“We couldn’t very well deliver them to the bailey warden,” Torkoth whispered. “He must be the one with loose lips!”
The short trip was bittersweet for the Acaanan. With each step the threat of Ebon Myre receded, and the promise of the sorely missed Goblin Knight loomed that much closer. But the price of that comfort was levied with each painful pace that wracked her ailing ankle. The swelling hadn’t diminished at all with the day’s reprieve.
The two reached the Seventh Circle inconspicuously. They were but two grains on a beach of gray sand. Torkoth led the Acaanan through the front entrance. She kept her eyes firmly planted on his boots as he led her directly across the main hall and up the grand stairs. Evidently he had bought two tickets in advance, a wise foresight. She took in nothing of the edifice’s exquisite architecture including the giant statue. But she now felt extremely uncomfortable. To maintain her umbrella within the station was a glaring red flag. She bit her lip and slithered through the ticket counter behind her companion.
They loitered at the distant end of the boarding platform while waiting for the next train to safety. Their position was intentionally chosen as it was the only place on the platform exposed to the wind. Anyone observing them would assume she kept the umbrella hoisted to keep the bitter wind off her cheeks.
As they waited, the mist clouding her mind steadily thinned. For the first time, she noticed that the Half-man was actually alone.
“What happened to the girl?” she asked.
“Sarah? I know where to find her when I return.”
Lakif blinked with surprise. She wanted to glean her partner’s expression but kept her head buried in the umbrella’s corrugated cone. As Torkoth had shed his umbrella, he was apparently keeping a watchful eye peeled—for trouble.
“You’re coming back?”
“I have unfinished business here,” he added curtly.
Lakif chewed on the revelation. It was obvious that the Half-man had bonded with the gamine. But how far was he willing to take this? Would he adopt the girl when he returned?
A nerve-tearing screech jolted her back from supposition. The Leviathan was chugging to a stop. The construct’s caterwaul had never sounded so welcome.
As was always the case, the return voyage to the Third Circle Station sped by faster than the first trip. While every minute was as asphyxiating and insufferable, the Acaanan wasn’t nearly as perturbed as before. Her mind dwelled not on stank breath or crammed bodies, but on the miraculous treasure hidden in her inner pocket. The city speeding past wasn’t merely whirring scenery but fleeting images of a grand future that was hers to conquer.
But at present, the Rare Earth Stone was as useful to her as it was to the abbot. Now she must launch into the second leg of her goal. A trip to the Vulcan was finally in order.
Lakif was mildly surprised when her partner coaxed her from the train. As she hadn’t been praying for each stop, she failed to recognize the appointed station. Of course they could have disembarked at any station they chose, but returning to the Third Station was the tacit choice. Both were familiar with the local environment, and for crooks on the run, that was of paramount importance.
On entering the inn, Lakif teetered precariously as her companion booked two rooms for the day. The chief warden’s reaction to the two was telltale; he rolled his eyes in remembrance.
No sooner had Lakif commandeered the quarters than she scampered for the bed. The sheets zoomed up toward her face, and all was thrown into blackness.
Later in the morning, she was once again aroused by a rain of thumping on the door. With a surly manner she answered it, primed to criticize her guard.
Instead, she was startled to find that an herb wife was calling. The lady barreled into the chamber, nearly bowling the sleepy Acaanan over. The distaff was armed with bandages, a pot of hot water, and a satchel of medicinal plants and herbs. She had, of course, come in response to Lakif’s injury. The Acaanan didn’t bother to ask how she came by such information. That Lakif had briefly spotted Ceric Dumont on entering put an end to the mystery. Few details escaped the eagle-eyed proprietor of the Goblin Knight.
Under a barrage of orders, Lakif flopped down on the bed and produced her tumescent ankle. The misshapen limb looked like a black serpent that had just swallowed a rat. The nurse thoroughly cleansed the spot with steaming water, which surprised the Acaanan, as she had always bought into the belief that swelling was reduced by cold. But as it was soothing she didn’t raise a fuss. The nurse spread an ointment around the turgid site. It resembled anchovy paste and reeked with a disagreeable odor. Curiously, she even applied a dab of the material at a certain spot near Lakif’s groin, well removed from the site of injury. Then she placed a twig of fennel alongside the swollen joint and secured it flush to Lakif’s ankle using a tourniquet. When the Acaanan dared to ask about the fennel’s purpose she received a cursory account of its herbal powers of renewal, along with firm instructions not to tamper with the dressing until the nurse returned in the morning. If need be, Lakif could use a crutch to alleviate pressure from the foot. Lakif assured her absolute compliance.
III
The Inquisitor
LAKIF SPENT THE BALANCE OF THAT DAY AND THE FOLLOWING ONE SHELTERED in her quarters. Although she twittered with nervous energy, she knew there was no real reason to amble about the inn, and leaving it was out of the question. She was anchored by her foot, and aggravating the wound by unnecessary jaunts only delayed her forthcoming journey to the Vulcan. The nurse returned each morning on cue, and arranged meals to be delivered to Lakif’s quarters, an accommodating amenity.
On the second day, Lakif’s conviction toward recuperation was severely tested. Even from her remote location, she could hear a great hubbub down in the common room. A great jamboree was underway, although she had no idea why. She longed to go and celebrate with all the guests, but resisted the urge.
No sooner had the herb wife left than Lakif scrambled out of bed and hastily groomed herself. It had been the nurse’s third visit, and she had announced that she was pleased with Lakif’s convalescence and that the Acaanan would require no more treatment. Lakif was overjoyed at the promising prognosis.
The Acaanan hardly winced as she hobbled down the stairs to the common room. She was resolute that her joy would not be celebrated with another day of isolation, but among the gentile patrons of the Goblin Knight. Thus, after the herb wife bid her adieu, she decided to hike forth. The fennel had worked its herbal magic. Not only was her wound nearly healed; her whole body felt rejuvenated.
The ambler collapsed on a bench with a sigh of relief, her staff unceremoniously clanging to the floor. It wasn’t, however, her rowan staff. That object was lost to Ebon Myre in a skirmish with two monks. What a pity, for it had been an expensive form of protection. She wasn’t precisely sure where this particular crutch came from. She seemed to recall buying the item from a vendor near the Third Circle Station, although the details were sketchy. Since then it had been indispensable, an inseparable fifth limb.
She hoisted her leg level and sank back against the wall. It was almost as if she wanted others to take note of the vestige wound. It was her cachet, her mark of distinction at having braved the dangers of Ebon Myre. She wore the lingering wound like a badge of honor.
The Acaanan took a full drink from a bottle of whiskey. She had been milking it throughout the morning, ostensibly as an anesthetic. The nepenthe was a poor substitute for cryptide, however. As she twirled the bottle, she admitted to herself that she had been drinking a lot lately. But she happily concluded that it was justified. Her quest for a Rare Earth Stone had forced her into many an inn, and heavy drinking was a natural sequel. She pledged that now that she possessed the treasure, she would cut down on the spirits—but only when the remnant throbbing in her foot fully abated.
She smiled, cupping the Stone in her lap as if it were her own child. Their venture into the monastery had been fraught with flaws. But in the most important aspect, it
was a coup. The Rare Earth Stone was hers for the keeping. Its touch was tangible vindication of endless months of toil. She burnished its surface with her sleeve, lest trace oil from her fingertips attenuate its inner glow. It was dazzlingly beautiful! She secretly begged it to speak to her.
As she sat transfixed, two patrons shuffled by. Neither paid the Acaanan, or her fulgent Stone, the slightest regard. Lakif had already concluded that others were blind to the light radiating from the Stone. She wondered if even the abbot had been privy to its fluorescence. She doubted it. Its luminescence seemed to reach out and touch her alone. In spite of this, however, she still generally kept the Stone in a belt pouch, lest it disappear somewhere to vex her as only a Rare Earth Stone could. Only this one time did she relent to behold its mystical glare in open public.
Her eyes alighted on the webbed facade of Pomona. Although the Stone liberated its own eldritch glow, no light had been shed on the mysterious mural that had been the source of the entire venture.
Lakif turned her attention from her treasure to Torkoth. The Half-man was sitting on the floor near the central hearth, chatting with a fellow patron. Lakif noted that the guard preferred to amble around the inn barefooted, a quirk that aroused not a little attention. The green scales thinned out around his right ankle, only occasionally dotting his foot. She could see that the Half-man still wore the rope anklet. Why hadn’t he cut it off?
Lakif hadn’t seen her hire the previous day, partly because she had been bedridden and partly because Torkoth was apt to disappear for stretches of time. The guard looked completely at ease, not at all like someone who had recently courted death just four nights past.
Lakif reflected at length on the fighter. Any doubts the Acaanan had fostered about his competence had been wiped clear. Torkoth had acquitted himself admirably in all aspects of the mission. In fact, he had been exactly what the Acaanan had bargained for: quick-witted and seasoned in combat, both armed and unarmed. What he lacked in panache, he compensated for by sheer pluck. Most importantly, he was cool under pressure, an attribute forever foreign to Lakif. Apart from his actions in the monastery, Torkoth had handled all aspects of their flight with equal finesse, ranging from the escape itself to his vigilance the following day when the Acaanan had been drugged. It was not common for the Acaanan to claim luck, but she had to admit that finding Torkoth had been a definite boon.
After leaving the Cauldrons, Lakif had fully expected to be pestered with all manner of questions about the Stone. It seemed natural enough, considering the extreme lengths they went to snare it. To his credit, Torkoth hadn’t broached the subject. This spared the Acaanan from weaving a potpourri of lies.
This made Lakif’s resolve to leave all the more distasteful. It was not that she simply had to part company with the swordsman—she had to utterly disappear. The fateful decision was based on a variety of reasons.
First, as far as the Acaanan was concerned, the Half-man’s work was finished. A guard wouldn’t be needed to accompany her on the next leg of the journey. The trip to the Vulcan should be uneventful enough and posed no danger.
But she was ashamed to admit that her sore financial state weighed in even more on the decision. Lakif’s pockets were only home to lint. She owed the Half-man three talents! She certainly had nowhere near the reserves to pay that sum. In fact, her remaining funds would barely suffice to cover her own expenses over the upcoming days. Lakif had hoped that the incursion into Ebon Myre would have landed her a pouch full of coins, perhaps from the monastery’s coffers or the abbot’s private hoard. In that way she could have paid off her guard with the plundered loot. But she could not have anticipated the utter contempt in which the monks obviously regarded affluence. She hadn’t found a single pim!
The Half-man hadn’t brought up the subject of his remuneration, but the Acaanan expected it at any turn. How long would he allow Lakif to remain delinquent? She had hoped that he would have behaved in some dishonorable way—to justify ditching him. That he had performed flawlessly removed this crutch.
There was no alternative. Somehow, Lakif would have to manufacture excuses until her ankle improved to the point when she could simply vanish. It troubled her behaving so underhandedly, but she saw no other way around it.
Thus, she committed herself to an early dash from the Goblin Knight the coming morning. Until then, she would have to stave off any problematic discussion concerning the payment.
But for now, she was voraciously hungry. Rubbing thin fingers together, she speculated on an early lunch. The Goblin Knight was famous for its roast chicken, rabbit stew, and snake eggs. Which would it be?
“Are you Lakif?” a voice called out.
The Acaanan looked up to find an ostler standing above her. Lakif couldn’t imagine why the boy would have approached her. Ostlers rarely bantered with the guests. Perhaps it was the same lad who had recounted the tale of Puck and had further insight on the obsolete mural. The lad didn’t look familiar, however. This left Lakif with the unsettling feeling that she had somehow stepped into bad standing with the establishment. Feeling she was in trouble, she deigned to make direct eye contact with the lad, but merely nodded.
“Someone was looking for you,” the ostler revealed.
“Who?” Lakif’s head riveted toward the boy. The lad looked about thirteen years old, yet already had reached the Acaanan’s height.
“A Kulthean.”
“Kulthean!” Lakif stammered.
“That’s right.”
“A man?”
The ostler nodded.
“What was his name?” Lakif fired.
“I couldn’t say,” the kid said, shrugging his shoulders.
“But did he say?”
“I would recall it if so.”
“And?” Lakif was flabbergasted at the pitiful scraps she was being offered.
“He arrived three days past, firing off many questions.”
“Such as?” Lakif was beginning to feel that the ostler was anatomically unable to speak more than a few words at a time.
“He asked if you had been a patron here and for how long.”
“What did you tell him?”
“He seemed distressed when I said you had already left.”
“He asked for me by name?” Lakif gulped.
The lad nodded.
“Anything else?” Lakif felt she was pulling teeth to elicit information.
The ostler merely stared at her blankly. As he didn’t promptly excuse himself, Lakif felt he was fishing for a gratuity. Tipping was a firmly rooted custom at inns like the Goblin Knight. This odious habit spilled over to include even the slimmest of services, which irritated the Acaanan to no end. The ostler had no doubt drawn out his account so that his service would seem more substantial.
Incensed, Lakif dug into her pockets, feeling for the smallest denomination coin, as she didn’t want to draw out a handful. She produced a beka. It was the stingiest tip she could muster. She had hoped to have a gerah, but didn’t seem to have any.
“What’s your name?”
“Antipas, ma’am.”
“Well, Antipas Maam, if he returns, you haven’t seen me.” She pressed a second beka into his palm with a sly wink.
After the ostler wandered off, Lakif fretted over the message. An Inquisitor! Why would someone come looking for her? A Kulthean, no less! Who could know of her stay at the Goblin Knight? That the visit came directly on the heels of their incursion into Ebon Myre only fueled the fires of dread. Three days ago, she was drugged out in the Cauldrons. Was the Kulthean a bounty hunter enlisted by the abbot? If so, how on earth could he have trailed the Acaanan’s scent in a single day? This news was grave! Only trouble could come of it, and Lakif had the uncanny ability to invite trouble.
After scarfing up the rest of her meal, she slipped up to her room. She felt it would be best to stay out of sight for the balance of the day. The climb wasn’t nearly as challenging as she had expected.
Lakif had rented a differ
ent chamber than the one she had previous done on her trip to Ebon Myre. She scoured the shelves for a copy of the herb book. She wanted to finish the text, although she couldn’t fathom why. Unfortunately, this room didn’t have that special edition. Part of her was driven to amble back to the former quarters and pester its occupant for the text. But, considering that the Kulthean must have paid a visit to the room, she thought such a call was flirting with danger. The chamber was now tainted with bad karma.
She commandeered a text titled Grimpkin’s Gory Grimoire. The mossy tome was a fantastic account of numerous monstrosities of the night. She eagerly parted the pages throughout the day and well into the evening.
The next morning, Lakif awoke with scorpions in her mind. It seemed she had been dreaming of the critters scurrying around a dirty ravine. How strange her dreams had been lately! Perhaps they were a symbol of an inner anxiety.
Without much ado, she leapt into exit mode. Having had her fill of the famed inn, Lakif was eager to make headway on her mission. In fact, had she her druthers, the Acaanan would have left the previous day. But her condition had planted her in place for one more night.
Packing was easy enough. Everything she owned was stored in that one rucksack. Most of the items had been souvenirs from the galaxy of places she had visited in her trawl for the Stone.
As she gathered her belongings, a spatter outside the window captured her attention. A fine drizzle was cascading down, sending a chilling mist into the chamber.
Wonderful, she thought! The sky must have received advanced notice of her journey and was greeting her with its customary tribute.
Fortunately, her ankle was almost as good as new. Before leaving, she slipped the Grimoire text into her duffle bag. Not only was she wont to take a token from each inn as a memoir; she also found the text intriguing enough to merit further attention.
Her route out unfortunately led past the Half-man’s chamber. Just as she was sneaking by, she feared that the door would suddenly open and out would step Torkoth for a morning chore. As Lakif was armed with her travel sack, it would have been obvious that she was sneaking off without making good on their deal.
Commandment Page 2
