by Kate Novak
I won’t need to explain to Giogi all the details of how I recovered his family’s heirloom, of course; he can assume I’m just extraordinarily clever, which is fairly close to the truth.
“Time to arm myself for battle,” Olive muttered. One at a time, over her bed, the halfling emptied the pockets of each item of her wardrobe that she’d worn the evening before. She had pockets in her pants, pockets in her tunic, pockets in her vest, pockets in her cloak, and pockets in her belt. Soon a pile of debris collected on the bedspread.
A job long overdue, she thought, appalled by all the clutter she found. Some of it was organized—capital and basic equipment—but most of it was junk she’d been unable to part with because she’d convinced herself that eventually it would prove useful.
Her own purse held plenty of coins: ten platinum tri-crowns, thirty-two gold lions, plus change—sixteen silver and twelve copper coins. Much more lay stashed beneath the floorboards of her rented room. A smaller sack contained twenty glass “rubies” for emergencies and four real rubies for real emergencies. She set both sack and purse aside.
Her lockpicks and wires were nestled neatly in their leather case, though in the corner of the case, wrapped in rags, were twenty-some unsorted picks—some she’d found in her travels; others were broken tools she’d been meaning to replace. More than fifty odd-sized keys jangled from her iron key ring. A few were made to open more than their share of locks; others were rendered useless by distance from, or destruction of, the locks they’d once fit. A spool of sturdy string, a penknife, and a flint with striker completed her “absolutely necessary” pile.
Olive made a separate pile of four more balls of sturdy string, two corks, a fishhook and sinker, hair ties and fasteners, a comb, chalk, three empty glass vials—one missing a stopper—six mismatched buttons, a bag of raisins, two dirty handkerchiefs, a candle, a stick of charcoal, spectacle frames without the spectacles, a yarting thumb pick she’d been searching for all week, last week’s shopping list, nut shells, peas, and enough biscuit crumbs to keep a pigeon happy for a month. It was mostly stuff she would throw out—eventually.
“And last but not least,” Olive said, pulling Jade’s magical pouch out of her vest and untying the strings, “the wyvern’s spur,” she announced, dumping the contents of the miniature bag of holding on her bed.
“She’s as bad as me,” the halfling said, astonished by the assortment and number of things that tumbled from the enchanted leather sack. Two handfuls of coins—mostly copper and silver—a purple silk scarf, a brass shot glass, a minty-smelling potion in a crystal vial, a very nice pearl necklace, six keys, a silver spoon, a pair of gloves, a ball of string, a button hook, some regular dice, some loaded dice, a yard of lace, an apple, some chunks of cured, dried meat, and several pieces of hard candy covered in lint.
“Yech,” Olive muttered. She shook the pouch some more, but nothing else fell out. “Damn!” she said. “Where is it?”
Olive sat on the bed and picked through the debris. “It has to be here,” she insisted. “I’m the only ass in Immersea. Steele said so.” Face it, Olive-girl, she told herself, trying to overcome her disappointment at not finding the spur. Steele must have been wrong, as usual.
But Jade being the thief had made so much sense. If the guardian accepted her as a daughter of Finder, the Nameless Bard, Jade could have entered the crypt. Flattery had told Cat that twice his magic had failed to detect the spur. Jade, just like Alias, had been proofed against magical detection and scrying. Jade would have thwarted Flattery’s attempts at magical detection.
Then a more unsettling thought occurred to Olive. Suppose Jade did steal the spur and it was on her when Flattery disintegrated her? Wouldn’t that be ironic?
But, then, would Steele’s divination reveal that the spur was in the little ass’s pocket? Could Steele’s god have lied to him? Or was there another little ass that Steele had missed somewhere? Giogi might be considered a bit of an ass, but he was far from little; he was taller than Jade had been. Cat was an ass for sticking with Flattery, but if she had the spur, she’d have turned it over to the evil wizard. There could be other Wyvernspurs who were fools, or, for that matter, any one of them could have secretly wed some fool to steal the spur for them, as Flattery had.
Olive wondered idly, Had Flattery really married Cat just to make her a Wyvernspur, or was he just trying to bind her to him? Even if the evil wizard hadn’t any idea that Cat was already a Wyvernspur, he still didn’t need to marry her to get past the guardian. He could have gone in the crypt himself. Why hadn’t he? What had he been afraid of?
Olive wished Finder were there now. If Flattery hated him so much, there was a good chance Finder knew Flattery and could tell her something useful about the evil mage. Finder was far off in Shadowdale, though. This time of year it would take more than a month to ride up to Shadowdale and back. Olive and Giogi needed each other’s help now. Even if they didn’t have the spur, they still had Cat to use against her master.
The problem is how to convince Cat that Flattery can’t do anything to her and that he has nothing to offer her. The first part’s easy enough, the halfling thought. Just use the old amulet of protection scam.
Olive looked down at the junk lying on her bed. What do we have here that’s uglier than a monkey’s paw? she pondered. She scooped up the chunks of cured meat from Jade’s purse and tied them tightly in Jade’s silk scarf. That’ll do for now, she thought, scooping all of Jade’s things along with the homemade “amulet of protection” back into Jade’s magic pouch.
Olive sighed. The sun had risen. It was time to join forces with Giogioni Wyvernspur—right after a light breakfast.
About an hour after Olive had gone down to eat at Maela’s, back at Giogi’s townhouse, the Wyvernspur noble knocked softly on the door to his own room.
“Come in,” Cat called sleepily.
Giogi peeked in the doorway. “Just need to get some clothes,” he said.
“Fine,” Cat mumbled, pulling up the thick down comforter to her chest and rolling over.
Giogi crossed the room and removed an ensemble from his winter clothes chest. He was searching for matching stockings when there was a soft knock on the door. Giogi shot a quick glance from his search to see Thomas entering with his morning tea tray. The servant crossed to the bed and set the tray on the nightstand by his master’s bed, as had been his custom every morning for years. Giogi returned to pawing through the chest.
“I say, Thomas,” Giogi said, examining a worn patch in the heel of a stocking, “I’m going to need some more warm footgear. And this one will need darning.” Giogi held the stocking out in Thomas’s direction, his head still buried in his clothing chest. When several seconds passed without Thomas taking the piece, Giogi looked up. “I say, Thomas …” he began, but Thomas was not present.
From the bed, Cat giggled. “He took one look at me and bolted,” she explained as she sat up in bed and pushed her hair out of her eyes.
“Why would he do … Oh, I say! He couldn’t have thought … Oh, dear. I’d better go have a word with him.”
“Why?” Cat asked, now grinning from ear to ear.
“Well, to clear your honor, for starters,” Giogi replied, amazed that she didn’t understand.
Cat laughed. “What about your honor?” she asked.
“Well, um …” Giogi flushed. “I’ll be back,” he said, hurrying after his manservant.
Giogi had to track Thomas all the way down to the kitchen. The manservant was polishing tableware with the furious gusto of a man who expected a finicky demon to dine with them.
“I say, Thomas,” Giogi began, “I think we need to have a chat.”
“That won’t be necessary, sir,” Thomas responded quickly and primly. “If you shan’t be requiring my services as a gentleman’s gentleman, two weeks notice will be more than sufficient for me to find myself other employment. Master Cormaeril has already given me to understand he could use the services of someone like myself.”
> “Shaver Cormaeril’s been trying to pinch my servants? By Selune! Some friend. I ought to skin him alive. Now, see here, Thomas, Mistress Cat spent the night in my bed,” Giogi explained, then added hastily, “and I spent the night in her bed. That is, I spent the night in the lilac room, in case whoever attacked her returned.”
“I see, sir,” Thomas replied. His tone had become less formal, though not exactly apologetic. He did, however, put aside the polishing and look at his master.
“My relationship with Mistress Cat is completely professional,” Giogi added.
“Yes, sir.” Thomas said.
“Naturally, I am not blind to the fact that she is an incredibly beautiful woman, but my intentions where she is concerned are completely honorable.” The young noble began to pace the kitchen as he spoke.
“Of course, sir,” Thomas said, though he suspected that perhaps Cat’s intentions might not be as pure as his master’s.
“So let’s have no more of this nonsense about giving notice or that scurrilous cove, Shaver Cormaeril.”
“No, sir,” Thomas agreed.
“You know, Thomas,” Giogi confided, “I have noticed that Mistress Cat does seem a little taken with me.”
“I do not imagine, however, that your Aunt Dorath would feel the same way about her, sir.”
“Well, dash it, Thomas,” Giogi replied hotly, “I can’t spend the rest of my life trying to please Aunt Dorath, can I?” With that, he spun around and marched out of the kitchen.
Thomas gulped nervously. He suddenly realized that the situation was much more serious than before.
Late last night, after the unpleasantness in the lilac room, Thomas had consulted with his advisor about Giogi and his “professional” relationship with the mage Cat. Thomas had laid out his concerns, but his advisor had assured him there was nothing to worry about. The servant wondered what his advisor would say if he’d just heard Giogi’s declaration.
A staccato knock at the front door forced Thomas to focus on his more conventional duties. Slipping off his apron, he hurried out to the front hall, and, regathering his composure, opened the door.
A very small figure dressed in a fur-trimmed cape stood on the stoop. At first, Thomas assumed it was a young child, noble-born he would have guessed, based on the cape and the well-groomed russet hair flowing from beneath the hood.
The figure looked up at him with a very grim expression, and Thomas could see that it was no child, but an adult female halfling. “I must speak with Giogioni Wyvernspur,” the halfling declared. She slipped past Thomas’s legs and through the doorway.
“Master Giogioni has not yet dressed or had breakfast,” Thomas argued, still holding the door open, hoping the little creature would take the hint and leave.
“I can wait,” Olive said. “Thomas, isn’t it?” she asked, pulling off her gloves.
“Yes,” the servant admitted.
“Is the mage known as Cat still here?” the halfling interrogated the servant.
“Uh, yes,” Thomas said, closing the front door in surprise. It was a little startling to be confronted with someone who seemed to know the household’s goings-on.
“Time may be of the essence. Would you be so good as to tell your master that Olive Ruskettle requests an interview with him?” Olive said, swinging her cape from her shoulders and holding it and her gloves out in Thomas’s general direction.
“Of course,” Thomas said, accepting the halfling woman’s items. Trying to regain some marginal control of the situation, he suggested, “Perhaps you would care to wait in the parlor.”
“That will be fine,” Olive replied.
Thomas ushered the halfling into the next room, where she sat on a low footstool. Her posture, so perfectly straight and still, reminded Thomas of Giogi’s Aunt Dorath, and her tone and demeanor were so solemn that Thomas grew more than concerned; he became alarmed.
This Olive Ruskettle was nothing like any of the halflings Thomas had ever met before. What sort of awful business could she possibly have with my master? he wondered as he hurried from the parlor.
Without rising, Olive surveyed the plush room around her. The boy has money, all right, she decided. And taste, too, she added upon catching sight of a marble statue of Selune. I do believe that’s an original Cledwyll. Overly endowed and scantily clad. Yes, definitely a Cledwyll. How extraordinary.
Olive looked down at her dress. The pin was still firmly in place, as was her determination. She had to throw herself into this role, she thought. How does one play a Harper? Should she act certain and serious, like all the archetypal, snooty paladins she’d known as a child, or did she dare model herself after the Saurial paladin Dragonbait, who’d befriended Alias, and add a touch of concern and self-effacing humor?
What would Dragonbait do in this situation? she wondered. Probably track Flattery down and run him through with a sword, she answered sternly.
All right, but what would he do if he were me? He wouldn’t say much, she thought, allowing herself a slight grin. Dragonbait was mute, which was part of his charm and mystique, Olive realized. He didn’t babble. Try not to babble, Olive-girl, she ordered herself. Get to the point.
Then again, it might not be a good idea to fire on Giogi suddenly. Might spook him. Try a little polite conversation first. Hello. So sorry to hear about good old Drone. How’s the rest of your family? Then let Giogi know his houseguest is married to a murdering dog who happens to be a relative.
Giogioni did not keep Olive waiting long, and the genuine smile he wore as he entered the parlor did a lot to bolster Olive’s confidence.
“Mistress Ruskettle, what an honor! I’d heard you were in Immersea,” the young man said.
“I’m so pleased you remember me, Master Giogioni. Our last meeting, at your cousin’s wedding, was so brief,” Olive replied, holding out her hand.
Giogioni took the tiny fingers in his own and bowed low over the half ling’s hand. He released her and stepped back. “It would be impossible to forget a songstress with your talent, and, of course, the day was, um, memorable for other reasons.”
“Yes,” Olive said, nodding. “There was that unfortunate attack on your life.”
“Well, Sage Dimswart did explain that your friend, Alias, was under a curse. I don’t blame her.”
“That’s very civil of you, Master Giogioni. I’m pleased to say that we did manage to find a cure for Alias.”
“Oh, that’s marvelous,” Giogi said, seating himself across from the bard. “Tell me, is she in Immersea as well?” he asked, testing his theory that Alias had stolen the spur.
Olive shook her head. “No. She’s wintering in Shadowdale.”
“Oh.” Giogi’s brow furrowed for a moment, but he recovered from his disappointment quickly.
Olive went on to a new topic. “I heard that your grandfather’s cousin, Drone Wyvernspur, has passed on. May I extend my condolences,” she said. “I understand you were very close to him.”
“Thank you,” Giogi replied. He looked away from Olive and stared into the flames in the fireplace. Olive could see moisture sparkling in his eyes. After a few moments, the nobleman turned to face his guest once again. “It came as quite a shock. He was more than a cousin to me. He and my Aunt Dorath raised me after both my parents died. I always called him Uncle Drone. He was a little absentminded but always very kind.”
“Your family is in the midst of another tragedy as well, I understand,” Olive commented.
“An heirloom is missing, which, according to legend, is supposed to ensure that our line never dies out. The family’s a bit on edge, what with its disappearance and Drone’s death. You know, Mistress Ruskettle, it’s really most extraordinary that you should have come to visit me this morning. You see, I was planning to come speak with you about the spur.”
Olive managed to hide her surprise. There would be time enough to find out what Giogi thought she knew.
“Perhaps my coming isn’t as extraordinary as you might think,”
the halfling said with a knowing smile. She raised her right hand to the Harper’s pin and fiddled with it, seemingly absentmindedly. Then she let her hand rest back in her lap. “Perhaps you are already aware, Master Giogioni, that the wyvern’s spur has attracted the attention of a certain powerful and dangerous wizard.”
Giogi gulped. “You mean Flattery?” he squeaked. “Precisely,” Olive replied, leaning forward in her chair. Without realizing it, Giogi leaned forward in response.
“Perhaps it’s time I got to the point, Master Giogioni. This Flattery murdered my partner, and my organization cannot let his crime go unpunished.”
“Your organization—excuse me, but I couldn’t help noticing; that is a Harper’s pin you’re wearing, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Master Giogioni, it is.”
“I hadn’t realized … You weren’t wearing one at Freffie’s wedding last spring.”
Olive sighed and smiled. “Those were less fateful days.”
The door to the parlor opened, and Cat breezed in. She wore a cream-colored morning dress replete with pink ribbon-roses and white beadwork ferns. She wore her copper-colored hair in an elaborate five-strand Sembian braid that hung halfway down her back.
She slipped behind Giogi and took up the braided lock of his hair. It was obvious from her behavior that she did not notice the halfling visitor on the footstool across from Giogi’s chair. She held out three small green beads. “I found these in my bed,” she said with a smile, then began sliding them into the nobleman’s hair.
Giogi colored visibly. He rose and turned Cat to face Olive. “We have company, my dear. Mistress Ruskettle, may I present to you—”
“Cat the mage, apprentice to the wizard Flattery,” Olive finished for him, her tone chill.
Cat was taken aback at discovering that her flirtation not only had an audience, but one who knew too much about her. Nervously she slipped one of her hands into Giogi’s.
“Um, well, she’s decided to leave Flattery,” Giogi reported. “She’s here under my protection.”
“A wise decision, Mistress Cat,” the halfling said, nodding sagely. “And not a moment too soon,” she added.
