by Jeff Wheeler
“What is it?” Hettie asked, arms folded, looking more put-out than defiant.
“I knew every Romani in Havenrook,” Kiranrao said, his voice tinged with a Preachán accent. “Until today.”
“Well, your reputation precedes you, Kiranrao,” Hettie replied. “What is it?” she repeated. “What do you want?”
“A Finder,” he replied, taking a sip from the cup near him. He swallowed slowly. “Are you for hire?”
“I’m on a job,” Hettie answered evasively.
Paedrin watched an immaculate fingertip stroke the lip of the cup, causing a subtle squeal that could only be heard through the din because Paedrin was trying to hear it.
“How much will you earn?”
Hettie looked at him coldly. “Still being negotiated. I don’t need another job yet.”
“Whatever you are offered, I can offer more,” he said. “I need a good Finder. Are you any good?” He fished inside his doublet pocket and withdrew an earring.
Hettie paled immediately. “I am not free to take on a new engagement right now,” she muttered. “Maybe later.”
“How old are you?” Kiranrao asked. His voice was mild, but there was an undercurrent in his tone, an implied meaning.
Hettie paused, her expression impassive. There was a tightness in her eyes, a fury as cold and ruthless as his own. “Young enough to wear only one.”
Kiranrao played with the earring, turning it around between his fingers, letting the hoop twist. Hettie seemed to brace herself as if the earring was a threat. “You look older than your years then. I like them young. My Finders, that is.”
Paedrin saw the expressions on the faces surrounding them. How they leered at Hettie hungrily, but no one would dare act against the one their leader had shown interest in. Like wolves desperate to hunt, but not daring to.
“It wouldn’t be good for my reputation to abandon a customer before the mission is done. If I’m bored and need a job, I know where to find you.”
“You do indeed, lass. You do indeed.” He gave her a nod and again lifted the cup and drank from it. The earring disappeared back into his pocket.
Hettie turned abruptly and saw Paedrin standing behind her. Her eyes flashed with surprise, her lip trembling with barely controlled emotion. He smiled at her and waited for her to pass him, clipping his arm with her shoulder.
Paedrin watched her go and then turned his gaze back to Kiranrao.
“Yes?” the Romani said with amusement, his teeth all white.
“I fancy your sword,” Paedrin said, catching another glimpse of the shadow thing out of the corner of his eye.
He was met by an amused smirk. “You have good eyes. I appreciate that. But I have no use of a Bhikhu in my dealings. Too much conscience isn’t good for business.”
“That suits me just as well,” Paedrin replied. “Bhikhu don’t work for hire anyway. Some people cannot be bought.”
Kiranrao shrugged. “And what if I told you I owned the debt on the Bhikhu temple in Kenatos?”
“Then I would answer that it is in dire need of repairs and you have been negligent in your duties.”
He got an eyebrow lift for the quip. It was worth it.
“Every bird relishes his own voice.”
“Is that the best you can do?” Paedrin said mockingly. “I am just getting started.”
He was met by a cold smile. But it was amused. Rarely did anyone stand up to this man, apparently. Cowards, all of them.
“Why are you in Havenrook, boy?”
“We needed some fresh country air to clear our lungs from the soot-filled skies of Kenatos. What clearer air is there to breathe than here?” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Does that ring hurt if I tell a lie? My mother was a fat Boeotian newt Finder and my father was a hob-nosed Preachán axle smith. Did it sting? A little?”
One of the Preachán started to shove his chair back, but Kiranrao raised just the tips of his fingers and the man stopped, his teeth clenched in rage.
“You are the world’s biggest fool,” Kiranrao said, almost in awe at the audacity.
“Perhaps,” Paedrin replied with a shrug. “But I am also the best Bhikhu in the temple, save Shivu himself.” He glanced down at the man’s ring, cocking his head slightly as if listening for it to make a sound. He let his words hang in the air a moment, turned on his heel, and left without being dismissed.
“Do not turn your back on me,” Kiranrao said.
Paedrin paused, but did not turn around. “You think a fancy sword will humble me? Use it then.” He waited.
“The Bhikhu temple needs to learn a lesson in humility,” the other man said softly.
“Really? And you teach courses in humility? I’m rather surprised. You don’t wish to fight me? I will be on my way then.”
He heard the chair legs squeal.
Paedrin was expecting a blade attack from behind. Perhaps a man pretending to be drunk who would stagger into him and let go with a poisoned needle or even just a fist. He was not expecting Hettie.
She dug her fingers into his forearm, her face nearly even with his, her voice a raw hiss of pure anger.
“What do you think you are doing?! Are you completely insane? Do you know where we are and what you just did?” There was a wild look in her eyes, the look of complete and abject terror. She wrestled against his arm, trying to tug him away from Kiranrao’s table.
Paedrin glanced back at the Romani, offered a mocking smile, and then followed Hettie into the crush of bodies laying their bets at the various tables.
“Fortunes come and go and are as slippery as morning frost,” Paedrin said. “I don’t care how rich he is—his day will come sooner than later. There is more at work in this grand world than one man’s will.”
“You are an idiot,” Hettie said in a low, menacing voice. “No, you are worse than an idiot. You are the droppings caked in the underside of an idiot’s boot! Do you want to get us all killed, Bhikhu?”
Paedrin felt her fingers digging into his arm, but he ignored the pain as nothing more than an indifferent mosquito buzz.
“There was not a man at that table who I would fear to face or any five of them together. They are lazy, mostly drunk, and do not know the ways of the Bhikhu.” He looked back at the table again, snorting with derision. Then he hooked his arm around Hettie’s neck and pulled her suddenly close so that his lips pressed against the hair at her ear. “I’m drawing their attention to us and not to Annon. I think he’s found Erasmus. Over in the far corner, but do not look. Let’s give them a few more moments.”
The startled look in her eyes pleased him. She shoved him away from herself, and he gave her an angry stare.
“That man has no right to treat you that way. They are all cowards, as you can see.” He lifted his voice haughtily, glancing back defiantly at the table. He could see many of the Preachán nearby nudge away from him, as if expecting lightning to strike.
“This is not a game!” Hettie snarled, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. Her features had not softened, but her eyes had. She realized what he was doing. A distraction. A ruse. In a moment, she was playing along. “If I do not get that medicine, then all is wasted! You are only making it worse!”
“It is your own fault you need that medicine. If you would stop flashing your eyes at every man you see along the road, you may not need…”
“It was your fault we lost our way on the road. If you had not dropped the purse, we would not have needed to beg a ride. Flashing my eyes, you make me sick! It was better than walking here…”
“I saw how close you were sitting to the wagon master. Any closer and it would have been on his lap, and do not tell me you would not have fancied that.”
“And here I thought that Bhikhu were immune to jealousy. I see that they failed to teach that at the temple. You are such a hypocrite.”
“I am a hypocrite?”
“Yes! For all your fine talk of being truly free of obligations and misery, you are the most miserabl
e man I have ever met. A girl wants a compliment, not sermons. Why did we even come here?”
Paedrin lowered his voice. “Keep it up.” A little louder, he said, “This is your fault we need the root. And this is the only place it can be bought out of season.” He glanced quickly at the table and found Annon sitting alone, watching them.
Paedrin scowled. “It is a waste of breath even speaking to you. You never listen.”
“And your jealousy may have ruined all chance of getting it,” she shot back in an equally lethal tone. “You never insult a Romani. Never! A grudge given is never yielded but with great interest.”
Paedrin threw up his hands and started walking toward the table where Annon was waiting.
Why would Tyrus have sent them to a place like Havenrook? Annon had felt uncomfortable in the city of Kenatos. What he experienced in the Preachán homeland could not even be described. It was the very opposite of the Druidecht way, and because it was, he knew he was bereft of any of the skills he had learned.
He recognized immediately that survival would come by his wits more than his Druidecht lore. How to find Erasmus quickly? The answer came immediately to his mind, and he recognized it as soon as a half-sober Preachán accosted him.
“Six ducats for your talisman,” the man insisted. “Seven.”
Annon reached into a pouch tied to his belt and withdrew the talisman he had taken off the man earlier. He dangled it in front of the man’s eyes, who promptly began fumbling in his pouch for coins, but Annon grabbed his shoulder.
“It’s worth more than seven. We both know that. Tell me where Erasmus sits.”
“You are a cheat!” the man complained. “Erasmus knows the price of everything.”
“Why do you think I came to see him then? Hmm? Where does he sit?”
He knew the Preachán was going to lie to him, but he betrayed himself first because his eyes darted furtively to the northeast corner in the back.
“That’s all I needed,” Annon said, clapping him on the back. “Thank you.” He tightened his fist around the talisman and plunged into the crowd. The northeast corner was not fully crowded, as most of the betting and dice-throwing was happening near the front. A few patrons sipped slowly from mugs and gathered around tables, playing strange games he had never seen before. Some involved stone pieces set on a wooden board. Others had black-and-white discs. Most of these Preachán dressed well and a few smoked pipes, causing an aroma to permeate the air.
Annon studied the tables quickly and settled on the one with only a single man seated there, his back to the wall, his face in front of the room. He noticed Annon’s approach and muttered something under his breath. He had dark hair with wisps of gray and a prominent nose.
As Annon advanced, he leaned back languidly, folding his arms across his chest. “What business could possibly bring a Druidecht to Havenrook? Are ye here to buy some poetry, perhaps? I happen to own the finest collection outside Kenatos.”
Annon sat across from him without an invitation. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table and folding his hands. “I have come at the behest of Tyrus Paracelsus of Kenatos.”
The man was startled. His look was suddenly grave. “Have ye?”
“He sent me to Havenrook to inquire of Erasmus.”
The man revealed nothing in his look, only sternness. “Did he now.” The tone of his voice indicated it was not a question.
Annon waited, staring at the man. He knew that silence had a way of torturing others into speaking. He won his gamble.
“My name is Dwyer,” the Preachán said softly. “I can take you to Erasmus, but I must first know your business.”
The Druidecht smiled. “Anyone who knows Tyrus Paracelsus knows he shares his business with no one. I will explain the matter with him directly.”
“Is it just for yourself or does it include the other two you entered with? You’ve already caught the eye of Kiranrao, it seems. It is better to remain beneath his notice, if you understand me.”
Annon gazed across the room at Kiranrao’s table. He saw Paedrin and Hettie together, their faces animated in a heated exchange. He turned back. “When can we see Erasmus?”
“He left shortly before ye arrived. It gets too rowdy here at the Millpond after dusk. I’ll meet ye behind the tavern. The mood is starting to shift. There may be a fight.”
“I will gather my friends and meet you outside.” He thought a moment about warning the man not to run, that the girl with him was a Finder, but he thought it best to say nothing and show him a little bit of trust. If he waited, good. If he did not, Hettie could use her skills to hunt him.
Dwyer slipped away from the table and Annon waited as Paedrin and Hettie continued their blistering tirade. Annon was sitting, somber and alone, when they reached his table. “We need to go,” he said softly.
“Did you find Erasmus?” Paedrin asked after slamming his palms on the table petulantly. He gave a half-jerk motion with his head back at Hettie who approached rapidly.
“No, but a man who treats with him. He does little business here at the Millpond past dusk. He left before we arrived.”
“How do you know the man isn’t leading us into a trap?” Paedrin asked levelly, keeping his voice low. He gesticulated suddenly, stabbing his finger toward Kiranrao’s table.
“I think we can trust him. He was a very different sort than the Preachán we have seen so far. Very cold and calculating. Not the kind who gushes and tries to sell you for a favor. He was surprised I even knew of Erasmus or how to find him here. When I mentioned my uncle, his countenance changed visibly. He’ll meet us in the back right now and lead us to where he does business. I do not think it is safe to deal here. Follow me out the back.”
Annon was glad he trusted Dwyer, for he was waiting just outside the rear doors of the tavern. He looked even more wary and distrustful, his arms folded across his chest as he waited in the alley for them.
“Tell me again why there are three of you,” he said suspiciously as they approached. There was no greeting.
Annon motioned to him. “This is Dwyer.”
Dwyer did not so much as shrug at them. “It is a long walk from Kenatos, lads, and before I take you to see Erasmus, I need to be clear the sort of business this is. Are you looking to wager with your uncle’s money? Is that it?”
Annon shook his head. “It has nothing to do with a bet.”
“Erasmus is not an easy man to negotiate with. He’s as stubborn as they come because he knows what he knows. He doesn’t suffer fools, and he doesn’t barter. He asks a fair price. He’ll not cheat you. But when he offers his price, he will expect it all. Not a pent less. He knows the value of things.”
“That is understandable,” Annon said. “What we seek is information, not a deal.”
Dwyer shook his head impatiently. “Exactly. That is his business. Information. He remembers everything that anyone has ever said or written. Literally. I do not jest with ye, lads. For fun, he counts the mugs of ale and wine drunk in the Millpond each day as well as the number that are spilled. He gets his drinks for free because he tells the tavern master what to order and how much every moon cycle. He is never wrong, not that I have ever seen. He is uncanny, so they say. He is not like the crowd in the Millpond. He watches them, listens in, and feels what is going on in the room. He has the smell of it, you see. Drop a fistful of coins, and he can tell you how many ducats fell and whether they were silver or gold.”
Paedrin folded his arms. “He sounds rather boring. When can we meet him?”
Dwyer looked annoyed. “He accepts few visitors.”
“Take us to him, please.” Annon stepped forward, asserting himself as their leader.
Dwyer gave them another appraising look, scowling when he glanced at Paedrin, and then motioned for them to follow him into one of the rough, ramshackle clusters of buildings inside the disordered hive. It was dusk when they left the Millpond and getting darker with each step. Paedrin seemed to watch each sleeping begg
ar or drunk who shuffled along the path. He was tense and tightly coiled, expecting violence from every side.
Their destination was at the northern edge of town, a small two-story dwelling, a shop with a living place above doors. There was a lamp lit above stairs, but no light in the shop below. The shop was closed and locked, but Dwyer withdrew a key and opened it. As they entered, the room was full of books and paper, bottles of ink, and soft, padded chairs. The carpet was dirty and well worn. The place was rather shabby overall. There was a desk, a counter, riddled with scraps of paper and ink blots. A small staircase went from the back of the room to the upstairs floor.
“What do you sell?” Paedrin asked, looking around at the books and quills but seeing no merchandise. He could not discern what the man’s business was.
“Nothing,” Dwyer said, affronted. “I have no need to sell. I made my fortune nearly twenty span of years ago, betting on the Plague. When Erasmus said it was coming, I took all that I owned and bet it at the Millpond. I live quite comfortably on what is left and translate poetry.”
Paedrin stifled a chuckle with a feigned cough. “Poetry? Really?” For a stern man, he did not seem the type.
“You can be sure. I speak several languages and translate poetry from the original tongue into another. It is not as easy as you may think. Let me go upstairs and ask if he will see you.”
He went to the staircase and took the steps two at a time. There were voices above, and promptly Dwyer returned. “He will make an exception for the three of ye, but only because there is a Druidecht among ye. He trusts those folk.”
Annon felt a flush of gratitude.
Dwyer motioned for the stairs and then eased himself into one of the stuffed chairs, reaching for a book nearby and examining the binding and spine for a moment before blowing hard at the dust. Then he opened it.
