I did a mental inventory of my possessions, which was quick, as I owned nothing I wasn’t wearing. My most expensive possession was the used sandals I got at the market earlier for one silver. Wait a minute, the market….
“Has anyone got a piece of paper?” I asked. A few murmurs, and one was produced, along with a pen. Slowly and deliberately, I rolled up my sleeve, and pricked my wrist with the pen nib. Dark red blood welled up into the reservoir.
“No way! Sam, stop!” Ramsey cried. “That’s blood magic! If the wrong person gets ahold of it, they could really mess you up! I’m not kidding, just fold. Hell, I’ll spot you the money! Somehow. But this is a really bad idea.”
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” I told him with a smile.
“Sam, please!” Ramsey was really upset. “This is nuts!”
“Go ahead and let the girl play.” drawled Fabien. “It’s a free city, after all.”
I ignored both of them and turned my attention to the paper. It occurred to me I didn’t know what I was supposed to sign.
But what would my sigil be? And then I knew. I smiled as I drew an elaborate, stylized “S” on the paper. For Samiel.
I tossed the paper with the bloody “S” into the pile on top of my daggers. “That ought to be worth a few gold, don’t you agree?”
The crowd certainly did. Our game was now officially the best entertainment the Lonely Lobster had seen in ages. Fabien’s grin never faltered; he just watched me as he laid his cards on the table. Two kings and two queens in matched suits. A double monarchy. Not much beats a double monarchy, and certainly not my four card straight.
Then we’ll cheat right back. I thought, trying to calm Voice down. If I roll doubles, I could draw again and hope like hell for a two of swords, and get a revolt. That’ll beat a double monarchy.
I picked up the dice. I rotated them, clicking, in my hand. I set the single pip I wanted them to land on against my fingertips. I took a deep breath, steadied myself, and concentrated on the path of the dice. I opened my eyes, breathed out, and rolled.
One, two, six, five. Bounced one of the dice. One, two, six, five, one, two, six, five… one. The other die had bounced higher, and despite my best efforts, had a slight tumble to it. One, two, six, four, five, three, one, four, six, three… It teetered for a moment, spinning on one corner, and the faintest of breezes came through the pub doors, whispered over the cards, caressed the die, and ruffled my hair. The die fell.
It was a one. Snake eyes. I laid my cards on the table.
“Peasant revolt.” I told Fabien, and his grin turned sour. So did the mood of the onlookers.
“What is this, girl?” he said, low and dangerous. He stood up and leaned over the table. “You think you can waltz on into my bar, pretend you ain’t never played before, and set us up?”
“Like you cheated with those kings?” I shot back, jumping from my stool onto the felt covered playing surface. Standing on the table, I was still a head shorter than he was. “Those daggers there are stolen property, and you know it. And so are the boots you got with them.”
A murmur ran through the crowd at this. Apparently you did not accuse Fabien of dishonest business; not in his bar, not out loud. I was trespassing on some serious unspoken rules here. Ramsey looked like he was trying to decide if he ought to be throwing himself between me and Fabien or just bolting for the nearest exit.
Fabien reached over the table and made to grab me. “How dare you accuse me you little—“
Faster than a scorpion, I pulled one of the darts from my pocket and let fly. It cut through the air and took his jaunty felt hat off, pinning it firmly to the wall behind him.
Fabien stopped in mid-reach as I hoisted the second dart, his hands flying to his bandaged head.
“Tried the boots on, didn’t you? Got a bit more than you bargained for?”
Fabien eyed the dart in my hand, well aware I hadn’t missed when I took his hat off. “I bought this stuff fair and square. Ain’t no business of mine where it came from. But if you two-“ His glare included Ramsey, “want to talk fair business practices, there’s a room in the back. By all means, let us talk.”
I didn’t like the way he said “talk”, or the way a couple of his big buddies maneuvered to stand behind him. I was also noticing there were quite a few people between us and the door. It seemed that strangers were not welcome to waltz on into the Lonely Lobster and waltz out again with all their money.
I was not fancying my chances of getting out of here unscathed, much less carrying my daggers. Time to try a new tactic.
“Look.” I said to Fabien, but pitched my voice to carry. “You said yourself it’s a free city, but we all still have to earn a living. These daggers,” I nodded to the pile at my feet “are my livelihood. And if you bought them fair and square, then I won them just as fair.”
I reached down and picked up the daggers, slowly and deliberately sheathing them in my sleeves. “You can’t use the boots anyway, so why don’t we all just do each other a favor, and you give them to me, and I won’t have to go hunt them down and get in the way of your ‘fair business’?”
“Because I ain’t in the business of giving stuff away. That ain’t how you get respect. Do I look like some fool you can disrespect?”
I took a deep breath along with Voice’s advice.
[Wisdom check: Success]
“How about if I bought the boots off you?” I cupped my hands around the pile of money and slid it across the table at him, keeping only my blood-sigiled paper. By the murmurs of the crowd, they approved. I could feel the tide of opinion turning back in my favor, as it looked like their coins weren’t going to walk away.
Fabien actually looked thoughtful. Or maybe sly. It was hard to tell, with him. “I ain’t got the blasted things on me.”
“Their location, then.”
Fabien nodded. “Deal.”
“Deal.” I said back, and stood up, waiting expectantly.
Fabien made a big show of gathering up the coins and putting them in his money pouch before turning his attention back to me. “So you want to know where those damnable death traps are?”
“Yes.” I growled, crossing my arms and getting impatient.
Fabien nodded to the fireplace behind me. “Right over there.” he said gleefully. “Or what’s left of them, anyway.”
This earned some laughter from his cronies and few of the other patrons as they dispersed from the theatre of the Toads table. I made my way over to the fireplace with a sinking feeling in my stomach. Sure enough, there were the sad remains of two blackened pieces of leather still smouldering amongst the ashes. I used one of my daggers to fish them out. What was left of the sole was still hot to the touch, and I held on with my dagger as I rubbed one of the charred moonstones with my sleeve. Some of the leather flaked away, but the soot did not come off.
Who’s Ingenium? I asked, hope rising inside me.
ly.
Your what?
Wait a minute. I thought back, rising hope turning into indignity. You mean, you talk to OTHER people? Behind my back?
“Well you were MY first!” I sputtered, irrationally jealous. “I guess that’s how it is then! I guess I’ll just…just… go ahead and listen to other Voices, then!”
“Like what? Like, exclusive?” I crumbled up the sigil paper and tossed it into the coals.
“I don’t see why it’s any business of yours. Not if you’re going to go talk inside other people’s heads.”
“Umm, Sam?” Ramsey had come up behind me. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.” I snarled. The sigil paper burst into bright flame for a moment, and then died.
“Then, we should go. Like, right now.”
Several people around the Lonely Lobster were looking at me with funny expressions on their faces. I glared back at them and stomped my way out the door.
Ramsey followed a skip behind. “That was some game, there.” he congratulated me after a bit. “I had no idea you knew how to count cards.”
“I don’t.” I confessed, wrestling with the truth. I sighed. It won. “There’s this, I have this…. the Voice in my head is really good at counting cards. And figuring odds.”
I braced myself for rejection, but Ramsey didn’t immediately condemn me and run away. Instead we walked for a bit while he digested this. I carried the sooty remains of my boots in one hand, scrubbing ineffectually at the burned bezels with the other.
“Huh.” he finally said. “So, does it talk to you all the time?”
“It comes and goes.” We walked a bit more. “I suppose you think I’m crazy.”
“Oh, I dunno. The way I figure it, maybe lots of people have voices in their heads, and they just don’t talk about it. We have a pretty wide tolerance for functionally crazy, here in Triport. I know lots of people talk to themselves, especially when no one is listening. Heck, I do it.”
“You do?”
“Sure. The way I see it, not being crazy is not so much about not having the voices, it’s about knowing where they come from. Like, does this voice know it’s imaginary?”
“Actually,” I sighed. “It thinks I’m imaginary.”
Ramsey did a heroic job of looking sympathetic, by which I mean he kept a straight face for about three seconds, before the snorts and giggles of laughter started escaping.
Ramsey gave up and just laughed. “Well,” he finally said, “anytime your imaginary voice wants to give us real odds in a game of Squashed Toads, let me know. We could be quite the team, if we worked out a system. But really, don’t pull that trick with your sigil again. I mean it.”
“Why not?”
“Just…” Ramsey looked away, and wouldn’t meet my eye. For just a moment there was a flash of a new expression on his face, one I hadn’t seen before, which didn’t belong. “Just trust me, ok? And,” with practiced effort, he pushed whatever it was away, and his normal hopeful and sunny disposition returned, “from now on, I won’t bet against all those long odds you keep rolling.”
“Oh, speaking of that.” I fished around in my pocket and pulled out the two gold pieces I had palmed off the coin pile, and handed one to Ramsey. “This is yours.”
He looked astonished. “But… why?”
“Because you helped me find my stuff. Because you backed my play at the Lobster. But mostly… because Fabien is wrong. You only get respect by giving things away.”
[Rest bestowed: 5 Hit Points]
[Hit Points: 12/12]
Shut up. I thought at Voice. I’m not talking to you.
“Oh, right, that’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”
<...and I got the Talarian Boots fixed! Well, kind of.>
I weighed greed against jealousy, and decided to conditionally forgive Voice. “What do you mean, kind of?”
Conditional forgiveness now spurred by insatiable curiosity, I rolled out of bed (which was still the tilted back armchair) and dressed in my blue silks. Upstairs Ishàmae was checking on a pot of pie filling which had been simmering away all night and dicing butter for a crust. I wondered if he ever slept.
“Samiel,” he greeted me. “Good-morning-to-you! You have received a package. Also, how do you feel about omelets?”
I paused at this. “I don’t know. How do you feel about omelets?”
“I have not yet decided.” Ishàmae put the lid back on the cauldron and turned back to his chopped butter. “I think that possibly with enough bacon they can be redeemed.”
Over by the door was a paper wrapped bundle with my sigil hastily scrawled on it in ink. I picked it up, but it felt much too light and small to contain my boots. Gently, I teased apart the strings and opened it up.
Inside was a pair of leather sandals. The soles from the Talarian Boots, now clean of even the smell of smoke, were attached to a long set of tooled leather straps that would wind up my calf, gladiator style. The moonstones had been set in new silver bezels on each heel cup, and a dozen empty bezels wound up each leather strap, awaiting gemstones of their own.
Voice admitted,
What does that mean?
“Does that mean I can’t take them off?” I asked worriedly, and then checked over my shoulder to make sure Isha didn’t hear me talking to myself. He was busy doing something with eggs and mushrooms.
“Suits me.”
I followed Voice’s advice, nicked my finger, and watched the red drop swell, fruit, and fall. I repeated on the other sandal, and with a with an equally swelling sense of anticipation, put them on.
They fit ok, I guessed, kinda wide around the heel and narrow in the toes. I wrapped the laces up and around my calf and tied them off, then stood up. The laces on the right sandal slid down and pooled around my ankle. I pulled them back up and tied them tighter.
I tiptoed out the back door and into the yard, and then very lightly tapped my heels into the packed dirt. I tapped them harder, then finally jumped up and down, stomping my feet with the downward momentum, feeling the shock in my ankles but totally failing to take off. Jump… stomp! Jump… stomp! Jump….
“Samiel!” bellowed Ishàmae from inside. “Try this—oh.” His chef’s hat poked around the corner of the doorway, followed eventually by his head, and gave me a quizzical look. “Have you found another bug?”
Stomp!
I launched into the air. I would have jumped right out of my new sandals, except I could feel them contouring around me, the laces winding like vines around my ankles and shins, the leather moving with me, as intimate as my own skin.
“Wheeeee!” I rocketed skywards, as high as the second story windows of La Baliene. I came down to Isha’s astonished stare, and the ground was like a trampoline beneath my feet; back up I went, somersaulting over the garden, over the wall, and into the yard next door. An elderly gentleman in an expensive dressing gown, awaiting the sunrise in a wicker recliner, spat a mouthful of coffee out in surprise as I landed briefly on his flagstones. “Good morning!” I called to him over my shoulder as I was back up and away again. Out of his yard and into the street, I landed in front of a boarox bus. I recognized the driver as the same one from two mornings back, though his bus was all new. The boarox objected to my landing in front of him out of the blue, and reared up, cloven hooves pawing at the air. “’Scuse me!” I called out as the dwarf went for his whip. “I’ll just be out of your way!” Another bound, the whip cracked beneath me, and I was sailing over the bus. The little boy in uniform waved at me from below.
I ricocheted off the cobblestones, aiming myself forward, and passed the other pedestrians in a blur. Three more steps took me around the block and behind La Baliene. I hopped and skipped to turn my momentum once again upwards, and leapt over the tree in the corner of the yard.
[Jump check: Failed]
Ok, almost over the tree. It looked shorter from below. Instead I crashed through the upper branches, getting a faceful of leaves and twigs and part of a birds nest. I pinwheeled my arms, trying to keep my balance as I landed, and did another hop-skip as I bled out the sandals momentum and came to a stop.
A Fist Full of Sand: A Book of Cerulea (Sam's Song 1) Page 13
