Swords Made of Letters

Prologue

They never listened to her.

And she told them countless times. Time and time again she told the shift manager, but they never listened to her. The cheap detergent the hotel kept buying caused Helen's skin to crack whenever she had to wash the dishes and cutlery for the patrons who came to the English Bar. They never listened and her skin always looked more than her twenty eight yeas of age. And it was the same endless story tonight as well. The water gushed from the tap onto the white dishes inscribed with the AP initials of the hotel, breaking off the relative silence of the bar.

Tucked in the corner of the lobby, the English bar was made as a retreat for the patrons of the hotel, and the ladies who would often wait for them. Cosy, with dim lights and somehow reeking of a combination of musk and heavy tobacco, the bar was heavily populated at all times. But tonight it was empty. The 1st of December always brought empty cosy bars - and rather houses full of people partying a national holiday. The holiday left Helen alone in the bar with four men huddled at a low table in the opposite corner of the room, chatting and laughing between hushed tones. They never raised their voice, they never raised their eyesight to her and they spoke as little as possible when she went to take their order. She found that odd but Helen had seen her fair share of oddities so she only delivered their order and went about her business.

But even so, it was too quiet. It was as if the men were never there.

She gave them a quick glance and returned to her duties, satisfied they were there and not causing any trouble. But the four men, all dressed in black uniforms with odd patches on the side, were different than any other guests she had encountered. No other guest kept their silence, and neither of them would speak in hushed tones or laugh as quietly as possible. Helen's back arched slightly at the implications. She was warned about foreign elements within the country and perhaps they were some of those elements. Helen sighed. The water kept gushing from the tap until she slammed it shut and waited for the dishes to dry. As the sudden silence beckoned, a couple of words trailed off before the guests realised they were no longer covered by the sound of the water.

Helen recognised the language.

Three weeks before, a rather charming Englishman came up to her and paid her a generous tip. The man specifically asked for her to report whenever she heard this language, and she was promised a hefty reward every time she would call him. Somewhere in her pocket she had his room number - the man after all was a legate at the embassy and lived often in the hotel - but she decided to listen to the conversation in order to get an even heftier reward. Helen picked up three glasses and opened the tap again, letting the water slide gently in the glasses as she pretended to clean them. Her ears were honed on their conversation, picking up bits and bobs from the words that she understood of that language. Despite her being a bartender, Helen spoke five languages, courtesy of a very ambitious mother. She finished her washing about two minutes later, gently easing the tap until she could hear and decipher some parts of phrases the men spoke between them. Helen had no more dishes or glasses, and there were no other patrons, so she glided gently out of the bar and left for the lobby to excuse herself from a potentially awkward situation.

She returned to the bar four minutes later, only to find it empty. On the table the men left a considerable amount of money, including a hefty tip, despite them not knowing exactly the price of the food and drinks they ordered because Helen never even got them the check. Helen never bothered after all. It was the end of the shift and she wanted to go home.

With the tip in her pocket and her uniform exchanged for more confortable clothing, she bid goodbye to the coworker taking her place and exited the hotel. The night was cold and cloudy - it was December after all - forcing Helen to button her overcoat up to the last top button. With the silk scarf huddled around her neck, she turned left from the Athenee Palace hotel and reached for the side streets behind the imposing Atheneum. In her desire to reach her house she did not notice the three men casually resting against a black Mercedes limousine parked beside the hotel. Helen beckoned even faster, oblivious to the men eyeing her behind, hoping to reach her house before it started raining. As she turned into the street behind the conservatory, a hand gently slid between her and her torso, pinning her to a halt.

"Good evening, Mrs. Helen."

Firm, but gentle, the man drew up in front of her and gave her a rather disconcerting smile. His white teeth were bared, smiling almost ironically to her, his eyes a mixture of contempt and curiosity. Helen glanced at him, her hands trembling beneath her coat, unsure what to make of him. She realised he was one of the guests, but what did she do?

"Good evening, Mrs. Helen," the man repeated. "I believe you and I are going for a walk."

Helen stammered. "What... why... who are you?"

"Oh I believe you will recognise me. The man from the bar earlier. I was with three friends, remember?" The man gave her a pout of his lips, putting her off guard. "Of course you do remember me darling. I was there just twenty minutes ago, you can't forget me even if you tried. Let's go for a walk darling, fresh air is good for the soul."

 Despite her initial resistance, there was no use for Helen to try and resist. The man grabbed her arm, violently this time, and dragged her behind him. There was no use for Helen to even try to resist. There was nobody on the street at this hour, and worse, she was about half his size. He dragged her all the way from behind the Atheneum to the car at the side of the hotel where the men from the bar were waiting inside. Without any words spoken, Helen found herself thrown inside the car, in the middle of backseat, surrounded by four men in black uniforms, buzz cuts and stern glances. All of them wore caps, concealing their facial features but only to an extent, enough for her to not discern who was which compared to the men that she saw earlier in the bar. Without any other words, her assailant tapped the driver on the shoulder and the black limousine sputtered forwards into the closest intersection in front of the hotel. The junction formed a three way connection between the main Victory Boulevard, the hotel and the Royal Palace just opposite of the hotel. Despite the junction being a frequented area, the driver didn't bother to look. 

Helen only remembered the crash.