by Chris Turner
The young cleric bowed. “As you wish.”
“Wait! Another thing—tell that ridiculous master of yours, Risgan, that I have something interesting for him. In exchange for the new piece he recently uncovered.”
Risgan gave the merchant a spare nod. “The deed is as good as done.”
Out in the night air, Risgan pursed his lips with dry reflection. So, this is what the old cheat was up to—trying to swindle him for gain?
Risgan’s brow furrowed in anger. Still, he was not so naive to think that he could escape their ploys so easily. A pang of concern brewed in his chest. He had touched the artifact many times without the safety of any gloves, possibly even tampered with the magical forces of youth and death. So too had the courtesan Farella and her precious Pontific. Ill could come of this—especially, if the effects of the magic were as authentic as Vosta’s magician claimed...
He thrust the unwanted worries from his head. With slow steps he retraced his way back to his theatre-abode, not liking the fate that lay upon him.
* * *
Limbs aching with weariness, Risgan chucked off his disguise. He lay there on his spare couch staring up at the ceiling for a while, feeling some brand of misery and sorry-ness for himself.
Hours later he awoke to a sour taste in his mouth—and a firm rap at the door. He frowned. Was it Rufus and his dogs coming to collect their gambling dues? Risgan paled. He decided to ignore the knocking, but the raps continued in force.
“Alright already!” he cried. “Coming.”
He donned his breeches. He pulled sweater and cloak over his head. Realizing the unavoidable, that mischief-makers may be about, he snatched up his gibbeth club. Vaulting down the stairs, taking two at a time, he muttered to himself that relic hunting was not worth it. Two liveried attendants were at the door, both bearing a writ with the seal of the Pontific himself.
Risgan stared. The messengers’ faces were unsmiling and they bore weapons: swords and dirks.
“A summoning to an immediate audience with his Excellency, the Pontific,” one declared.
Risgan blinked at the request. He rued his choice of answering the door at this hour. He had impressed the Pontific’s consort with the nephrite—or, had infected her with some strange sort of rapture, and the scandal with the wishbone needed no mention...
The attendants were adamant regarding their mission and escorted Risgan without the threat of brandishing their arms. Yet they accompanied him through the benighted streets with a formality he did not care for, across the many small bridges that fanned the narrow network of canals. The streets shone with a dim lamplight. Through the open windows of pubs and wine houses, snatches of voices could be heard, amongst them the sounds of carousing and coarse laughter. Risgan yearned to be in their company. His misgivings grew. He thought to have detected a hooded figure slinking behind him in the shadows, but that may have been only the furtive shuffle of some late-night merchant stumbling his way back from revelry with his mates. Still, he could not be sure.
The group approached the palace and Risgan marvelled at its grandeur. A sea of lamplit spires and cupolas lofted high into the sky. The palatial scope of the architecture had him staring: the pergolas and intricate gardens wrapped in thin, evening mist, the greenish moat glistening under soft lamplight along the high stone wall and trembling slightly in the evening breeze. Manicured hedges brushed the bronze statues of all the favourite heroes of Zanzuria and their animals of war.
Never before had Risgan wandered this far into the Royal grounds; few commoners had, except to answer for serious crimes, or atone for a misdeed or two or some slanderous rumour.
Risgan trained his suspicious eyes across the webbed shadows of the drawbridge and stopped short at the massive double-doors of the palace of carved gold.
The troupe entered the foyer and the envoys gave a sign to three guards. Risgan reeled with envy. The enormous grandeur of the hall was graced with an opulence beyond his imagination. Here under the lamps of the rulers of old, the welcoming hall guarded a thousand fantastic treasures of art, statuary and rich hangings. The lamps lit complex helixes of crystal panes in the galleries above, sending a luxurious wash of multicoloured light dancing through the archways and along cornices and traceries. Across the marble floors, Risgan marched under the protection of his escorts, passing regular waysmen and attendants. They clopped up a flight of stairs, then to another landing, down a tapestried hall where the summoners rapped the high brass knocker of a jewelled door of fine wood.
The Pontific was within these chambers, as Risgan was soon to discover. He found himself ushered into a smallish chamber, a study of sorts, but no less opulent than the halls without. He could hardly contain his curiosity: silk hangings and plush divans comprised the main decor; an antique desk spread with letter-headed documents warmly lit with a silver candelabra whose fresh wax dripped down like twisted snakes of gold. The residence was cozy compared to the hall he had come from and seemed the Pontific’s main place of comfort. Tureens of fruit and a jewelled wine jug sat untouched, the latter stoppered with cold dew beading its violet glass. Censers kept the plush interior well illuminated, while a soft light lulled Risgan’s eyes while a single low window looked to the east, admitting a fine wash of the first golden rays of moonlight.
The Pontific had his back turned to him. Even Risgan could see the man was tense. The faint scent of attar and myrrh charged the air with an aromatic tinge.
“Ah, here you are, Relic Hunter.” The Pontific rose and mustered a grim smile. “Leave us!” he cried, dismissing his servants.
Risgan managed a cautious bow. “My lord, what begs the pleasure?”
“Certain business remains outstanding between us.”
“So it seems. But first, I must explain,” offered Risgan defensively. “Let me extend my deepest sympathies for the events of earlier today. Your courtiers must be devastated with the shame they incurred—reduced to bare wretches of humiliation.”
“Likely true, but calm yourself. This meeting has nothing to do with that scandal. I have need of certain of your services.”
“Oh?”
“A regal standard retrieved. Lost, or so my historians say, at the turn of the century, last known buried in my grandfather’s tomb. Unfortunately that tomb was rifled by raiders who managed to get beyond the warding malediction.”
“A delicate matter,” remarked Risgan, fluttering his fingers.
“No need for understatement. The item must be retrieved. The tribunal is coming up in the next moon and several grandees from the council of Overon will be there to vote and bleat out their tawdry speeches. Douran’s hide! Who decides a certain amount of our politics and our puny small future? Well, those woodworms do. Without the sacred relic, the Zanzurian voice at the congregation is lost, I fear. I hear, on good recommendation, that a seasoned relic hunter such as yourself, may be the man for the job.”
“I am honoured by the notion, lord, but—”
“But what? If ’tis gold you want, then gold I can give!” He sized up Risgan’s ample frame and Risgan sensed an alert suspicion brewing there. But his eyes did not linger long on the relic hunter’s sly lavender eyes.
Risgan remarked that the Pontific was not a handsome man; even now he wondered what luck had landed him the jewel of a regal partner such as the Lady Farella.
“Overon?” muttered Risgan giddily. “If it lies there, then the task is doable—but perhaps not so easy. The way is long, plagued with bandits, old magic and predatory creatures. No less perils, including gibbeths, hostile peasantry and desperate marauders.”
The Pontific remained unmoved by the announcement. He waved a hand. “That is why I called you here. Much wine, leisure and women will come your way—if you succeed.”
“And if the price is right,” added Risgan with a canny smile.
“Aye, two thousand mezks, but not a coin more!”
Risgan’s lips glistened. Such a sum could cancel his gambling debts and allow him passag
e on an extravagant holiday anywhere in the lands. The pawnbroker’s divinator may not have been far off in his augury of a ‘long’ pilgrimage.
“Done!” Risgan called. “For such a sum any retrieving task might be arranged.”
“As is unsurprising,” came the Pontific’s response. His stiff carriage somewhat relaxed and he toyed with his left earring, a habit for which he was well known. “Regarding this business of the magic earlier.”
“Let me say that—”
“Quiet, man.” The Pontific held up a ringed hand. “I cannot tie you to the deed. You’re neither thaumaturgist, nor jester with that amount of imagination. On the contrary, I cordially refuse to believe in the efficacy of old talismans.”
Risgan furrowed his brow.
“Nonetheless, a thorough inquiry will be made. As we speak, Ludlum and Narvius are researching the matter. They are stalwarts in this area and will come to a definitive conclusion. I may need to examine this wish bone of yours.”
“As is only logical.”
The Pontific ignored the remark. “Regarding the particulars of this standard you are to retrieve—’tis the symbol of Mansubia, our sister kingdom to the south, and its honour and pride. It should never have been buried with old Rascules, my father’s sire. The dogmatic sycophants of the alliance—they are demanding the original gold-threaded banner as proof of our royal heritage!”
“Fools.”
“I daresay. Yet Ludlum, my spokesman, has consulted the historians and agrees that to maintain our sovereignty, we must have this relic as collateral, if only to preserve our say in the council at Overon. The tomb was apparently looted as I say, but it was not well-placed and I doubt the standard has gotten far. According to local legend, most of the looters were killed and the items retrieved, or the looters’ tongues cut out before they could brag about their theft. As to where, that is another matter. These deeds occurred a long time ago, of course, after they were questioned by the Immunati. A little bit of sleuthing on your part and digging by a man of your talent might prove that the standard is hidden elsewhere—and at best, nearby.” Pantius frowned. There came a pause during the conversation, during which Risgan blinked with speculation. “Ludlum has recommended you to my experts. My divinator and palace magician are confident that the standard will be retrieved. Here is a quarter of the funds in advance.” He slammed down a leather satchel of coins obtained from a trim jewelled strongbox. “Do not disappoint me. I am not a man easily disposed to disappointment.”
“The deed is as good as done,” exclaimed Risgan with a rasp of approval.
“Excellent! Then let us formalize this arrangement with a libation.” He reached for his tureen of fine spirits. Glasses were poured and the two upended their drinks with wincing pleasure. A knock came at the door. The Pontific, irritated at the intrusion, looked into the face of his second advisor, Offios, a slim bald man with a penchant for squinting. Pantius now summoned him out on urgent business. “Wait here,” the Pointific advised Risgan curtly. He left on brisk feet.
Left to his own devices, Risgan nosed about Pantius’s study, contemplating his new assignment with some misgiving, but enjoying the meticulous order of the Pontific’s belongings. Here an ornate statue toy dangling on threads, there a plate of onyx with carved dragons ridden by laughing gargoyles. Such whimsy for such a harsh man! Risgan mused. The door soundlessly opened and a figure slipped in: Lady Farella.
Risgan expelled a breath. The woman, ever voluptuous, was no less breathtaking, and clad in an ever more revealing slip of pure chiffon, one that made her hips and more salient features stand out with excellence and neither betrayed trace of sound as she glided across the floor. The relic hunter drank in her lithe beauty, like a spellbound deer. The dress, needless to say, only served to enhance her vivacious glamour.
Risgan felt a trifle awkward and out-of-place. Did the Lady Farella look even more ravishing than back at the market square? Certainly. More important, was it proper for a woman of her station to be alone with a man in her master’s study? Not likely. Risgan became distraught. Now the golden eyes showed a sparkling and impish gleam. Or did she seem to have grown even more youthful than when he had first seen her in the market today? Impossible! His imagination was playing tricks on him.
“Master Retriever,” she began with a curtsey.
“Lady.”
“Splendid to make your acquaintance again.”
“The pleasure is all mine.” Risgan bowed, but perhaps a bit too low, letting his thick yellow curls flop a bit to the side. He recovered quickly, clearing his throat with an effort of will.
“The lord Pantius seems to be attending Viscount Wagver on a matter of immediate importance,” she remarked with casual ease. “Apparently the Viscount is trying to contend with the recent humiliation this afternoon and needs counsel and reassurance. Poor buffoon! Meanwhile, hearing of your visit, I ventured to speak with you a moment, ask a small favour.”
“Oh? I mean—certainly, my lady,” Risgan replied absently.
Farella uttered a laugh, which would have stopped a harder man, or been somewhat natural had it not sounded so husky. “You needn’t hop about so nervously, Relic Hunter; I am not as discourteous as my peers might think. I don’t bite.”
“That is good to know, Lady, but I can’t help but feel a trifle uncomfortable with the Pontific’s consort in such close proximity. Especially in his private sanctum. The feeling is both risqué and stimulating.”
Farella leaned closer and laughed at the Retriever’s frank admission, leaving him wondering what her motive was. “It brings me to the topic of your illustrious relics. Do you have any on you? Might I see one of them?”
“Unfortunately not,” Risgan confessed. His hand strayed to his waist belt to tend to an itch or some irritation. For a moment, the gesture betrayed his possession of certain relics, including the nephrite and the wishbone stashed there.
Farella’s eyes narrowed and she stepped in, breathless and wayward. The dress cut a little too low over the bosom and Risgan paled, reminded of the Pontific’s earlier uncompromising manner of being.
“You are a gallant man, Risgan, but a poor liar. Now. Let us have a look at these relics, shall we? What’s the harm? You’re a man of many means, perhaps relinquishing one or two curios as gifts might not be extravagant.” She wormed her way closer, inveigling him with her honeyed words and not so subtle hints, that he might part with the nephrite for some party favours.
Risgan frowned sadly. “The piece has not been identified and may be an item of hazard. It has me intrigued, withal, as a rule, I never pass on unclassified items to citizens, for the harm it may bestow on the bearer.”
“That is very conscientious of you,” praised Farella. “You are an enviable model!” The Pontific’s consort thrust herself forward without a hint of pretence. Risgan remained unprepared for the oiled and gleaming almost bare breasts that were pressed to his chest—small cones of tingling warmth that seemed to penetrate through to his quivering skin. She stroked his muscular shoulders and laid a casual hand at the small of his back. Risgan felt an eerie pulse rise through his back. “Well, perhaps there are ways you might be persuaded.” She stroked his muscled back with more tender intimacy than he thought appropriate for the moment and she looked him in the eyes with that sultry look a cat gives to its master wishing fish at a particular hour.
Ah, yes, a bold one, thought Risgan with blinking languor—and when was he ever a clod to misinterpret an advance by a well-meaning maid? A certain recent episode with the arresting Pasilma came to mind... But then, that was another story.
In the spirit of jocularity, Risgan wrapped a casual arm around the Lady Farella’s shoulder, hoping to achieve a mood of easy camaraderie.
The manoeuvre went not unrewarded. Before long they were a tangle of limbs squirming on the divan.
“Naturally,” Risgan breathed, “I’m sure the Pontific wouldn’t be too upset at this situation as it is unfolding?”
“A
h, fiddle the Pontific!” Farella snapped. “The man is a sober old goat with no imagination. I, on the other hand—well, let us leave that topic for another time. Pantius’s advisors must tell him everything, even how to go to the lavatory. His cold groping of me at night has no better hope for improving my hatred of him, or counselling.”
Risgan laughed at the image and, momentarily disarmed, thought how easy it was to trade the favours of this delightful maid for an insignificant artifact. But he hesitated. To his mind sprang an image of doom. Abruptly he sprang to his feet. Smoothing his rumpled clothing, he felt the scent of Farella’s vibrant womanliness on him. It infected him with a madness that was not easy to block and there was a fire in her advances that he thought better not to inflame. His mind spun about in a lurid fantasy, one that could get him gelded if the Pontific caught him here. A risk of high order, especially after earning the lord’s trust.
Farella quenched her irritation by pulling Risgan down on the divan again. She searched his lips with hers while a silky hand came groping down to his side. She pulled out the nephrite and gave a gasp of delight. “Ah! You fibber. You do have items!” Her eyes lit up like candle fire. Risgan reached out to grab the relic, his face a dark mask, but he missed and Pantius’s consort scooped it up, all too unnaturally attracted to the bauble.
She jerked away from his grasp and Risgan growled with annoyance, and was just contemplating the means to get the piece back from her when a small sound came from the door... his two arms were grappled about her waist in a most compromising manner... then suddenly...
The portal burst open. In strode the Pontific with brows raised. With a strangled cry, he tensed, then his hand fled to the dagger at his belt. “You were right, Jabu! You, as my most clairvoyant magician, warned me earlier of a steamy encounter of treachery that was in the midst of unfolding.”
The Lady Farella stared in helpless defeat. An explanation was not quick in coming on her lips, perhaps befuddled by her own complicity.
