Firehurler (Twinborn Trilogy)

by J. S. Morin

  “Oh, look at that,” Abbiley said. “Those patterns are stunning.”

  Her attention was fixed on a wagon load of silk cloth. They were all dyed in various colors and designs, with red-gold, blue-green, purple-black, and a few with colors that seemed to change as you looked at them—a trick of the way the light caught them.

  “Where are these from?” she asked the lean, dark-skinned gentleman attending the merchandise.

  He had a thin face and a long slender nose above a curled mustache and scraggly chin beard. The expression he wore was serene and friendly. He wore a long coat in typical Acardian style, but his headdress was a long piece of purple silk that wrapped several times around and dangled down to wrap around his neck.

  “They from Khesh, my lady,” he said in awkward but perfectly serviceable Acardian. “You like it, yes? Feel how nice.”

  He held the end of one of the bolts out to her and pressed it into her hands. Kyrus also ran his fingers over it. The fabric was indeed … well, silky. Abbiley had no doubt never owned anything so luxurious and could not help but betray her admiration of it.

  “Yes, yes, you see now. So soft. Maybe he buy for you?” the merchant said, looking at Kyrus.

  “Um, well. I mean … How much is it?” Kyrus said.

  He had never been comfortable haggling in the marketplace. The world-worn traders that set up shop there seemed to be playing a game whose rules he did not understand. He could hardly help but feel he was being played the fool—and he was likely correct.

  “For your fine lady, two hundred eckle each arm,” he told them, and Abbiley gasped slightly, which Kyrus took to mean that was a lot for fabric. “Good deal. I like see pretty lady wear my silk. It good for business.”

  Kyrus was unsure how the dressmaking profession worked, but he imagined that it would take two or three arms’ lengths of fabric to make a dress out of.

  “My lady, pick which silk you like. He buy for you.”

  As Kyrus struggled for the proper response, Abbiley took him by the arm. “Oh, Kyrus, no. Those are pretty but I could not wear anything fancy like that. I would ruin it with paint inside a day. Come on,” she said, then led him away from the wagon and its presumptuous owner.

  “You change mind, I still be here,” he called after them as they pushed into the crowd and left him behind.

  “I just want to look, Kyrus. I do not mean to buy anything. Everything is so interesting, I just want to feel it and smell it and hear it all.”

  She kept hold of his arm and took over leading them around amongst all the wonders of the foreign traders. They stopped at a small rented storefront that was stocked with distilled liquors from Takalia. They made the strong drinks from local fruits and berries that had no names in Acardian. The merchant who sold them was a well-traveled Golishman who knew the markets well and had given them names like “Moon Berry,” “Star Fruit,” and “River Dream.” He passed out samples poured into thimbles to anyone who looked both interested and with coin enough to purchase. He kept a careful guard against the drunkard beggars who might otherwise drink him penniless.

  Kyrus and Abbiley both tried samples. Kyrus picked one called “Honeyfruit” that was sweet and smooth, though stronger than he was used to. He was thankful for the tiny vessel it was provided in, lest he pass out right there in the marketplace. Abbiley sampled “Forgetful Breeze” and blinked several times as the sharp, cool beverage seemed to go straight to her head.

  “You shall not find better distillers than the Takalish. They make of it an art form,” the proprietor told them. His puffed and ruddy complexion bespoke a certain expertise on the subject that Kyrus felt no inclination to argue with.

  “Have you got anything a bit milder?” Kyrus asked him.

  While Kyrus was certainly not above enjoying a good strong drink from time to time, he preferred remembering the occasion.

  “Well, drinks from Takalia are made to be strong, but I have other wares as well. I cannot afford to give samples, but I have this wine from Feru Maru that they make from mushrooms. I assure you it is worth the price at five hundred eckles,” the merchant said.

  “Five hundred for one bottle?” Kyrus asked.

  He knew that wine was often expensive, but that was what he might make in a typical month. Lord Derrel’s commission had fattened his purse but not dulled his judgment.

  “Good sir, I make my way to Acardia every other year at the least and have yet to depart with a single bottle remaining. I will keep this shopfront open until I sell what I have purchased abroad and then settle in for the season to enjoy a fine Acardian summer. I shall ship out again with the autumn trade winds and do it all over again, and I shall expect my customers to be eagerly awaiting my return with more. My name is Droon Harwick, and you may ask anyone you like, should you doubt my reputation.”

  “Well, Mr. Harwick,” Kyrus said, “suppose I were to offer you four hundred and the prospect of another loyal customer awaiting you each autumn?”

  Kyrus much preferred wine to liquor and thought that perhaps an indulgence while he had the coin in hand would not be entirely unjustified. Besides, it occurred to him that if his plans worked out for using magic to speed his work, he would hardly be short on coin again.

  “Kyrus, are you certain?” Abbiley asked.

  “No, not entirely. But have you ever had mushroom wine?” he asked her.

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Neither have I. Why not have a go at it? I just finished a rather large rush job and have extra coin in hand. We should enjoy good fortune when it presents itself,” Kyrus said.

  “Well reasoned, my good man. Make that four hundred thirty and you shall have your mushroom wine,” Droon Harwick said.

  Kyrus lacked the wherewithal to bargain further and simply accepted the merchant’s price. It was awkward enough having offered so much less than the asking price in the first place. He felt the man had done him a favor in asking back so little.

  The wine came in a glass jug with a small chain running through the cork and attaching to a small loop of glass near the top. It required no corkscrew to open. The glass itself had a greenish tint to it but was otherwise clear. The liquid inside had a yellowish hue to it, but Kyrus could not tell how much the color was distorted by the green of the glass.

  Toting his purchase at his side, Kyrus took Abbiley by the hand again, and they continued their adventure in the market. They stopped and saw a juggler in an outlandish outfit covered in ribbons and bells, tossing knifes as if he had not a care for the danger. After the performance, he passed around a bowl and accepted coins from the onlookers, many of whom were happy to oblige for the masterful performance they had just witnessed. Kyrus tossed in a few eckles in the hope that such entertainers would continue coming to the city.

  They stopped at another cart, this one sporting a series of wooden rods down the length, from which numerous necklaces, medallions, and charms were hung. They ranged from the exquisite to the quirky and the whole spectrum between. The finest appeared to be carved from ivory and jade, and some bore stones that looked real enough. Others were simple carved wood, either painted in bright colors or left to the natural wood.

  There was an older man, wrinkled and bent and with deeply tanned skin attending to the necklaces. Like many of the foreigners in the market, he was bundled tightly against the northern cold, though it was only a mild spring day by the locals’ standards. He wore a knit hat pulled low to just above his eyes, his grey, wispy eyebrows just poking out beneath it. He kept his hand inside the opposite sleeves of his jacket, which was a collarless, large-buttoned style with voluminous sleeves common farther south.

  “You do not want these,” the necklace peddler said, his voice gravelly and slightly wheezy with age.

  “Pardon me?” Kyrus replied, expecting that he had misheard the old man. The accent was one he was not familiar with, though Kyrus’s experience was rather limited in that regard.

  “Go away, I said,” the old peddler said. �
�You look, you touch, you no buy. I know you kind. Waste my time.”

  “Well, we might buy something, but we have yet to look,” Abbiley said, examining the necklaces nearest her. She seemed especially fond of the jade, which was an uncommon sight in Acardia.

  “Hmph,” the old man snorted. “Fine. Look. I not stop you.”

  The old man looked perturbed, and Kyrus began to suspect that yet another crafts trader had just sunk his claws into them. Abbiley picked one of the necklaces from its pole and unlatched it. It was jade shaped to form a tiny dragon, curled up in a roughly oval shape. She dangled it in front of her throat and showed it off to Kyrus.

  “What do you think?” she asked him, smiling.

  “I think it gives a bit of green to those blue eyes of yours. I think it suits you,” he answered.

  “Amulet have old magic. Priest bless. Protect who wear it,” the peddler said.

  Kyrus was immediately suspicious and cast his sight into the aether. He could not help showing a bit of surprise when he realized that it indeed was magical. He had heard of swindlers selling “magic” tokens, but until recently, it would not have occurred to him to check their claims. He wondered how many opportunities he might have missed out on to get real magical protection at peddler-in-a-dark-alley prices.

  “How much?” Kyrus asked, though the peddler had been speaking to Abbiley and not him.

  The old man turned to Kyrus with a critical eye.

  “For you, eight hundred,” the peddler said and then fixed Kyrus with a stern eye and jutted jaw, in challenge.

  Abbiley quickly put the necklace back on the cart, afraid to touch it once she knew the price.

  “Two hundred,” Kyrus countered. “That spell is old and not so strong. My lady just likes the look of it.”

  The old peddled seemed to be caught a bit off guard by Kyrus’s reasoning, but the last gambit he recognized and understood.

  “Six. Amulet still make of jade,” the peddler said.

  “Two hundred fifty.” Kyrus dug in, starting to get a feel for the process. “I know that jade is common in Khesh and Feru Maru. This did not cost you much at all. I shall pay for the trouble you took in bringing it here but will not be fooled to thinking it a rare stone.”

  “Five hundred. Lot trouble bring amulet here. You get fair deal,” the peddler said.

  Kyrus was sensing that he almost had the hang of this haggling thing; the peddler was backtracking quickly on his price.

  “Come on, Abbiley. We shall find you another at one of the other traders,” he called to Abbiley and held out his hand to take hers.

  As they turned to leave, the old peddler grabbed Kyrus’s sleeve.

  “You win. You win. Three hundred,” the peddler said. “You take advantage old man.”

  “Deal,” Kyrus agreed, smiling, before Abbiley could object.

  He counted out the three hundred and took the jade dragon amulet from the peddler’s cart. Handing the wine jug to Abbiley, he came around behind her and looped the chain around her neck, securing the tiny clasp. He took her by the shoulders and led her to the tiny, grubby mirror that sat on the cart for customers to see themselves in. She bent down and inspected her reflection.

  She turned and looked up at Kyrus. “So beautiful,” she said. “But you really did not have to. Thank you.”

  “Worth every eckle.” Kyrus smiled down at her.

  While he meant it in the way Abbiley took it, he also wondered at the magical properties of the amulet. If it truly did offer protection of some sort, he very much wanted to strengthen the enchantment so that it would last and function properly should she need it.

  Their wanderings in the market had taken longer than either had realized, and the sun was growing lower in the sky. It was late afternoon, and the shallow warmth of midday was already beginning to wane. More importantly, both were growing hungry.

  * * * * * * * *

  Kyrus had taken them to a cozy little tavern that straddled the unofficial line between the wealthy portion of town and where the craftsmen plied their trade. The sign above showed a bowl of stew and a ham hock, but its proper name was The Fattened Sow. Davin had told Kyrus about it as a place where the Scriveners would occasionally have their meetings, and he had always described the food in the fondest terms. Kyrus had never been there, but his knowledge of nicer dining establishments was rather limited.

  They were also fortunate in that there was a visiting troubadour who had arrived on the trade ship and was performing at the Sow that night. He was a Kheshi native, with pale yellow skin and light blond hair, and eyes that were so deep a brown as to appear black. He wore his hair in a mop of braids that were woven with beads that clacked as he moved his head. His long, thin beard was likewise braided, but tied with ribbons rather than beaded. Kyrus suspected that was because beads would have been a distraction as he sang.

  And sing he did. The troubadour, whose Kheshi name Kyrus and Abbiley could not quite understand coming from the butchering the proprietor made of it in introducing him, possessed a haunting voice. While none in attendance could understand a word the chap spoke, the emotion came through clearly. As he sang, he played some sort of twangy-sounding instrument whose strings he struck with a pair of tiny hammers.

  The troubadour apparently spoke none of the Acardian language, and a second Kheshi who accompanied him stood between each song and explained it a bit in halting Acardian. They were local folk songs and children’s stories that were common in their homeland. Neither Kyrus nor Abbiley had heard anything of the like before.

  The two supped on game pheasant and honey-glazed sweet potatoes, some of the finest fare Kyrus could remember, and certainly the most elegant meal Abbiley had ever had. They talked little during the meal, enraptured by the evening’s entertainment. They sat together on the same side of a small table, just watching the master troubadour as he mesmerized the room.

  From there, they had gone down to the shore, to watch the ships coming in from the harbor as the sun set behind them. They sat huddled together as the chill of the evening deepened. They had gone down at low tide and scampered down to the rocks that dominated the north shore of Acardia and found a seat upon a low flat rock, worn smooth by centuries of waves.

  “Khesh is off that way.” Kyrus pointed to the southeast. “Our friendly troubadour tonight came a long way to play for us.”

  He passed the jug of wine to Abbiley, who took a swig. They had stopped to find a blanket at one of the less exotic stalls, but not to find proper glasses to drink the mushroom wine, and Abbiley had been curious to try the drink. They had already passed it several times between them. It was perhaps not the proper way to partake of an expensive wine, but Abbiley was unfamiliar with the etiquette of fine society and Kyrus could not be bothered with it if Abbiley cared not.

  Abbiley looked across the sea in the direction he pointed. “A long way to come just to sing to us, do you not think?” she joked. “It was awfully nice of him.”

  She rested her head against Kyrus’s shoulder. They were warm beneath the blanket, but the sea breeze brought a chill that kept them from dozing as they relaxed together. They just sat for a time and looked out into the sea, watching the reds and oranges of the sunset reflect off the waves, and the pink of the clouds as they hung above.

  As the last of the fishing ships pulled into port, Abbiley asked, without lifting her head from Kyrus’s shoulder, “Have you ever dreamed of sailing the world, of seeing all of Tellurak? You know, exotic places and strange languages, and where music like we heard tonight is common.”

  “Actually, no. Ever since I can remember, I have dreamed of being a knight, like the ones in fairy tales. Not the stodgy old men that the king knights from time to time in Golis, but a true knight with a sword and armor, who fights battles for glory and honor,” Kyrus said.

  “The kind who rescues princesses and wins their hearts?” Abbiley asked dreamily, looking up at him.

  “I am not quite sure I ever dreamed that far,” Ky
rus said, smiling. “I think maybe I was not dreaming of being the kind of knight that went about looking for a princess that way.”

  As the sunset gave way to dusk, the air grew even more chill, and uncomfortably so. Kyrus and Abbiley gathered up the shoes they had taken off to walk on the beach. They scampered quickly through the ankle-deep waves that seemed far colder than it had when they had arrived.

  “What a magical night,” Abbiley commented, as they brushed as much sand as they could manage from their feet and replaced their shoes.

  Kyrus just smiled in reply.

  Oh, but what magic I could show you, he thought. I do not think you are ready to see it, though. I will not spoil a wonderful night by risking it. Soon, though, I promise.

  Kyrus walked Abbiley home, as a good gentleman should, and returned to his shop.

  Also returning was a gentleman in nondescript garb, who had been watching him from a distance all evening.

  * * * * * * * *

  Kyrus threw the bolt on the door and sighed as he escaped to his sanctuary of quills and spells. His evening with Abbiley had lifted his spirits and left him feeling a little dizzy in the head—possibly aided by the mushroom wine. It was a wonderful sensation, but Kyrus knew he had work to catch up on. Money aside, he had promises to keep to several clients. He set the half-empty wine jug aside on the table nearest the door.

  “Aleph kalai abdu.”

  Kyrus lit the workroom and began going through papers with instructions on a playbill for the Acardian Theater. It was quite a coup to win the job over the typesetters, since this was precisely the sort of thing they claimed to be best at. He had told the theater’s proprietor that he would have a dozen completed by tomorrow evening, and he had split the day between sleeping and enjoying Abbiley’s company rather than work on it.

  That’s all right, Kyrus mused, I shall just work through the night again. I get much more done with no risk of interruption.

  He walked over to the stove and set on a pot of tea. He was far from drunk, but a bit of wine and the late hour had him less alert than he would have cared for.