by J Jordan
“Oh,” said Romney, “all right. Then what about this? You keep the Jade Scar and you ruin your life for the cause. Whatever it is. You never see your son again, your wife remarries, and you spend your remaining days in this wreck, hiding from your answering machine. Meanwhile, Milo harbors resentment for his dad and grows up to be a spiteful gas station attendant who dies in his midforties of a stress-related heart attack. He hates his life, never amounts to anything, and it’s all because his dad chose an antique over his future.”
Romney was bristling as he finished. Cora and Tykeso had moved toward the door, and away from the angry little man. Kedro didn’t have this luxury. He was still clutching the Jade Scar and whimpering.
“Fine,” said Romney. “Great. We’ll take the Jade Scar for fifty thousand, plus whatever is in the duffel bag. That’s the deal, that’s the final offer. No more keeper crap or I will break you.”
“So, there it is,” he continued, a little cooler than before, “but it’s gonna take us some time to get it. We can’t just pull those notes from the bank. They will alert to it.”
Kedro’s expression said he had fallen into a remote place during Romney’s new terms. The place was acceptance, or something like it.
“I have a card reader in the office,” he said. “It has encryption software and a military-grade connection encoder, end to end. We could even split it into multiple transactions if you want.”
Romney nodded. His mood had improved with this news.
“Okay,” he said, “great. Then let’s get down to business.”
“Before we do that,” said Cora, “I would like to discuss something between the three of us.”
“In private,” she added, when Kedro didn’t move. “We will see you there in a moment.”
Kedro was still lost in the miserable, yet calming place, as he moved into the office. Cora and Tykeso rounded on the door. Both looked sheepish. Cora leaned in and whispered.
“You have your card, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Romney, “I do.”
They both smiled at this. Romney felt his stomach tightening again.
“Why do you ask?”
“Well,” said Tykeso, “I don’t have my wallet with me.”
“And I can’t find my card,” added Cora.
“Ty, get your wallet from the car. Cora, look again.”
They looked to each other, then back to Romney. This didn’t resolved the situation.
“It’s not in the car,” said Tykeso. “I think it’s back at the bank.”
“I believe my card is also there.”
Romney sighed, but it did nothing to calm the roaring intestinal fury. He could feel the heat building behind his eyes again.
“So,” he said carefully, “what you’re saying is . . . what you want me to do is . . . pay all fifty thousand notes from my account.”
They looked to each other again, then to Romney. They nodded in sync.
“Just as a loan,” added Cora. “We will pay you back as soon as we find the cards.”
“Of course,” said Tykeso.
Romney said nothing. He pulled the card from its place in his jacket pocket and held it between two fingers. Then he turned and walked with an uneven gait into Kedro’s office.
Fifty thousand Ontaran notes in five transactions. Each swipe was harder than the first. His elbow locked in place on swipe number four. He had to do it over. By the time Romney was finished, he had spent more money than he had ever spent in his entire life. Save for college, of course.
Fifty thousand ON. For an old sword. Romney made a point to hold the sword on the way back to the car. He didn’t answer Kedro’s good-byes, didn’t return the wave, didn’t even make eye contact with the scrubby elf. He slid into the driver’s seat, threw the sword into the back seat, started the engine, and gripped the steering wheel. When Cora and Tykeso were settled, he put the car in gear and drove away.
“Found it,” Cora exclaimed as they maneuvered their way out of the neighborhood. “It was on the floorboard.”
Romney’s face twisted slightly at the thought. He turned to Cora and gave an unconvincing smile, before returning to the road. Fifty. Thousand. Notes.
“And my wallet was also on the floorboard,” said Tykeso, “but I didn’t think now was a good time to tell you.”
Romney’s face twisted again. His jaw had set like a vise.
The ride was cold and silent. The three associates watched Cresdale pass by, noted the change from sprawling neighborhoods and grassy lawns, to the concrete buildings of Lanvale. The other side of the bridge was packed heading into Cresdale, commuters heading home. The path to Lanvale was open and free. Cora and Tykeso started a conversation about this, then stopped when Romney wouldn’t participate. Tykeso had leaned his seat back and continued with Cora in a hushed voice, while also giving Romney the needed distance.
At every stoplight, Romney would dart a murderous glance at the Jade Scar in the rearview mirror, then turn it over to Cora and then Tykeso, and then back to the road, always in time for the light. It went on like this until they reached Downtown Lanvale. Cora decided to speak up.
“Your Camerran accent was believable. I’m assuming East Gonford, delving into the south a little bit when you were really mad. Have you been to the Queen’s country before?”
Romney didn’t respond. He ducked into the steering wheel, as if to hide from any conversation. Cora waited, then decided to try a different topic.
“You just sent someone to college. That’s admirable. Milo will grow up to be an engineer or a doctor. He could solve the world’s problems someday. And it’s all thanks to Romney Balvance.”
Romney didn’t bite.
“I think it’s good of you,” she continued. “Judge people by the deeds they do. That was Bladstrom. Though he likely borrowed it from Gainsvald.”
It was like talking to an angry statue. Cora returned to the window, where the familiar buildings reached into the cooling sky. The streetlamps winked on in rows, some with sputtering difficulty. Lanvale was preparing for the night ahead.
The car stopped at a red light, and Romney turned his glare on Cora.
“You are not allowed to negotiate anymore.”
“She did the right thing,” said Tykeso.
“You are the muscles. You are the brains. I am the mouth. You do the bashing. You do the thinking. I do the talking.”
Romney turned around. The light was still red.
“You’ll get your money back,” said Tykeso.
“That’s not the point,” said Romney into the rearview mirror.
A car horn bleated. Romney gripped the steering wheel as he returned his glare to the road. They drove for two more blocks in silence before he turned off the street and into a parking spot. They had arrived at the Underbrew.
The point, Romney would later admit, was that he had been swindled twice in one day.
The Underbrew Café night crew had more tattoos and piercings than the morning staff and took their jobs less seriously. They didn’t mind that Romney had brought a sword into their establishment and cared even less when he approached the counter with it. The patrons, all weird hair and flannel, somehow cared even less than the baristas. Romney picked his drink from the service bar—a cup of water for Remi—and made his way to the table. Cora and Tykeso were staring into their own coffees, swishing them around, sipping, swishing some more. Romney took his phone from his pocket and checked the screen. Nothing.
“Do they know?”
“They should.”
“Tell them,” said Tykeso. “Maybe they don’t.”
Romney watched the screen a moment longer.
“They know,” said Romney. “They just don’t want to meet us yet.”
Romney waited again. This time it would come. But it didn’t. He tapped out a message.
“We found it. When can you meet?”
He placed his phone on the table. It buzzed.
“Tonight is bad,” said Mila’
s text. “Tomorrow morning. Eight sharp.”
Romney looked up from his phone. They were watching him.
“Tomorrow, eight a.m. I’ll keep the sword until then. Make sure you’re on time.”
“We were going to hang out for a little while,” said Cora, “go to an art show or something. It seems like there is one on every block. Plenty of choices.”
“That’s not my thing,” said Romney, sliding out of his chair.
“Jazz, then? Poetry?”
“No and hells no.”
“Improv?”
“Nope. Try not to stay up too late.”
Romney stepped outside. He made his way back to his car, Jade Scar tucked under his arm.
◆◆◆
He had a strange dream that evening, but at least it wasn’t divine. Romney remembered walking through a dark hallway, then falling through a hole in the floor and landing in a dinner party. The guests discussed art and music Romney had never heard of, but he knew to act like an expert. He managed conversations with some very important and interesting people, and he learned a few things in the process. But there was a tremor under it all. It was a low rumble that rattled the wine glasses. And the sound of grinding gears. But no one else seemed to notice.
It was a nice dinner party with good food. Low-key but still exciting. The perfect dinner party. It was a shame when the table erupted into blue flame.
Romney Balvance and the Reymus Collection
The explosion jolted Romney out of his sleep. It took him a while to regain his bearings. He was in his bedroom, in his sweat-soaked pajamas, with his phone on the nightstand, buzzing and buzzing. He checked his phone as he rose from bed. It was a message from Mila.
“Bring the sword with you.”
And then a second message.
“Delayed again. Be here at eleven.”
There was a knock at the front door. Romney scrambled out of bed, fixed his sweaty hair, jumped into a pair of dress slacks, pulled on a worn polo shirt, stumbled through the living room, and approached the door at the second set of knocks. He wiped his forehead, straightened his posture, and opened the door.
He was greeted by a breakfast biscuit to the face, wrapped in paper. Cora presented the gift, then stepped inside. She was still wearing clothes from the day before. Her first move was to the armchair, where she dropped in, reclined, closed her eyes, and lightly snored. Tykeso came next. He had circles under his eyes.
“What’s going on?”
Tykeso didn’t answer. He moved to the coffee machine, poured himself a cup of coffee, and then sipped at it. Then he chugged.
“Were you guys up all night?”
Tykeso gazed at Romney with sleepless eyes. For the first time, Romney noticed his eyes were amber. It was an uncommon color for eyes, but it didn’t bother Romney. In fact, nothing seemed to bother him at the moment.
“Every exhibit,” said Tykeso, “from First and Beowulf, to Beowulf and Isolde.”
“That’s nine city blocks.”
Tykeso nodded. His gaze was still locked at a point beyond Romney’s face. A realm of art history he could never imagine, and never truly understand.
“Three exhibits per block,” said Tykeso. “Arthur Avenue had five in one building. Five.”
He showed with his fingers. Romney nodded in camaraderie.
“And they were all ‘nova Concetta.’ Shapes and lines and colors. Random, yet ordered. Natural, yet man-made.”
The last part had a certain professorial tone that reminded Romney of Cora. He nodded again.
“I was never into art either,” said Romney. “Nova Concetta, Dodos, and Cabos and all that other stuff. It’s not that I don’t get it. I just never had much interest in that kinda thing.”
Tykeso nodded at this.
“I thought I was interested,” he said. “I had no idea.”
And then he walked woodenly into the living room. He sprawled, face-first, onto the couch and was out. Romney looked at his phone. It was 7:30.
They were ready to go at 10:00, though Cora was still groggy even after her second cup of coffee. The three adventurers filed into Romney’s car. Their destination: the Underbrew Café. For some real coffee. With latte chugged, Cora’s resolve was tempered. She was ready. Now, the Reymus Building.
But first, they stopped at an art gallery on Beowulf and Robin, where Cora had purchased a mixed-media painting of a dragon breathing neon light. The artist had painstakingly leaked several glow sticks onto the canvas, to give the neon breath an authentic feel and a radiance under the black light. Romney wondered if such a method was safe, though he didn’t ask. The artist was six feet of piercings and tattoos, wrapped around 200 pounds of muscle and artistic clout. Besides, he reasoned, art was pain. Or suffering. Or both. Something along the lines. The neon dragon barely fit in Romney’s trunk. They managed to maneuver it in, with help from the artist. And with the painting secured, they made their way to the Reymus Building.
After a pit stop for gas. And bottled water.
The crowd mingling through the Reymus Building’s main lobby had made a collective conclusion: security did nothing to stop the well-dressed man carrying the sword inside, which meant it was probably okay. Besides, the well-dressed man looked nice. Charming, even. He didn’t fit the schema of the crazed killer, although his taller associate was suited for the role. And anyway, they collectively reasoned, if the well-dressed man did start hacking and slashing, they would most likely run or find someone to hide behind. A marketing manager made note of her pepper spray, which was at home with the USB drive containing her presentation.
When they arrived at the top, the three associates stepped into Mila’s library. Mila was seated at her desk, where she was furiously swiping her tablet, thinking, then furiously swiping some more. She didn’t notice them until Romney laid the sword before her. She took a moment to swipe one last time, before giving her full attention to the blade.
“The Jade Scar?”
“The one and only,” said Romney.
Mila watched it lie on the desk, as if she expected it to do something. It continued to sit, like any other sword would do given the circumstances. Mila was unimpressed by it.
“How do you know for certain?”
“This piece is called the Jade Scar,” said Cora, flustered by Mila’s cool gaze, “and it is from the Classical era. The blade is in pristine condition.”
“Which is impossible,” said Mila. “It must be a replica.”
“No,” said Cora, politely, “it isn’t.”
Cora pointed to the hilt. Mila casually followed along.
“This silk is woven Tambridesian style, braided vertically, not crosshatched. The crosshatching would produce diagonal lines. That is a common mistake among modern replicas.”
“Then it’s a replica made by someone who knows the history,” said Mila.
Cora nodded.
“Fair point,” she said, “except that you would also have to know that this particular Jade Scar isn’t balanced like a katana.”
This piqued Mila’s interest.
“Is that so?”
“See for yourself,” said Romney.
Romney could already feel the tremors as he raised the sword off the desk. He tugged the blade out of its scabbard, revealing a sliver of the brilliant blade inside. Mila shielded her eyes with her arm. The light was weaker than he remembered, but it was still difficult to look at. Below them, there was the terrible binding sound. Mila crumpled behind the desk as the tremor gained force. This was enough. Romney replaced the scabbard and then returned the Jade Scar. He missed the edge of the desk by an inch.
Cora picked it up and laid it gently back onto the desk. She cleared her throat.
“Also durable. Possibly a mixture of steel and mithril, which would account for the blue sheen in the metal. And mithril, I might add, is difficult to come by in the Modern era. Expensive. It would be better to make the replica entirely out of stainless steel. Cheaper, but brittle.”
/> Mila was still blinking spots out of her eyes. Romney kept his smile. He was starting to get used to the weird electric hot tub feeling. The tremors were getting weaker, and the binding metal sounds were less pronounced.
Devon stood by the double doors, arms crossed, his excitement contained to his eyes. Romney saw him the moment Cora returned the sword to Mila’s desk. As the air cleared, Devon slowly ventured into the library. Romney nodded to him.
“Good to see you, Romney. Cora. Ty. You guys look good,” said Devon.
“Coffee does wonders,” said Romney.
“Rough night, then? Same here. How long have I been up, Mila?”
“At noon, it will be twenty-nine hours.”
“Let’s call it thirty,” said Devon. “These mergers are gonna kill me one day.”
Devon’s eyes fell on the Jade Scar, almost too naturally. And at that moment, he was locked in place. Romney drifted over and raised the sword off the desk. He ignored the thrill in his arm as he moved toward Devon, sword held out in both hands as an offering.
Devon’s eyes never left the sword. But as Romney approached, he could see Devon retreating back through the double doors. Romney could see his jaw rattling in place, his eyes swiveling across the scabbard, squinting to keep it in focus. Romney raised the sword up high. Devon’s hand rose to shield himself.
“Perhaps . . . ” yelped Mila, peeking through the doorway, “perhaps you should leave that in here for now.”
Romney looked to Devon. The billionaire was shivering in his Tambridesian silk suit.
“Yeah,” floundered Devon, “no discussing projects right now. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
They passed through the art gallery and into the conference room, where a man sat at the far end of the long table sorting through a stack of papers. The man was nearly bald, save for the silver and black stubble on his head. When he looked up, his gray eyes gleamed like sabers behind his designer-frame glasses. The stubble collecting on his chin was fashionably trimmed, the way all the kids were doing it these days. He had all the refinement of a photography professor, with the wisdom to keep it subdued. Romney couldn’t place where he had met the man before. Maybe on the cover of a book or on a billboard.