Romney Balvance and the Katarin Stone Read online

  ROMNEY BALVANCE AND THE KATARIN STONE

  by J Jordan

  Copyright © 2017 by Jess Jordan

  All rights reserved.

  Printed/Uploaded in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2020 (?)

  ISBN 0-9000000-0-0

  Contents

  Prologue

  Romney Balvance and the Morning Heist

  Jacob Duffy and Agent Kinsey

  Romney Balvance and his New Associates

  Romney Balvance and the First Dream

  Devon Reymus and Mr. Gray

  Romney Balvance and the Jade Scar

  Romney Balvance and the Reymus Collection

  Romney Balvance and the Trouble with Magic

  Arindale Kinsey and the Other Ghost

  Romney Balvance and Cora Queldin

  Tykeso Vandesko and the New Student

  Romney Balvance and the Crown of Videra

  Arindale Kinsey and Public Enemy 503

  Romney Balvance and the Way to Andarametra

  Romney Balvance and the Partisan of the People

  Cora Queldin and the Partisans

  The Prophet Andrea

  Romney Balvance and the Secret History

  Enchanter and Wyvern

  Romney Balvance and the High Priestess

  Romney Balvance and Modern Military Checkpoints

  Wyvern on Approach

  Romney Balvance and the Andaran Military

  Arindale Kinsey and her First Vacation

  Romney Balvance and the Water Mirror

  Romney Balvance and the Introduction

  The Passage

  Romney Balvance and the Matron’s Place

  The Lanvale Quake of 2015, or A Sudden Discharge of Magical Energy

  Romney Balvance and Agent Kinsey

  Romney Balvance and his Checkered Past

  The Talented Mr. Balvance

  The Reymus Collection, Revisited

  Romney Balvance and the Katarin Stone

  Devon Reymus and his New Cell Mate

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  History is a remarkable teacher, so long as you are listening.

  History is the tenured professor and the venerable sage. It is our tutor in this school of hard knocks we call the modern world. But, like the milky-eyed sage, history’s lessons can often be misinterpreted. Or, in the case of the tenured professor, the lessons are ignored in favor of booze and wild parties. In the case of Romney Balvance, it was a little bit of both.

  Many words are used to describe Romney Balvance: arrogant, idiotic, irresponsible, cowardly, and yet hopelessly smug through it all. One rarely uses the words “hero” and Balvance in the same sentence. In these instances, name and title are separated by “is not a” or “could never possibly be a.” The fact remains that Romney Balvance is a hero of the Modern era, whether one likes it or not. Okay, so he doesn’t possess the immense strength of John Orren or the wit of Martin Wright, nor does he possess Ingrid of Kinsey’s wealth of courage. He isn’t built for the sorts of things most heroes do. In the beginning, he was in it for the money.

  Despite all the myriad things working against him, Romney Balvance is a hero.

  As writers, researchers, scholars, historians, and friends, it is our duty to bring you the story of Romney Balvance. We will provide every detail available, even the ones that are unflattering. Some details may seem unbelievable. We ask that you read this account with an open mind. History can be a wise teacher, so long as one is prepared to listen.

  His tale begins with a small blue van.

  Romney Balvance and the Morning Heist

  No one noticed the small blue van as it turned off the highway. People have other things on their mind at six in the morning, things like early meetings and whether one will be late to them. Generally, six a.m. in the city of Lanvale involves lots of people focused diligently on starting the day right. Romney Balvance was counting on this fact.

  The small, blue van was smaller than most vans of its class. One might place the word “mini” in front, as the van had many “mini” qualities. For instance, it had two rows of seats for accommodating a Pee Wee football team or a band of rowdy ballerinas. The van’s many windows were tinted black, which one might not associate with a children’s sports team. Even the windshield was shaded in a dark gradient, hiding the driver’s face from sight. The van did have the quintessential sliding doors on either side, giving the van its van-ness. It was a nice van, let’s be clear on this. A clean one. And it had no business being in this situation. It was not the kind of van one drives to a bank heist. The general impression was that this van had nobler aspirations than being a getaway vehicle. Romney counted on this too. Who would suspect a small, blue minivan?

  No one.

  It drove uncontested down Gaiwan Street, and then veered onto Percival, both typical Lanvalean streets lined corner to corner with business. No one gave the small, blue minivan a second glance. And thanks to its dark-tinted windows, they didn’t see what was inside.

  Four people occupied the van, dressed in business suits. Each suit was a different shade of blue. This made it difficult to distinguish between them, so each person wore a different-colored tie. Romney was very specific on these colors, because these colors would be their code names. If one of these four were to forget his or her code name, he or she would look at the tie. Each of the four wore a simple white mask over a black balaclava. Romney couldn’t remember exactly where he had found these masks, though he wouldn’t admit to this fact.

  His answer differed with each telling. In his most recent interview, Romney said it was a party store in downtown Lanvale and that it had since gone out of business. The question of where he bought those masks was just a preface to the real question: what was wrong with them? There was something unsettling about the many contours of their oval-shaped surfaces. The result, even in the best of lighting, could only be described as vaguely “face-like.” As one stared, and tried to see the face, one would have the overwhelming urge to look away. Romney never questioned this unique property. Later in life, this fact would not surprise him.

  There were three passengers and one driver in the small, blue minivan. The driver, who wore a green tie, said his name was Jacob. Romney didn’t know Jacob’s full name and he didn’t really care to. Jacob had experience in this line of work. He could drive vehicles to bank heists, wait patiently for business to conclude, then burn out into the city for the getaway. Over the years, Jacob had acquired an impressive memory for back roads and untraveled alleyways. Romney liked these aspects of Jacob. It meant he didn’t have to worry about their escape.

  The second occupant was an elf dressed in a powder-blue suit that was a size too big for her frame. She wore a red tie, even though Romney asked her to wear a pink one. Pink was not her color, she explained. Her name was Cora Queldin, and she was not suited for this kind of work. In fact, until an hour ago, she wasn’t entirely sure she would be part of the actual heist portion. Cora Queldin wasn’t nervous, mind you. She wore her mask over her glasses.

  Chances are you mispronounced her name. Cora is standard fair for a Tambridesian woman, though Cora’s name was taken from an Andaran matriarch on her father’s side of the family. Say “core” like the center of something, and then “ah” like when you’ve been surprised by a house cat. “Cor-ah.” You probably got Cora right. The complications come from her surname. Queldin is a traditional Camerran name that uses pronunciations from the original elder Camerran tongue. Simply put, it isn’t “kel-den” or “kwel-den.” Her name is pronounced “kel-deen.” At this point in her life, Ms. Queldin had spent twenty-seven of her twenty-nine year
s explaining this intriguing fact to other people. And she would continue to do so well into the future.

  Cora was seated in the copilot’s seat, poring over research on her laptop, reading several interesting facts about silent alarm systems. It wasn’t the kind of material she was used to, having a doctorate in Camerran history. At this time, year 2015 of the Modern era, historians were not in high demand. One could say the shrinking market was already saturated with old elves. The kind who wouldn’t know what to do around the likes of Ms. Queldin. Her prospects of being a professor, even adjunct, were slim at best and always dwindling. Romney Balvance offered a job she would be good at. It involved lots of reading and analyzing and whatnot. Cora accepted his offer. Bank heists had to be better work than retail.

  Tykeso Vandesko was the tall, muscle-bound elf seated behind Cora. His two yellow eyes peered out from his mask like polished ambers, hardened and clear. The typical gaze and countenance of North Azerran folk. His amber eyes made his ancestry unmistakable, a true Norzerran, through and through. His navy-blue suit was a size too small. And the sleeves rolled up his forearm when he reached forward. He had to leave the jacket unbuttoned. This was Tykeso’s second attempt at wearing a suit jacket in his life. It was a difficult process, buying a nice jacket. Every detail needed precision. This was why Mr. Vandesko had purchased his from a thrift shop in Downtown Lanvale for $31.95 Ontaran notes. The previous owner had last worn it in 1988 ME.

  Tykeso was sitting with a paintball gun in his lap, loaded with pepper powder balls. These were the kind used on the rowdiest of ne’er-do-wells. Up until now, these had never been tested on bank tellers. Romney was never clear on how he’d obtained them, since their sale was restricted to law enforcement and the military. He would say in interviews that he knew a guy. He would never elaborate on which guy. Earlier that morning, Romney had asked Tykeso if he knew his way around a gun. Tykeso’s answer was simple and to the point:

  “I do.”

  The fourth, and final, member of the van wore a well-fitting suit in a balanced shade of azure. His tie was a carefully chosen shade of cerulean, which popped nicely off his silk dress shirt. You could say, dear reader, that we have saved the best for last. But it depends on whom you ask. This clean-cut, well-dressed man was Romney Balvance.

  Romney Archibald Balvance was born in 1984 ME, making him thirty-one years old at the time of this tale. His driver’s license would tell you that he has blue eyes and brown hair, which is true. It would also tell you that he stands at five feet and nine inches tall, making him an inch shorter than the average Ontaran human male. However, the measurement is inaccurate. Romney was really five foot seven. At this height, Romney was almost taller than most teenaged boys, though most teenaged boys would kill each other for Romney’s full and well-kept sideburns, his stylishly messy brown hair, and his clear skin. The average teenaged boy also lacked Romney’s charismatic air and his intelligent, clear-blue eyes. Romney had grace, unlike the average Ontaran male teenager.

  Now would be a good time to return to our previous caveat, regarding the accuracy of this tale. It is our sworn duty as the writers, researchers, editors, and historians to provide you with the most accurate account of Romney Balvance’s adventures. We will do our best to present all sides of the story, to include all available details, and to ensure that all presented details are accurate.

  A few altered details may get through. Romney had never compared himself to teenagers, nor would he ever stoop to flaunt his advantages over them. If he were to stand beside a teenager, then he would certainly never deign to compare heights.

  However, it should also be said that Romney would, on occasion, become defensive around taller people.

  These introductions, while being colorfully rendered and descriptive, have failed in answering the largest question on the reader’s mind: where was the small, blue minivan going? This answer is simple. The van and its occupants were headed to the First Ontaran National Bank on Perceval and Eighth.

  The next question is: why?

  And this answer is a little more complicated. As astute readers may know, there are all kinds of banks in the city of Lanvale, with branches and ATMs all over North Ontar. And chances are good that you have never heard of the First Ontaran. There is a reason for that. Other banks do more business and often have more cash on hand at any given time of day. This presents a new question: so, why the First Ontaran?

  The short answer is that Romney had picked it. It was quiet and low-key, presented an acceptable amount of risk, and had something he was looking for.

  The long answer would take a book to explain.

  The small, blue minivan passed Seventh Street on Perceval, and the silence within its walls gained a nervous buzz. Romney looked out toward downtown Lanvale and all its tall towers. He thought of all the people inside, scrambling to start their daily run. The thought was brief. As he turned back, he caught Tykeso checking the paintball gun again. Tykeso tapped the CO2 gauge, then popped open the ammo canister to check inside. Romney lifted his mask to speak.

  “What’s up, Yellow?”

  The question had no concern, just a smidgeon of accusation. Romney liked Tykeso, from what little he knew of the elf, but he couldn’t have a nervous twitch on his back. Tykeso’s voice was a bark gained from military training. Or from a really strict summer camp.

  “Checking equipment.”

  Romney nodded without looking at him. He returned his mask to his face.

  “You’re good, Yellow. We’re all good.”

  Romney patted his coat gingerly. His phone wasn’t there and neither was his wallet. That was good. They were both at home, hidden underneath his socks in his dresser. His keys were in the van’s glove compartment. Romney placed a hand under his right arm. He felt the shape of a pistol grip tucked in its side holster. A “just-in-case.” Just in case the pepper powder wasn’t enough. In case the tellers wanted to be heroes.

  But they wouldn’t, of course. They were underpaid and overworked. A small bank like the First Ontaran would be understaffed, manned by college students, and with a disgruntled general manager at the helm. These tellers would hand over anything he asked for and see everyone off with a wave. That’s what they were trained to do.

  The light at Eighth Street turned green. Approaching on the right side, standing alone on its own block, was the glass front entrance to the First Ontaran National Bank. The hours of operation were painted in white on the sliding doors. A poster of an elf stood inside, peering out of the glass into the Lanvale morning, proudly displaying his new adjustable rate mortgage. The small, blue minivan stopped short of the entrance. The heist was now in motion.

  Red—or rather Cora—left the driver’s seat to join Blue and Yellow—Romney and Tykeso—at the front door. Green—Jacob—would watch the street for any signs of activity. He would gun it when he heard the side doors open and close, regardless of who was inside.

  It was up to Yellow to hold up the front end, while Red cleaned out the tills. Meanwhile, Blue would make his way into the back end to clean out the lockboxes in the safe. He told the crew that he would take no more than five minutes in doing this and that the entire operation would be done in seven. Any more time and the place would be buried in Lanvale P.D.

  Blue and Yellow waited by the door as Red scrambled out of the van. She had a black duffel bag in each hand.

  For clarity, we’re going to use their given names.

  Romney reached over quickly and pulled the zippers open. The faint aroma of fresh linen wafted into the air. He had left a few folded towels inside to obscure the money, in case they were stopped on the way out. Everything was ready.

  Tykeso pushed open the door and rushed in. Romney trailed close behind him, his hand on Tykeso’s back. Then Cora followed, duffel bags swinging in her arms like cloth flails. Already Romney was assessing the situation: two tellers at the front desk, no security guards, no manager. Hells, he thought. He would have to look for the manager.

  �
�Can I help you?” said one of the tellers. Her nametag read Rikka. She was an elf, midtwenties probably.

  “All your money,” said Tykeso, leveling the paintball gun in her direction. Cora presented the bags.

  “My money too?” asked Rikka the teller. “I only have cards.”

  “Only what’s out,” said Romney. “Don’t reach for anything. No dyes, no funny business.”

  They had been counting up last night’s deposits, Romney noticed. A collection of twenty notes was spinning through a counting machine. The counter passed $2,000 ON. And there was more scattered on the desk behind the counter.

  “Where is your manager?”

  The other teller, Ken, raised his hands to the ceiling. He was a human, male, midtwenties. Probably just another college kid.

  “She’s in the—”

  “She didn’t come in yet,” said Rikka. “She never shows up for the morning counts.”

  “What’s going on?”

  A woman in a silk pantsuit stepped in from the only hallway. Her name tag gave her full name, Rella Candrata, General Manager. Romney approached and grabbed her by the collar. She needed to know that this was all serious business.

  “Take me to the safe.”

  Rella gave a sideways look to her tellers and nodded slowly. She was calm and composed.

  “It’s down this hall,” she said. “You don’t have to use force. We’ll give you what you want.”

  Romney and the bank manager crossed through the small hallway, past several dark and empty offices. Romney didn’t examine them in detail. His eyes were fixed directly on Rella’s wavy, blonde hair. As they neared the vault door, he raised the handgun from its holster and pressed it into her back. She didn’t flinch.

  “Stop that. We’ll give you what you want. No games. It’s company policy.”

  “This is an insurance policy,” said Romney. “To insure you don’t get any ideas.”