Isiilde muttered an oath under her breath and stood on her tippy toes, searching for Marsais in the busy shop. She spotted his tattered grey cloak in the crowd, where he was conversing with an ill-mannered Xaionian. She started towards him when the Fates conspired against her. Someone chose that inopportune time to open a jar of grave ash. A fit of sneezing overtook her, accompanied by three bursts of very noticeable flame puffing from her ears.
“Isiilde,” Zianna exclaimed, loudly. “Why if it isn’t everyone’s favorite nymph.” Every pair of eyes in the shop looked to Zianna and followed her calculating gaze to the redhead. “We’ve all missed you this past week.” Zianna detached herself from Taal’s arm, leaning in to kiss the air over Isiilde’s cheeks.
“You have?” Isiilde asked, carefully, wanting more than anything to believe the older woman.
“Of course, lectures are so dull when you’re not around. It’s been quiet without you—almost peaceful.” Most of the onlookers had moved on, but a few eyes lingered on the faerie.
“Isiilde, you’re looking lovely today,” Taal Greysparrow said, greeting her with a bow, which she returned with a bobbing curtsy.
“Taal, what was that assistant telling us about faeries?” Zianna inquired ever so sweetly. The Wise One seemed hesitant to answer, so his apprentice answered for him. “See that jar of Wisp wings over there? It fetches a small fortune. Anything from a faerie is particularly potent in a potion. Your race is highly sought after for a source of ingredients. I wonder what a nymph would fetch?” Before Isiilde could protest, Zianna wrapped her arm amiably around her slender shoulders, and turned her towards the counter, catching the assistant’s eye.
“Tell me, what potions are being made out of nymphs?”
“A single strand of their hair makes a powerful love potion.” The tattooed Xaionian fixed his hungry gaze on the nymph, studying her exposed features with the same fascination that people reserved for oddities at a performance.
“Really, a love potion? How quaint,” Zianna purred.
“There’s nothing trivial about it, m’lady. A single strand of her hair would fetch ten crown and if she be a virgin, then a hundred,” the assistant supplied. Isiilde paled at his words and her skin crawled with revulsion.
“Of course you’re a virgin, aren’t you dear, or Oenghus’ head would be on a pike,” Zianna remarked, laughing at her own observation. “You could start selling yourself a piece at a time, Isiilde. I think that’s splendid news, don’t you, Taal?”
Isiilde pressed her lips together, swallowing down a lump in her throat. Taal frowned, and then his eyes widened with surprise when he noticed the vagabond who stepped beside Isiilde. It took a long moment before recognition shone in Zianna’s glittering eyes. Isiilde edged closer to her master, wiping away the single tear that had escaped.
“Hmm, please don’t let me interrupt your conversation.”
“I wouldn’t dream of wasting your precious time with trivial matters, Archlord,” Zianna replied, smoothly, offering Marsais a hand and a curtsy, putting her attributes fully on display for his perusal. However, Marsais ignored the swath of pale bosom, staring instead at her offered appendage as if it were blighted. Zianna smiled charmingly back and withdrew her hand.
“I wasn’t aware you were back, Archlord. You look like you just got off the boat,” Taal interjected, diffusing the awkward moment.
“Oh, I got off ages ago,” Marsais muttered.
Zianna ignored his vague remark. “Did you have a pleasant trip?”
As much as the woman made her life unpleasant, Isiilde was ever in awe of the way she carried herself. The suggestive eyes and coy smile that she directed at the Archlord were impressive. As was the subtle way she put her attributes in full view, so any man would be hard pressed to miss her sweeping neckline as they bent to kiss her hand. The effect appeared to be lost on Marsais.
“Not until I arrived on a small beach yesterday,” Marsais replied, slipping Isiilde’s arm through his. “Would you excuse us?” Taal nodded and Marsais turned to leave when a muffled scream pierced the air. Startled, Isiilde turned to find the Xaionian assistant curled at her feet, clutching his hand in agony, which was as black and cracked as a charred log.
“Stealing is illegal, sir,” Marsais informed him calmly, gazing down at the man with thoughtful contemplation.
“What’d you do!” the Xaionian gasped.
“Did I do something?” Marsais glanced around in surprise.
A ring of customers formed around the scene, calls of alarm rippled through the tent, and the guards soon appeared, pushing past the gathered crowd.
“I only wanted a strand!” the assistant screeched. Isiilde scuttled behind Marsais, all too aware of the gathered crowd and their stares.
“So you admit to attempted theft?” Marsais mused.
“She’s only a nymph,” the assistant snarled through clenched teeth.
“Did you do this?” A fearsome guard, encased in armor modeled after a scorpion, stepped forward. The guard only came to the Archlord’s chin, and tried to make up for the difference with his threatening posture.
“Hmm, I was conversing with these two and my back was to the fellow. If I did do anything, then it’d be quite a feat, wouldn’t you agree? Perhaps it was divine intervention.” The guard turned to Taal looking for confirmation.
“It’s true. When it happened, he was conversing with my apprentice.” Taal’s pale blue eyes flickered uneasily over to Marsais.
“This could get rather troublesome,” Marsais remarked, as casually as if he were discussing the weather. “Where nymphs are involved, paladins must be. I’m sure they’d love an excuse to gain entrance into this particular pavilion.” This reasoning, along with the Xaionian’s admittance to attempted theft, quickly settled the issue.
“Move along then,” the armored scorpion ordered. “All of you, get moving, there’s nothing more to see.”
“I’m no expert, but this fellow might benefit from serving a month of penance at a temple dedicated to Chaim. I’m sure everything will clear itself up.” That said, Marsais led her away from the gathered crowd as she fought against a wave of threatening tears.
“O come now,” Marsais sighed. “If you start crying then I’ll be forced to sing.” Isiilde laughed through her tears, dabbing at them with his offered handkerchief. Unfortunately, her tears didn’t dry up fast enough so he cleared his throat and launched into his favorite ballad about the Mule King.
Marsais couldn’t hold a tune to save his life. Furthermore, whenever he forgot a verse, which was quite a lot, he filled it in with a tuneless hum. He earned a number of irritated stares for his heartfelt rendition of the whimsical tune. And eventually her tears turned to laughter.
“For the love of all that is good, Marsais, please stop now,” she giggled. He peered skeptically at her for a few moments before granting her request.
Isiilde glanced furtively around before whispering in her master’s ear, “What did you do to that man?”
“It was just a trick, an illusion that will dissipate in a month, whether he does penance at a temple or not,” he whispered, barely managing to contain his amusement.
“But he was in pain,” she objected. “Wasn’t he?”
Marsais tapped his head in answer. “Pain often lives in your mind as much as your body—sometimes more.”
“Not for a nymph,” she grimaced. “My toe still hurts.”
“Ah, but—” He held up a graceful finger. “Did you feel the sting in your toe when my singing held you so captivated?”
“I was being distracted by a more acute pain in my poor ears.”
“I do agree, listening to Zianna is rather tiresome,” he replied, eyes twinkling along with her lilting laughter.
“Come, my dear, there is someone I’d like you to meet. I assure you he won’t be so rude—well not intentionally.” Marsais led her through the crowd until they came to a refuse heap. Why there was a pile of junk inside the bazaar, she had
no idea.
On further inspection, she realized that it was not as she first thought. On second glance, it was still a junk heap, only now a soused dwarf was busily rummaging through the pile like a deranged badger. Isiilde frowned, arching a brow up at Marsais in question. She realized this was exactly where he intended to go.
“Did you lose something again, old friend?” Marsais’ inquiry startled the dwarf, so much so that he spun around clutching his stubby hands over his heart.
“Blast it!” the dwarf spluttered, searching through his pockets until he pulled out a pair of spectacles. “Well, bust me britches! If it isn’t my favorite crazed seer—this calls for a drink.” Isiilde immediately thought that Oenghus would get along well with the man.
“Hmm, a lady is present,” Marsais pointed out. The dwarf squinted at the nymph and quickly lifted up his spectacles to get a better look. “My dear, allow me to present Witman the self-proclaimed Wondrous.”
Isiilde blinked when she heard the name. She wouldn’t have believed it if Marsais hadn’t said so. Witman the Wondrous was a legendary enchanter, known throughout Fyrsta and beyond, so it was rumored. Witman grunted as he smoothed the sparse strands of hair that remained on his balding pate.
“Witman, may I introduce Isiilde Jaal’Yasine, an extraordinarily gifted apprentice.”
Isiilde curtsied, smiling in greeting. The dwarf looked from her to the towering Wise One, his mouth hanging slightly ajar in dumbfounded shock.
“A nymph Wise One?” Witman snorted, and then shook himself like a wet animal when Marsais nodded in reply. “Oh my—I need a drink, lady or no.” Witman turned towards his junk pile, attacking it with renewed ferocity.
“Maybe it’s in your vest?” She pointed at a squarish outline in the pocket of his bright green vest, which was covered with little yellow flowers and dubious stains. The dwarf spun around, patting at his pockets. Finally, he tugged a battered flask free with a triumphant cry.
“You’re a sharp one—course you’d have to be with that madcap,” Witman said before taking a long swig from the flask. “O how rude, how rude.” He straightened his vest and motioned them forward. “Come into my shop, please, come in, I don’t want them staring.” He led them behind a little wall of junk, and once inside, he sat down on a squat barrel. Isiilde started coughing, concealing a fit of giggles as she sat on a nearby crate. It would, after all, be rude to laugh at his shop.
“I’m surprised you aren’t in Iilenshar,” Marsais said, settling himself on a pile of sacks before stretching out his long legs.
“Bah! I’m not their personal enchanter. The Guardians can kiss my arse.” Witman spat, shifted uncomfortably, and glanced towards the shadows. “You think they heard that?”
“Hmm, always possible I suppose.”
“I was joking,” the dwarf sputtered, taking another swig to clear his head.
“Is that who’s watching you?” Isiilde asked.
“No lass, it’s those vile sneaky little gnomes and those wretched paladins, and—” he paused to lick his lips and leaned closer with the air of a conspirator, “—others.”
“Others is a fairly broad term,” she pointed out.
“Exactly!” The dwarf bounded to his feet, knocking over a barrel of fish heads in his excitement. Marsais suddenly found an earth shattering portent to study in the slimy pile.
“See, he knows,” Witman exclaimed, stabbing a thick finger towards the rangy seer. “They trick him all the time, picking at his brain like leeches!”
The nymph wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like leeches.”
“Smart girl,” Witman stated, nodding his approval. “But don’t fret. I’m working on something that will keep them at bay.”
“What is it?”
“Shh,” Witman quickly shushed her, frantically waving his short arms. “Not too loud,” he said out of the corner of his mouth, blood shot eyes darting from one corner to the next.
Marsais snapped out of his momentary lapse and glanced around with confusion. “What are we whispering about?” he whispered. Witman nodded conspiratorially to the nymph before taking another swig from his flask.
“The leeches,” she answered.
“Blast!” Marsais surged to his feet, batting violently at his clothes. Isiilde couldn’t help but laugh at his frantic movements. “I hate leeches.”
“Smart lad,” Witman grunted. Isiilde had never heard Marsais referred to as a lad. She wondered how old Witman was.
When Marsais had assured himself that there were no leeches clinging to his body, he asked, “Curse it Witman, what in the Nine Halls are you drinking?”
“Nothing.” The dwarf glared at Marsais, clutching his flask protectively to his chest.
“Hmm.” Marsais was dubious, and rightly so.
“Nothing the Archlord of a law abiding Isle needs to know about.” Witman pressed the flask to his lips again, taking a long swig as if he feared the Archlord would confiscate the illegal spirits.
“Ah, well should I come back then?”
“Do I owe you coin?” Witman demanded.
“No.”
“Did you commission me for an item?”
“No, I want to show you something.”
“Save it for the ladies.” Witman began chortling, drooling on his grey beard.
“Save what?” the nymph inquired, but no one offered her an answer.
“Could we step into your workshop?”
“Keep it down, you bag of bones. If you’re going to go blabberin’ all my secrets, I’m thinking I might just deny you the honor.” Witman crossed his arms.
“That would be unfortunate, as the matter is rather important.”
“Can’t be all that.”
Marsais glared down his sharp nose at the stubborn enchanter. After a brief internal debate, he reached into his belt pouch and withdrew three smooth discs. The discs were pearlescent, perfectly round, and utterly flat.
Witman’s eyes narrowed and then widened in surprise. “By the Keeper’s moon.”
“What are they?” Isiilde asked.
“Mere trinkets from the Bastardlands,” Marsais murmured, folding his fingers around the discs before she could investigate further.
Whether the trinkets were payment, or the matter of import, Isiilde did not know, but they sparked a flurry of activity. The dwarf began rifling through his pockets, muttering under his breath as he searched for only the gods knew what. Apparently, Marsais knew what, because he joined Witman’s mysterious search, sifting through the pile of junk with methodical purpose. Isiilde pursed her lips, watching the two absentminded ancients.
“Do you misplace your workshop often, sir?” she asked, carefully.
“No, come to think of it I don’t,” Witman said, smoothing the two remaining strands of hair over the top of his head. “They must have took it—Blast them all to the Pits, they took it!”
“They did not take it,” Marsais replied with patient exasperation.
“Take what?”
“A piece of chalk.” Her master’s reply did little to clarify things.
“Shh!” For a moment, she feared Witman would charge Marsais.
“You mean this chalk?” It was lying in the dirt by her foot and she picked it up, showing the enraged dwarf.
“Aha!” Witman did not charge Marsais, however, he charged the nymph. In face of the barreling dwarf she abandoned the chalk, throwing herself off the crate. It was probably a good thing she had, because Witman used the crate to stop as he snatched up his treasured piece of chalk.
“That’s it—I need an apprentice. Can I have yours, laddie?”
“You most certainly cannot,” Marsais stated, firmly, running his eyes over Isiilde to ensure that she was uninjured. However, he did not offer his hand to assist her. Come to think of it, she could not recall a single instance, in the twelve years that he had known her, when he had so much as brushed her skin. The thought startled Isiilde, and as she looked back over the years, she realized that he ofte
n went out of his way to avoid direct contact.
Maybe nymphs had some kind of disease, she thought glumly.
“I’m rather partial to this one.” He returned her look of confusion with a twitch of his lips.
“Oh.” Witman scratched his beard in puzzlement, abandoning his bright idea as fast as it had come. “I doubt another would do.”
“Very doubtful,” Marsais agreed. The dwarf disappeared behind a curtain, which blocked nothing more than an unremarkable segment of the pavilion wall.
Marsais stroked his braid as he gazed at the curtain. “I think it wise if you wait out here, my dear. You’ll be safe in his shop.” She looked around at his ‘shop’, but was far too polite to point out that it was more akin to a garbage heap.
“Are these illusions?” she asked, suddenly.
“Would you believe me if I told you the fish heads were actually gems?”
She sniffed at the barrel’s spilled contents. “Not really.”
“Good, because they’re not,” her master grinned. “Remember, Isiilde, you’re faerie, always trust your instincts.”
With that he disappeared behind the curtain. She counted to five really fast and hurried over to peek around the tattered thing, only to discover that dwarf and seer were gone. She walked through the curtain, poked at the pavilion wall, looked under the tent and out towards the fairgrounds, and finally gave up her explorations, seething with frustration.
Isiilde plopped down on a crate, glaring mightily at the threadbare barrier. Perhaps some type of rune or spoken word was required to activate an unknown enchantment? She attempted a number of words, speaking the Lore softly into the clutter, but quickly gave up when something else caught her ever roaming attention: the floating bubbles of light that drifted high overhead.
Isiilde had no way of knowing if Marsais was watching, so for curiosity’s sake she assumed he was, which gave her leave to practice her levitation weave. If she stayed in the middle of the garbage heap then she wouldn’t be leaving Witman’s shop, thus, she would not be disobeying Marsais. After all, he hadn’t told her to stay on the ground. Without further thought she invoked the Lore, fingers weaving the runes with quick confidence.
A Thread in the Tangle Page 14
