The Queen's Dog

It was on a dark and stormy night that they met, in the infamously seedy Queen's Dog tavern. Both sought refuge beneath the creaking timbers, and if the air was choked with pipe smoke, or the bread was a little stale, well that was okay. They weren't there for the food or for the atmosphere.
He was totally at home at the splintered table, knocking back his ale as if it was water and leaning comfortably back against the wall. She was completely out of place, picking at her meal and constantly sneaking glances at those around her.
She had only been there only minutes before someone moved closer, undoubtedly meaning to steal from her. From her clothing down to her manners, she was a nobleman's daughter, and that meant the silk purse on her belt would be bulging with gold.
Despite her nervous surveillance the girl seemed not to notice the thief's approach. The other patrons watched with obvious interest. Three steps away and she hadn't seen him. Two steps. One. She did not so much as blink as his hand reached toward the purse -
"If you want to keep your fingers, I suggest you move on, friend," she said quietly, in a low and serious voice. The thief looked down slowly to find a knife's bare blade resting against his hand. He hadn't even seen her move.
"Begging your pardon, my lady," he muttered. "I must have stumbled."
She laughed, and even that seemed to have a dangerous edge.
"If you wish to call it so." She exerted the slightest pressure, drawing a line of crimson across his hand. "See that you mind your footing, next time."
He hurried away, mumbling. The lady's knife vanished as smoothly as it had appeared. All but one set of eyes hurriedly averted themselves - from across the room, the mercenary watched her with interest. He'd never known any noble with reflexes as good, or such a genuinely unnerving tone.
The room cleared quickly after the incident. None of the regular patrons felt like lingering to drink and though the owner looked discomfited he didn't dare to complain. Soon only the lady and the mercenary remained in their seats, he smoking thoughtfully and she frowning into the flickering hearth.

"Thirty gold pieces up front," she declared. "A negotiable amount to follow, depending on how you perform."
"In your bed?" He replied crudely, though neither of them was laughing. This was a time of testing and of gaging reactions.
"The green band on your sword declares you a second-rank hired-sword. The golden embroideries say you have worked for kings and chandlers alike. The knot claims a high charge for equally high skill."
She read the signs perfectly; he was impressed. He waited for her to continue - this was the part where the hirer was made nervous by his silence and upped their offer.
"I have known gold-bands to hire out for less," she said, clearly not intending to budge.
"I'm no coin-whore," he spat. "I take a job on its own merit, not on the size of its bounty."
One slim eyebrow raised - he had surprised her.

"I want a man killed."
Her words hung in the hazy air between them. The barman, who had been quietly cleaning tables, gulped audibly and hurried from the room.
"Which man? What is the nature of his offense?"
"Parading his integrity like a peacock's frill in the public eye, and beating his family behind bright-painted shutters."
"If that were all it takes, every man ought to be hanged for its like."
She stared at him a moment, then pushed her sleeves up above her elbows. Even in the room's dim light he could clearly see what she showed - pale, pale skin marred in its smoothness by countless welts and scars.
"Do you wish to see the rest?" She asked coolly, beginning to undo the laces at the front of her blouse.
"I have seen enough." He untied the green band and crossed the room to where she sat in three long strides. With the efficiency of much practice he fastened it around her forearm, carefully arranged so that its signs could easily be read by those who knew them. Each morning he would tie the band just so, as a sign of their continuing contract. After only a moment's hesitation she took the ribbon from her hair and tied it onto his sword in the band's place. It would remain there until she removed it as a sign of the contract's completion.

"I am Lady Saphryn of the Wild Hills," she said formally, gripping his arm as an ally and equal.
"I am Nikkuro, sellsword of the Saltcrevice Peaks," he replied, bowing his head respectfully.
The beams above them groaned in the wind and their flesh glowed in the dying firelight, and outside of the Queen's Dog the storm continued to rage.

The Bard's Bastard

"Methinks the Bard's blood itself does inform your pen!" Eleanor's teacher exclaimed, as she read the prose scribbled in the margins of the page.
'I don't think so," Eleanor blushed.
"'Tis very like his form."
"What, 'the bloody corpse lay limply in his arms, and grinned'?" She quoted herself from memory.
"The wit, the form and feeling of the piece," Ms Gambol insisted. "Very like."
"If you say so." She didn't add what she was really thinking - Shakespeare is boring. I don't want to write like that. As if she could read Eleanor's mind, Ms Gambol sighed.
"Of course, most teenagers these days wouldn't consider that a compliment. Our mutual friend is not the most... accessible, of our literary ancestors."
Eleanor was torn between grinning and grimacing - Ms Gambol always spoke like that, as though they were comrades in arms, unified by their common love of language. Eleanor had never been anyone's comrade, and she had certainly never felt that words brought her closer to others. If anything, she felt alienated from her peers. How could she be friends with someone who couldn't use a semi-colon properly? How could she have respect for somebody who used language like it was a bludgeon? She didn't mean to be so superior, but there it was. Who can help the way they feel?
"It was such a pity that he never had any children," Ms Gambol continued, sighing again. "Of course a writer's talent is nothing to do with breeding, yet it would have been interesting to see... even if he had raised children, to see how they could have turned out."
"He didn't have children?"
"Not that we know of. Who can say what a man gets up to off the record -" she coughed politely. Eleanor knew what she meant. "But officially there is nothing, and it's highly unlikely that his bloodline ever carried on. It is a pity..."
Eleanor had to agree. Even though she felt just as distant from Shakespeare's works as she did from her classmates, it was a sad thought to imagine a person who lived on only through words.
But what if there had been a child, she wondered, because who could honestly say there hadn't been?

The Grid

"I need your help," she whispered, glancing fearfully around as if they might be observed.
"Yes," he replied simply. "I've been watching their transmissions. They're closing in. Be calm, they have no eyes in my place yet."
"I need to get off the grid."
"How far off?"
"Well you said it yourself. They're chasing me."
"Didn't you delete your file?""
"Of course," she sighed, sinking into the empty chair next to his desk. "But they have physical data. They have memories of me. It's too late for simple solutions. I've left it too late."
She sank her head into her hands, and when she spoke next her voice was muffled.
"I need to disappear. It must be as if I never lived."
He watched her for a few moments, and when he finally spoke his answer surprised her.
"Alright. I can help you."
-
The chair creaked as her body convulsed; the machine winred up to her brain hummed as it fed. The measurements it took were relayed into a small, gun-shaped device, creating a map of her essence, of every neurological detail that made her who she was. A second device - running simultaneously with the other, because they were in a hurry - sorted through her memories, printing a list of every person she had ever met.
It was a tremendous strain on her body, perhaps even taking a few years from her life as it fed on her own vitality to speed its processors. He had to marvel at the ingenuity of this feature of his machine. He hadn't programmed it in personally, merely watched as it adapted itself during the testing phase. There was a kind of intelligence to his computers, and in communicating with the infinitely more sophisticated computer that was the human brain, it had learned.
With a mostly-clean handkerchief he wiped her mouth. Her brain was busy elsewhere, and she had forgotten to swallow the saliva that had gathered there. Racked with pain she moaned, and he awkwardly patted her arm.
"It's nearly done," he said.
The final sheet of paper fell onto the pile, and he neatened it before attaching the sheets to a clipboard.
"These glasses have an imbedded microtext reader," he explained, as he carefully disentangled her from the wires. "The names on the clipboard are in reverse chronological order."
"Alright," she said shakily, leaning a little heavily on the chair as she stood. "I have such a headache."
"It will last a few days." He handed her the glasses and clipboard. "Be sure to practise a little. It takes some getting used to."