by Scott Baron
Yes, this one will do just fine, he decided. Only a low-level emmik, but he will suffice.
The assassin pulled up from the table and went to try his luck at another game of chance. One that afforded him a clear view of his new prey. A short while later, the man cashed in his chips and stepped out into the streets.
The large man stopped at a food vendor to get a quick snack as he went. As he was wiping his lips and disposing of the wrapper in a waste receptacle just a few blocks later, a curvaceous Karuni woman sashayed out of the nearby house of ill repute and leaned in close.
What she said no one could hear over the street noise, but whatever it had been, the man seemed most intrigued with her offer. With a warm smile, she took his hand and led him into the building, all the way to the room farthest back.
“I’ll be right back,” she said as she opened the door and gestured for him to enter. “I just want to freshen up for you.”
He stepped inside and shut the door to wait for this divine specimen of a woman to return.
He didn’t even feel the fangs sink into his neck, or the strange Wampeh magic they bore with them, knocking him unconscious before he even knew what was happening.
Hozark pulled a deep draught from his victim, a slight shiver of pleasure tingling his body as the man’s power became his. But he showed restraint and broke free long before any lasting damage would be done.
The wounds healed immediately under the spell he cast by rote, having done so after every victim nearly his whole life. He then added a sleeping spell on top of that and lay the man down on the bed. After a moment’s thought, he ruffled the sheets and threw the pillow on the floor. Why not let the groggy man wake to the belief he’d gotten lucky?
He would feel drained, but for all the right reasons, chalking it up to too much drink, and too much recreation. And then he would return home, or wherever it was he was heading, none the wiser.
And the woman who had been paid quite well to ensure Hozark was not disturbed would then go back to her normal business after having a rare night off, paid in full by a generous, and immediately forgotten, patron.
It felt fantastic, having some real power charging his cells once more, and Hozark walked a little taller when he stepped back out onto the streets to continue his search. This time wearing the guise of a bookmaker seeking the Fakarian who owed him money.
Even with that ploy in action, no one seemed able to help him with any new information. From what he’d heard so far, the information from the young staffer at Tikoo’s home appeared the most likely to be true. But if not, he hoped the others had better luck than he did.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The marketplace was a bustling hive of vendors and patrons, both of which seemed to be spilling out from the carefully constructed buildings into the streets, which were jam-packed with stalls and makeshift stands where all manner of goods were offered for sale.
It was almost maze-like in its twists and turns, and one with a lesser sense of direction than the Wampeh woman casually looking through wares would almost certainly lose their way.
Demelza, however, was in her element. The churning mass of people moving past one another offering her myriad opportunities to eavesdrop on conversations, or slip into somewhere she might not be invited to get a better look at any potential leads.
Stalls within the vast expanse of low buildings were organized by the wares they offered, some edifices full of spices, while others contained craftware and cooked foods. Still others sold bright cloth in long bolts of fabric, their lengths hanging from high above and fluttering in the breeze.
Then there were the stalls and stables spread across the farther ends of the marketplace. A series of loud, and somewhat strong-smelling, buildings and pens housed all manner of creatures. Some were to be sold as pets. Others would become someone’s meal.
And just a few of the vendors had animals for sale whose various bits and pieces possessed some purported magical use. It was near that particular group of stalls Demelza was questioning people, casually inquiring about any products that might be good for the dry skin rashes Fakarians were notorious for when away from water of the correct salt content for too long.
It was a simple fact. This world’s water was distinctly lacking in that regard, and there was no way Tikoo had not acquired something to help with the itch.
It was a good idea. If a vendor had made any such sales to a local, she’d suss out the details with pleasant flattery, small talk, and a deceptive smile. But so far, she was not having any luck. And the vendors hawking their bogus wares were beginning to wear on her nerves.
“I tell you, friend. All it takes is a tiny pinch of Azmokus horn added to your daily tea and your manhood will grow bigger and harder than the very horn itself!”
She finally had enough.
“Really? You’re selling Azmokus horn for people to make tea out of?”
“It is nothing that concerns a woman,” the vendor sneered, not at all approving of one of her gender interrupting man talk.
“You don’t think flaccid erections and bumbling incompetence around our private bits concerns all women?” she shot back with a disarming laugh. “You’re selling junk magic to desperate men, and you know it.”
It wasn’t exactly the most stealthy thing to do, but it had been a tough morning. She had spoken to nearly everyone present, and it seemed a certainty that whatever Tikoo had used for his undoubted ailment, it had not been procured here. And this man was being an ass.
“You don’t know what you’re speaking of. This is the finest Azmokus horn in ten systems,” the vendor retorted.
“I’m sure it is. And that means it is just as useless as it is in the other nine.” She turned to the potential client to whom the man had been hawking his wares. “It’s just a growth of dead tissue shaved off of the poor beast and made into a tea. Why, you would likely get as much of an erection, or perhaps even a stronger one, chewing a wad of callouses.”
The vendor glared at her with venom in his eyes. She realized that perhaps despite the dead end this had turned out to be, she had nevertheless overdone it, bringing the man down as she had. Ignoring him, she turned and strode off into the marketplace once more.
“Wait!” a voice called out.
Demelza paused and turned. It was the poor man she had just saved from wasting his coin on junk magic.
“Is it true what you said about callouses? Do they truly enhance erections?”
“What? Are you serious?”
“Of course I am. This is nothing to joke about,” the man said. “Do you know where I could get any?”
“Callouses? Start with your feet,” she said, rolling her eyes in disbelief as she walked away.
The man could be heard talking with another who had overheard the exchange. And, amazingly, they seemed to be discussing whether it might be a good idea to open a callous stand.
“Enough of this,” she sighed, then turned and headed in the general direction of the rendezvous point.
Ten minutes later, she paused at a depressing sight. An older Ootaki woman, her skin no longer that vibrant, pale-yellow of her kind, and her golden, magical hair shorn to a close buzz cut, was sitting on a stool. At first, she seemed to be just resting, but then the control collar around her neck became visible as she shifted her top.
The woman was a slave, and she was for sale.
But one thing about slaves. People spoke freely around them, often ignoring them as if they were just part of the furniture. Slaves, the Ghalian knew, often heard far, far more than any would expect, and they were often great sources of information.
Demelza stopped near the woman to look at some magical baubles on an adjacent table. She turned casually to the Ootaki and smiled.
“You wouldn’t have happened to come across a Fakarian recently, would you?”
The woman smiled and shrugged her shoulders.
“Fakarian? Blue-green amphibian people with two sets of eyes and a tail?”
/> Again, the woman smiled and shrugged. Then Demelza realized what was happening.
“You can’t understand me, can you?”
Another shrug.
“Always cheap with the magic,” she said of the slave vendors as she cast a very small translation spell.
They were always trying to save some coin, and more often than not, by leaving their slaves essentially mute by taking away their translation spells. It was the only way all of the myriad races in the galaxy could talk with one another, but these were seen as less than people. Property. And property did not warrant the spending of additional coin for something as pointless at talking.
“There, now you should be able to communicate a bit,” Demelza said soothingly. “Have you seen a Fakarian lately?”
The woman’s eyes widened with palpable joy. It had apparently been some time since she was able to communicate with anyone.
“Listen,” Demelza said when she saw the emotion in the woman’s eye, “you can keep this spell, but you must be quiet about it. Otherwise your master will notice and strip you of it, do you understand?”
“Yes,” the woman said, her voice rough from disuse. “Thank you. Thank you so very much.”
“I’m glad to be of help,” the assassin said. “But perhaps you can help me. A Fakarian? Blue-green skin?”
“I’ve not seen any matching that description. I’m so sorry.”
“Do not be sorry. Just be safe with your secret. And thank you for your help.”
Demelza then turned and walked away before the emotional woman might make a scene and subject them both to more scrutiny. She made quick time distancing herself, diving deeper into the marketplace.
She still had a great deal of time to kill, however, so she took the circuitous route through the lesser-traveled rows of stalls. At least there were some novel things to look at on her walk. And the flash of blue-green skin briefly exposed from the pushed-up sleeve of a man several tables across the stalls was suddenly something she very much wanted to look at.
A Fakarian. And he was about to slip out of her sight.
Demelza took off at a quick pace, gently slipping between shoppers, avoiding raising a scene as she pursued the oblivious man. Some eyes flashed to her as she went. Apparently, chewing out one of their fellow vendors so publicly wasn’t such a good idea.
Hozark would chalk it up to a mistake of youth if he heard about her little outburst, but she knew what she’d done. She was a Wampeh Ghalian. She knew better.
But there was nothing for it at this point. All that mattered was catching her prey.
The cloaked man was still visible up ahead. He moved fluidly, easily weaving through the crowd. It was all Demelza could do to keep up without raising suspicion. Her prey slowed and entered a market building. Moments later, the Wampeh hot on his heels followed.
He had actually put more space between them in his short time inside. It seemed he knew his way around this place very well and was making quick time through the less-traveled side paths between vendor spaces.
Demelza forced herself to stop when he did, though. Perusing wares, even buying knickknacks from a few stalls while waiting for him to move to somewhere more private. Somewhere she could take him without anyone being any the wiser.
It took a full twenty minutes for him to finally exit the marketplace and head into the residential areas toward the water. The paths were smaller there, and presented the best opportunity Demelza would have to make her move. Quickly, she surged ahead until she was right on the person’s tail, matching their steps with her own silent pace.
She hurried ahead, as if she were merely another shopper in a hurry, her shoulder hitting the man just right, spinning him to face her.
Shit.
“Watch where you’re going!” the man said.
“My apologies,” she replied, then watched the annoyed man vanish down the road.
His hands were not at all webbed, nor did he have two sets of eyes, one each for land and water. And as she got a better look up close, she could see there was no tail hiding underneath his cloak.
His skin was similar to that of a Fakarian, but this was obviously a different race, and she was no closer to finding the evasive Tikoo than when she’d started.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The waterfront was expansive, as the entire city was an island, but the former space pirate and his smart-mouthed sidekick were steering clear of the hoity-toity rich kid areas in favor of the rough-and-tumble dives where the real action took place.
The kind of bars and clubs where you were likely to be stabbed or hit with a blast of particularly nasty magic if you eyed the wrong person in a way they took offense to. It was violent, it was gritty, it was dangerous, and for Uzabud, it felt a lot like coming home.
After a few hours sticking close by his friend’s side and learning the ropes, even Laskar was starting to enjoy the wondrous houses of ill repute, though, despite all of his tough talk and bravado, he just didn’t quite fit in among the rabble. It was his natural tendency to come off like some sort of high-bred snob who was rubbing people the wrong way more often than not.
Fortunately, Bud was more than able to compensate for his friend’s shortcomings.
The great thing about the dens of iniquity was the way in which information flowed. It was a world of gossip and tall tales, for certain, but also a place where valuable tidbits could be acquired.
For a price.
Bud had greased more than a few palms by way of purchasing many rounds of drinks––courtesy of the extra coin the Ghalian had given him with which to better carry out his task––and they felt like they may have actually gleaned a bit of useful information in the process.
It was thirsty work, and Bud had found himself drinking shot-for-shot to loosen those lips, but he was a pirate, after all. Unfortunately, his tolerance was not quite what it used to be. In any case, they’d acquired intel, and that made the inevitable hangover worth it.
Hozark likely wouldn’t like what they’d found out, but at least progress was being made.
“We should be getting back. It’s almost time for the rendezvous,” Laskar said.
“I know, I know,” Bud said, tossing his skree in the air, catching it lazily in his hand as he had been for the better part of the last hour. “But we can always call them and say we’re going to be a little late, right? I mean, we’re making good progress down here.”
“If by progress, you mean bad news and you getting drunk, then sure.”
“Oh, lighten up, Laskar. Work and play don’t have to be separate things, you know,” his drunken friend slurred.
“Yeah, but at least my play doesn’t require a full battery of decontamination spells afterward. I mean, look at these people,” Laskar said, gesticulating at the crowd.
The man whose beverage he just knocked from his hand with his waving arm was anything but amused.
“You’re going to pay for that, fancy boy!”
“Hey, now,” Bud said, stepping in front of his copilot. “Thass no way to talk to my friend. And come to think of it, didn’t I already pay for that drink?”
“You know what I meant,” the man growled.
“No, I really don’t,” Bud said, abruptly getting right up into the man’s face. “Because so far as I could tell, it was starting to sound like some little bitch was trying to start a problem with my friend. And that would be a mistake of fucking epic proportions.”
“Epic, you say,” the man shot back, not retreating an inch. “You? Epic? What are you going to do, little man?”
“Normally, I’d have already dropped you like the sack of shit you are. But since this is a respectable establishment––”
The patrons watching the exchange all chuckled.
“––I’m waiting to teach you a lesson outside.”
“Why wait?” the man replied, much to the delight of the crowd.
It was going to be a fight, and by the looks of things, it would be a good one. The cr
owd was amped up and ready to go as well. In just a moment, an all-out bar brawl was going to be unleashed.
“Enough!” Demelza said, shouldering her way through the crowd.
The angry man glared at her, perfectly happy to strike a woman just the same as a man. “Who the hell do you think you are, bi––” he started to say.
She lay her hand on his shoulder. “Drop dead.”
The man instantly crumpled to the ground in a heap. The bar patrons scattered in a panic, their bravado gone in an instant.
“Dark magic!” people shouted as they ran.
It was simply impossible. No one could cast in anything but the arcane, almost gibberish language of spellcasters. Plain-speak couldn’t do a thing, no matter how powerful a person was. Or, at least, it shouldn’t. But this woman had just dropped one of the toughest men in the bar without batting an eye. And she’d done it using plain-speak.
Bud stared as well, though his gaze was more of annoyance than anything else.
“I could have handled it,” he slurred.
“I would have expected a foolish altercation from Laskar,” she shot back. “But from you, Bud? You know better.”
“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” Laskar asked.
“Oh, you know precisely what it means. But it seems Uzabud here managed to out-mouth even you.”
Laskar started to protest, but Demelza held up her hand, and judging by the look in her eye, he decided perhaps silence was the better option at this particular moment.
“How did you even find us, anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be in the marketplace?” Bud asked.
Demelza reached out and snatched the skree from his hand. “You’ve been keying this on and off for over twenty minutes, Bud. If not to stop you from starting a bar brawl, I’d have tracked you down to simply shut you up.”
“Hey, that hurts.”
“Be glad it is only your feelings that are experiencing that sensation.”
Laskar bent down and examined the man on the ground. “Hey, hang on a minute. He’s not dead. I thought you cast a killing spell. A totally new one I didn’t even know could be done, I might add.”
