by A Van Wyck
Pesclior refolded the letter, stuffing it angrily back into its envelope. The spectacles were plucked off the severe face.
“Well,” the man mused, eyes moving to fix on him. “Who’s you’re friend, Neever?”
“This,” Neever introduced, “is Master Olu. I have found him to be a good soul and a worthy traveling companion.”
He spared that startling declaration no thought. He didn’t like the calculating look in the old man’s eyes.
“What?” he challenged as Pesclior continued to regard him. “Do I have something on my face?”
Neever coughed to hide a smile but the old man just kept staring and he stared right back. Finally the priest turned to Neever.
“This couldn’t have waited until morning?”
The monk shifted uncomfortably. “In light of the most recent developments I thought it best we came to you directly.”
“Most recent developments?”
“We were set upon by an armed group no more than five streets from here.”
The old man’s bushy brows humped higher. “Brigands?”
“I don’t believe so.”
The old man turned to him then. “Friends of yours?”
Did the letter mention that he’d had enemies trailing him?
“I have no friends here,” he stated honestly.
“Humph,” Pesclior grunted, wearing a pensive scowl and making the chair creak. “Any survivors?”
“No,” Neever said with obvious regret.
“Good,” the bearded man said brusquely, brushing the matter of four corpses aside with a negligent hand.
A thoughtful silence ensued.
“What are you thinking?” Neever finally interrupted the man’s brooding. Pesclior frowned furiously, tangled brows fighting for ownership of the forehead.
“They were waiting for you.”
Neever nodded. “That seems likely.”
“Then we have a leak somewhere and no way to tell from how high up its dribbling down.”
“Not very high,” Neever opined.
Pesclior’s gaze sharpened on the monk. “Why do you say that?”
“Because, if they suspected where we were going and why, they wouldn’t have tried to kill us. They would have tried to question us or, better yet, follow us to F–”
“Ahem,” Pesclior cleared a scratchy throat warningly, very obviously not looking at him.
“–follow us all the way up the ladder,” Neever finished.
Pesclior thought about this, absently swirling the drink in its glass.
“Not necessarily,” the old priest said eventually. “They would have no need to take you alive if they already knew where the ladder ended.”
For the first time since he’d met the man, Neever looked shocked.
“You don’t really think that’s possible do you?”
Pesclior took a punishing swig, “We’d better hope not.”
Through all this he sat, looking back and forth between the two as the conversation progressed. He was wondering, for the umpteenth time, what he was still doing here. He wasn’t stupid. Obviously, the purist/modernist divide was a far deeper, far bloodier trench than Neever had intimated. The top of the ‘ladder’ would be the modernist gang’s boss, who was being hunted by his purists rivals. Rivals who either did, or did not, know his identity but definitely knew the identities of Neever and himself. And the gang war had just drawn blood.
“Whatever the case,” Pesclior went on, rummaging around another drawer, “the fact remains we need to sneak the two of you safely out of here.” An overlarge pipe, carved from old ivory and shiny smooth from years of handling, was produced. Pesclior tamped dark leaf from a leather pouch into the bowl of the pipe with a yellow-callused thumb. “They’ll know you’ve arrived when their cronies turn up dead, meaning this Temple will be watched for your departure. Even if you managed to elude them here, there’s no guarantee they won’t be waiting at your next stop. We need a more lasting solution. Hiding in plain sight has failed.”
Neever’s head lowered in thought. You had to admire men who didn’t quake at the thought of killers on their heels.
“So,” the monk wondered aloud, “what do we do now?”
Pesclior held up the mangled envelope staring at it intently. Its tip glowed into life, sullen flames smoking from the crumpled parchment.
He sat hurriedly back in his chair, away from the sorcerous fire. A pinprick of heat had needled his ring finger the moment Pesclior’s eyes had narrowed. Neever didn’t seem to take any notice. The old priest held the glowing taper to the pipe bowl, puffing the tobacco to life.
“Leave that to me,” the priest mumbled around the pipe stem, billowing acrid smoke with each word. When the man had an even coal lit, the smoking envelope was held at arm’s length and turned upside down so the tiny flames crawled up its length, consuming what was left of the letter. The swiftly blackening remains were dropped into a bronze mortar on the desktop. Wisps of smoke curled from its rim. Pipe in one hand, Pesclior reached for the waiting drink. “I have an idea,” the man flashed yellowed teeth, leaning back in the creaky chair. The owl at the priest’s elbow looked stunned at this news.
His eyes held on the pipe in the man’s hand. Somehow, he’d fooled himself into thinking these Heli priests didn’t hold with magic. How had that happened? Everything he’d ever heard about them agreed they were some of the nastiest magickers ever to wade into war. The irony of his situation suddenly dawned on him:
He had warrior monks and sorcerer-priests on both sides. Half were trying to kill him outright. The other half might just end up getting him killed. At his back followed a dread mage with mercenaries in tow. Ahead there waited a caper of death defying description, doubtlessly involving more magic. And in the middle, bearing all of the risk and none of the answers, there he stood.
Crap. I’ve never been more popular.
“You’re smiling,” Neever said.
“Am I?”
“You are. It has a distinctly… hysteric cast,” the man accused.
“Trick of the light.”
“I see,” the monk murmured, sounding unconvinced.
“Well,” Pesclior interrupted, slapping at a thin thigh, “you should be safe here for tonight at least. But keep an eye out anyway. Can never be too careful. Have Bariel show you to some rooms. I doubt he’s wandered far. I’d suggest the penitent cells on the top floor. They have locks.”
Neever rose and he stood as well.
“Thank you, father,” the big-eared monk bowed slightly. Pesclior waved them away.
They were halfway out the door when the old man, head wreathed in clouds of blue smoke, halted them.
“You, boy.”
He turned to regard the thin fossil through narrowed eyes.
“Blue or green?” the man shot at him.
“What?”
“Pick a color. Blue or green?”
The old fool laughed delightedly at what must be his flabbergasted expression. .
Riling, he pulled the door to with a bang. The laughter inside rose in pitch. He shook his head. His life rested in the hands of these men? He thought he might know how the owl in there had come by its final – deathly final – expression.
CHAPTER 14 – BLUE OR GREEN
“You’re not fucking serious?”
Neever held robed arms wide, the apology spoiled by a strangled smile.
He regarded again the objects lying across the bed. He was tired and grainy eyed and really not in the mood for this. He’d spent a sleepless night in what was aptly named a cell, listening for footfalls outside his door. And his hands ached from his effort at fixing (some would say mutilating) his two new long knives. By candle light, no less. They were now devoid of useless eagles and ridiculous pearls. They’d serve until he found a tinker or smith. Someone who could custom the hilts to his grip and weight them properly. He’d managed some crude balancing by winding a wire several times around. But it was far from perfect.
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He’d almost blooded one earlier, when a pre-dawn knock on his door had refused to identify itself despite his repeated challenges. With no other way out, he’d ripped it open and his blade’s edge had already tasted neck stubble before he’d recognized the mute monk, Bariel. Neever’s door had then opened onto their little tableau.
“I see you’ve tasted the porridge,” the man had commented, referring to the miraculously unspilled bowls in Bariel’s hands.
Oh, yes, Neever had been funny all day, the bastard. And now this.
“I’m not doing it,” he told the man again, crossing his arms.
“It’s the best plan we’ve got,” the monk chided.
He’d heard their plan and was not impressed. Apparently that pipe-addled priest, Pesclior, was thick friends with some rich noble in the city. Lady… something. And she’d agreed to help. Her carriage was awaiting them outside. She was in Pesclior’s office right now, on the pretense of seeking a blessing for her upcoming journey.
“How come you get to be the driver?” he accused.
“Because I,” Neever assured him, “am nondescript. You wouldn’t fool anyone, dressed in driver’s livery. You’re dark enough to be taken for a Neril and slight enough to pass for a Kender… But to anyone with even one eye and half a brain you’re obviously desert-born. You stick out like a sore thumb. How do you think those thugs picked us out yesterday?”
Fine, so they had to hide him. All of him. That was the excuse. Going hooded was too conspicuous and a mask was even more so. He’d offered to go as a leper but no one had even taken the suggestion seriously. Discounting lepers, only two kinds of people traditionally hid their faces in this demented empire. He looked again at the clothes draped across the bed.
“No,” he said firmly.
“Come now–” Neever began, tone wheedling.
“No!”
Undaunted, the monk’s arms crossed as well, obstinacy clear in the set of the jaw.
Their intended ruse was simple – stupidly so. Lady What’s-her-face was embarking on a pilgrimage to a series of holy shrines. And she was taking her niece along for the ride. He glared again at the two dresses. One blue. One green.
“This isn’t going to work,” he declared.
“You don’t–”
“No! This isn’t going to work, Neever! It’s too… Star Eyes and the Moon Palace!”
“Star– What?”
“It’s a story, Neever! It’s a children’s story! There is no way this sun-addled fairy tale farce is going work!”
“Fine,” the monk said, throwing helpless arms in the air. “What is your brilliant plan then, master thief?”
He opened his mouth angrily – and had nothing to say. Salt and silver! He’d rather have that ghost mage catch up to him!
He spent another dozen heartbeats locked in a staring contest with Neever.
“Crap,” he cursed at last.
His shoulders drooped in defeat as he reached for the green dress.
“Help me with the buttons,” he told Neever. “And I swear,” he growled as the monk stepped forward, “if you laugh, even once, I’ll make it so you need to wear a dress.”
“Of course,” the man promised, the very picture of solemn piety.
“This,” he said as he held the offending thing up, “has got to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.” He regarded the silken pleats and expensive embroidery with despair.
“How’s that?” he asked a short while later, mortified but hiding it well, his hands held to the sides. He grit his teeth as Neever gave him a critical once-over.
“You look stunning.”
“Fuck off.”
The monk was losing a battle against a creeping grin.
His hands twitched but he felt a sudden… reluctance… to hike his skirts high enough to get at his knives.
This is going to be even harder than I thought.
“Now, now,” a sedate voice husked from the door, “such language is unbecoming of a young lady.”
He turned to see an immaculately dressed older woman, escorted by Pesclior, enter the room. Both trailed streamers of smoke. Like the lady herself, her pipe was slim and austere. Jeweled combs were threaded into the severe bun atop her head but it was her eyes that were most striking. A piercing slate hue that said she knew what you were thinking.
Everything about her said she was the grandmother you wished you’d never had. She reminded him of Hammerham Nan.
She strolled in with the unhurried gait of the true predator, circling as if he were a staked goat.
“He cleans up nice,” Pesclior commented to no one in particular.
“This is nice?” the lady queried skeptically, raking him up and down with her eyes. “He must have been a catastrophe before.”
He fought the urge to lean away from her attention. Thieves and murderers he could handle. Domineering women he wasn’t so sure about.
“A shame about the shoulders,” the lady said at length, gesturing with her pipe, “and we’re going to have to do something about that posture.” She glanced at Pesclior. “He looks like a dock rat tangled in a silk net.” The smile was evident only in her voice, her expression remained wryly woeful.
Completing a last circuit, she leaned in – much too close! – and treated him to an in depth study. There was no telling what was going on behind those critical eyes.
His own started to water from her pipe smoke.
After an eternity, she straightened, wrinkling her nose. “You could at least have had him washed,” the lady accused, pulling a lace kerchief from a sleeve. She held it up to his face. “Spit,” she commanded him around the thin stem of her pipe.
He started. Did she think him a child? He smiled awkwardly at her joke. The only change in her expression was the settling of a dangerous blankness.
“You’re serious?” Her eyes said she was. “No!” he gusted, outraged. “How old do you think–”
“Either you spit,” she interrupted him in steely tones, “or I do.”
He glared at her.
“You just–”
The noise as she cleared her throat was not at all ladylike. He caught her wrist before the handkerchief could make it to her puckered, painted lips. She raised an eyebrow at him. He hesitated for only a moment and then spat obediently on to the handkerchief.
“There we are,” she smiled thinly. He ground his teeth, glaring at the ceiling as she wiped the damp kerchief up one cheek and down the other, working it a bit on one or two spots he knew weren’t filthy. She took his clenched fist from his side and stuffed the soiled kerchief up his sleeve. “Now,” she announced, eyeing him speculatively as she extracted, from somewhere on her person, a small container. It opened with a click. “We only have time to do the eyes,” she said, half to herself, “the rest will have to wait.”
Do the eyes? Realization struck. “If you think–” he tried to back away only to be brought up short. She was standing on the hem of the accursed dress! The little needle-like brush that suddenly hovered threateningly at the corner of his eye probably was not any kind of weapon. But she wielded it like an executioner’s blade. Their gazes locked. That deadly eyebrow rose again. Recognizing his defeat, he deflated, shamed.
“Sit,” she commanded.
And what, really, was the point in arguing? Some days, you just had to survive as best you could and hope that tomorrow would be better. He sat, fists clenched on his thighs, while she did all kinds of complicated things to his face. It was good she asked him to close his eyes. He didn’t want to see anyone right now. Or have anyone see him, for that matter. If he saw Neever’s smiling face right now, he’d have to kill the man or die of embarrassment.
While defacing him she kept up an easy conversation with Pesclior. Despite the ongoing attentions, he felt ignored.
“It was good to hear from you again, Messin. We don’t see much of each other anymore.”
Messin? These Imperials had very strange names. He could find no rhyme o
r reason to it.
“It has been a while, hasn’t it?” Pesclior said. “So many things to do. None of which ever seem to get done.”
She had a much younger woman’s laugh, soulful and lilting, “I know exactly what you mean.”
Something brushed lightly over his eyelids.
“So,” she continued, “who’s brilliant idea was this?” She obviously had about as much faith in this venture as he did.
“Mine, actually,” the gruff priest defended.
“Why does that not surprise me?”
“I always was an open book to you.”
“That you were, though half the pages were missing and sizeable parts were blank.”
“Let us not discuss my sizeable parts. There are ladies present.”
“Hardly,” she scoffed, leaning back to appraise her handiwork. He opened his eyes to her critical gaze. “That should do for now,” she finally conceded. He let out a gust of nervous breath.
“I don’t suppose,” she said severely, “that you may legitimately wear this?”
This was the gauzy veil she snatched up, brandishing it under his nose. Sharp eyes dared him to lie.
Virgins.
Two types of people who traditionally wore veils.
New widows.
And brides-to-be.
I’d rather be a wind-wasted widow.
“I didn’t think so,” she opined primly and rammed the handful of green gauze atop his head. He winced as the film of material fell across his face.
Not so much different from a thief’s mask, really, he tried to encourage himself.
“We will do something about the hair later.”
He stiffened.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Finished with him, she turned away and moved to clasp both Pesclior’s hands fondly.
“Dear, Messin,” she drawled, pipe bobbing gently, “it was good to see you again. Why must it always be life and death before you rouse yourself enough to remember me?”
“You’re the one person I’ve always been able to count on,” the old priest returned with more tenderness than he’d have believed the rough fossil capable of. “Thanks again for helping out, Hemmy.”
“Oh, shush,” she batted the fossil’s thanks away, “always a pleasure.” She glanced around. “Now, where is my driver? It is time to go.”