by Tim Waggoner
Tresslar sensed he was being scrutinized, and he turned to see Solus looking at him, though it wasn’t always easy to tell when warforged had their artificial eyes trained on you. He was certain Solus had been reading his thoughts, purposefully or not, and he turned away, embarrassed. He deactivated the revealer and the golden image of the Tinker’s Mark winked out. Tresslar put the revealer away, slid his pack over his shoulders once again and, without looking at either of his companions, pushed open the door. The hinges creaked and the door wobbled, but it opened smoothly enough. Tresslar stepped inside without hesitation, and Solus and Hinto followed.
This was Tresslar’s favorite part of entering a Tinker’s Room: seeing what the outer chamber looked like. Tinker’s Rooms always had a legitimate business as a front in order to conceal their true nature and to create a plausible reason why people—quite often strangers such as themselves—would be entering and leaving at all hours. In his time, Tresslar had seen Tinker’s Rooms that had such wildly diverse disguises as a chandlers’ shop, a garment merchant, and once even a taxidermist’s. But this rivaled them all.
The outer chamber was set up as a shop, with a main counter and display shelves. But the wares for sale were like nothing Tresslar had ever seen before. At first he thought they were some sort of glass sculptures, but after a moment’s inspection, he realized that the beautiful arrangements of translucent blue-green orbs were, in fact, structures created out of water bubbles. The bubbles were of various sizes, configurations, and hues, but the arrangements all had two things in common: the bubbles were frozen in space without any visible sign that anything was holding them up, and they were all set atop triangular jade bases. A number of the bubbles glowed with soft, gentle light, providing illumination for the room.
A beautiful woman in her late forties or early fifties emerged from a back room behind the counter. She had long flowing hair that was tinted blue and bereft of the usual beadwork favored by most Lhazaarites. Her dress—if that was the right word for her garment—was made from the same blue-green bubbles as the sculptures that filled the room, though hers were less translucent, providing only a suggestion of the body they concealed.
She took Tresslar’s breath away. She was the single most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and considering how widely he’d traveled during his youth, that was saying something.
“It may be rude to read people’s minds without permission,” Solus said, “but if I’m not mistaken, it’s equally rude to stare.”
Tresslar felt his cheeks burn, and he knew he was blushing.
Hinto ignored the exchange between the artificer and the psiforged. He walked over to one of the displays and rose on his tiptoes, stretching out his hand to touch the nearest sculpture.
“Please don’t,” the woman behind the counter said. “Those are actual water bubbles harvested from the sea. The spells that keep them intact and in place are quite fragile. A single touch could well disrupt them and destroy the sculpture.”
With an almost childlike expression of disappointment, the halfling lowered his hand and came back down on the flats of his feet.
The woman came around from behind the counter, moving with such easy grace that it seemed that she didn’t so much walk as glided toward them.
“My name is Illyia,” she said. “Are you art lovers? It may be immodest of me, but I daresay my sculptures are among the most unique objects to be found in the Principalities.” Her voice was like the breaking of gentle surf upon a sandy beach.
A moment of silence passed before Tresslar realized everyone was waiting for him to speak, and when he did, his voice was huskier than usual. “Indeed, though the word I would use is spectacular.”
Illyia smiled, and a mischievous gleam came into her eyes. “Are you speaking of my bubbles?”
Tresslar had to force himself to keep from gazing at the way her garment clung to her chest—and wondering if those bubbles would be “disrupted” by a single touch like those that comprised her sculptures. “Everything I see here is spectacular.”
Hinto rolled his eyes. “You’ve spent too many years on Dreadhold, Tresslar. That line is as stale as decade-old sea rations.”
Tresslar glared at the halfling, but Illyia continued smiling. “Just because something is … seasoned doesn’t mean it’s no longer good. Often, quite the opposite is true, wouldn’t you say …?”
“Tresslar. And these are my companions, Hinto and Solus.”
Illyia nodded briefly to the halfling, but she took her time regarding Solus. “We don’t get many warforged here in Kolbyr, Solus, and I doubt we’ve ever had any quite like you.”
Solus bowed his head. “I shall take that as a compliment.”
Illyia’s eyes twinkled. “Good, since that’s how I meant it.” She turned back to Tresslar. “So, you spent time on Dreadhold. You don’t look like a hardened criminal, but then looks can be deceiving, can’t they?”
Tresslar smiled. “I worked there as an artificer, helping to maintain the facility’s magical wards and defenses.”
Illyia hmphed. “You must’ve had your work cut out for you, then. The artificers of House Kundarak aren’t exactly known for their attention to detail.”
The dwarves of House Kundarak were responsible for running Dreadhold, but while most of the prison staff were members of the House, many—like Tresslar—were not.
“I must admit, I did have occasion to double-check their work from time to time,” Tresslar said, trying to sound more modest than he felt. A sudden realization hit him then, and he forgot all about the artificers of Dreadhold. “You’re being nice to us.”
Illyia laughed. “Why do you find that so surprising?”
“Up until this point, we haven’t had the warmest of welcomes here in Kolbyr,” Tresslar said.
Illyia’s merriment ebbed and she grew serious. “I’m afraid you’ve experienced the effects of the curse that plagues our city. We call it the Fury.”
“It hasn’t seemed to have affected you,” Hinto said.
“It’s her dress,” Solus said. “It radiates a field of mystic energy that protects her from the curse’s effect.”
Illyia spread her arms and slowly spun around, as if modeling her dress for them. “Stylish and practical, that’s me.”
“Indeed,” Tresslar said with appreciation. “It’s a most impressive piece of work.”
Hinto groaned, and it took all of Tresslar’s self-discipline to keep the artificer from striking the halfling.
“The Fury is like the weather,” Illyia said. “Some days it’s worse than others. On mild days people are merely more rude and brusque, but on bad days people brawl in the streets. On extremely bad days, the streets run red with spilled blood. We don’t leave our homes on bad days and try to avoid contact with anyone else, lest we find ourselves in the grip of a murderous fury.”
“It sounds awful!” Hinto said. “How can you live with it?”
Illyia shrugged. “If you grow up in Kolbyr, as I have, you become accustomed to it. The effects of the curse are manageable, though it does take some effort to resist them. Newcomers to the city, such as yourselves, are the most vulnerable to the Fury. Since they aren’t local, there’s less reason for citizens to care about not harming them, which makes it more difficult to resist the Fury. Newcomers aren’t affected by the curse right away, but the Fury is both powerful and insidious. Over the space of just a few hours, it will slowly worm its way into your heart without your realizing it, and it will fill you with anger … anger that you have no experience at managing. Newcomers often succumb to the Fury within their first day in Kolbyr. It’s why we’re so leery of strangers, as I’m sure you noticed as you made your way through the city.”
Tresslar didn’t feel any anger building within him. All he felt was the general irritation he often experienced at the annoyances presented by day-to-day living. Was Solus—?
The psiforged’s voice whispered in Tresslar’s mind.
I cannot counter magic, but a
s we first approached Kolbyr, I used my psionic abilities to strengthen everyone’s emotional self-control to help slow the effects of the Fury. So far, my efforts seem to have been successful.
Tresslar’s first impulse was to chide the psiforged for altering people’s minds without permission, but he decided not to worry about it, especially since it did appear to be working. Still, before long someone would need to explain to Solus that it was a good idea to ask before using his psionic powers in such a fashion—especially on friends.
Illyia frowned slightly, and Tresslar wondered if she were somehow aware of the telepathic communication that had occurred between Solus and him. But when she spoke, she said, “So, have you come to acquire one of my sculptures, or are you perhaps here for a different purpose?”
“We’re friends of Tinker,” Tresslar said.
“Tinker?” Hinto said, scowling. “Who’s …?” He trailed off, a sly smile coming onto his face. “Oh … right.” He winked knowingly at Tresslar.
Now it was the artificer’s turn to roll his eyes.
Illyia laughed. “Come with me, and we’ll see if Tinker is home.”
She turned and, for the briefest of instants, Tresslar thought the bubbles of her gown turned transparent. But before he could get a good look at what lay beneath, the bubbles returned to their blue-green hue.
Illyia headed toward a door at the back of the shop, walking with perhaps a bit more sway in her hips than was strictly necessary, and Tresslar, Hinto, and Solus followed. Suddenly Kolbyr—curse or no curse—didn’t seem like all that bad a place to the artificer.
Not bad at all.
Yvka stood across the street from a two-story building decorated with elaborate stonework. Intricate designs of sea creatures had been carved into the building’s face, a quartet of granite gargoyles perched upon the roof, and a pair of manticore statues flanked a huge oak door at the top of marble steps. Casual passersby would appreciate the building’s beauty, but few would realize that, should the need arise, the gargoyles and the manticores would come to swift and deadly life.
There was no sign to indicate the name or even the nature of this establishment, but then none was necessary. Only those who already knew of the Culinarian sought it out, and few of those were permitted entrance. And of and those who got inside, even fewer knew the restaurant’s true nature.
Though Yvka hadn’t let on to her companions, this wasn’t her first time in Kolbyr. She had no specific reason for not telling them the truth, and she wasn’t sure why she’d kept that information from them, and especially from Ghaji. Habit, she supposed. By necessity, operatives of the Shadow Network lived by a strict code of secrecy, but living by that code came with a price. Operatives couldn’t afford to get too close to anyone, even other members of the Network. Stay silent, stay guarded, stay alone, stay safe. That was an operative’s motto, and while Yvka had never come out and directly admitted to belonging to the Network, her friends knew the truth. That was why she stood out here hesitating. It was possible—no, almost certain—that the man she had come here to see was aware she’d become too close to Ghaji, Diran, and the others. The question was what, if anything, he planned to do about it.
She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and started across the street.
She walked casually, seeming relaxed and comfortable, but inside she was tense and alert. As she approached the stairs, she had to force herself not to look at the gargoyles and manticores. She could feel their cold stone eyes upon her, and though she knew it was probably her imagination, she sensed displeasure in their gazes, as if even the guardians knew of her failure to remain detached and professional.
She reached the steps, ascended them, and stopped before the oak door. There was no knob, no handle, no device for signaling those inside. Yvka simply stood there, and after several moments—a bit longer than strictly necessary, she thought—the door swung inward, and Yvka stepped inside. She found herself standing at the end of a narrow corridor lit by tiny everbright lanterns hovering close to the curved ceiling. The lanterns gave off a soft blue light that only dimly illuminated the way, but they provided more than enough light for elvish eyes to see by. Yvka started down the corridor, and she didn’t look back as she heard the door close behind her with a gentle snick that sounded all too final to her ears. No one came forward to greet her, but that was normal here. If the door opened for you, you already knew you were welcome in the Culinarian.
The corridor ran straight for a few dozen yards before opening onto a vast dining hall. The hall was illuminated by cerulean everbright lanterns floating in the air to simulate an underwater environment, and saltwater aquariums filled with exotic sea creatures were placed in various locations around the hall to further enhance the illusion. A long table constructed from coral stretched the length of the hall, and spread out on its craggy surface was a buffet of seafood dishes: lobster, shrimp, squid, crab, clams, mussels, mullet, salmon, scampi, prawns, grouper, conch, blowfish, octopus, halibut, monkfish, and many more. Dishes were served raw, baked, broiled, and fried, along with a wide assortment of vegetables.
The diners sat at smaller tables in groups of two, three, or more. Like the main table, the diners’ tables had been fashioned from coral, with animated centerpieces enchanted to resemble seaweed drifting in an underwater current. Servers moved constantly throughout the room, some bringing new dishes in from the kitchen, others carrying plates loaded with food to diners too lazy—or self-important—to serve themselves. The diners themselves came from all strata of society. Some were clad in expensive finery and adorned with jewelry of rare craftsmanship and incalculable value, while others were barefoot and wore torn, dirty rags that could only charitably be referred to as clothing at all. But despite the variance in dress, the rich and poor—or at least, those who appeared to be so—often sat at the same tables, talking, laughing, and behaving as equals.
Yvka stood in the great hall’s entrance for a moment as she scanned the tables searching for the man she had come here to see. It didn’t take her long to spot him sitting at a table alone, almost as if he had been expecting her. He probably was, Yvka thought.
Zivon was a handsome man who appeared to be in his mid-forties, though Yvka knew he was older, perhaps quite a bit so. Half-elves weren’t as long-lived as full elves, but their lifespans were significantly longer than those of their human cousins. His brown hair was pulled back and bound with a leather thong, and he sported a neatly trimmed goatee with more than a bit of gray mixed in with the brown. Full elves didn’t grow facial hair, but half-elves could, thanks to the human side of their ancestry. Zivon wore a fine silken robe of aquamarine with white trimming the color of sea foam, in keeping with the Culinarian’s underwater theme.
Zivon smiled with what appeared to be genuine delight when he spotted Yvka and waved her over to his table. Yvka returned the smile, acknowledged the invitation with a nod, and began making her way across the room toward Zivon. As she drew near, she saw that the capillaries in the half-elf’s eyes were tinted purple, and she knew that he’d been indulging in urchin-sting, a common narcotic enjoyed in the Principalities. She also knew that he was far from the only one in the great hall who had done so this day. Sitting on the table before him was a plate piled high with seafood delicacies, and before Yvka could sit across from him, a server brought her a plate similarly loaded. As soon as that servant departed, another appeared carrying a wine jug. She refilled Zivon’s mug, then moved to fill the mug already sitting at Yvka’s place, but the elf-woman waved the servant away and the woman moved off to tend to other diners.
As Yvka took her seat, Zivon said, “I’m surprised you declined the wine. You know I select only the finest vintages for my cellar.” The half-elf’s voice was steady, though his words were slightly slurred.
“I also know you lace your wine with urchin-sting to blunt the effects of the Fury,” Yvka said. “I’d rather my perceptions remain undulled. Besides, if all goes well, soon no one in Kolbyr will need t
o worry about resisting the Fury any longer.”
Zivon took a long sip of wine, and when he put his mug back down, the veins in his eyes looked thicker and more purple than they had a moment ago. “You speak of course of your friend the priest.”
There was something in the way Zivon said your friend that made Yvka uncomfortable. Half-elves were known for their silver tongues, and Zivon was no exception. He used words with rapier-like precision. He was undoubtedly making a comment about Yvka getting too close to her companions.
Zivon lifted an oyster to his mouth and swallowed it in a single deft motion. He set the empty shell aside and took another sip of wine. Half-elves tended to be thin, though not as ethereally slender as full-blooded elves. With his hybrid metabolism Zivon could regularly eat twice as much as a human without putting on excess weight, which made the Culinarian a perfect place for a devotee of fine dining like him to serve the Shadow Network.
“We were aware of the priest’s vow to lift the curse on the House of Kolbyr moments after he made it,” Zivon said.
The half-elf was exaggerating, Yvka thought, though probably not by much. The Shadow Network knew virtually everything that happened in the Principalities—in some instances, before it occurred. “Then you also know that Diran stands a good chance of succeeding.”
“You’re not eating,” Zivon said, the merest hint of disapproval in his voice. “Try the mussels. They’re delectable.”
Yvka wasn’t especially hungry but tried a mussel for the sake of not offending her host.
“Well?”
Yvka chewed, swallowed. “It’s good.”
“Good? I have some of the finest cooks in the Principalities working in my kitchen, and all you have to say in response to experiencing their art is ‘good’?”
