More of "An Angel in Citadel"
Isabella woke up before the sun rose the next morning. She was cold, despite the wool blanket that her father must have draped over her after she drifted away in a chair in the back of the theater. They had not purchased a house in the Freeman's Quarter yet, and Auggie claimed it made as much sense to sleep in the playhouse as it did to stay in one of the inns. As with most things he said these days, Isabella found faults in the argument. For one, there was no kind of heat in the playhouse, and it was very cold. She shivered and considered whether or not she should just lay wrapped in her blanket for another few hours, hoping to fall asleep again.
Outside, she heard church bells; they rang four times. Four bells... Too early to wake up, too late to go back to bed. An hour in either direction would have helped.
Her father was snoring nearby, laying on a cot with one armed draped over the side. She couldn't help but smile at him. She often thought he was an old fool, but he was her father, and as old fools went, he was a pretty good one. She knew he only wanted the best for her... She just disagreed on the definition of "best."
Isabella grumbled and slid out from underneath the blanket. She was still wearing her clothes from the night before. That suited her fine; she had no particular need for a fresh dress, and besides, she only had two sets of clothes anyway. She glanced over at the costume wardrobes, now packed with clothes tailored to all manner of character and times, and smiled. Only two pairs of clothes that she could wear in public, anyway.
A stack of playbills lay on a table near her father. She picked one up and looked it over; it was rather attractive, brown lettering on the tan paper, with the masks of comedy and tragedy in the center.
THE AUGUST REILLY PLAYERS
present
THE GRAND OPENING OF
THE CITADEL PLAYHOUSE
16 NOVEMBER
She thought it might have been prudent for Auggie to have waited until the troupe actually picked a play before they printed up the bills, but she supposed it didn't matter. They had always been mostly a repertory group, anyway; they could be ready for a production of one of the standards given two weeks notice. She knew her father had his hopes set on the play he wrote for Lord Daeli, though she felt that was probably not the best choice for an opener. A comedy, maybe, or one of the more bloody tragedies: that seemed like more the proper work for Citadel. A play about contemporary figures in Kingston was just a bit of a stretch for the crowd.
She grabbed a dozen or so of the bills, a hammer, and a handfull of nails and walked to the door of the theater. Outside, it was still very much night, with perhaps just the faintest sign that the sun would rise in a few hours. It was raining, too, a cold and steady rain that seemed to fall from nowhere at all. She grabbed a cloak from the rack in the entryway and hid her bills under it and walked out.
The playhouse was located in an area of the city called the Market Quarter, and the reasoning for that was obvious: less than two blocks away from the theater was a huge open-air market, a memento of the city's happier days when it was still known to most as the Northern Gate. Isabella heard about that in a history book her father managed to get her when she was thirteen; originally, the Northern Gate was meant to be a trade hub. It was one of the four planned cities that the King ordered built to encourage trade with the surrounding nations. The other cities- the Southern Gate, Westgate, Eastgate, Freegate- all turned out well enough. They were perhaps a little underwhelming compared to what the Crown hoped for, but they facilitated trade with Deamlar and the Free League well enough.
The Northern Gate, though... The book devoted a whole chapter to examining the failure of the Northern Gate. It boiled down to one simple truth: there was nobody to trade with. Supposedly, it was meant to be a place to trade with and civilize the 'savages' that lived in the Great Northern Waste, but in practice, it never worked, and the only really economic stimulant the city ever had were occasional wars with the savages. In the end, they decided to largely abandon the idea of trade with the savages and decided to convert it over to a prison colony, somewhere to put the criminals whose crimes weren't enough to warrant a hanging but too much to suggest a fine.
It was a dark city, all things considered; even in the relatively cheery Market Quarter, the looming shadow of the Convict's Quarter remained, the tall cell buildings a constant reminder of the incarcerated inhabitants of Citadel. That was really why Isabella disliked it: it was a city of nothing but grays. Gray stone, gray roads, gray morals, gray lives.
She walked through the market, nailing bills to posts where it seemed alright to do so. There were a few other bills posted throughout the market, generally buying and selling ads, and most of them were old. Isabella pursed her lips as she put them up, hoping she was not supposed to pay a fee to post things in the market.
Isabella finished putting things up in the market, but the sun was not yet up and she did not feel tired again. She stood at the far entrance to the great wooden structure and considered, watching the rain fall. She looked around her; the Market Quarter was one of the more active sections of Citadel, boasting more shops and taverns than the rest of the city combined. It also contained, she noticed, the city's cathedral, an imposing structure of spires and rose windows. Despite its somber and somewhat unfriendly exterior, Isabella decided to go have a look. She always liked churches, though she had few chances to spend time in them as a girl. No priests would be awake this time of night, she was sure, but usually they left the doors open...
She shrugged and smiled, then walked towards the church with her cloaked wrapped tight against the rain. Her feet splashed in the cobblestone road's puddles as she walked, but she didn't mind; she rather enjoyed the rain. Somehow, the cold water felt refreshing, cleansing. Perhaps, she mused, this was the proper way to see Citadel: at night, in the rain. It made things so much clearer, so much less monotonous and dull.
Eventually, she stopped at the cathedral's door. She looked up at the archway: it was massive, filled with all kinds of little sculptures and figures that nobody would ever be able to make out. She always found that fascinating about cathedrals: so much went on in their appearence, so many little scenes and characters that must have spent lifetimes to complete- and yet, nobody would ever be able to see them for what they were worth, up close. She would never get closer than forty or fifty feet from the imps and angels that danced about above her head.
She took the great brass doorhandle and pulled at it. At first, it seemed stuck, and Isabella thought they must have locked the doors tonight, but she took another heave the huge wooden door creaked open. It was very dark inside, but some light came in through the stained glass, and two large braziers burned up near the altar. She looked to the ceiling and her breath failed her; literally, the whole roof was covered in paintings and mosaics. Auggie was not what one might refer to as a particularly religious man, and so she knew only a few of the stories associated with the pictures, but it was still awe-inspiring.
She walked down the aisle, staring transfixed at the mosaics, running her hand along the tops of the pews. She had never been in a church like this one, so grandiose and beautiful. Auggie usually took her to smaller affairs, little churches run by unknown priests, and they were usually no more fancy than the typical village hut. This, however... Well, she could understand why people considered places like this to be houses of God.
Finally, she took a deep breath and forced herself away from the ceilings. She looked down, towards the altar, and realized that she was not alone in the cathedral at half past four bells.
A man stood in front of the altar, wearing a gray tunic and black breeches. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and he appeared to be staring somberly at the altar and the braziers, as though he were waiting for something to happen.
Outside, she heard church bells; they rang four times. Four bells... Too early to wake up, too late to go back to bed. An hour in either direction would have helped.
Her father was snoring nearby, laying on a cot with one armed draped over the side. She couldn't help but smile at him. She often thought he was an old fool, but he was her father, and as old fools went, he was a pretty good one. She knew he only wanted the best for her... She just disagreed on the definition of "best."
Isabella grumbled and slid out from underneath the blanket. She was still wearing her clothes from the night before. That suited her fine; she had no particular need for a fresh dress, and besides, she only had two sets of clothes anyway. She glanced over at the costume wardrobes, now packed with clothes tailored to all manner of character and times, and smiled. Only two pairs of clothes that she could wear in public, anyway.
A stack of playbills lay on a table near her father. She picked one up and looked it over; it was rather attractive, brown lettering on the tan paper, with the masks of comedy and tragedy in the center.
THE AUGUST REILLY PLAYERS
present
THE GRAND OPENING OF
THE CITADEL PLAYHOUSE
16 NOVEMBER
She thought it might have been prudent for Auggie to have waited until the troupe actually picked a play before they printed up the bills, but she supposed it didn't matter. They had always been mostly a repertory group, anyway; they could be ready for a production of one of the standards given two weeks notice. She knew her father had his hopes set on the play he wrote for Lord Daeli, though she felt that was probably not the best choice for an opener. A comedy, maybe, or one of the more bloody tragedies: that seemed like more the proper work for Citadel. A play about contemporary figures in Kingston was just a bit of a stretch for the crowd.
She grabbed a dozen or so of the bills, a hammer, and a handfull of nails and walked to the door of the theater. Outside, it was still very much night, with perhaps just the faintest sign that the sun would rise in a few hours. It was raining, too, a cold and steady rain that seemed to fall from nowhere at all. She grabbed a cloak from the rack in the entryway and hid her bills under it and walked out.
The playhouse was located in an area of the city called the Market Quarter, and the reasoning for that was obvious: less than two blocks away from the theater was a huge open-air market, a memento of the city's happier days when it was still known to most as the Northern Gate. Isabella heard about that in a history book her father managed to get her when she was thirteen; originally, the Northern Gate was meant to be a trade hub. It was one of the four planned cities that the King ordered built to encourage trade with the surrounding nations. The other cities- the Southern Gate, Westgate, Eastgate, Freegate- all turned out well enough. They were perhaps a little underwhelming compared to what the Crown hoped for, but they facilitated trade with Deamlar and the Free League well enough.
The Northern Gate, though... The book devoted a whole chapter to examining the failure of the Northern Gate. It boiled down to one simple truth: there was nobody to trade with. Supposedly, it was meant to be a place to trade with and civilize the 'savages' that lived in the Great Northern Waste, but in practice, it never worked, and the only really economic stimulant the city ever had were occasional wars with the savages. In the end, they decided to largely abandon the idea of trade with the savages and decided to convert it over to a prison colony, somewhere to put the criminals whose crimes weren't enough to warrant a hanging but too much to suggest a fine.
It was a dark city, all things considered; even in the relatively cheery Market Quarter, the looming shadow of the Convict's Quarter remained, the tall cell buildings a constant reminder of the incarcerated inhabitants of Citadel. That was really why Isabella disliked it: it was a city of nothing but grays. Gray stone, gray roads, gray morals, gray lives.
She walked through the market, nailing bills to posts where it seemed alright to do so. There were a few other bills posted throughout the market, generally buying and selling ads, and most of them were old. Isabella pursed her lips as she put them up, hoping she was not supposed to pay a fee to post things in the market.
Isabella finished putting things up in the market, but the sun was not yet up and she did not feel tired again. She stood at the far entrance to the great wooden structure and considered, watching the rain fall. She looked around her; the Market Quarter was one of the more active sections of Citadel, boasting more shops and taverns than the rest of the city combined. It also contained, she noticed, the city's cathedral, an imposing structure of spires and rose windows. Despite its somber and somewhat unfriendly exterior, Isabella decided to go have a look. She always liked churches, though she had few chances to spend time in them as a girl. No priests would be awake this time of night, she was sure, but usually they left the doors open...
She shrugged and smiled, then walked towards the church with her cloaked wrapped tight against the rain. Her feet splashed in the cobblestone road's puddles as she walked, but she didn't mind; she rather enjoyed the rain. Somehow, the cold water felt refreshing, cleansing. Perhaps, she mused, this was the proper way to see Citadel: at night, in the rain. It made things so much clearer, so much less monotonous and dull.
Eventually, she stopped at the cathedral's door. She looked up at the archway: it was massive, filled with all kinds of little sculptures and figures that nobody would ever be able to make out. She always found that fascinating about cathedrals: so much went on in their appearence, so many little scenes and characters that must have spent lifetimes to complete- and yet, nobody would ever be able to see them for what they were worth, up close. She would never get closer than forty or fifty feet from the imps and angels that danced about above her head.
She took the great brass doorhandle and pulled at it. At first, it seemed stuck, and Isabella thought they must have locked the doors tonight, but she took another heave the huge wooden door creaked open. It was very dark inside, but some light came in through the stained glass, and two large braziers burned up near the altar. She looked to the ceiling and her breath failed her; literally, the whole roof was covered in paintings and mosaics. Auggie was not what one might refer to as a particularly religious man, and so she knew only a few of the stories associated with the pictures, but it was still awe-inspiring.
She walked down the aisle, staring transfixed at the mosaics, running her hand along the tops of the pews. She had never been in a church like this one, so grandiose and beautiful. Auggie usually took her to smaller affairs, little churches run by unknown priests, and they were usually no more fancy than the typical village hut. This, however... Well, she could understand why people considered places like this to be houses of God.
Finally, she took a deep breath and forced herself away from the ceilings. She looked down, towards the altar, and realized that she was not alone in the cathedral at half past four bells.
A man stood in front of the altar, wearing a gray tunic and black breeches. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and he appeared to be staring somberly at the altar and the braziers, as though he were waiting for something to happen.