by James Duvall
“Timothy! What is the meaning of this?” he barked.
Timothy looked him up and down for a moment, saw that he was well, and then punched him in the face. Christopher's eyes went wide in the moment before Timothy's fist connected. The businessman stumbled over backward and got up groaning.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” Timothy demanded. Christopher gaped at him in wide-eyed terror. His face went pale and his jaw worked without any sounds coming out until Timothy grabbed him and gave him a good shake.
“I'm... I'm going after the treasure,” Christopher said weakly, pointing a trembling finger toward the open mouth of a cave. Timothy had not noticed it at first and he only took cursory notice of it then.
“He died. Frederick Thacker, died.”
Christopher shook himself free and straightened his jacket. “And what could I have done about that? I'm not a surgeon, Timothy. You act as though you think I do not care at all that he has died or that, God forbid, I take some perverse relief in it.”
“Do you think it serves morale when you abandon course and go off into the woods without bothering to tell Willoughby or myself? We can count ourselves fortunate if we get back to Nothnor and find there's a ship at all. We'll lose half the crew to other vessels. We could become stranded here, and then where would you sell your treasures?”
“We can always find more crew,” Christopher observed.
“Not with the reputation you're quickly cultivating. This is not a large port. Word gets around. If you fancy yourself a businessman that's fine, think like one. How solvent do you think this venture will remain if we have to pay thrice over normal for enough of a crew to get off of this island?”
A frown crawled across Christopher's face as the consequences weighed in. “I will have to do better,” he said, but Timothy was not at all mollified.
Timothy paced back and forth, scattering the ashes of the fire even further. He glanced up at the mouth of the cave and for a moment retreated into the easy musing about what sort of treasure the archmage might have stowed away in this forgotten part of the world. A nagging sense of duty pervaded his thoughts and continually brought him back to the here and now. He could feel Christopher watching him. In his mind's eye he could see Christopher's thoughts laid out plain as a map, working out how he could get himself out of this situation with minimal damage. In his heart, Timothy knew the man didn't care about what had happened to Fred Thacker. Crew members came and went as regularly as the winds and tides.
“Listen, Timothy, I can make this right,” Christopher started. “When we get back to--”
Timothy turned on his heels and marched straight back up to his old friend, fire in his eyes.
“No, you listen. When we get back to the port you're going to pay everyone the hazard price in their contracts. You're going to at least act like you're concerned about losing one of our crew, and you're going to name me captain. Do you understand?”
An unsatisfactory silence hung in the air.
“Christopher?” Timothy warned, appalled to find the man was actually thinking this over. “Tell me you understand. Have you gone mad? You are not acting the man I've known all these years.”
Christopher gave him a very put upon look, seeming nearly ready to begin an indignant rant about the ceremony of leadership and the many reasons why he was more qualified to hold these titles than the likes of Timothy Binks. “It's just that... we don't have the funds to make that kind of payment.”
“Is that true?” Timothy asked, gravely. “That can't be true.”
“I'm sorry, it is. My creditors learned of our recent successes. It happened while you were on your way to Beronn. I got word from Deshym's postal service in the City of Birds. I saw a royal judge right there in Medora and plead our case.”
Timothy took a deep breath and looked up toward the heavens, blowing it out slowly. In the edge of his vision Aebyn waited patiently, watching from the shade of a large oak tree with curious ears pricked forward and prying eyes peering at the two of them. So far he had remained mercifully quiet, which had deprived Christopher of the excuse to light into him over the gryphon instead of facing the matter at hand.
“This is why we're still here,” Timothy said. Suddenly Christopher's undaunted determination in the face of so many obstacles made sense. “Why we didn't leave port immediately after Raimes' death, why you've been out of your bleeding mind. That's why you traipsed off into the woods, isn't it? You had to be gone before anyone could suggest we abandon the whole enterprise and go back to our regular fare. I'm a fool not to have realized it. There's never a shortage of work for smugglers, so long as the shard walls stand. I gather it went badly? Very badly? We're broke, aren't we?”
“Ainslow and Ritter were there, representing the interests of Slate & Tinker Bank. They told the judge their accountants suspected us of illicit trade and that our creditors were of respectable character and needed to have their interests protected. So he ordered the bank to pay down our outstanding debts as much as the bank deemed reasonable. We've scarcely enough Medoran gold to cover our operational budget for a month. There are accounts in Deshym, but none nearly so substantial. So yes, we're flat broke, and I'm tired of this, Timothy. My father's debts are too great. I want to escape. Find these treasures, start over in Kenti, bid the whole mad world good day.”
Timothy didn't know what to say. He simply looked at his friend. A moment ago he could see him only with the eyes of enmity, but now he could see a desperate man driven to the sheer edge of his will. Christopher Trammel was a piteous sight, far outside of his comfort zone in the middle of a misty forest miles from a nice hotel and the comfortable circles of well-to-do businessmen he had become acclimated to.
“I am sorry, Timothy. I've not been the best of men, but I've kept the interests of us all close to my heart. It's a heavy burden, you know.”
Timothy clapped a hand on Christopher's shoulder and pointed him toward the cave. “You believe there's a treasure in there that can change our fortunes?”
“I do,” he said numbly, nodding frantically. “I do...”
“Are we going in then?” Aebyn asked eagerly. He strode past Timothy and looked into the mouth of the cave. His eyes lit up like brightstone when the shadow of rock fell across him.
The subterranean air was cool to the skin. Thick patches of moss clung to the walls, glowing with the same soft-colored light that came from the night river. A small trickle of it had come into the cavern, lighting the way. At first they seemed to be in part of an old dwarven mine. Rotting timbers leaned frail and ineffective against earthen walls.
The tunnel pitched down as though it had crested a hill of harder rock. The night river became tumultuous, rushing down the incline in a thin torrent. For the better part of an hour they followed it into the heart of the island, following on faith that the old mine would divulge its secrets to the wary. At last they came to the end. The underground river poured into a pool that was far deeper than Timothy could see to the bottom. He estimated it would have taken years, if not decades, for the river to fill the mine to the brim like this.
“How deep do you reckon that is?” Christopher asked soberly.
“Too deep to swim, so put it out of your head,” Timothy instructed. “What does the book say?”
By the dim light of the pool, Christopher read from his notes. “Watch for the night river, when the moon is set and the sun has not yet risen. Shadows stalk, it is guarded beneath the land. Store berries in an Arnwood box. Keep cool, do not expose to light.”
“There isn't much light down here,” Aebyn observed.
Timothy noticed he had begun to unfold and fold his wings several times a minute. Being underground seemed to disquiet the gryphon's nerves.
“Are you alright?” Timothy asked as Aebyn shuffled nervously back and forth along the bank of the ever-glowing pond.
“I'd rather be outside,” Aebyn confessed easily, but he did not go. “We must find the treasure, right?”
> “Right,” Christopher said anxiously. He unbuttoned the top few buttons of his jacket, looking on the verge of panic. Rightfully so, Timothy thought, while the alchemy lab treasure certainly seemed real enough, the Mistwood treasure seemed as insubstantial as the mire and fog that made up the place.
“It says it should be stored out of the light, but there's light everywhere the river is,” Christopher observed.
“If it's buried there would be a mark,” Timothy said.
There was a loud splash that sent Christopher scurrying from the edge of the pond as though he were afraid some monster had just emerged from the black depths of the world. He let out a shrill noise, stifling it quickly behind his hand as he spotted Aebyn swimming out to the center of the pond.
“Aebyn!” Timothy demanded. “What are you doing?”
“I can see something,” Aebyn called to the shore. “Look up!”
Timothy did look up. The cavern became much taller directly over the pond, as though it were part of a much larger mine shaft that went on back toward the surface, but there was no daylight to be seen. Aebyn climbed out of the water next to him and shook himself dry, then danced gleefully along the bank.
“I saw something!” he cheered. “A light up there!”
“Is there enough room to fly?” Timothy asked, considering Aebyn's wingspan and the danger of brushing the walls of the mineshaft while trying to ascend over water. He was not entirely certain that he would be able to pull an injured lighthound from the water.
“There is!” Aebyn answered, then sprang into the air without further consultation. He spiraled up into the gloomy darkness until he was only a shadow against the limestone walls. In the utter darkness Timothy could hear Aebyn's claws scratching at the walls and then scrabbling for something in a recess.
“Do you see anything?” Christopher called up. Aebyn's brightly shining eyes looked down. They were all that either of the men on the ground could see of him.
“Be careful!” Timothy urged.
The scratching and scraping suddenly stopped. Aebyn made a happy sound and swooped down with a small wooden box clutched in his talons. Green light leaked out through the hinges and keyhole.
“I got it!” he said, beaming with pride as he deposited it on the ground at Timothy's feet. It was a small Arnwood box reinforced with metal bands made of steel to stave off rust and the faint metallic odor of ironwood elixir to ward the wood against termites and decay.
“It's got a glimmerlock,” Timothy noted, peering into the shimmering keyhole. There were four tumblers that he could see, each with a little tendril of colorful lightning buzzing between it and the base plate. The last was not lit, but sparked irregularly and flickered blue and green. “We'll need special tools for this one. Looks complicated.”
Chapter 18
The Glimmer Lock
Nothnor, Isla Merindi, Pendric Shard
We knew the arclorus was capable of great destructive power, but none of us ever expected the walls produced after it exploded. To whoever shall find these pages, I ask only that they be taken to a scholar, that the world might know what happened here...
From Isaac Faralon's Journal
Returning to Nothnor with the treasure in hand had solved some problems and brought new ones to the surface. The crew had not forgotten Christopher's odd behavior. Timothy could hear them grumbling about it when they didn't expect him to be the one coming round the corner.
“They think he's callous,” Aebyn said in the privacy of their shared quarters. “'Cold as the gold he's after' one of them said. I forget his name. He's the balding one with the bad eye.”
“Gerald,” Timothy said.
“Yes, him.”
Timothy was mostly into his bridger's uniform, dark slacks and a simple white shirt with golden thread trimming the collar. The telltale blue jacket was draped over the bed while he was busy polishing and re-lacing his boots. In his absence, rumors had spread about the bridger and his lighthound come to town. Now it was time to play the part, lest he attract all the wrong sorts of suspicions.
Aebyn hopped onto the bed, turning a curious eye on the bright brass buttons.
“They're very shiny,” he remarked. He seemed much too pleased by the arrangement. Whenever Timothy would express any misgivings toward the concept, Aebyn was quick to claim legitimacy based on his status as a lighthound and became nearly ready to beg Timothy to follow through with the hopeless charade.
On the dresser was Samuel Raimes' signet ring. He felt the curious gryphon watching him all the way across the room as he went to fetch it. Slipping into his coat and boots he checked his appearance in the mirror. Gone was Timothy Binks, merchant and gambler. Timothy Binks the Bridger looked him confidently in the eye, the illusion completed by the crisp blue jacket, brass buttons, and silver embroidered seal of the Kingdom of Deshym. With a dead bridger's ring on his finger, he led Aebyn out into Nothnor to let himself be seen by the public.
For the better part of the evening, Timothy Binks the Bridger strolled leisurely through Nothnor, taking in the sights and stopping at the best of places to shop at Aebyn's guidance. It was a different world, one that Christopher might have been better suited to, but it was Timothy, not Christopher, with the lighthound ever-present at his side.
At Aebyn's discretion he selected several fine cheeses, a bottle of red wine, and a new hat from a lanky man that promised it was the most current of fashions in Cahen. By the end of the evening Timothy had been stopped outside the storefronts not once or twice, which he might have considered a trifling nuisance, but an astonishing seven times by well-wishers, sycophants, petitioners, and one very unfortunate confidence man that had bargained on a wildcat and instead found a lion. They were polite enough to not disturb him during his forays into Nothnor's finer shops, instead huddling near the door like moths bouncing off street lamps and then descending on him the moment the door swung open.
Of course it would not do to have a bridger consulting his gryphon for the intricacies of the social etiquette of his own high and lofty station so as the conversation went along Aebyn would subtly lower his ears whenever Timothy came in danger of a misstep. A flick of the wings meant the petitioner had overstepped and would need to be politely refused. In one particular interaction a man suggested that Timothy might intimidate a business rival for him. The suggestion was so outrageous that Aebyn gave a snort of disdain and glowered up at him in a signal that augured poorly for his chances and required no translation.
Timothy tipped his hat to the lamplighter as he found his way to the Nottingway Alms. The place was just rundown enough for the business he had saved for after the close of day. Willoughby was already in attendance, standing in a dark corner smoking a pipe and keeping a watchful eye through the dim gloom of smokey lamplight and hazy tobacco smoke. He waved at Timothy, then patted a square-shaped bulge in his jacket to indicate he had brought the lockbox.
“Excuse me,” Timothy said to the man behind the bar. “I'm looking for a little respite from the public.”
“Well this is a public house,” the publican said dryly. He looked Timothy up and down for a moment, his forehead wrinkling and his brow knitting together. Just when it seemed he couldn't resolve Timothy's appearance with his presence in the drinking house, he jerked his thumb over his shoulder and permitted Timothy and Willoughby into the back room. Here they would be separated from the regular patrons by a veil of red cloth and the bar. The only prying eyes would be the publican's own.
“He's an excellent cracksman,” Willoughby said once they were alone. “He had an Iron Wesley he'd cracked. Said he knicked it right off a stage-coach right in the middle of the day.”
“I'm sure he did,” Timothy said, doubtful. More likely he'd come across it in the night and had the dark hour or the twilight hour to ply his trade. However, Timothy could appreciate the sense of good showmanship in a cracksman.
As though on cue the veil fluttered aside, permitting a hunched over man with a set of tools b
undled up under one arm. He took one look at Timothy, about-faced, and marched right back out as though he'd simply entered by mistake. Willoughby sighed heavily and went to retrieve him. When they came back together, the cracksman took his seat across from Timothy and shot Willoughby daggers with his eyes.
“I'm not going to ask you your name,” Timothy said. “This is just business. Nothing more.”
“Like he ain't already told you,” the cracksman said, giving a curt nod at Timothy's first mate. Willoughby had. His name was Bernard. He had a wife, two children, a pony with a weak hoof, and he made his daily bread painting stages, which apparently wasn't enough to support his lady and his liquor.
“It's like I told you: he's our captain,” Willoughby explained, for the first time truthfully. Christopher had made the announcement to a chorus of cheers and then left to sulk in his office for the better part of the afternoon.
Timothy cleared his throat, interrupting before the conversation could take a turn he didn't like. Willoughby placed the lockbox in front of Bernard. Whatever misgivings the man had about the situation and his unlikely customer, the box caught his attention. He took his spectacles from his jacket pocket and peered into the keyhole.
“Glimmer lock,” he mumbled. “Old one, real old. Four iterations and a halberd switch...”
“What happened? Key discharge?” Bernard asked, looking up at his patrons with genuine interest. In a few short seconds he had transformed from a begrudging thief to a man in heartfelt admiration of the piece of antiquity set before him.
“Don't have it,” Timothy said, hands upturned and empty.
“Right,” Bernard nodded. “Of course. It's a good thing you didn't try to force it. That halberd switch would've burnt the uh... whatever it is you've got in there.”
The cracksman took out his tools, unrolling a set of standard lockpicks and a few select pieces tipped in crystal made smoky by frequent use. Over the next hour the glimmer lock's hue changed from green, to aqua, and finally into a deep violet. With four crystal-edged lockpicks jammed through the narrow opening, Bernard threaded a cuprous wire inside with the deftness and care of a surgeon's stitch. The loose end he tied to a hunk of quartz the size of a cane-topper.