I rolled up the carpets while Ramsey chalked out a rough sketch of the harbor on the floor, and we then proceeded to lay out the reminder of our maps in a loosely connected diagram of Triport’s undercity. Some chairs were commandeered to hold a few of the pages, representing reverse elevation, and in quite a few areas I filled in blanks as best I could from memory.
[Intelligence check: Success]
Once we had it laid out to our liking, Ramsey got up to fetch the illusi-frame from his coat pocket, which, along with his vest, was hanging up by the fireplace to dry. His soft undershirt was damp and clung to his shoulders. I watched him, lining up to take a picture of our sprawling layout, and noticed for the first time that he had really nice shoulders; neatly squared off and surprisingly well muscled. Even better, though, was the way they moved, mobile and expressive, full of energy. Unburdened.
He turned around to ask me something and caught me looking at him. This time it was my turn to flush and look away, but instead of hiding, he gave me a hopeful smile and came closer, and my stomach fluttered like I was testing out my Talarian Sandals.
“Sam?”
I swallowed. “Yes?”
He took a deep breath, met my eyes, and then must have read the incipient panic in them, because he backed down and let the moment go. “Do you think this screenshot will work?”
Whatever I was expecting him to say, it wasn’t that. “What?” I felt like I was trying to keep my balance.
His smile was a little softer now, patient. Like someone cupping a candle against the wind, hoping it will kindle and catch.
“The screenshot.” He handed me the illusi-frame. “Can you read it?”
Relieved to have something else to focus on, I took the frame and peered at it. The map was all there, just writ very small.
“Here.” he said, gently brushing my fingers, oh-so-carefully, his touch light and unpressing. I went very still, but this time no evil memories ambushed me, and I let him guide my hands. “You can zoom in like this...”
The picture expanded, the edges disappearing out of the frame, but the details bloomed into focus.
“Oh.” I didn’t know what to say. “Thank you.”
We both jumped about a foot in the air at the sound of a knock on the front door. I broke off and moved out of sight behind one of the tables, while Isha went to answer the door, but there was no one there, just the edge of a waxed scroll case sticking out of the mailbox. Isha took it inside.
We waited while the tall, lanky elf opened the ornate, official looking case, removed the very serious looking scroll from inside, broke the elaborate wax seal and ribbons, and proceeded to read it.
Ramsey made it all of thirty seconds before his curiosity overcame his polite attempt to mind his own business. “That must be pretty important, for an afternoon special delivery.” he observed.
“It is my summons to appear at court.” Isha informed us. “The trial is the day after tomorrow.”
“That soon! And you just now found out about it? Someone’s jerking you around!”
“Yes,” Ishàmae agreed distractedly. He looked up and met my eyes. “And Samiel has been subpoenaed as well.”
“I have?” I blinked a few times in confusion. “What have I got to do with this?”
“Nothing.” growled Isha.
“Maybe the better question,” Ramsey asked, carefully, “is: what is the ‘this’ that Sam has nothing to do with?”
Isha looked over us, glared at the tattletale angel, then sighed deeply. “I suppose it will all come out tomorrow anyway. And you have earned the right to know.”
Isha pulled up a chair and settled into it, long legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles. The still damp Pequod hopped up into his lap. “As you know,” he began, “I was not born in the city of Triport. My family lays claim to a large estate down in Southwind dating back to before Southwind’s founding by the Leon Empire of old. Many customs are different back ho—” he cleared his throat “—down there, not the least of which is that Southwind has not three gods such as are worshiped in Triport, but only one: the goddess Hazel.” At this his eyes grew distant and his smile genuine. “Hazel is the goddess of plenty. She governs the fields and the fruits of our labors. She is the goddess of abundance, of fertility, of the harvest. Her sacred symbol is the hazelnut tree, which is forbidden to be cut down, and her blessings are those of quickening and of health.”
Isha looked like he could wax on like this for some time, but instead he shook his head. “The church of the goddess concerns itself greatly with all elements of fertility. Marriages are arranged to best promote good bloodlines and desirable traits, and detailed genealogies are kept for everyone, for generations. It is well known that the ability to cast divine magic is an inheritable trait, and to this end the divines of the goddess are bred as carefully as any cultured purebred stock, the rituals and recipes passed down from generation to generation along with the blood.”
“The famous baker-priests of Southwind.” Ramsey breathed in awe. “They’re said to be able to convert people to the worship of their goddess with a single bite of bread.”
Having tasted Isha’s croissants, I believed it. “Wait a minute,” I said, revelation dawning, “is that why your food is so good? Because you’re—”
Isha inclined his head, his long fingers still absently detangling Pequod’s fur, and managed to look for a moment not at all like a down-on-his-luck restaurateur, but like something else; mostly noble, slightly arrogant, wholly possessed of himself. With a slightly fluffier cat, I might have easily imagined him plotting world domination. “Just so.” he agreed. “My own marriage was arranged for me by my mother, with the blessing of the church, many years ago.”
“You had a wife?” Ramsey interrupted, unable to contain his bogglement, but he blushed at Isha’s level look. “Oh. Err. What was she like?”
Isha sighed. “Lynamane. I daresay we loved each other, once. I was pleased enough at the time with our arrangement. Her family name was not as old as mine, but the divine blood ran strong in her, and everyone agreed that we would be a good match.” He frowned. “We were not.”
“How come?” I asked.
“I cannot tell you when things began to go wrong, only that they did. What I once fondly took in her for exuberance, I began to recognize as impatience, especially with me. She wanted children, but not for noble reasons; to her our future children were nothing more than status markers, to be shaped according to her desires and paraded for her ambitions. We quarreled, and our domestic disputes turned theological. Her interpretation of the goddess Hazel was not one of plenty but only of more, not abundance, but greed. The more she demanded of me that I father her children, the more horrified of the idea I became.
“When I first caught her trying to slip potions into my meals, to make my body—if not my will—compliant with her desires, I realized that what was between us had no peaceful or polite resolution, and that she must eventually come to the same conclusion: our marriage would have to end.”
Ramsey put his hands in his pockets. “Huh. I mean, that sucks, but from what you’re talking about, it seems like a divorce would be kind of a relief.”
Isha’s smile turned bitter. “Yes, a divorce would have been most welcome, had it been possible. But the church of Southwind holds the sanctity of marriage high; a sacred vow made by two divines before the goddess herself, unbreakable, and for life.”
“You mean, you can’t get divorced? What about, like, an annulment or something? You said there were no kids.”
“Annulments are very rare. Such an exception would have to be made by the church itself, and I began to fear she would not accept one. Her family fortunes had declined since we were married, and she never was one for any compromise which would leave her with less. No, I began to fear that ‘until-death-do-us-part’ was becoming an urgent reality.”
“You think she would kill you?” I asked, outraged.
He shrugged again, one rolling shoulder. �
��It was either me or her. And I would not stoop to murder only to break a regretted vow. She... I would not like to think so, but I do not put it past her. I was still pondering if there might be another course of action for us when the fire broke out.”
“The fire of Silverthorne Valley?” I asked, quietly, remembering the wines in the basement.
Isha’s eyes widened in surprise. “Yes.” He looked away then, at some distant grief. “It took the vineyards and two of the pastures, and the east wing of our house. Where my mother lived. When I saw the smoke I ran in, looking for her... but the entire place was in flames, the roof collapsing, smoke and destruction everywhere. I found some of the servants and pushed them towards the exit, but when I came to my mother’s chambers... it was too late. She had been at the very heart of the fire. It was too late before I even began.”
“I’m sorry.” I whispered. I thought of my own death and resurrection, and remembered that you need an intact body to try and bring someone back.
He nodded. “It was a miracle of Hazel herself that I managed to get away. There was an old, unused stairwell, you see, in which I used to hide in as a child. It exited into the garden. I sat there, alone, coughing up soot and watching the house burn, when it finally occurred to me that no one had witnessed my escape. Unless I revealed myself, as far as the world was concerned, I was dead, and my marriage with me.”
“Oh.” A look of revelation was dawning on Ramsey’s face.
“In addition, because our union was childless, Lynamane would only be able to inherit the remains of the estate jointly with me. If I died before the courts could confirm me as my mother’s heir, the land passes in its entirety to one of my cousins.”
“Ha!” Ramsey pounded his fist into his palm. “And she gets nothing!”
“Only so long as I remain dead. I had hoped, with nothing more to gain from me or my family, she would move on. Perhaps she would marry someone else, or seek her fortunes elsewhere, or some stranger plan. I care not so long as it does not include me. I came to Triport as no-one, with the intent to remain as no-one until enough time had passed that I would be forgotten. I thought it had.” He gave me an apologetic look. “It seems that I was wrong.”
“So, why do you suppose I was on your summons?”
“That I do not know. I assume this trial is to prove in some official manner that I am still alive, with word then sent back to Southwind to such an effect. No doubt much to Lynamane’s delight. Perhaps you are called to testify to my continued existence.”
Ramsey frowned. “I still think it’s weird that they’d ask for Sam, who’s new in town, instead of Sarah or Marissa. They’ve worked for you for years. This whole thing smells funny to me.” He propped his elbow in his hand and drummed his fingernails against his teeth, thinking. “What we need is less speculation and more concrete legal advice. What we need... is a really good lawyer.”
Isha spread his hands in another what-have-you? shrug. “Lawyers, alas, do not come cheap. I am afraid my limited funds will not stretch to cover one.”
Ramsey was still scowling fiercely, but I reached into the front pocket of my dress, where I had transferred my daggers and other errata from my wraps. There, nestled into a corner were six small clear beads. I pulled them out and offered the sirenstones to Ramsey. “You said something once about turning these into cash.” I said to his now-astonished stare. “Would they be enough to pay for a lawyer?”
He whistled, low and impressed. “I’ll say they would! Those’ll pay for a lawyer and then some!”
“Good. Now, how do I fence them?”
I decided that the rain and my poncho made a good enough disguise, and we set out to sell the stones. I shivered in the cold and damp, but Ramsey didn’t even seem to notice the weather. Since he didn’t think we’d need to cash out all of them, I insisted we stop by Velceron’s shop in the alley off of Market Street, and see if he had anything to trade.
When we got there, though, the sign on the door said “closed”, with a quarantine mark chalked on the frame above it. I felt my stomach curl in at this. There had been plenty of closed shops on our way here, more than usual, and now that I noticed it, many of them had chalk marks on the door or the frame. I perched on the window frame and peered inside, but the piles of items had obscured the window from the threats of a cleaning rag for years, and I wouldn’t have been able to see anything at the best of times.
“I hope they’re ok.” I worried, hopping down. “But I guess I won’t be trading the stones after all. Where do you usually sell stuff?”
“For in-demand, legal items, I’d normally recommend the auction house. But that’s a three day turnaround, which we don’t have. Most vendors will likewise lowball you if they know you’re in a hurry.” He frowned thinking. “Also we need someone with that kind of cash on hand.” His frown deepened. “Well... I do know this one guy...”
“Yes?” I asked, hopeful.
“He’s just... well...”
“Kinda shady?” I remembered some of the places we had gone trying to sell Isha’s wines. “I’ve got my daggers.”
“Ha! Super shady. It’s not that Fast Eddie is dishonest, it’s just that you kinda wish he didn’t exist. Or maybe that you didn’t need him to exist so badly.”
“I can go by myself, if you’ll tell me where to find him.”
“No, no.” Ramsey waved this idea aside. “You’ll need an introduction.”
Fast Eddie’s shop was in a cul-de-sac off of Wayfarers Way. From the outside it looked much like Velceron’s place would if the old wizard had some sense of aesthetics or organization. An unprepossessing, hand painted sign hung under a modest awning over a brass-handled door and proclaimed:
Fast Eddie’s Magic Shop
Used and New Goods Bought and Sold
Financing Available!
On a string hung a smaller sign that said “Always Open”. Curiously, I reached up and flipped it around. On the other side it said “Still Open”.
Inside, the place was dimly lit and filled with bookshelves. The bookshelves were filled with... stuff. Trinkets, household goods, statuettes, clothes, weapons, crystal balls. A vase on a higher shelf had a bouquet of wands in it; a strange device that looked suspiciously like a gnomish pasta maker sat next to a pile of rags, which nearly covered what looked like a mouse skeleton made into a hand puppet. That made me think of the Ossian Gloves, and I suppressed a shiver that had nothing to do with surprisingly warm shop.
In the center of the shop was a round counter with a fancy brass machine on it—
—and behind that was a very tall man I at first mistook for a shaved and sunburnt half-ork in a three piece suit, until he stepped around to greet us and I noticed his pinstriped pants bent oddly, and the cuff covered not boots, but cloven hooves. I looked up, and then up some more, and met a broad face with intelligent brown eyes beneath a couple of neat, professional horns.
“You’re a demon?” I blurted, sliding my daggers out.
“Half-demon.” Fast Eddie agreed amiably, ignoring my daggers. “On my father’s side. Hello, Pockets. Have you come to make a trade?”
“No! Not for—” Ramsey bit back whatever he was going to say. “Eddie, this is Sam. She’s a friend, not a trade. Sam, this is Fast Eddie. He deals in favors, and stuff, and sometimes large amounts of cash.”
“Any friend of Ramsey’s is a friend of mine.” The big half-demon announced cordially, and extended his hand. I looked over at Ramsey, but if he wasn’t relaxed, he wasn’t giving off any immediate danger signals, either. I put my daggers away and shook Fast Eddie’s hand. His skin was brick red, warm, and ended in blunt, well-kept fingernails. “Well then,” he gave us a smile, huge and white and full of teeth. “What can I do for you folks?”
“It might be,” Ramsey began, very casually, “that we have a sirenstone for sale.”
“Actually,” I said, “we have sev—ouch!” Ramsey had managed to step on my foot.
I took the hint and closed my mouth, and left them haggling while I explored the shop. The Gnomish Gnocchi-Master Mark Five, Cynric’s confirmed of the machine on the shelf, next to a Wand of Lightning Bolt, a Wand of Fireballs, and a Wand of Cunning.
What’s a Wand of Cunning do? I wondered.
“That sounds fun!”
“Oh.” I wandered around a bookshelf, past water filled vase as tall as I was called an Eternal Fountainhead, under a rack of clothing of various descriptions, such as a Scarf of Speak with Animals (Moths), a Vest of Air Breathing, and Bracers of Armor.
I picked up the bracers, admiring the smoky diamonds set into the metal, and out of them slid a pair of fingerless gloves: Gloves of Monkey Grip.
I peered at them through my goggles, looking at the patterns of magic embedded in the thin leather and silver stitching. Carved amber beads of simian faces were set into the back of the wrist clasps, and several more empty bezels surrounded them. The entwining magic seemed to extend away from the gloves by a few inches and made them seem somehow bigger than they were.
“What does that mean?” I muttered, keeping my voice down.
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