by Paul Barrett
“That will do.”
My eyebrows shot up. I had never met an elf that drank anything other than wine or water. I grunted and reached into the lower drawer on my desk. “Criz, see if you can round up a glass,” I said as I sat a new bottle of Wizard’s Piss on the desk.
“Not necessary.” She snagged the bottle, pulled the cork out with her teeth, spat it onto the desk, and took two healthy slugs. Her wince at the hideous taste barely registered. “Best two copper whisky I’ve ever had,” she croaked out as her eyes watered.
Beautiful and a competent drinker? If she had asked me right then to marry her, I would have said yes.
She handed me the bottle. “What are your rates?”
“Depends on the job,” I hedged. I was her last hope. A magic-wielding assassin had already warned me off. Both factors exponentially increased my worth.
“I just need you to follow someone.”
“Sounds simple enough. Who?” I took a drink.
“My brother.”
I didn’t spit out the grog dramatically or choke on it in surprise. I wasn’t surprised. The first rule in inquisition is the only simple job is the one you don’t take. I put the bottle down and looked at Crizlyk. He shook his head. I looked back at the beautiful elf. “No, thanks.”
“But you have—”
“Sister, the only thing I have to do is stay alive, and tailing your brother is a direct path to that not happening.”
“What about the information I have?”
“Information isn’t worth a damn if you’re not alive to use it.”
“I’ll pay you well.”
“We’ve already gone over that. Still not interested.” I picked up the bottle and gulped down at least half the grog.
“My brother’s tattoo is a fake.”
That surprised me, and I did choke. Nothing burns worse than cheap liquor running from your nose, especially when your nostrils are as close together as mine. I pulled a sleeve across my eyes to wipe away the tears. “You’re bogging me. It can’t be fake.”
She smiled as she took the bottle from my hand. “Oh, he trained as an assassin, but he got the tattoo prematurely. The AC kicked him out.”
I considered it a moment. “Still too risky. Even a half-trained assassin is deadlier than I want to deal with. He’s been kind enough to leave me alive once. I don’t want to push my luck.”
“They kicked him out during orientation. He got physically ill when they started describing their methods. He has no stomach for violence. That’s why he has others to do his dirty work.”
“So you’re telling me the only thing he got from being a member of the AC is…
“The tattoo. And the only reason they didn’t shred that off him is because he’s High Clan.”
“When the hell did he get it? The day he joined?”
She nodded.
“Is he even a Clanmage?”
“Oh, he is that.” She leaned over on the desk, displaying her elfish goods yet again, and lowered her eyelids seductively. “But it’s nothing a big, strong dwarf like you can’t handle.”
She was trying to appeal to my ego and libido. Both were reacting positively.
She continued. “Follow him and report where he goes for one week, I’ll pay you twelve gold…Gosleys,” she swallowed as if the wizard’s name had stuck in her throat, “and I’ll help you get your reputation cleared.”
My suspicions flared like a dragon with an upset stomach. “No one offers that kind of coin for a simple track job. Where’s the hidden dagger?”
She leaned back, once again the proper noble. “He’s been acting suspicious lately, and I suspect some of his recent companions are less than respectable. I’m concerned for his well-being. Though he is rude on the outside, he’s quite gullible. I think he may have joined a cult.”
“Which cult?”
She lowered her voice. “Caldere.”
Crizlyk fell to the floor and let out a bark of pure terror. That, as much as the name, made me almost jump from my skin.
“Crizlyk, shut up,” I kicked at his prone form, even though my feet didn’t touch the floor.
I returned my attention to the elfette. “You really know how sell a job, don’t you?” Her frown told me she had caught the thick sarcasm. I took a long, slow drink. By now, my headache from the earlier beating had disappeared entirely―so had the bulk of my better judgment. I looked at Crizlyk, who had calmed down to a low moan after my half-hearted kick to his face. I didn’t like assassins. The idea of tangling with the Cult of Caldere made me want to shit my pants. I sighed as I considered the lack of options available. I was out of money, out of food and, even worse, almost out of drink. It was either take the job or plan on being hungry and sober.
“Here’s what I’m going to do,” I said to both the elves in front of me. I squinted, and they merged back into one. “By the way, what’s your name, sister?”
“Siralanna.”
“Okay, Siralanna, I’ll track your brother for a week for three Gosleys a day. At the first sign of a demon or anything more supernatural than a pixie, I’ll bolt, and you can find someone else. If I finish the whole week, I get an extra five gold, and you give me the information you have about my little adventure at Pastrik. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” she said without a blink of her long-lashed eyes.
That should have been my warning. Smart money would have kicked her out on her cute ass right then. Lack of money beats smart money nine times out of ten. I spat in my calloused hand and held it out.
Her grimace offered the first sign of something other than friendliness. “Can’t we just sign an agreement?”
I looked at the glob in my hand and then wiped it on my pants. “How about three gold up front?”
“How about this?” She reached down into her dress. For a moment, I thought she was going to pop it off. She pulled out a gold amulet on a thick, tightly wound gold chain. A stylized eye occupied the center. The white outer part was composed of fine marble and the pupil a shiny emerald, easily three carats. It was a beautiful necklace worth more than I had seen in three years. “This will serve as my collateral. Plus, it’s enchanted and will offer you a measure of protection.”
“Against what?”
She smiled her white-toothed, beautiful smile. If I wasn’t bordering on dead drunk, I might have tried to kiss her. “Anything more supernatural than a pixie.”
I gave her what I’m sure was a stupid-looking grin. “Deal.” I took the necklace and put it on my neck. It was heavy, as I expected. My chest tingled as the cool metal touched it. The enchantment, I guessed, as the hairs around the amulet stood up like soldiers called to formation. “Where can I find your brother?”
“He resides in the secondary manor, atop Goldfern Lane. Look for the orcs guarding it.” She said this last as if she liked the orcs as much as a spider crawling on her face. “I heard from one of the maids that he’s going out just after sundown, so you should be able to follow him then. I want a report tomorrow on everything he does.”
“Right after sundown?” I looked at my threadbare cot in the corner and then back at Siralanna. Sleep seemed like a good idea at the moment. “I’ll be there.”
“I suggest you be sober,” she said. “And clean yourself up. You look like a dirt pile and smell like an orc.” She turned and left. I tried again to be insulted and couldn’t. She was right. I did stink. I was dirty. I needed to do something about it.
Later. Right now what I needed more than a bath was a nap. As I watched her leave I laid my head on the desk. The cot was just too far away to manage.
3
The setting sun cast a rusty orange light through the smoke that eternally rose from the chasm surrounding Mage City. I stood at the corner of Goldfern and Vinetwist, in the Silver Fountain Ward. I had arrived as promised, sober as suggested.
The best I managed for a bath was a rag over my face with water from the public well. I had no money for a haircut or beard trim. Belatedly,
I realized how well Siralanna had deflected my booze-soaked request for coin. Breasts and a bauble had coddled me like a baby given candy. Siralanna’s necklace was a beautiful piece of shine, and it might protect me. Otherwise, it was useless unless I bartered it.
My stomach growled. Three buildings down, smells from the Golden Unicorn tormented my hunger. Wizards, nobles, and other people with money frequented the establishment. I couldn’t even afford to stand at its front door.
I leaned against the decorative signpost that announced the street names in bright silver letters. Curlicues and scrollwork embellished the post. A two-foot high silver sculpture of a three-tiered fountain sat centered on the sign’s frame, the emblem of the ward. These signs stood at every street corner. No chance of getting lost in Silver Fountain. When the markers first appeared after the war, a thief had tried to steal one of the sculptures. His smoking, barely recognizable corpse made sure such an attempt was never made again.
I knew I must look like a piece of street litter placed against the sign. I wore dull brown pants, a tan tunic, my now-buttoned blue cotton doublet, and scuffed black boots. A battered, broad-brimmed hat covered my shaggy hair.
Silver Fountain is a far more extravagant section of the city than Rimside: a cavalcade of sweepers and cleaners keep dirt off the buildings and streets. People cough less here since the Rim smoke doesn’t reach deep into the city except on blustery days. The city watch patrolled at regular intervals, keeping out the riffraff. I didn’t expect any trouble from the guards since most of them knew me from back when I was somebody. They spent the bulk of their time keeping unlicensed and potentially dangerous goblinoids away from the nobles.
Since the war, the influx of unwanted verds, the crass name for goblinoids or greenskins, had increased to the point of overwhelming the immigration bureau. The bureau couldn’t license them fast enough. A lot of the verds couldn’t afford the required fee. They couldn’t get the kind of real work that would allow them to pay the price without being licensed. It was a fun little vicious cycle.
So the gobs showed up in the wealthier districts, offering themselves into virtual slavery if a noble would pay to have them licensed. A nice idea, except that most nobles couldn’t stand the sight of a greenskin and would just as soon they all be exterminated. It didn’t help that a fair percentage of verds were borderline psychotic and might attack with little provocation. Swinging a knife and screaming death threats isn’t an endearing quality, even to people who might have an inkling to feel sorry for you.
The patrols chased away or arrested the gobs. They left anybody else alone that wasn’t a verd or an active physical threat. I was neither.
As for Quinitas spotting me, I counted on two things to keep that from happening: typical noble arrogance that allowed them to ignore lesser beings, and typical elf arrogance that allowed them to ignore anybody. Quinitas would presume he had scared me off. Hell, he had until his beautiful sister proved so persuasive.
If he saw me, I would look like some dwarf laborer, a mason or stonecutter working for a local shop. After all, we all look alike to elves.
I watched the Greenstreet secondary manor and waited for Quinitas― I saw nothing secondary about the dwelling. Three stories tall and at least a hundred feet to a side, covered in gold-colored stucco that blinded people when the sun hit it full. Embedded in the walls at irregular intervals were foot-high fern leaves created from black-veined malachite. Typical noble ostentatiousness. Typical elf tackiness. I didn’t even want to speculate on the hideous style of their primary residence
A high fence, festooned with cheery flowers that did nothing to soften the unwelcoming spikes, surrounded the manor. At the double gate stood two orcs. For all I knew, they were my good buddies from the office. My sore jaw had me itching to walk over and repay the favor. My suspicion that they packed more armament than the pikes they held kept me from indulging my whim.
I took time to watch the people who roamed through this section of the city, mostly humans and elves. A fair number still moved about, returning from errands or heading to dinner. Boys in yellow tabards and orange pants carried lamplighter wands. They used them to turn on lamps, setting the street aglow. Porters carried groceries for ladies who carried little dogs. Beside the ladies walked guards armed with swords and wands. As they passed by, the ladies ignored me, and the dogs barked at me. The guards, invariably in chainmail covered by silly-looking tabards, gave me the fuzzy eyeball. I stared back, neither obsequious nor threatening. My hand rested against my wand, ready for a quick draw. Though I wouldn’t start trouble, I’d be prepared to chip in my fair share if asked.
After fifteen minutes, the sun was almost gone, and the street had cleared of all but a few stragglers. I began to suspect my quarry had changed his mind.
I prepared to leave and report the failure when the manor’s double doors silently swung open. I only noticed because of the bright glow of light spilling onto the grounds.
A male figure stepped out wearing a fur-lined, hooded green cape that covered the rest of his clothing. It seemed warm for such attire, but people with something to hide don’t let weather concern them.
I moved closer to verify my target. The doors closed, cutting off the light. As my vision adjusted, the man walked forward. I could tell even before I saw his face that it was Quinitas. You don’t forget an arrogant strut like his.
Movement down the street grabbed my attention. I caught a glimpse of a set of large, fuzzy, pointed ears and round eyes peering around a building’s corner. They spotted me spotting them, and the head sucked behind the building like a turtle into its shell.
I could do nothing to follow the intuition that buzzed in me. Tracking this new unknown would force me to lose my current target. Following Quinitas promised money: Following the other promised nothing. I would keep on the alert for this new mystery. They were interested in either the elf or me. That forced me to be interested in them.
Quinitas waved his hand. The gate swung open. The two orcs snapped to attention. They both muttered something in that gargling noise they call a language. A blue flash raced around the pikes, and they turned into short swords. Morph weapons. Good to know in case things got ugly. I saw a lot of them during the war. Nothing worse than charging someone who’s holding a dagger and have it suddenly become a spear. Takes the heart right out of you.
The gates closed. Quinitas moved off, flanked by his goons. I slipped in behind them and kept a discreet distance, prepared to duck and run if someone looked back and recognized me. I had no reason to worry. They walked fast with eyes forward. I glanced behind me at irregular intervals. No sign of fuzzy ears following me.
They left Silver Fountain. After a fifteen-minute stroll in the early night air, they reached the unofficial border of Outer South, a sleaze pit on the city’s rim. Honest people avoided Outer South. Nobles would sooner confess that they ran naked through the streets with piss buckets on their heads than admit to visiting the district. Those same nobles made it their second home, since anything illegal, immoral, or both could be found there for a reasonable price. If there’s anything nobles like more than vice, it’s inexpensive vice.
As we drew closer to the chasm, the smell worsened and the air thickened. Many theories exist to explain why the giant sinkhole created around the city by the Grand Wizard Gosley still burns after almost five years. My favorite is that he enchanted the bodies of the verds swallowed by the giant fissure to continue cooking as a reminder to those who survived. I suspect the real reason is that he unearthed huge sulfur deposits and they burst into flame. Either theory would explain the smell of rotten that hangs over the city’s outer wards. Personally, the idea of burning orcs held more appeal.
The nighttime street vendors, mostly gnomes or halflings, swarmed toward Quinitas. The orcs flexed their arms and bared their teeth. The hustlers scurried like rats before a storm. The human whores in the upper floors had no such compunction. They wore rouge in various shades of red. Their hair stood hi
gh, glossed in lurid pink and purple. Their breasts hung over the balcony rails like samples on a bakery tray. The ladies shouted lewd suggestions at the elf and his entourage. I tried not to picture the offers they made the orcs, for fear of puking. A few called my way, but something in my stance warned them off. Or maybe they just didn’t do short.
Quinitas turned down Pothugger Terrace, a fancy name for such a wretched street. The seediest, least-expensive taverns dwelt here. Debris and less attractive objects occupied the street edges. An odor of something almost like food drifted from an open doorway. My traitorous stomach growled even as my nose turned up at the stench. Even hungry and indiscriminate as I was, I wasn’t yet desperate enough to eat the swill they tried to pass off as food in Outer South. And even those miserable rations cost money I didn’t have.
The trio stepped around the corner and into an alley between two buildings. I stopped when I reached the bend, wary in case they had sensed me and were lying in wait. I stilled my breathing and listened. Shuffling footsteps, a good thirty feet away, then a grating sound, metal over concrete. No torches glowed in the alley. Darkness doesn’t particularly bother dwarves. Unfortunately, it doesn’t bother elves or orcs either. If they had posted a watch, I’d be easily spotted.
I wrapped a hand over my wand and chanced a peek around the corner. The alley dead-ended, wooden crates of rotten food stacked at the far end. One of the orcs stepped into a manhole and lowered himself into the sewer. Perfect place for him, I thought as he squeezed his broad shoulders together with a grunt and disappeared. Quinitas followed with a grimace on his arrogant face. The last orc slid in and pulled the cover back over the hole.
I ran to the manhole and looked at it. Dirt-crusted iron circle, three feet in diameter. No problem to fit down the hole; big problem to remove the cover. A large ring sat in the center. I had the strength to lift it, with a great deal of straining, grunting, and cursing. Three activities that would reveal me to my prey.
