by J Jordan
“We agreed on nine a.m.,” said Cora, “Not nine thirty. No one said nine thirty.”
“Tykeso said nine thirty, because he had a class,” said Romney, trying to cover his tracks, though Tykeso’s frown had already found verbal prints.
“Tykeso said nothing about nine thirty,” Cora corrected. “He was the first one here.”
“At eight thirty,” Tykeso added.
“Does it matter? We’re here, we’ve got our coffees. You guys had extra quality time to catch up on stuff.”
“We didn’t need to catch up on anything,” said Tykeso. “She answers her phone.”
Phone. The word caused Romney to pat his coat. Phone. His phone, Romney remembered, was in his sock drawer, the place he had banished it earlier that morning when it wouldn’t stop buzzing. The buzzing came from a long string of text messages between Cora and Tykeso, asking Romney if he was still good for nine that morning and if he needed a ride.
For the record, the thread was only four messages long. The messages were traded between 8:10 and 8:50 a.m., as Romney was stepping into the shower. He had the option to simply relay that he was running late. Instead, he opted to show up half an hour later with no good explanation. This was why Cora was in a particularly foul mood. It also explained Tykeso’s glower, for once.
Romney patted his other pockets to make sure. No phone. It was definitely in the sock drawer at home. Cora was watching him as he patted himself two more times, just to be sure.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for my phone. I must have left it at home.”
“Oh? Okay,” said Cora. She nodded thoughtfully at this.
“I can go get it. Twenty minutes, tops.”
Cora shook her head side to side.
“No,” she said evenly. “We’re coming with you.”
“That’s not necessary. I won’t be long. Just sit tight.”
“We have been sitting tight for half an hour waiting for you,” Cora snapped. “We’re all going together.”
Romney flinched at this. This was a new Cora, one who was slowly losing her restrained, academic air. This replacement Cora had no patience for stupidity and an explosive fuse the size of a pinky finger. At least the old Cora was polite when she tore you down. The new Cora seemed to frown a lot more. Romney didn’t like this new Cora. He tried brushing off her outburst with a smile.
“No more than twenty minutes. It’s just down the street. And it’s messy. I don’t have visitors that often. So, just sit tight, have another coffee, and I’ll be right back.”
“I’ve had two coffees waiting for you,” said Cora, “and I am not about to have a third. We are going with you and that is final.”
Tykeso did his best to hide the smirk rising on his face.
“It can’t possibly be worse than my last apartment,” said Cora. “We’ll take your car.”
Romney didn’t want them in his apartment. It was untidy, for starters. There was junk mail on the kitchen counter. He had a stack of magazines on the coffee table in his living room and a book he meant to finish. There were pictures of his mother and father on the entertainment center. These were things they could use against him. They could put them together, like pieces of a puzzle, and find the enigmatic man behind the suit. These two were smart. It wouldn’t take much for them to solve it.
And if they saw into his bedroom: his unmade bed, another book he meant to finish, his computer, more books, dirty laundry, glimpses into his personality. His bedroom was an open diary.
Maybe, he thought, they would agree to wait in the car. Or wait at the door. One sec, he would say, he knew right where it was and it wouldn’t be a minute. Then they could leave and never see the inside of his apartment.
When he parked, Cora and Tykeso got out with him. So it was going to be that way. Romney took a deep breath and prepared for the next few minutes. Get to the door, he told himself, you can do it. He had done this walk many times before.
“Hang on,” he said, casually, “I’ll just be a second.”
Romney started speed-walking.
Cresdale Heights wasn’t as impressive as it used to be, but it was still clean and affordable. The apartment’s campus consisted of two buildings that stared fixedly at each other from across a well-kept courtyard. The parking lot was on the south side of the courtyard with its covered, numbered spaces. A cement walkway snaked across the green grass, took a break by a sandbox playground, circled a large elm tree at its center, and then forked into opposite directions toward each building. Romney was walking briskly on this walkway, with Cora and Tykeso on his heels.
He circled the tree toward his buildings, pushed through the double doors, passed down the hallway quickly before Mrs. Forgeson would ask about his new girlfriend—he didn’t know where she got that from—and started up the stairs, two at a time. Romney jumped through the door to his hall, around the corner at the end, and then to his door in condensed seconds. The race to find his door key had cost him precious time, but the key was between his fingers, then in the lock, twisting, then back in his pocket. Blink, and you would have missed it. He threw the door shut behind him.
“Ahh,” yelped Cora, now stuck in the doorjamb, “what is wrong with you?”
“Hey,” said Romney, “didn’t see you there.”
His smile had the enthusiasm of defeat. Cora sidled her way through the crack in the door. Tykeso swung it open behind her, then shut it softly as he entered. They had infiltrated his home.
“Not bad,” Tykeso said to the apartment at large.
“This is my place,” said Romney. “Come in. Make yourselves at home. Don’t touch anything. Look at the floor. Don’t move. I’ll be back.”
“Could I have a glass of water?”
“It’s in the fridge,” said Romney, passing through the living room and into his bedroom. “I’ll be back in a second.”
“And the glasses?”
Romney shut the door behind him.
Okay, this isn’t so bad, thought Romney. He pulled open the drawer, rifled through his socks, and felt the soft and padded comfort of a phoneless drawer. He pulled open the next drawer. Boxers, boxer briefs, silk boxers, no phone. Undershirts, T-shirts, V necks, crew necks, no phone. He was on the top drawer now with ties, belts, handkerchiefs, and no phone.
“Romney?” said a voice from behind
He slammed the drawer shut. Cora peered cautiously through the opened door. She kept a safe distance from the crushing zone. She could practically see his psyche unraveling across his bedroom. The made bed, the laundry hamper, the half-drunk glass of water on his nightstand, all laid bare before her scrutinizing eye.
“I found your phone in the kitchen. I did not find a glass.”
Romney snatched the phone out of her hand and checked the screen for fingerprints.
“Did you ever learn ‘thank you’?”
“We’re going,” said Romney, sliding into the living room and shutting off his bedroom in one fluid motion.
“And my glass of water?”
“Can I have water?” asked Tykeso, picking a magazine off the coffee table and examining the cover. “I haven’t read this one yet.”
Cora moved to the kitchen and started opening cabinets. She found Romney’s prized stash of liquor in the first. She knew his favorite drink, maybe that he was single too. A lonely drunk who left his phone in the kitchen. What a sad little man.
“No glasses,” she remarked.
Tykeso sat on the couch and thumbed through Gentlemen’s Monthly. This issue dealt with the proper use of vests when bundling up for the winter. Romney only knew this from the cover. He hadn’t read it either.
Cora found a coffee mug in the final cabinet, sorted in with his dinnerware. She turned the mug over in her hand. She rummaged through his freezer box for ice cubes, then approached the kitchen sink. She eyed the faucet.
“You don’t filter your water?”
“I said it’s in the fridge,” said Romney. “Can we
go?”
“Are there any messages?”
Romney looked at his phone again. There was an email from an investment firm in Alta Mirra that said his application was not accepted. He remembered applying three months prior. There was nothing from Mila.
Cora laid back in Romney’s armchair. His armchair, of all places. And that was his Sweepin’ Swoops mug, wasn’t it? The mug emblazoned with the mascot of the Lanvale Harriers? His favorite mug?
“I said make yourselves at home. I didn’t say move in.”
Cora didn’t move from her reclined position. She looked comfortable.
“You never laid out the ground rules,” she said, sipping from Romney’s favorite mug.
“You have to say what’s off limits,” said Tykeso, flipping another page in the magazine Romney hadn’t read yet.
“How about we start with asking permission?”
“May I read this?”
“No. Everybody out. Let’s go.”
Romney moved to the front door, opened it, showed his two associates what things looked like on the other side, and even gestured for them to try it out themselves. They didn’t budge.
“Where are we going?”
Cora sat up in the recliner. Then she tested the rocking action. Tykeso had put down the magazine but was now thumbing through an issue of Alta Mirra Now, a magazine for the avid moviegoer. Romney had read this issue.
“Back to the Underbrew,” said Romney.
“Why? This place works.”
Cora took another sip from his mug.
“It’s a nice place,” added Tykeso. “Cozy. Private.”
“True. It’s out of the public eye,” said Cora. “We are bank robbers after all.”
“Good point,” said Tykeso.
“Hey,” said Cora, gaining a serious look, “do you have the Epoch Channel?”
Tykeso leaned back on the couch, Romney’s TV remote already in hand. He surfed through the available channels, stopping on 163.
“Epoch HD,” said Cora, “Let’s just hang out here.”
“All right, fine,” said Romney, shutting his front door and glaring. “Let’s lay down the ground rules. Rule number one, no TV.”
“Why don’t we vote on it? All in favor of Epoch HD?”
Tykeso and Cora raised their hands.
“Those opposed?”
Romney raised his.
“Mine counts for two,” he growled, “because it’s my place.”
“A tie breaker then,” said Tykeso. He fished a quarter-note coin from his pocket, “Call it.”
“Tails.”
The quarter-note jumped straight up, spun briefly in the air, tumbled down, and landed in Tykeso’s palm. The profile Alda Ainsa Ontar’s twenty-eighth president, mocked Romney with her half-smile.
“Heads.”
The professor on the screen discussed the beginnings of the first gold boom in Alta Mirra, in the summer of 1799 ME. Tillman and Sons claimed their mine yielded the first gold ore in August 1799. Ivo and Company claimed theirs was the first to see gold in June. They fought the matter, starting a rivalry that lasted 150 years. It wasn’t a matter of wealth, as both mines were valued in the hundreds of millions. It was a matter of being first.
The professor on the TV argued that Tillman and Sons was first, because Ibron Tillman was among the first settlers in Alta Mirran territory. He established his company days after arriving. Tillman said he always knew, from the first day he arrived, that the mountains of Alta Mirra were ripe with gold ore. On occasion, Tillman called it a hunch. It would take two years to find it.
Reno Ivo, president of Ivo and Company, still had a valid claim. Though his company established its base camp in October 1798, an Ivo prospector was the first to find bits of gold among copper ore. This was May 1799. The professor on the TV argued that the claim was for the first pure gold ore, produced by Tillman’s company in August 1799. The records of Ivo and Company show they did not produce pure gold ore until late September of that year.
“Interesting,” noted Cora.
“Mmm-hmm,” groaned Romney. “Enthralling.”
Romney looked down at his phone. There were still no messages on the home screen. No reprieve.
“It is interesting,” said Cora. “People argue all the time over little things like this. Sure, Tillman and Sons were the first to produce pure gold ore, but Ivo and Company were technically first to find gold. In the end, it comes down to how you define the achievement.”
“I don’t see the point,” said Romney. “They’re both loaded.”
“It’s about being a part of history,” said Cora. “It’s about having your name remembered. That is worth more than any precious metal.”
Romney’s phone buzzed. He looked down at the screen and found a message.
“Jade Scar,” Romney read.
Tykeso muted the TV.
“What was that?”
“Jade Scar,” Romney said again.
The phone buzzed once more. This message kept the same terseness: “Find it. Bring it here.”
Cora moved into Romney’s bedroom. Romney followed close behind, his objections falling flat as she sat at his computer.
“What are you doing?”
“Working,” said Cora. “You don’t lock your computer?”
“Never needed to,” said Romney.
Tykeso emerged from the doorway, still sipping from his own coffee mug. Romney didn’t recall when they decided to brew a pot of coffee, but they hadn’t offered him any. Tykeso leaned in over Cora’s shoulder and watched the screen. Cora paused her research to turn to her associates.
“Guys,” she said, “you’re crowding me.”
Romney and Tykeso backed away. They watched the screen from a safe distance, until Cora started looking over her shoulder. Then they returned to the living room and learned more about the Alta Mirra gold rush.
Romney had dozed through two more shows on the first settlers of Alta Mirra, when Cora finally emerged from the bedroom. She carried a printed photograph in her hand, which she laid on the coffee table in front of them.
It was of a businessman, holding a longsword in his hand. The flat of the blade rested in his palm, while his other hand gripped the hilt. Elaborate patterns danced along the blade in gold filigree, caught perfectly in the camera’s flash. The hilt was straight and wooden, wrapped in emerald silks and adorned with small jade ornaments. It seemed out of sorts. Tykeso pointed out its flaws.
“It almost looks like a straight-edged katana. Or maybe a single-edged longsword. But the hilt isn’t right for a longsword. It’s missing the cross guard. And no pommel too. It looks more like a katana grip.”
“This is the Jade Scar,” said Cora. “It has to be.”
“What makes you say that?”
Cora picked the picture from the coffee table and held it up.
“From what I gathered in the OMANH database, the Jade Scar was a gift from the Queen Arin I of Camerra to the Elven Council of Tambridan. It was more a symbol of unification than anything. Its design blends the Camerran straight-blade style with the Tambridesian katana hilt. These elaborate decorations here show that the weapon itself is an ornament, not a weapon. At least, that is how the story goes.”
“OMANH?”
“The Ontaran Museums of Art and Natural History. They have an internal database for subscribers. Do you see the problem with any of that?”
Romney didn’t answer right away, so Tykeso chimed in.
“The Queen of Camerra brought a blade into the elven council. That is a declaration of war in Tambridan.”
“Almost a declaration,” said Cora. “Luckily, she delivered it personally, so she could explain the gift. It’s a good thing the Kinseys are so charming.”
Cora chuckled, then cleared her throat when no one joined her.
“The joke is they aren’t,” she explained. “The Kinsey clan was generally boisterous and ill-tempered. Arin called them pale sacks of—”
Romney and
Tykeso continued their mirthless glances. Cora decided to press on.
“So, according to the story, the council accepted the Jade Scar, as they called it, and left it in a vault for around seven hundred years. They appreciated the sentiment but didn’t care for the sword itself.”
“Hang on,” said Romney. “Story?”
“Yes. The Story of the Jade Scar, written by Runo Dallio, scribe to the fifteenth circle.”
“So nothing you just said actually happened.”
“Stories are always based on something real. The political tensions between warring countries were probably not settled with a gift. There were probably days-long discussions with various concessions. The lone gift being a weapon is probably a metaphor of some kind. Likely a display of military dominance. Tambridan was likely in a weakened state in the fourteenth century.”
“Whoa, stop. Like the year 1400?”
“The year 1300, since year zero would be the beginning of the first,” said Cora. “Although, Queen Arin’s reign began after the fall of the Atterusian Empire. That would mean that both countries were recovering. Camerra likely had more political capital in these talks.”
Cora waited patiently for Romney to blurt something else out. When he didn’t, she continued.
“Anyway, the story goes that the Tambridesians took the Jade Scar and locked it in a vault for seven hundred years. They hoped that by locking away the scar, they would have a long-lasting peace.”
“But you think this sword here is the Jade Scar? So, this guy is holding a seven-hundred-year-old sword. A sword that looks brand new.”
“No,” said Cora. “Please let me finish.”
“The year was 1931 ME and the Great Nations War was drawing to a close. Azerran forces made their final push through East Tambridan, burning buildings and looting coffers as they march. They were one half of Malo Taro’s final offensive, his last hoorah. Taro’s armies would soon be devastated by a combined assault from Camerra, Ontar, and the remnants of the Tambridesian Army. Despite their determined stride, the Azerrans were sleepless, cold, hungry, and worn ragged by ambush after ambush from Tambridesian resistance fighters. At that time, the Camerrans had just engaged larger prongs of their offensive, at Gonford. The Ontarans and remaining Tambridesians were already preparing the final push into Kavos, the Azerran capital. As these Azerran soldiers marched through East Tambridan, their glorious leader, Malo Taro, had already lost their war.