“Were they with Tavleros?” Randall asked, hoping to help nudge her memory in the right direction.
No, she said firmly, Tavleros and I did not participate in such a siege…though I do remember meeting him at the site of a victorious siege at the base of the mountains somewhere.
“At Mount Gamour,” Randall said knowingly as he spied the arcanium which they meant to visit first, “where you fought with Kanjin.”
Kanjin? Dan’Moread repeated skeptically. Who is that?
Randall sighed, “It looks like when we fought the Jarl you took a blow to wherever your brains are kept. You really don’t remember Kanjin?”
If I remembered him, she said hotly, I can assure you that I would not feign ignorance.
Randall stopped in his tracks, his mind completely torn from the task at hand as concern for Dan’Moread overcame his conscious mind. “Dani…are you ok?”
Yes, Randall, I am fine, she said tersely. Now tell me who this ‘Kanjin’ person was. You seem to think that I knew him. How did I know him?
“Dani…” Randall trailed off as worry overcame all other considerations in his mind, “what do you remember about your life before you met Tavleros?”
Another ominous pause followed before she said, I…I…there are only fragments—incoherent images and sensations. I cannot clearly remember anything from before Tavleros.
He drew several deep, steadying breaths as he tried to consider whether or not there was anything he could do to help her. “Maybe we hurt you when we re-fashioned your hilt…” he wondered guiltily.
No, your work repairing my hilt was better care than any I have received, she said with certainty before adding, at least…it is better than any that I remember receiving.
“Then maybe…something about the Jarl’s axe,” he said as desperation crept into his voice. “When you cut through it you might have—“
The Jarl’s axe, while made of Grey Iron which is strong enough to sunder anything not made of White Steel or star metal, was far from robust enough to harm me, she snapped. I have not suffered fresh wounds during our time together, Randall.
“Then I’m worried, Dani,” he said, ducking into an alley after drawing a pair of curious looks from passersby who saw him apparently talking to himself. “Have you ever lost memories before?”
That is a truly stupid question to ask— she began, but Randall was not about to let her sharp tongue derail his inquiry.
“I obviously meant to ask if you’ve ever remembered a situation like this one,” he interrupted. “I’m talking about a situation where you remembered losing memories, just like this one right now. I know it’s a long shot but right now it’s all I can think of.”
I do not think so, she said hesitantly as the first hints of concern crept into her mental tone. I will think on it, but I do not believe I have ever experienced this before.
“Ok,” he said, re-focusing his mind and deciding on their course of action, “we should check this arcanium for the things you suggested. You’re obviously….sick somehow,” he faltered in his search for the correct word, “so I think it’s prudent to plan for the possibility that you’ll be out of commission. If you are, I probably need to be a little better-equipped than I have been.”
That has been my position since we opened this conversation, she sniped. But, however you must rationalize the purchase of actual defensive equipment, I support your newfound enthusiasm—though I have no intention of being ‘out of commission’ any time soon.
“I’m sure you don’t,” he nodded, stepping out of the alley and making his way into the arcanium.
Chapter XIII: Magos McConnell’s Mystic Market
Early Afternoon, 2-2-6-659
“Greetings!” a frayed-looking, ancient human with long, braided white hair greeted as soon as Randall stepped into the impossibly cool interior of the arcanium. “Welcome to Magos McConnell’s Mystic Market; what can we interest you in this fine day?”
Randall marveled at how cool the building’s interior was. It was not exactly a scorcher outside, but inside the arcanium the temperature seemed even lower than The Last Coin’s ice house.
“Are you Magos McConnell?” Randall asked, eyeing the wizened man.
“Good heavens, no,” the man said with a laugh—a laugh which quickly turned to a hacking coughing fit that saw him double over with a fist placed to his paper-thin lips. Clearing his throat, the man straightened himself as best his stooped and time-bent body would permit, “I am Curator Tangio the Third; I bought my McConnell franchise license three decades ago, you see, and was assured by the salesman that it was the wisest of possible investments. ‘Join the McConnell family and double your profits in six months,’ he said. ‘Let us carry the costs of maintaining a proper inventory so that you can focus on customer service and better serve the patrons who depend on McConnell for all their mystic finery,’ he said. ‘You’ll enjoy a sands-to-seas reputation unrivaled by our would-be competitors,’ he assured me. And what did it cost me?” he asked, apparently speaking to no one in particular as he hobbled his way back to the counter behind which he had stood a few moments earlier. He threw his arms wide, “Only the very autonomy that any businessman needs in order to maintain competitive in the ever-shifting sands beneath his feet! ‘Streamlined efficiency’ he blathered on about, promising guaranteed access to the finest enchanted goods manufactured anywhere in the world. All I had to do was agree to purchase exclusively from McConnell’s approved suppliers—well,” he huffed as he perched himself atop the narrow stool behind the counter, “that and every coin and gem I could scrape together, naturally…including the deed to the quarry which my father left to me after he died—“
“Maybe I should come back some other time,” Randall interrupted, taking a step toward the door.
“No!” Tangio blurted, bolting off the stool with speed that gave lie to his stooped, wizened posture and actually managing to interdict Randall’s path to the door before he could make it there. “Now, now, now, young man,” he said, laying a finger aside his nose, “there’s no need to get down to dirty negotiation tactics just yet; come inside and let’s see if we’ve got what you need, hmm…?”
This man is insane, Dan’Moread said with a sigh.
“Yes,” Randall agreed, speaking to both the shop’s proprietor and the irritated blade.
“Splendid!” Tangio the Third clapped his hands, grabbing Randall by the hem of his cloak and shuffle-stepping past shelves filled with curiosities which Randall could only guess at. There were oddly-shaped skulls—some of them clearly human and, in one case, Ghaevlian—which looked like they had not been touched in years, and they served as bookends to tomes with spines bearing characters and letters Randall had never seen. “Now, what will it be, hmm?” Tangio asked conspiratorially. “A love potion to woo some young lady—or lad,” he added, hastily holding up a hand before winking, “it matters none to me which way your ‘inclinations’ swing.”
“No, I don’t really need any love potions,” Randall shook his head.
“Of course not—a strapping boy like you? How dare I suggest such a thing!?” Tangio huffed, slapping himself on the cheek. “I should be whipped for even suggesting as much. Ahhh,” his eyes lit up as he plucked a seemingly innocuous ball apparently made of clay. It was the size of a fist, and sported a slender thread at its center—a thread which Randall quickly realized was actually a fuse. “Out to cause a little mayhem, are we? Perhaps you’ve heard of the rumblings and want to get in on the action before the whole city goes up in flames?” he gave a knowing wink.
“Uhh…” Randall took the ball from the man’s hand, wondering if Tangio was simply insane or if he actually knew something of the coming war between the Federation and the combined forces of the Ghaevlian Nation and Greystone, “what do you know about that?”
“I know that there’s plenty more where that one came from,” he said, laying a finger aside his nose and winking conspiratorially, “and, for you, a special price:
five per gold bar.”
“Five of these things for one gold bar?!” Randall blurted, eyeing the clay ball incredulously. “Why in the Lady’s name would I pay so much for them?”
“You drive a hard bargain, sir,” Tangio said knowingly, “six per gold bar—but that’s my cost! I’m just looking to recoup on my investment before they sweat out their magics and become too dangerous to house here.”
“’Sweat out their magics’?” Randall repeated warily, noticing a few tiny beads of moisture which had collected on the clay ball. “What does that mean?”
“If you have to ask,” he snatched the ball out of Randall’s hands, “then you’d only blow yourself up—probably before you made it out of my shop,” he huffed. “Which would only add injury to insult—a long-suffered insult, I can assure you,” he prattled on as he delicately placed the clay ball on the shelf and dragged Randall deeper into the store, “but one which, at least a goodly portion of, I honestly incurred. Still…” he stopped, cocking his head as his brow furrowed contemplatively, “I wonder if customer ineptitude is covered under the insurance policy—a policy which is set to lapse next Wandering since I’ve not the coin to pay it.” He whirled around, causing Randall to rear back, “I’ll tell you what: you can have one of the boom-balls absolutely free of charge—I’ll even select a special one for you to make sure we both get everything we want. It’s a win-win!” he declared.
Perhaps we should go to another arcanium, Dan’Moread suggested.
“Yeah,” Randall muttered, causing Tangio’s eyes to light up as he bolted toward the shelf they had just left. But Randall caught him by the wrist and made deliberate eye contact and saying, “I don’t think I want that.”
Tangio’s bushy eyebrows fell in crestfallen disappointment before he shrugged, “Oh well…I guess not all the pretty ones are stupid. This way,” he said, resuming his trek deeper into the long, narrow shop.
“I haven’t even told you what I wanted,” Randall objected, trying and failing to extricate himself from the old man’s surprisingly firm grip.
“Oh, that’s easy,” Tangio waved dismissively, “you’re not here for love and you’re not here for things that go ‘boom,’ which leaves two possibilities: first, that you’re a connoisseur of fine art—the quantity and quality of which you might find in my establishment being more meager than anything except your obviously lacking taste in such boondogglery—“
“Hey!” Randall snapped, stopping and planting his feet at the precise moment required to snap the old man up in his tracks. “You shouldn’t go insulting nobility,” he said, lamely attempting to sound as haughty as the many nobles he had served in The Last Coin over the years.
“You’re no more a noble than I’m Tangio the Third,” the old man scoffed.
“I beg your pardon?!” Randall’s eyes widened in a mixture of alarm and fascination at just how bizarre this encounter was turning out to be.
“Tangio the Third died years ago,” he waved a hand dismissively, “but a simple enough shape-shifting spell—which cost more than I care to recall—let me approximate his body. See, his plan was to off himself so that his shop might get paid off—that’s where I came in,” he explained. “He was old and didn’t want to leave his family name in disgraced debt—a name that ended with him since no seeds sprouted from his branches, if you take my meaning—so he offered to let me take over the place after he was gone as long as I paid off the creditors with the insurance money. Do you want to know why everything in here is gathering dust?” he swept an arm to encompass the store.
“No, but I have a feeling you’re about to tell me,” Randall muttered.
“Because the insurance company saw through the ruse!” the shopkeeper declared in a raised voice. “Long story short: they claimed I was a co-conspirator in an attempted fraud and promised I would spend the rest of my days in a dank dungeon somewhere if I didn’t agree to assume Tangio’s identity and keep working this gods-forsaken pit until the insurance policy lapsed and the contract was satisfied.”
“I don’t see how that has anything to do with dust—“
“Do I seem like the kind of man who knows anything about any of this flotsam?!” he interrupted, waving his arm at the floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with curios and other objects. “Which is why,” he leaned in conspiratorially, “I’ll give you a fine deal on anything you choose to purchase. I already have a buyer lined up to take over the shop’s entire inventory after the insurance policy is completed—an inventory they’re coming to catalogue tomorrow morning.” He shrugged in mock indifference, “How would they know what was and what wasn’t in stock this evening? They’re only giving me ten percent of the inventory’s booked value,” he scowled, “and even I can do better than ten percent. So if you’re here to buy, I can assure you that I am the most motivated seller you’ll find—but the opportunity’s gone in the morning once the assayer’s team arrives.”
How can we trust this man? Dan’Moread asked witheringly. He is clearly a con artist—even if everything he just said is the complete truth, nothing but a nest of lies, or some combination of both he has demonstrated that he is perfectly willing to lie to a first-time customer.
Randall nodded slowly, but he had spent a lifetime surrounded by hucksters and con artists of every stripe. This man most certainly was a con artist, but there was also a skeleton of truth buried beneath the layered lies he had just told. This man was genuinely interested in selling items at a deep discount, though his reasons were still murky at best—even if one accepted everything he had just said as fact, there were too many holes to ignore. “Let’s see what you’ve got in the way of Longstrider boots,” he said, knowing that Dan’Moread’s familiarity with enchanted items would have to serve as their ultimate check against his duplicity.
“Longstriders, eh?” he scratched his head for a few moments before a look of recognition flashed across his face. “Oh, you mean those ‘Hile Tuna’ things?”
That is a close enough phonetic approximation of Hyl’Tunna, Dan’Moread allowed.
“Let me see them,” Randall nodded, and the shopkeeper disappeared behind a dangerously-leaning stack of papers half again as tall as he was. When Tangio—or whatever his name really was—returned, he was carrying a pair of boots made of bluish leather.
“Yep, here’s the tag,” he said, plucking the half-rotten tag hanging from the boots’ laces. “Hile Tuna boots, priced to move at two gold bars.”
“Two gold bars?” Randall repeated skeptically. “That means you’ll sell them to me for a tenth that much, right?”
“Why in the Lady’s name would I do that?” Tangio withdrew the boots greedily. “I just told you that the assayers will pay me ten percent for anything that’s left in here tomorrow morning. You’ve got to make it worth my while to part with these precious artifacts!”
‘Precious artifacts?’ Dan’Moread repeated incredulously. These boots are at least half-worn—and newly-crafted Hyl’Tunna only cost one bar!
“Look,” Randall said flatly, putting on his best game face, “we both know these boots aren’t in the best condition. New Longstriders cost one gold bar, and these are half-worn—“
“Ah, but you won’t find Tuna’s like these,” Tangio clapped a hand on the dusty boots, “anywhere else in the city. I’m not just selling the boots; I’m selling the hard work it took to bring them here and keep them in inventory.”
“Hard work?” Randall scoffed. “You’re a con artist who got in over his head and is now trying to get out. Besides, if I’m reading my leaves correctly,” he folded his arms across his chest, “it’s not you who ordered the assayers to come in and take an inventory—it’s the insurance company, which is probably working for whoever bought up the defunct Magos McConnell brand.”
Tangio looked ready to protest before slumping his shoulders in resignation, “You’re sharp as a needle, you know that? Fine…I’ll agree to part with them for a discount—but you’ve got to buy enough stuff for me to ren
t a boat ride out of here…say, three gold bars. If I’m still here when the assayers arrive in the morning, I might as well clap myself in irons and step off the pier. You haven’t seen horror until you’ve seen a Federation tax audit team in action…” he shuddered in apparent horror.
“Ok,” Randall nodded, “we’ll take the boots. Now what have you got in the way of a leather jerkin, an enchanted kilt, and…” he trailed off hesitantly, “maybe some kind of a small shield?”
A shield? Dan’Moread asked in alarm. Why would we need a shield?
“A kilt? Hrm…I’m not sure what I’ve got like that,” he lowered his brow thoughtfully before his eyes lit up, “but I might have something that could work. I’ll go look in back,” Tangio declared before turning and making his way to the rear of the shop.
“You still don’t have full control of my left hand, Dani,” Randall explained under his breath. “And frankly we could use all the help we can get. If you were able to control my left arm, I’d have no problem trusting your judgment as far as what we need to be battle-ready. But until you can use my left arm, I think I should be capable of contributing in some meaningful way. Don’t you?”
I suppose… she trailed off dubiously. But you must remember that you cannot wield another weapon as long as we are joined—especially not an enchanted weapon. I… she trailed off again.
“What is it?” he whispered as a loud thunk in the back room suggested Tangio might have gotten himself in over his head with the badly-stacked crates and packages lining the shop’s interior.
Nothing, she said stiffly, but it was clear to Randall that she was concealing something. It must be small—nothing larger than an escutcheon and preferably even smaller than that. Too much weight will ruin our balance, and without our balance we will not survive a single battle.
Dross (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 2) Page 17