, immediately spotting the huge tailored navy outer robe that belonged to Jones.

After a few moments of careful searching, Syrin lifted the papers from the inside of the heavy robe. They were folded sloppily, Jones obviously had had his hands all over them and it looked like he'd been eating while doing so. Syrin made a face at the grease marks but dutifully stuffed them in his hidden pocket on the inside of his coat. Then, he pulled out the tax papers that he'd swiped off of Jones’ desk earlier that day. He folded them as best he could to replicate the way Jones's had so artfully done.

He wouldn't figure out that the real papers were gone till Monday morning when he didn't find them on his desk. And, if Syrin had Jones's pegged right, he'd assumed he'd either lost them or that his salacious secretary had nicked them. Syrin knew she had a shoddy history at best and he'd made sure Jones knew that by leaving a folder of incriminating goodies open on Miss Erica's desk. Jones was a natural snoop. At least he was predictable in that sense.

The woman was lucky Jones had given her the rest of the week to get out.

The door to the coat room opened suddenly, letting in the noise from the dining area. Syrin ducked quickly behind one of the racks, a shadow amongst the darkness of the small room.

The coat checker barely glanced around, just hung up the expensive fur coat before tearing off a number from the ticket and disappearing back outside.

Exhaling softly, Syrin stealthily made his way out of the coat room. No one even glanced at him as he exited the restaurant.

Casually, he strolled down the street towards to meet Reo and the rest of the group at the small safe house in the suburbs. Not that there could be much differentiation. The city was walled to keep out the Beasts who roamed the desert which the city was in. The suburban area was just a little more homey than the city apartments, with small front yards and little white fences.

Just on the outer edge of suburbia, sat the little house, a cute little thing in which half a dozen people frequented but nobody actually lived.

It was a light blue with a quaint white fence surrounding it and a white gate which swung on soundless hinges. Large bushes grew up around except for the walkway, keeping out prying eyes. The front window was almost always curtained and the porch was hardly ever sat on. The neighbors took no notice, though. They were all too wrapped up in keeping their own skins out of the Council's grasp and living out their lives in pretend peace.

Syrin entered the house, screen door shutting softly behind him.

Reo sat on the couch, lounging with his feet propped up on the coffee table.

“You're late.” He stated casually, running a hand through his long dark red hair, dark eyes lazily traveling over Syrin in his appreciation of the leather get up.

“Jones skipped his salon appointment in favor of an extended luncheon, I had to go find him.” Syrin said, taking off the black leather jacket, throwing it on a nearby chair before plopping himself next to his lover, laying his head down upon his shoulder.

“You still got the papers though.” Reo stated.

Syrin nodded, closing his eyes as he inhaled Reo's scent. “Wouldn't have come back without them.”

“Yeah, I know.” Reo replied, extending one strong arm to wrap it around Syrin's shoulders, pulling him closer.

Syrin fiddled with the papers, not quite up to opening them just yet. They would base their next mission on the contents of these papers. He wasn't ready for another mission just yet, the last had been a drag though it had produced huge revelations and points for their side.

The headlines had read for weeks, “Councilmen Harold Johnson has affair with hooker.” And other damning articles to that effect.

It damaged greatly, the credibility and status that the Council held among the people. It brought to their attention that even though the Council preached peace and goodwill, they did not follow that specific doctrine themselves.

The petty stakeout missions and following a two-bit hooker everywhere was a little less than exciting.

To Syrin, they were doing menial work, the kind that journalists did. He was the leader of a group capable of much more than unraveling scandalous affairs. He'd gone through three years of the most back-breaking, intense, thorough training known to man. As had Reo and the rest of their team. They could do so much more but lacked opportunity.

Hopefully, this letter would insure a bit more than two straight weeks of stakeouts.

“Open it.” Reo said.

Syrin sighed, opened the papers, unfolding them slowly.

It was an invitation to a Gala Ball on Saturday as well as a guest list and instructions on who to approach and who not to.

Syrin stared at them, confusion stirring. “A Gala Ball,” He stated, dropping the papers onto the coffee table.

“A pretend Peace gathering.” Reo said, leaning forward to read them.

“Looks like it's very exclusive.” Syrin said, scanning the guest list. “Both our parents, a bunch of Northern dignitaries, almost the entire Southern Royal Family and a few Eastern political stiffs.”

“Quite the party,” Reo mused, black eyes scanning the list. He deliberately said nothing about the reference to their parentage. “Could be a very good opportunity to stir up some trouble.”

“Yes, a very convenient opportunity, one we should have known about a long time ago from it's guest list alone” Syrin paused, looking at the other papers behind the guest list. “How did they cover up this extensive list of names, the press should have been all over this.”

Reo nodded. “Something doesn't seem right but, Jones isn't a clever man, he couldn't pull off any sort of elaborate plan involving traps or false tips.”

“Yeah, that's what's strange.” Syrin replied, eyebrows knitting together as he thought. “So, it must be something earth shattering if they don't want people knowing about it.”

“And there are several reasons that could be, not all of them bad.” Reo said, taking the papers and throwing them down on the coffee table.

“Surrender?” Syrin asked, skeptical.

“It's a possibility.”

“Not a likely one.”

“With a corrupt Council like ours, it's hardly relevant to even mention but still...one can hope.”