by A. C. Cobble
Oliver sat back, turning the ale mug in front of him.
“You two done fighting?” asked the barman, Andrew. He had approached silently, and Oliver jumped when the man spoke.
“Fighting?” protested Oliver. “We weren’t fighting. We were, ah, discussing—”
“I could hear every word,” mentioned Andrew.
Oliver flushed, and Sam seemed to have swallowed ale down the wrong pipe. She coughed violently into her fist.
“I can’t tell you what to do about this girl that you’re both sleeping with,” rumbled the barman after Sam recovered. He brandished an empty mug and filled it with ale from their jug. “Honestly, that seems like a thorny problem that any sensible pair of people would have avoided in the first place.”
“Thanks for your help,” grumbled Sam.
Andrew grinned at her. “I was going to offer you a suggestion on your other problems. You need to talk to the old man. He can set you straight.”
Sam glared at the barman. “Do you know where he is?”
“I don’t know where he is,” admitted the barman, “but I know you can find him in the waking dream.”
Oliver blinked at the man in confusion and then looked to Sam. She was tapping a finger on the bar, pursing her lips. The barman sipped at their ale, smacking his lips with pleasure.
“What do you know of the waking dream?” asked Sam.
Andrew shrugged. “It doesn’t much matter what I know. What do you know of it?”
“I know it is dangerous to attempt and dangerous to even discuss,” responded Sam. “It’s sorcery, or close enough. The Church has outlawed it. If they even heard you discussing it…”
He grinned and pretended to lock his lips with an imaginary key. “Everyone else left, headed to their beds before the sun comes up. It’s just us in here, and I won’t talk if you don’t. You’ve got your secrets, and I’ve got mine. Besides, everything I know about the dream is from Church folk like yourself. If it’s so illegal, you oughta keep your mouths shut about it, along with everything else you blabber about in this pub.”
“What Church folk come in here?” wondered Sam. “I never see any.”
The barman looked at her quizzically. “The old man. You drink with him every few weeks.”
“His name is Thotham,” responded Sam, a grimace on her face.
“I know that is his name,” replied Andrew. He finished his ale and reached for the jug, frowning when he found it empty. “You fancy another?”
“You know Thotham?” asked Sam. “Really know him?”
“Of course I do, girl,” replied Andrew. “He’s been coming here for years, long before you earned your own stool. I don’t right recall, but I figured he was the one who introduced you to this place.”
“He did,” murmured Sam, “but I thought… You never speak to him when we are here together. You two barely look at each other. How come?”
The barman shrugged. “Some people like you come into the pub to talk. Others come to drink. Thotham, when he comes here, is a drinker.”
Sam frowned. “I don’t come here to talk.”
Andrew tilted his head and waited.
“I don’t—”
“You’re talking right now.”
“You are talking, Sam,” agreed Oliver. “A lot.”
Sam turned to glare at him.
“Thotham doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it is important,” advised the barman. “The things you folks are talking about, he ought to be involved in.”
“I know that,” hissed Sam. She looked up hopefully. “Do you have any idea where we could find him, where he lives?”
“I can tell you he is not in the city,” answered Andrew. “I don’t know where he goes, where his nest is. If you don’t know, then I doubt anyone else knows. He keeps things like that under his robes, so to speak. As I said, there is a way to find it… Think about it.”
The barman shuffled off behind the bar without further word, an empty mug hanging loosely in his hands.
Oliver reached for the earthenware jug of ale and frowned. “I think he stole the rest of our ale.”
Sam, though, was lost in thought.
“What?” asked Oliver. “What’s this waking dream? Is that some clue as to where to find him?”
“No,” murmured Sam. “The barman was right. Not where, but how.”
The Priestess XI
She drew a deep breath and then explained, “We can scry for him.”
Duke yawned, his jaw cracking. He moved a fist up to cover his gaping mouth. “Sorry about that. Scrying, is that what you said? It sounds interesting, it’s just late is all.”
“It’s early,” called the barman from the far corner of the room.
“Should we…”
She shook her head. “He’s already heard everything.”
“What’s scrying, then?” asked Duke.
“It’s a method of seeking, seeking something that cannot be seen. It is possible we could locate Thotham that way.”
“Well, why the frozen hell did you not mention that days ago!” exclaimed Duke. “Your mentor, the bishop, Baron Child, Lieutenant Taft… All we’ve been doing is looking for people who are lost.”
“I didn’t mention it because there are requirements to scry for someone. Requirements and risks,” she grumbled. “It’s illegal, for one.”
“Illegal?” queried Duke. “I’m the son of the king. Nothing I do is illegal.”
“Illegal by Church law, and don’t think that your father can shield you entirely from doing something you know the Church outlawed. Bishop Yates would take such a charge very seriously.”
“We can take the risk,” argued Duke. “If we’d done it sooner, maybe Standish Taft would be alive.”
“It wouldn’t have worked on him,” responded Sam. “There has to be a connection, a bridge, and I didn’t know the first thing about Standish Taft. With my mentor, I have objects he’s touched, items that he’s given me which he once owned. I have my own relationship with him as a guide. It might be possible.”
Duke nodded. “That sounds promising.”
“It’s not strictly sorcery, you understand, but it’s not strictly not sorcery,” explained Sam. “It’s also rather dangerous. When scrying, the mind of the seeker is vulnerable. It goes to where the object or person is located. If that object or person happens to be near a true sorcerer who has the skill, they could trap the seeker’s mind. If the seeker is looking for a person, and that person is dead, it could be even worse…”
“Then the seeker’s mind would be in the underworld,” speculated Duke.
“Exactly,” agreed Sam. “If Thotham is dead…”
“We can’t risk it, then,” said Duke, groaning heavily. “We know he is missing. He wouldn’t just vanish, would he?”
Sam shrugged uncomfortably, trying not to think of the many times her mentor did just that. It was kind of his thing.
“He really could have just wandered off?” questioned Duke, correctly interpreting her shrug.
“He could have,” agreed Sam. “He sometimes feels it is best for me to learn by doing, and he’s found the easiest way to force that is to disappear for a time. In the past, it has been on small errands. I don’t think he’d leave if he felt something was serious, and I do believe he understands the import of what we do, but it wouldn’t be unusual for him to go away a few days. He sent me to Archtan Atoll with you, for example. He claimed I wouldn’t learn if he’d been there.”
Duke frowned.
Sam glanced at Andrew in the corner.
“Just go do it,” advised the barman. “It’s late… or early, I guess, and I’m ready to nap for a bit until the crowd comes around for their breakfast ales.”
She turned to Duke and raised her hands.
“That means you should leave,” added Andrew.
“I’m sure the barman gives great advice, but I don’t know enough about this. It’s up to you,” remarked the nobleman. “If you say it is ri
sky or you say it is worth it, I will support you, though I’m not sure how I can do that.”
“Let’s do it, then,” declared Sam.
She slid off her stool, and Duke followed. They made their way toward the open doorway, now lit with the soft glow of dawn.
“Sam,” called the barman. “Your mentor lives. I am sure of it. That doesn’t mean he is not in danger, and it doesn’t mean he’ll live forever. If he is at his nest, it is because he’s preparing. Don’t ask me for what, I don’t know. I do know if that man is nervous, it means something is about to happen. Proceed cautiously, girl. If you do not find him quickly, be ready to pull back when it is time.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“And you owe me two pounds sterling, seven shilling, and two pence,” claimed Andrew. “I’d like payment now to close out your tab, just in case things go wrong.”
“Pay the man,” Sam instructed Duke. Then, she turned to go.
They stumbled back to Sam’s flat. She collapsed on the bed, and Duke, taking a rumpled blanket from the foot of her mattress, curled up on the floor. She slept that way through the morning. The sun was cresting its peak when she finally woke.
She sat up, rubbing her face and brushing her jet-black hair back behind her ears. The nobleman was snoring softly, so she slipped her boots off before climbing out of bed. Barefoot on the wooden floor, she tiptoed around the sleeping man and walked into her living room. It was spacious, compared to the narrow room where she slept, though it was just as sparsely furnished.
She knelt on the hearth and sparked a light a fire, sticking finger-thick sticks into it until they caught merrily and then adding two logs. The room was chill, but in her exhaustion, she hadn’t noticed until now. Hugging herself, she collected her bucket and ducked into the hallway, moving to the end where a single pipe and lever stuck up from the floorboards. She pumped it vigorously and was rewarded with the splash of water into her bucket. A pump indoors was a luxury, but in the cold, damp winters that plagued Westundon, it was one she was willing to pay for.
Back inside the flat, she filled her tea kettle and hung it above the crackling fire. She dumped water in her wash basin as well and tried to scrub the sleep from her eyes. By the time the tea kettle was whistling, Duke had woken and shambled from the bedroom into the living room.
He looked around blearily, concern on his face. “Your maids are doing a terrible job.”
“Maids,” snorted Sam. “I’m not a duke. I don’t have maids.”
“Well, then you are doing a terrible job,” grumbled Duke, turning to study the tea kettle with interest. “My mother taught me that there was no point in having something nice unless you took care of it. You should consider that.”
“This flat isn’t nice,” pointed out Sam. Studying Duke, she asked, “Your mother, you said? You never speak of her.”
“She was from Northundon,” replied Duke, his hand rubbing back over his ponytail, his fingers lingering on the leather thong that kept the knot tied. “She spent time there when she could. She was there when the Coldlands raiders attacked.”
“Oh…” Sam swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
Duke turned from the tea kettle and offered a wan smile. “It was a long time ago.”
“Well, I’m sorry the flat isn’t tidy enough for you,” she said, changing the subject. “I’ve been rather busy.”
She began rummaging in her cupboard until she produced two mugs — her only mugs — and she filled them both with a pinch of dried tea leaves. She collected the boiling kettle and poured the steaming water over the leaves.
“You take sugar?” she asked.
“A little,” replied Duke, walking slowly around her room, looking with interest at each and every object she owned.
“Well, I don’t have any,” she responded crisply.
“Somehow, I am not surprised,” he mumbled, closing the lid of her empty icebox. “No food, either, it appears.”
“Maybe when the maids turn up, they can flit down to the shop for me,” replied Sam sardonically.
Duke grunted.
She gestured to the table, and they both sat, waiting on the tea to cool enough to drink.
“There are some supplies involved in scrying,” she said, breaking the silence. “I have some, but there are others I’ll need to collect. There’s an apothecary that should be able to provide them.”
Duke nodded.
“I, ah, I need someone to pay,” she admitted. “Some of this will be rather expensive.”
“Very well,” he said, cupping his tea mug and blowing on it. To his credit, he only briefly let his eyes dart over her bare room.
“Some of it will also be illegal,” mumbled Sam.
“Illegal by the Crown’s or Church’s laws?”
“Both,” she admitted.
“Well, if anyone asks, I’ll tell them it is your stuff,” he claimed. “Let’s get it done.”
The apothecary had the look of all such places — outside a narrow storefront with few windows and an obscure sign painted above the doorway and inside a wall of cabinets with cryptically labeled contents. At the back were jars and shelves filled with dried roots, leaves, seeds, nuts, and other items which could be ground into powders. On top of the cabinets, there were larger jars with stranger contents like wings of bats, feet of fowl, tails of lizards, and pickles.
Aside from the pickles, Sam wasn’t aware of a practical use for any of the items, but she suspected the apothecary did brisk business selling the stuff to the confused peers who frequented the secret societies in Westundon. One wing of a bat, a pinch of newt’s eyeball, and all of your desires would come true. Well, her goal wasn’t so different, but putting a lizard’s tail in a cauldron and expecting something to happen was just foolishness.
She caught Duke looking suspiciously at the pickle jar before he turned to study the rest of the room.
Under her breath, she whispered to him, “Those are penises from a rare bearded lizard in the Darklands. There is a ritual involving them if you’d like me to attempt it. I’m told it… Well, you can imagine.”
He frowned at her.
She grinned then led them deeper inside where they found a shriveled old man sitting behind a desk. Atop it was a plethora of glass vials, small boxes, and empty paper packets. The man was biting into two thick slices of bread stuffed with meat, cheese, lettuces, and sliced pickles.
Around a mouthful of food, he asked, “What can I help you two with?”
“We’d like to see your back room,” responded Sam.
“The storage room?” asked the man. “Nothing back there that isn’t out here. Pick what you need, girl, and I promise it’s just as fresh as what’s in the back.”
“I need some items that aren’t on display,” she suggested.
The man’s eyebrow rose skeptically. “You barely looked at the cabinets. Go ahead and tell me what you need, or go look for yourself while I finish eating. I don’t have everything, but I bet I’ve got what you need.”
Sam turned and looked around the room one more time, ensuring they were alone, then leaned forward and stated, “I need alchemical-quality gold dust and two candles, one impressed with the ash of a dead man’s bones and one with the placenta of a pregnant woman. I need chalk, any sort will do, a glass knife, and a recently unearthed burial shroud. Oh, and four ounces of sugar, for tea.”
The man sat his meal down slowly and dug a finger in his ear like he was digging her comments out. Without speaking, he removed his finger and wiped it on his shirt. Finally, he replied, “I’m sorry. I didn’t quite catch that.”
“Yes, you did,” remarked Sam.
“I can help with the sugar,” declared the apothecary, “but I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the rest of the items you are requesting.”
“You’ve never heard of chalk?” jested Duke.
The old man looked at him, his expression blank.
“I’m looking for a man. He is a customer of yours. Thotham,” said
Sam, “you know him.”
The old man turned back to her, blinking slowly.
“He said to come here if I ever had need. I have need.”
“Thotham? It doesn’t sound familiar. What does this man look like?” inquired the apothecary.
Sam described him in detail, and the apothecary’s head bobbed along as she did.
When she finished, he asked, “And what did you say this man’s profession was?”
“Priest of a sort,” she answered.
“Of a sort,” agreed the man. He stood and gestured for them to sit at the two chairs before his table. “Wait there.”
“We cannot go back?” asked Sam. “How will we know you are getting what we ask?”
“You cannot go back,” confirmed the man. “If you were Thotham himself, you could not go back. The fact that he sent you here is how you know you’ll get what you ordered, girl.”
Without additional comment or questions, the man disappeared behind a linen curtain. They heard his plodding footsteps as he walked back, fading slowly as he went deeper into the building.
“This place is larger than it looks,” remarked Duke, bending forward and peering at the pickles in the man’s sandwich. “I thought you said you know this place. That man acts like he’s never seen you before.”
“He hasn’t,” responded Sam. “My mentor told me of this place and that the man had certain items available for purchase, but I’ve never needed to buy anything myself. This stuff is quite expensive, you know.”
“I can’t help but notice,” continued Duke, “everyone seems to know your mentor except the members of the Church. None of the priests we questioned admitted to any knowledge of him, and even Bishop Yates, who I know has met with him, acted like he’d barely heard of the man. What kind of priest, exactly, is this mentor of yours?”
