by A. L. Knorr
"When did you last visit a doctor?" Allan asked when Marceau's coughing subsided.
"There is nothing a doctor can do for me, mon ami," Marceau replied matter-of-factly. "If I had stop smoking ten years ago, maybe," he shrugged.
The men had lapsed into silence, disappearing from their barred windows, but still sitting near their doors.
"Is there something an Elf could do?" Allan had asked, his eyes closed and his head leaning back against the cold wall.
"Sometime they try," came Marceau's voice. "They can help for a time—but the cough always return. We are not meant to live forever, so I do not mind. Death will fix me. Perhaps death will fix this broken heart of mine, also."
"Broken heart?" Allan's eyes opened. He knew all about broken hearts.
"Oui. Her name was Nannette."
Allan listened, and Marceau told of a French maid of great beauty. If Marceau was to be believed, Nannette could heal his every pain with a simple kiss and send the rain away with the wave of her hand. He had met her in Montmartre on the way to his portal with a load of cheese. He was punished by his father for being late with a shipment, but he did not care. Marceau was in love. He kept the portal a secret for a whole year while he and Nannette fell more deeply in love.
"I had to make an impossible choice," lamented Marceau, "between my father and my sweet Nannette. My father would not permit me to share our secret with anyone, but our business was good and it needed my attentions as my father got old. It was so difficult—soon impossible—to keep the portal and the business from Nannette." Marceau's voice grew thin. "So I shared it with her in the hopes that she would join me here."
"She wouldn't come to Oriceran?"
"She did!" Marceau exclaimed. "Mon ange was fearless. She was willing to leave her family for me."
"What happened?"
"I still cannot explain," croaked Marceau, and emotion threaded his words. "We pass through my portal together, using the relic the way I always did before. I pass through. Nannette did not. When I go back to retrieve her, she was not on the other side, either."
Allan let this sink in. "She just disappeared?" He lifted his head from the wall and peered through the bars at his friend, but Marceau was not visible.
"She was just gone; swallowed up in those horrible voices." The Frenchman’s voice broke. "I will never forgive myself." These words were muffled, and Allan imagined Marceau's hands were covering his face. "After, I learned that my relic was not strong enough to let two pass. My father had never warned me this could happen, as he never expected me to break my promise."
"An Elf could not help to find Nannette?" Allan ventured, having no idea if what he suggested was ridiculous or not. It felt ridiculous to use the word ‘Elf’ in any serious conversation, but Marceau had said they were the most powerful beings here.
"Even the Elves I knew did not know how to bring her through. Some of them would not even let me speak of it." Marceau gave a heavy sigh.
"I'm so sorry, Marceau."
"Merci, mon ami. You can maybe see why I don't mind to die."
"But perhaps there is still a way?" Allan suggested. Like a slap in the face, his own words to Jordan came flying back to him at warp speed. He had admonished her for not letting go of her mother, and here he was encouraging Marceau to do the opposite.
"If there is, I do not know who to ask," replied Marceau flatly. "I have tried everything, everyone I could think of. Seems impossible."
They lapsed into stillness, listening to the endless breaking of the waves on the beach outside. Finally, Allan said, "I lost my love, too." What else was there in this cold, dank cell, but to commiserate with an understanding ear?
"What happened?" Marceau's voice became hushed and rapt.
Allan told Marceau of Jaclyn—how they'd met, how in love they'd been, of raising their family, of their travels and accomplishments. How, after Jordan had been born, Jaclyn had suffered from terrible post-partum depression, which clung to her like heavy, sodden drapes and showed no signs of lifting; then finally of Jaclyn's mysterious disappearance, and how Jordan had never given up hope.
"If this oak tree is a portal," wondered Marceau, "why could Jaclyn not be here?" He paused and added with a sour note, "If she did not get stuck in the in-between, like my Nannette."
This possibility broke over Allan like a polo mallet to the head, and a trembling hand flew to his mouth. Marceau is right. Jaclyn could have fallen through the portal somehow, just the way Jordan did. Allan squeezed his eyes shut and cursed himself for not thinking of it sooner. He put his fingertips to his temples; his brain was throbbing as a door opened that he had long since shut and thrown away the key for. He blew out a long, shuddering sigh. It was too much: the events of the last several weeks, the astral travel, landing here in this miserable place, the fate that awaited him and his helplessness to change it, and now the new possible explanation for Jaclyn's disappearance.
"Mon ami?" Marceau sounded worried.
"I'm here," Allan croaked. "You're right, of course. It never occurred to me before, but you are right. Jaclyn could be here, or—" he gulped, "in the in-between."
"Mmmmm," Marceau rumbled a comforting, sympathetic sound. "Now I am the sorry one for you." He sighed. "Seems we are both in a bad way."
"I think I am in a worse way than you," Allan opined. "Seems you have a way out; you are just waiting for a letter, right?"
"Oui."
"I am headed to a place called ‘Trevilsom’."
"Oh, merde." The sound of movement from Marceau's cell made Allan look through the bars. Marceau's eyes appeared, wide and frightened. "You cannot go there, mon ami!"
Allan gave a humorless laugh. "Do you have any suggestions on how I can change my fate? I have no magic, like these Elves you speak of."
Marceau's eyes darted around; his mind was racing. His fingers wrapped around the bars, unfeeling of the cold.
That was when the door at the end of the hall had banged open, and Wilmot came to retrieve Marceau.
Later that afternoon, Allan's transport came. He was unceremoniously removed from his cell and taken out of the prison and down to the beach, where a ship was waiting to receive him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Opening their wings to catch the air like parachutes, Jordan and Sol drifted down into a labyrinth of walkways and shops in a slow, lazy spiral. They returned to Middle Rodania first thing in the morning, right after breakfast. Belshar's office was only three levels below Juer's library. They landed with a hop and a skip on a wooden platform.
The street was bustling and full of action, and Jordan found it difficult to keep up with Sol as she gaped at the shop windows and the curiously dressed, non-Strix species having animated conversations in the middle of the street. Blue received more than his share of curious glances, but everyone seemed so preoccupied that they would simply stare, jaws slack, before tearing their eyes away to barrel onward.
Sol stopped outside of a squat wooden tower that looked like it had too many doors. People bustled continuously in and out while bells rang and chatter filled the air.
"You don't need to come in with me," Sol said, eyeing the frenetic pace around the building. "It'll be faster if I just zip in and out. If you want, just hang out and look around. I'll be as quick as I can."
"Okay," Jordan flashed him a smile. "There are a lot of interesting shops back there."
Sol nodded. "Don't go too far?"
"I won't. You're my bread and butter, remember?"
"Right." Sol turned and entered the shop behind a tall skinny Nycht carrying an armload of scrolls.
"What are you grinning about?" a wingless lady barked at him from behind the front desk. Her hair was frazzled in a red cloud around her wide face and her glasses were askew. A thin sheen of sweat coated her forehead. A long line of bell pulls lined the wall behind her, each with a name engraved below it; ‘Belshar Zak’ was one of those names. It took Sol a moment to realize the woman was talking to him.
&nbs
p; "Oh, nothing." Was I grinning? He wiped the smile off his face. "I'm looking for Belshar."
"Ha!" Her not-inconsiderable chest bounced. "Everyone's looking for Belshar," she croaked, and Sol had the vague impression of a smug toad on a lilypad.
"It's important," Sol said.
"Oh, it's important, is it?" She followed this with a wheezing laugh. She set meaty fists on her broad hips. "Do you have an appointment, Mr. ‘It's Important’?"
"No, but—" Sol reached for his satchel.
"Shoo, then! Handsome as a devil and presumptuous as a lawyer, this one." She grumbled to herself as she flapped one hand at him and passed the other over her forehead. She yanked a book toward her on the desk and slammed it open. "Come back in…" She trailed a finger down the page. "Three weeks."
Sol held a ring out for her to see: a thick, gold band crested the king's seal.
The fat lady frowned and shoved her glasses up her nose. She looked down at the ring, then up at Sol's face, then down at the ring again. " ‘Zat real?"
"Of course," Sol answered patiently.
"Why ain't you wearing it?" Her face was progressively growing pinker.
"It makes people act funny when they see it," Sol said. Kind of like how you’re acting now that you’ve seen it. He slipped it over the knuckle of the fourth finger of his right hand to show her it fit him perfectly. The king's signets were magic; if anyone who hadn't officially been given the seal tried to don one, they'd lose a finger.
She gave an uncomfortable laugh out of one side of her mouth. "Bet it does." She jerked her chin at the narrow stairway to her left, and her chins wobbled to show they also agreed. "Belshar is on the fifth floor."
"Thank you," Sol gave her a dazzling smile. "Will you ring his bell and let him know I'm coming, please? The name is Solomon Donda."
She nodded and shooed him up the stairs. He turned sideways to shuffle up the tight stairs and heard her mutter, "You can ring my bell, anytime," under her breath. Then louder and into the voicebox Sol knew would deliver right to Belshar's office, "Solomon Donda. King's seal on him."
Sol had to squeeze by three others before reaching the fifth floor. There were several polite head nods, and ‘excuse me's in two different languages. Belshar's was the only office on the fifth floor. Sol had never met the bureaucrat, but he'd been mentioned in passing. Belshar was trademaster for Middle Rodania and Lower Rodania—a desk-job Sol would rather die than have.
Belshar's office door was closed, so Sol waited just outside. He peered through the warped glass window looking down into the street, wondering what fun shop Jordan was exploring and wishing he was with her instead.
The door opened with a rusty scream and a squat, wingless man waddled out with a sheaf of papers under his arms and a harassed look on his face. Ignoring Sol, he waddled down the stairs, bumping against the wall like he'd been drinking since noon.
"Donda?" A thin reedy voice called from the office.
Sol poked his head in. The magnitude of disaster that greeted him temporarily froze Sol's tongue in his mouth. Piles of papers, envelopes, books, scrolls and other busywork towered haphazardly from every surface. A wooden installation with at least fifty boxes was stuffed with multi-colored papers and rolls. The room was furry with dust that was never fully given a chance to settle, as the small Nycht behind the desk frantically shuffled, stacked, stamped, folded, and signed one thing after another.
Belshar had a narrow, pale countenance, wore glasses that were far too large for his face, and had long, dark hair threaded with gray that was tied back. A few wiry strands refused to be tamed and stuck up from his temples in frazzled coils. His high forehead glowed with sweat and dark circles ringed his eyes. He fixed Sol with the glare of the overworked, which was laced with fear that whoever walked through his door came with more work attached.
"You're from the king?" he asked, speaking quickly and with no small amount of dread. "I'm a very busy Nycht."
"I can see that," replied Sol. He held his signet up where Belshar could see it. "I come on behalf of Juer."
Belshar frowned. "The Royal Doctor? What could he possibly want with me?"
"You're in charge of trade agreements with Maticaw?" Sol entered the small room and tightened his wings behind him so he didn't knock anything over.
Belshar bobbed his head impatiently. "Maticaw, Skillen, Operyn." Belshar named the three major port cities nearest Rodania. "Any one of them would be a full-time job." He shuffled through the papers in his hand and seemed to find what he was looking for. Taking the page out, he laid it flat on his desk and put the rest aside. "What of it?"
"There is a medicine that Rodania imports from Maticaw, usually through Cles, the Apothecary."
Belshar peered over the tops of his glasses at Sol; his green eyes locked on the Arpak's face and widened. It seemed this might be a topic that was worthy of his attention. "What medicine?"
"It's called lapita."
Belshar blinked, thinking. "I don't know this ‘lapita’." He put a hand out. "Wait." He spun in his chair to face the back of the room and scanned the wall of endless documents. "Lapita, lapita…"
"I'm not sure the problem lies with the medicine itself—" Sol began.
Belshar snapped a hand into the air, requesting silence. Sol closed his mouth with a smile and waited. Bureaucrats like Belshar were considered below couriers like Sol, but more often than not, they acted as though it were the other way around.
Several minutes walked by as the Nycht searched the wall. He pulled out documents, flipped through them, opened and scanned scrolls. Sol crossed his arms and his foot tapped absently. He wondered how well the Nycht might receive the concept of alphabetization.
Finally, Belshar spun back to the Arpak with a tattered, single page in his hand. "There is no problem with the trade of lapita. It can be purchased in any amount and shipped into Rodania without delay."
"The main ingredient in lapita is gersher fungus," Sol replied patiently.
Belshar's face fell visibly.
"I see you know what gersher fungus is."
"Yes," the Nycht admitted. "Yes, I do." He heaved a sigh and took his glasses off, rubbing at the red marks on the bridge of his nose.
"You're aware of a problem, then?"
"It's this new portmaster in Maticaw," Belshar burst out dramatically. “Jack something-or-other.” He tossed his glasses onto his desk with something like disgust. "A more disagreeable trade partner I have never had to suffer before. It's like he actually enjoys tangling up progress in mountains of paperwork and layers of bureaucracy."
"He's stalling the import of the fungus with paperwork?"
"Yes!" Belshar paused. "No." He picked his glasses up and put them back on. "To be honest, I haven't had time to find out why he's stalling the import yet. I have—" he gestured helplessly to the mountains of documents on his desk. "This."
"The royal doctor is asking you to make it a priority," replied Sol. "I'm sorry you have so much work, but that medicine is very likely meant for a member of the royal family, or for one of the council members. Can you not hire an assistant?"
"There is no budget for that," said Belshar in a tone that said the topic had been broached many times and dismissed just as many times.
"There might be a very simple reason for the delay," ventured Sol. "Perhaps it could be solved in a matter of minutes if you were to go to Maticaw and see him in person…?"
"These things are never simple," argued Belshar. "And I don't have time to fly all the way to Maticaw for a single item of dispute. I have over two thousand disputes right here that I have to deal with."
"Send someone else, then." Sol was rapidly losing patience.
"There is no one else. I told you," Belshar snapped. "You don't understand. If I take time away from this desk, all things get delayed. Something has to give. If it’s not the gersher fungus, it’s the cheese from Usenno, or the oyo feathers from Operyn, or the butter diamonds from Skillen."
"Who makes the de
cision about what gets priority? You?"
"Me?" Belshar gave a bitter laugh. "I wish. It's the squeaky wheel that—" he paused as Sol stepped forward.
Sol planted a closed fist on Belshar's desk and leaned toward the Nycht. Belshar leaned back in tandem, his jaw going slack and his eyes widening. Sol held up his hand, where the royal signet glittered in the dull light from the single cobwebby window. Sol's wings snapped open with a dull pop and the tips of his feathers mashed against the wall. The wind he created blew the papers off Belshar's desk.
"The ‘squeaky wheel,’ you say?" Sol narrowed his eyes into a glare. He made another fist and thumped it on the desk. "Squeak."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Jordan wandered the streets of Middle Rodania with Blue in her arms. The smells of fresh-baked goods, spices, and flowers mingled with other, less pleasant smells like oil, burnt metal, and smoke. The shops were narrow and tall, with wide doors to accommodate Rodania's winged citizens. Some shops were outdoors with only a tent over their goods. Rodania's citizens and visitors bustled and bartered, ambled and chatted.
It's not so different from shopping in downtown Richmond, thought Jordan. An upset looking man no taller than Jordan's knee, with purple skin and carrying a huge dead beetle, rushed by as though taking the beetle to emergency care. The people are a little more curious, she thought as she stepped aside to allow him passage.
Blue gave a squeak, jumped out of her arms and wove his way through the legs of passing shoppers.
"Blue, where are you going?"
The dragon waddled under a tent covering tables full of strange contraptions, found a bench against a wall, and crawled into the shadow underneath it. He curled up like an overheated dog in the shade and blew out a breath, sending a cloud of dust across Jordan's boots as she bent over to look at him. "You want to sleep? We only got up a couple hours ago.” Blue turned his head to the side and closed his eyes. “Fine, but what if someone decides they'd like a pet dragon and snatches you up?"
