by Ross Kitson
***
Hunor and Jem entered an expansive chamber. The room was perhaps thirty feet wide by forty feet deep. A fire in the far wall sent dancing shadows across the plushly decorated walls. The majority of the floor space was occupied by a bewildering array of furniture: chairs, tables and cupboards, all of the finest craftsmanship. The plaster in here was in much better condition than the patches in the rooms below and several grand paintings were hung on the walls, dating from the Eerian Empire.
The scarred man weaved around the chairs and short tables and came to a halt before a grand desk. On the far side sat a short, solid man.
“Jem, Hunor! Boys! Where’ve you ass-monkeys been hiding these last few years? Hey, how long’s it been now?” the small man asked.
Jem nodded curtly whilst Hunor held his hands out in a gesture of mock surprise. “Linkon Arikson. How can a visit to Sogox’s Barnacle be complete without a drink with you?”
Linkon laughed then winced in pain. He was a small yet muscular man with a nose that had been broken so many times it had come to resemble a small parsnip. This comical appearance fooled very few in Kir. His eyes were dark and told of death. One did not rise to Guildmaster by any other way than a close allegiance with murder. His tattooed hand was pressing a pig’s bladder against his jaw.
“Scarseye, go and scram will you. Your face makes the milk curdle. Go steal me some money or something, huh?” Linkon said to their companion.
Scarseye glowered at Linkon then left, the door closing heavily behind him.
“Cold, that one Hunor, stone cold,” Linkon said. “No honour amongst these younger thieves, present company being excepted. Would kill your mother, eat your kids and do your dog if you crossed him.”
Jem sat in an opulent armchair and straightened his clothes. His gaze flitted through the antique furnishings. He reached to a small table next to his seat and rearranged four candlesticks to form a precise line.
Hunor remained standing and poured a glass of wine from a golden jug on the desk, idly pushing aside some parchments and scrolls.
“Why the bladder, Linkon?”
“Damn tooth rot again, Hunor. Tried everything. This one’s from the Guild of Healers, some old Midlundian cure. There’s hags blood, yarkel eyes and griffon feather inside it or something. I’d just blown twenty silver on something that smelt like fish crap from the apothecary as well.”
“The whole town smells of fish waste,” Jem said.
“So how come you Wild-mages can’t do any better than the quacks? My own boy downstairs can blow a hole in a garrison but can’t even sort my tooth out.”
Jem sighed and began to explain in an air of irritation. “There are few magic disciplines that can produce healing, Mr Arikson. Really it’s the forte of Dark-mages, altering flesh and blood. I also seem to recall that Galvorian monks can use their arts to mend bones and treat wounds.”
“Ingor’s nuts! I’d not let one of those potato-heads near my killer smile. Anyways it’s been too long boys. Hear you monkeys have been winding up Igrid down south?”
Hunor sipped his wine, fixing his eyes on Linkon.
“Ah come on, Linkon, you know Igrid. He’s a jester. It was all some misunderstanding about his niece and an Aquatonian necklace. It’ll come good. We just fancied a change of scene—thought we’d nip up to the seaside and try those eels that the Barnacle is so famous for. Did I tell you the story about me, Jem and the Molten Eel of Pyrios?”
Linkon shook his head to indicate his interest in one of Hunor’s stories was at best miniscule. A lull descended on the room, which was soon broken by the short Guildmaster.
“Any how let’s get to business before we all drop our trousers and start fencing, huh? I’ll admit I’m pleased you boys are in my town. No really. I’ve a big job that needs your… ah, combined talents.”
Hunor sat next to Jem, who smoothed his moustache.
“A concerned party has contracted me to locate a valued item matching a very particular description. Simple enough? Turns out Engin’s dice aren’t rolling too well this autumn. I’ve sent three crews out for three separate items that match the description already and I’ve just got wind of another.”
“Why do you need our, as you put it, combined talents, Mr. Arikson?” Jem asked.
“I’m sure the valuable in question will be tucked away with some magic wards around it. Credit where it’s due, you boys are good at this sort of thing. It’ll be worth your interest,” Linkon said, pressing the pig’s bladder tight on his jaw.
Hunor and Jem exchanged a look.
“First, who’s the job for? Second, where is it?” Hunor asked.
Hunor saw Linkon’s eyes flicker almost imperceptibly at a scroll on his vast desk. The Guildmaster smiled with some effort, rearranging the pig’s bladder poultice. His voice was cooler and Hunor worried for a moment he had gone too far.
“First of all you don’t need to know who’s behind the money. That’s the way I work boys you remember that? Second of all, the job’s in Eeria. Coonor, to be specific.”
Hunor groaned. Coonor: the City of the Mists. What was it about mists today? It was the only place in mainland Nurolia that was colder than where they were now.
Jem sat forward. “Coonor! The cleanest city outside of Goldoria! Please continue, Mr. Arikson, please continue.”
It was Hunor’s turn to sigh.
