The Curse of Immortality

by Jeffrey Getzin

  “We’re professionals,” she said to clarify. The man had to be a foreigner if he didn’t recognize the yellow dresses.

  “Professional …?” D’Arbignal prompted. “… blacksmiths? Professional cobblers? Professional magicians?”

  “Whores,” Fancy said.

  Belle hastened to add, “We’re entertainers, luv. Our job is to keep a handsome fellow like you happy and amused.” She flashed a glare at Fancy. “In any way the gentleman wants.”

  “So, wait,” D’Arbignal said, getting it at last. “You ladies are prostitutes?”

  “Nothing gets past you, does it, dear?” Belle said. “You’re not a priest, are you? Have something against a girl doing honest work for a bit of coin?”

  “I? A priest? Hardly!” D’Arbignal said. He raised a single finger. “Though I did impersonate one and once nearly got hanged for it.”

  “You didn’t!” Fancy said, astonished. Wow, she was turning into a real chatterbox.

  He nodded solemnly. “But besides, who am I to judge you two? I mainly get paid for sticking people with the pointy end of a rapier.” He grasped the hilt of his sword as he said this. “At least the work you do doesn’t hurt anybody.”

  A professional swordsman? Uh oh. Piter was planning to ambush him …

  “You two get nice and comfortable,” Belle said, getting up. “I need to go check on the wine.”

  “But wait!” D’Arbignal said, waving his hands urgently. “Wait! You need to see this. I’ve been working on a magic trick and it requires the assistance of two beautiful women. If you leave, it’ll fail miserably and I’ll look the drunken fool that I am!”

  Belle hesitated and D’Arbignal seemed to take that as consent. He had dangling from his belt a half-full canvas bag. He unfastened it from his belt and began to untie it. As he did, Belle noticed a row of sickly-green stitching and she wondered why a man who could obviously afford the finest in clothing would bother to retain such a shabby bag.

  D’Arbignal giggled with the enthusiasm of a young boy. “You must see this trick. It’s sure to entrance and amaze you in equal measure!”

  D’Arbignal withdrew a glass vial from the bag and showed it to the two women. The vial contained about four fingers’ worth of what looked to be ordinary water, clear, such as that drawn from a well. It was sealed with a metal cap. He placed the vial onto the wooden table with a clunk. He returned to the bag and withdrew a second vial, with identical contents and metal cap. Then he withdrew a third, a fourth, and finally, a fifth.

  Belle stared at the vials, perplexed. They were made of glass and metal, so why hadn’t she heard them clanking around in the bag?

  Ah, she realized, they were probably wrapped in cloth. That was it.

  D’Arbignal shuffled the vials on the table as though it were a shell game. Their bottoms scraped along the scarred wood of the table. He continued shuffling for nearly a minute.

  D’Arbignal looked up at Fancy now.

  “Young lady …” he started.

  “Fancy,” Fancy told him.

  His smile faltered and his eyes widened as though he had been kicked in the gut. “Pardon?”

  “Her name is Fancy,” Belle said.

  D’Arbignal stared at her levelly. “Of course. Naturally.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  D’Arbignal stared at Fancy for a moment longer and grinned.

  “None at all!” he said. “Fancy is a beautiful name, which is only fitting for such a beautiful girl.”

  “I’m a woman,” Fancy said.

  “Of course,” he said, touching his forehead apologetically. “I meant no disrespect. You are indeed a woman, and one of astonishing grace and charm. Just the kind of woman I need to assist me with my trick. Would you be so kind?”

  Fancy gave Belle an are you kidding me? expression but she shrugged.

  “All right,” Fancy said suspiciously. “What do I do?”

  D’Arbignal grinned broadly as though unbearably pleased with himself. He arranged the glass vials into a straight line on the table.

  “Pick a bottle,” D’Arbignal said. “Any bottle.”

  Fancy studied the vials for a moment, then looked up to D’Arbignal. They held eye contact for several seconds. At last, Fancy broke the contact and tapped the third vial from the left.

  D’Arbignal slid the tapped vial forward from the others by a couple of inches.

  “A splendid selection!” he said. “You are wise as well as beautiful.”

  “Now you …” he trailed off, looking to Belle.

  “Belle,” she said.

  “Ah, splendid! Belle!” He kissed his fingers as though savoring a wine. “Belle, would you be so kind as to select another bottle?”

  Belle hesitated only briefly before touching the vial closest to her, which was the rightmost one.

  “An excellent selection, fair lady,” D’Arbignal said and slid that one forward. “Now, observe!”

  D’Arbignal brought the two vials closer to him. He picked up one of them and delicately unscrewed the cap with his gloved hand.

  “In this bottle is what appears to be ordinary water,” he said.

  He tossed back the vial and drank its contents in two quick gulps. He smacked his lips theatrically and placed the empty bottle back onto the table.

  “Delicious!” he said.

  “I don’t get it,” Fancy said. “What’s the trick?”

  D’Arbignal didn’t answer her but instead picked up the second vial. He raised and lowered his eyebrows knowingly and then slowly unscrewed the cap.

  He gestured at the opened vial with his free hand as though presenting the lady who had been a tiger but a few moments earlier. He winked, and then quickly drank the contents of the bottle and placed the empty one next to its predecessor.

  After a moment, D’Arbignal’s already-manic grin widened even further.

  “Ta-da!” he declared and stood as though awaiting an ovation.

  “I still don’t get it,” Fancy said.

  “Hmmm …” D’Arbignal mused. “You’re right. Something’s missing.”

  He stared at Fancy critically and then reached for her face. She drew back, raising her hands defensively. D’Arbignal’s arm remained extended. The lacy frill of his oh-so-white shirt extended from the sleeve of his jacket.

  Belle nodded. “I think it’s ok,” she said to Fancy.

  D’Arbignal reached past Fancy’s head and withdrew a shiny copper coin from behind her ear.

  “I can see why you have Fancy as your friend,” D’Arbignal quipped. “She obviously comes from money.”

  “He knows I’m a whore, right?” Fancy asked Belle.

  Belle shrugged. She wasn’t sure of anything right now.

  D’Arbignal placed the copper coin onto the table. He then picked up one of the three remaining vials, uncapped it, and poured a drop of its clear contents onto the copper coin.

  The coin began to smoke and sizzle. This continued for four or five seconds before gradually dying down and ceasing.

  “What …?” Fancy started but trailed off.

  D’Arbignal repeated the action with the second unselected vial. The coin sizzled while he resealed the two bottles. He opened the last remaining vial and poured a drop. The coin sizzled once more.

  “Regent’s Lament,” D’Arbignal proclaimed darkly as he capped that last vial, and then the two empty vials from which he had drunk. “Very powerful acid. Indistinguishable from water.”

  Fancy whistled appreciatively.

  “Nice trick,” she admitted. “How did you get us to pick the safe bottles?”

  Belle had a sudden and urgent premonition of doom and disaster. She couldn’t place why but it frightened her.

  “I have no idea whatsoever!” D’Arbignal said, laughing.

  “What do you mean?”

  Belle thought she understood. “It means that he didn’t trick us into tapping the safe bottles. That was pure chance, wasn’t it?”

  He chuc
kled like a mischievous child but didn’t answer her. His expression was desperately manic, and, she thought, possibly deranged.

  “I don’t know,” he said, a mysterious glint in his eye. “Was it?”

  4

  When Belle slipped out of the private room, she found that the tone at the Welcoming Arms had changed. Most of the dining customers had vanished and there was a cluster of men gathered around the bar, talking in muted tones. Belle planned at first to slip by them and out the door so that she could warn Piter that D’Arbignal was a professional killer. However, as she made her way toward the door, there was something so conspiratorial that she couldn’t resist slowing her pace and listening in just a bit.

  “… one man, and not much to him at that. How much of a fight could he put up?” The man who was talking sniffed. “Not much o’ one, I’d bet.”

  Another customer leaned in: a slim older man, slightly out of breath. He jerked his thumb back toward the private room. “Yeah, but he’s got a sword.”

  “Naw, that’s a toothpick,” the first man said. “My cock’s bigger than that.”

  Now Belle noticed that Werewolf was there, muttonchops and all. He leaned in, too.

  “Your cock might be,” he said, “but your brain isn’t. A sword’s a sword and yer a fool if you think you can take him without weapons.”

  “No weapons!” the slim man said, still catching his breath. “The notice says Alive and it’s got to be alive.”

  “The fuck’s the good of a reward,” challenged Werewolf, “if yer so full of holes yea can’t spend it?”

  Ok, this did not sound good. Not only was the mark armed, but it seemed like some others were getting similar ideas about him.

  What in the hells was happening to this town? There had always been the odd bit of thuggery and highway robbery but two attempts on the same guy within the same evening?

  She had to warn Piter. If he ran into this lot when she could have warned him he’d have her hide for sure.

  She picked up her pace … and was just about to reach for the door when she saw the parchment at the end of the bar, weighted down with four tankards. The first word of the notice said “WANTED”, which was unusual but not unheard-of. But the picture caused her to do a double-take.

  It was the mark, D’Arbignal! She was certain! He had the same thin mustache, the same laugh lines around the eyes. The picture even had him wearing that crazy plumed hat!

  She craned her neck to make out the words on the notice. Her eyes widened as she read them:

  WANTED

  SAMUEL COOPER

  (who sometimes goes by the name D’Arbignal)

  A BOUNTY of THIRTY GOLDEN LIONS

  will be paid to the intrepid individual who can produce

  ALIVE ONLY

  the aforementioned man

  TO

  Captain Willow of Bryanae

  Thirty gold lions? Belle whistled tunelessly. That was an unheard-of amount. With that kind of money, Belle could get off the streets permanently, maybe set up a little shop. Possibly even get married …

  The man who had sniffed as she walked by looked up at her when she whistled. His eyes narrowed in outrage.

  “Oi! What’ve we got here?” he said, grabbing her by the neck of her yellow dress. “A whore with big ears?”

  She staggered, backed up against the door. Without looking down, she felt for the latch with her right hand.

  Werewolf looked up and sneered when he saw her. He shook his head.

  “I knew it was a bad idea letting you in here,” he said.

  “I didn’t see anything!” she said.

  She found the latch and pulled on it. It was stuck.

  The man who held her had a cadaverous-looking face: pale complexion and hollow cheeks. He sniffed, dragged her away from the door, and shoved her against a nearby wall instead.

  “If you didn’t see anything,” Werewolf said, “why’re you trying to sneak out all quiet-like? I’m sure it has nothing to do with yer customer in the other room.”

  “Look,” Belle said reasonably. “I’ll just go back into the room and distract him while you set up.”

  “What? And warn your customer?” Werewolf said. “No chance of that, is there?”

  One of the other men drew a stiletto, looking at Belle with cold, cold eyes. Belle shrank from the blade even though the man was well over a dozen paces from her.

  “You don’t want to do anything rash now …” Belle said. She fumbled for a reason why they didn’t want to do anything rash.

  “ ’course we do, luv,” Werewolf said as he approached her. He smiled that horrible rotten smile again.

  Belle was starting to hyperventilate. Her mind raced. As far as she could tell, she had two options: make a dash for D’Arbignal and hope he would protect her or have another go at the door and try to reach Piter. Neither seemed particularly likely to succeed.

  “Come on, Wolf,” she said. “Be reas—AHHH!”

  She cried out in pain as Werewolf grabbed her by the ear and twisted. She fell to her knees. Tears fell to the floor.

  “I know what yer thinking,” Werewolf said. He extended his palm and the man with the stiletto passed it to him. “You’re thinking that Piter will make us pay, but see, you’re right. But if we was to have the thirty gold, that wouldn’t be no bother. ’sides, what’s a used-up old whore like you worth to him? What are you: thirty?”

  She was thirty-five, which was ancient as prostitutes go, but she wasn’t about to tell Werewolf that.

  “Come on, Wolf,” Belle pleaded. “I’ll pay you.”

  “What, thirty lions?”

  “No, b-b-but I c-c-can p-pay in trade!”

  Werewolf laughed and then the other men were laughing, too.

  “In trade?” he mocked her. “You’d have to suck my cock three times a day, every day, for fifty years!”

  “Please …” She clutched at his pants leg but he pulled her off him by her hair. She cried out.

  “Thirty gold pieces?” D’Arbignal exclaimed, incredulous. “Those niggardly tightwads! After all we’ve been through together, they only think I’m worth thirty pieces of gold?! I find that highly offensive!”

  The men stared at him in astonished silence. D’Arbignal looked confused.

  “What?” he said. “I don’t have something stuck in my teeth, do I?” He grabbed a half-full glass and tried to inspect his mouth in the reflection.

  “He’s caught us,” the cadaverous man said.

  “I can tell you’re the brains of the operation,” D’Arbignal said, still examining his teeth. He put the glass down. He addressed Werewolf: “Anyway, I just popped out to make sure you haven’t forgotten the wine. We’re working up a powerful thirst in there.”

  “Right away, sir,” Werewolf said without inflection. He seemed aware of the absurdity of what he was saying yet unable to stop himself.

  D’Arbignal smiled broadly. “Great. Thanks!”

  He headed back toward the private room and Belle’s heart sunk. For a moment, she had thought this had been a rescue.

  “Oh, by the way,” D’Arbignal said, halting. “I would hurry up capturing me if I were you. The assassins should already be on their way.”

  He returned to the private room, muttering. “Thirty gold lions … Incredible. I spend more than that each year getting my hair cut …”

  He shut the door behind him.

  5

  “Stick a prick up Diagal’s anus …” the cadaverous man said. He half-heartedly shoved Belle to the floor and turned away. “The fuck just happened?”

  Werewolf took a half-dozen steps toward the back room and stood there indecisively. “Did he just tell us to hurry up and capture him?”

  “Sure sounded that way to me,” one of the other men said.

  The group slowly moved to join Werewolf. One of them men grabbed the notice from the bar and scrutinized it, squinting. “Does it say something about assassins on this somewhere?”

  “Naw,�
�� Werewolf said. “It doesn’t.”

  Werewolf took another step toward the door, hesitated, and then walked the rest of the way. The small mob followed nervously. The man with the notice said, “You’re sure it says nothing about assassins?”

  Werewolf shook his head but didn’t reply. He put his ear against the door.

  “Whatya hear?” one of the mob called out.

  Werewolf looked up in irritation. “Nothing with you shouting. Shut it!”

  He reached for the door knob then hesitated. Looking unsure, he seemed to surprise himself by knocking on the door. He shook his head at his own idiocy.

  He reached for the knob again and again pulled away.

  “You guys,” he said, pointing. “Get around me. Bring that knife. Also, grab the billy club from beneath the bar.”

  The cadaverous man went back for the weapons while the others nervously gathered by the door.

  “You think he was just bluffing about the assassins?” said the man with the notice.

  Werewolf looked at him as though he were the stupidest person on the planet. “What do you think?”

  “All right, all right,” the man placated. “No need to get offended. I was just axing is all.”

  Cadaverous man came back from around the bar carrying Werewolf’s billy club. He brought it to Werewolf and handed it to him. “How do you want to play this?”

  Werewolf stopped to think. “We have him in numbers. We also have him out-weaponed …”

  Belle felt a tap on her shoulder and she almost cried out.

  Almost, but didn’t. She looked up to see D’Arbignal grinning conspiratorially behind her. He held up a single finger to his lips and pointed to the window beside him, which was open. With a quick gesture, he indicated that she should use it to climb out.

  Belle numbly removed her chopines and walked to the window in her stocking feet. Meanwhile, D’Arbignal eased his thin sword soundlessly from its sheath.

  The aroma of alcohol was still strong about him but his eyes gleamed sharply, as though the bare steel of his blade had somehow focused his concentration.

  Belle threw one leg over the sill but froze.

  “Hey,” she whispered to D’Arbignal. He glanced at her with mild surprise. She half-mouthed, half-whispered the word, “Fancy.”