by Jayden Woods
“This is fucking uncomfortable,” said Sean.
“Never mind. You’ll get used to it.”
Sean struggled to blink over the lenses in his eyes. They felt so thick and awkward, and worse, they affected his vision. Not very much, and probably not at all for a normal person. But for a Wolven with exceptional eyesight, they made everything look a little distorted. “Who made these, anyway?”
“I did,” said the merchant. “But I learned how to make them in Yamair.”
“Of course you did,” grumbled Sean.
He studied the strange vendor warily. Picard had arranged their meeting, of course, after Sean agreed to Picard’s terms. The merchant agreed to supply all of Sean’s needs and Picard would pay for them. But Sean did not like depending on people so quickly, especially a man so mysterious as this one. He had dark skin, a soft blue suit, and long white hair. He would not tell Sean his name, and he seemed far too at ease with the entire situation. Sean’s activities would affect the fate of the kingdom. This man’s help would affect his ability to complete them. But this fellow traded valuable tools as if passing the table salt.
“See for yourself.” The merchant held up a piece of glass.
Sean saw his image reflected, and at first he didn’t recognize himself. He saw a sharp chiseled face with jagged brown hair to his ears and—most importantly—soft brown eyes, almost copper. “Gods,” he muttered aloud.
“You see?” The merchant’s teeth glowed past his dark lips as he grinned with pride. “You’re a new man.”
Sean pushed the glass away. How could this be possible? Picard had proven it clearly enough when he put red lenses on a girl who was not a Wolven. But the reverse seemed even harder to accept. Wolvens were Wolvens. They could not simply become regular men, ever—much less in one fleeting moment. Or so Sean had believed, for a very long time. “Are you sure this is convincing? I think a little red shows through ...”
The merchant laughed softly. “You’re only imagining it. The lenses work perfectly: I see only two beautiful brown eyes. No one will ever know who you are.”
Sean glared at the fellow, feeling mocked by his laughter. “Except for you. What’s your name again?”
“My name is of no consequence.” The man put away the mirror. “I travel from one place to another, to other kingdoms, even to other continents. You may never see me again. Although …” His lips spread in a smile once more. “Perhaps you might.”
With every word from this wily fellow’s mouth, Sean grew more certain he had an agenda of his own, despite—or perhaps because of—his implications otherwise. But there was simply nothing to be done about it now. If he got in Sean’s way, Sean would kill him. “Well, Merchant,” he snapped, “our business is concluded.”
“Not quite yet.”
Sean glowered at him.
“Aren’t you forgetting anti-safra?”
“I don’t need it from you.”
“I suppose you must know how to make it, then?”
Sean cocked his head at the Merchant, considering how to dispatch him quickest. He was tall and lean, and appeared very agile. It would be a small challenge. “That’s none of your business.”
“Oh, but it is my business! For you see, I can sell you a new and improved recipe—paid for by our shared employer, of course. So you might as well take it.”
“I said I don’t need it from you!” The Wolven turned to go.
The Merchant reached out and grabbed Sean’s arm. Sean bristled, baring his teeth.
“We both know that it didn’t work for your father—not well enough, anyway. Perhaps because he didn’t consume it properly.”
Sean took hold of a knife on his belt.
The Merchant noticed this, but did not flinch. “You can’t breathe it through a kerchief, if you plan to show your face. You shouldn’t drink it, either, for people will notice that foul stuff on your breath.”
He had a point, annoying though it was. “Everyone in Dearen is too stupefied by safra to notice such a thing.”
“Not the prince or the princess.”
“Hm.” It was rumored that the Violenese possessed innate immunity to the effects of safra. No one had ever proven this, however. If it was true, no Violenese had ever admitted it. And to the public, they always displayed a happy face. Sean’s father often reminded him, however, that the Violenese were a powerful bloodline, and should be treated as such. Belazar probably desired their blood for this very reason. “What do you suggest?” he asked at last.
The Merchant grinned, reached into the folds of his suit, and pulled out a glass tube with a needle on the end. “This is my own invention, though I got the idea for it when I last visited Yamair. It’s a syringe filled with the Discipline potion—that is, anti-safra, I mean.”
Sean eyed it warily.
“Inject this through the vein each morning and it won’t wear off until sunset. May I demonstrate?” He edged the needle towards Sean, but Sean grabbed his wrist and twisted it around.
“You first.”
“Very well.” Without flinching, the Merchant jabbed the needle into his arm and pushed the end of the tube. The blue liquid vanished into his vein. All the while he stared calmly at Sean with eyes of pitch black.
“Enough,” said Sean when half the tube was depleted. “Give me the rest.”
“As you wish. Hold out your arm.”
Sean resisted the urge to fight back as the Merchant injected the needle. Then he tensed as the cold drug flowed into his bloodstream. He had used Discipline a few times in the past, not for its use as anti-safra, but for its ability to dull all emotions. When he was a teenager, his father made him use it for the first climb alone up Wolven mountain. The potion nullified his fear and allowed him to scale the rocks quickly and efficiently. After that, using the drug became less and less necessary. However, he’d occasionally used it to carry out difficult kills.
“I am told,” said the Merchant, “that for some people, Discipline does not manage to cancel out emotion completely. I hear that the emotions simply store up beyond awareness, and when the drug runs out, all of one’s emotions come back to bite him at once. Is that the case with you, Wolven?”
“Who can tell the difference?” Sean took a deep breath as the needle withdrew and the effect of Discipline settled through him. Whether he liked the feeling or not, he could no longer say. Liking and disliking no longer mattered. Only the business at hand. He knew what he needed to do, so he did it. “You’re right about the drug. This is the best method of consumption. I also sense that your mixture is more potent than my own. I’ll take several of your needles, and all of the drug you have with you.”
The Merchant grinned, and Sean noticed something peculiar. Even though the Merchant had injected himself with the potion, he acted no differently now than he had before. People on Discipline would only grin for appearances. “Excellent. It was nice doing business with you.”
