We finally ended up back at La Baliene, breaking the unhappy news to Ishàmae, as Marissa and Sarah had gone home for the evening. Isha nodded.
“We will simply have to raise the capital, then.” he said. “Ramsey, what do you know of fine wines?”
“Umm, I know I’ve never had one. But I suppose I know some people who have.”
“Very well. See if any of these people would be interested in the contents of my cellar. Have Samiel show you down there.”
Ramsey raised his eyebrows at this, but followed me down, and we spent the rest of the night inventorying dusty old bottles, while Ramsey made appreciative whistling noises, and wrote down everything in a small notebook that appeared out of his pocket. When we got too bleary eyed to continue, we retired to my room, where Ramsey insisted on being the gentleman and sleeping on the floor, which I thought was a bad idea. I finally tricked him into reclining on the armchair while I went to fetch a blanket, and sure enough, by the time I got back he was snoring. I stretched out on the packed dirt floor, perfectly familiar to me, and slept like I’d been stepped on.
[Rest bestowed: 3 Hit Points]
[Hit Points: 15/15]
We reconvened the next morning over breakfast. No one was happy to hear the cost of the potion, but Sarah pushed grimly forward. She would go back to the University and try for a refund for her admissions, and Ramsey and I would find buyers for the wines. Marissa was ordered to stay put and rest, which she insisted she didn’t need. I wondered if anyone else noticed she was alternately shivering and flushed throughout, and hid it behind puttering busywork. We agreed to meet back up in the afternoon.
I trailed after Ramsey while we hit even more exotic sections of the city than before. From the Arcane Quarter to the huge gilded STC ship in the Harbor, Ramsey went into full salesman mode. For some of the rich folk up in the Arcane Quarter, he took off his hat and put on big puppy dog eyes, explaining how we were trying to raise money for our sick aunt; on the docks of the golden ship, he gave the captain a nod and wink about how quickly he wanted to unload these fine vintages, hopefully before the owner missed them; in the back room of the Market District he played dumb, acting like he didn’t know what the bottles were worth, but pretending excitement to let the greedy-eyed lady trick him into bringing some in for her to swindle him out of. I was introduced variously as his sister, a visiting dignitary of the Elkylar Caravanners, a mute sommelier, or an escaped Southwind slave, selling off my evil master’s stock for the price of my freedom. Once, in a warren of tunnels under Meat Street, I was presented as his bodyguard. I got to glare at the dirty, scarred dwarves, who glared back at me, while we all kept our hands near our blades, and Ramsey acted just as bold as a brass balled wizard.
Voice was curiously absent all day. I kind of missed the running sarcasm, not to mention at-will definitions of words like sommelier. Back at our afternoon kitchen conference, the news was not good.
“The bastards wouldn’t refund me my spot.” Sarah snarled as she paced, refusing the cold chicken which Ramsey and I were gnawing on. “No one would trade me for it either; it’s too close to the beginning of admissions week, and too early in the morning. I guess the students are universally opposed to getting up before noon if they don’t have to.”
Marissa huddled under a thick shawl, insisting that she was fine, rather more often than she needed to. I was boiling up some aspen bark tea, and even added honey to take some of the bitterness out.
“Ramsey?” asked Ishàmae.
“If you gave me a week, I could sell this lot at a huge loss, and get you the money. But the problem is, as fast as we need to unload it, I’m fencing it for literally a steal, and the people who will buy it stolen don’t know what it’s worth. And the people who do know what it’s worth won’t buy it without getting it authenticated.” Ramsey chewed on a chicken bone and reviewed his list. “I have four or five buyers lined up for tomorrow who I’m pretty sure will come through with the money. If they do, it’ll net us just over a hundred gold.”
We contemplated this in glum silence. Finally, Isha stood up, strode upstairs, and returned in long, stovepipe trousers, and a rather nicer coat than I would have expected him to have. He grabbed his tallest white hat and settled it imperiously on his head.
“Right.” he said, to none of us in particular. “It has been seven years. I am sure it has been long enough… well, nevermind. I am going for a loan.” he announced. “Hold the fort while I am gone.” Ishàmae nodded, once and perhaps finally, and swept out the front door. He had to bow from the waist to fit under the frame. Perhaps only I heard him mutter as he went, “…it is time to see what my name is worth.”
We did as we were bid, and stayed at the small table in the kitchen. I kept the aspen tea going, Marissa sat nearest the stove, and Ramsey produced a deck of cards for distraction. We played poker for pecans, and Sarah beat the snot out of everybody.
Marissa faded fast, and Sarah tried to put her to bed in one of the upstairs guest rooms. She refused, eventually admitting she didn’t want to climb the stairs, and Sarah was persuaded that a settee in the dining room would be an acceptable place to rest, and anyway, Sarah could better keep an eye on her there. We built up the fire, Sarah tucked Marissa in with a blanket, and the three of us retreated back to the kitchen for more cards. It was better than thinking too hard about what would happen if Isha didn’t get his loan.
“I’m sure he will.” Ramsey said optimistically. “I mean, he owns the restaurant, right? I mean, a few hundred gold is more than any of us have ever seen, but with this place as collateral, and a quick blood sigil, it’s a perfectly reasonable loan.”
“I thought you didn’t approve of blood sigils.” We had switched from poker to Hearts. I was currently in possession of more red cards than I could get rid of.
“Well you shouldn’t just throw them around for anybody to get ahold of. But I have to admit, the Guild of Bankers and Goldsmiths keeps pretty tight control over any in their care.” Ramsey tossed out the three of swords, Sarah the queen, and I unhappily picked up the whole lot with the king. “One of the smaller banks had a big security breach, like six years ago, some thief broke in and made off with a whole bunch of cash and a pile of contracts, and they hired the Purpleton Detective Agency to track the guy down.”
“The who?” I had no good cards to play, and I reluctantly tossed out the five of hearts. Sarah underbid me with the four, and Ramsey smugly snuck in the deuce. I scowled and collected my cards.
“The Purpletons. You know, seriously badass guards, work closely with the banks, have offices all over the world? It’s said the Dread Reapers are their elite special forces. And they’ll bring you back from the dead.”
I’d given up on winning this round, and was stoically collecting the rest of the hearts, which Ramsey kept enthusiastically throwing at me.
“So if it’s so easy,” Sarah asked, not sounding worried by some heroic effort, “where is he? It’s almost midnight.”
“I think La Baliene is involved in some kind of lawsuit right now.” I confessed. “I overheard him talking to some clerk the other day. Maybe that’s holding things up.”
We played a few rounds in silence.
“If he can’t mortgage the restaurant,” I asked Ramsey, collecting the last of the cards and forcing him to meet my eyes, “is there anything we can do? I mean, blood sigils, loan sharks, legal or otherwise?”
Ramsey didn’t answer for a long time. Finally he said, “Look Sam, you’ve won.”
“What? But I have all the hearts.”
“Yeah, I know.” He gave me a lopsided grin. “You’ve shot the moon.”
Chapter Ten
Ishàmae came back the next morning. I woke to hear him arguing with someone out front. I peeked out the window, and he was walking with stiff dignity down the path, flanked by several severe looking guards, well turned out in royal purple uniforms, with some very functional looking weapons at their sides.
“…I know very
well what house arrest is, much-thank-you, and you do not need to come inside. I am sure you can guard the exits just as well from the outside.”
One of the guards muttered something, and two of them took up stations on each side of the door. Two more went around the side of the building, presumably to look after the back door.
“Chef, what happened?” Sarah was awake now, along with Marrisa. Ramsey yawned and come wandering in from the kitchen.
Isha stood up straight, as if he was about to answer, and then looked down at the floor, balling up his fists. He took a deep breath, two, and then, quivering with rage, snatched the tall white hat from his head, crushed it in his hands, and threw it into the fireplace.
We said nothing. He stared at the blackening headpiece for a moment, watching the flames, and finally said, “I am sorry.”
“What for?” I eventually managed to get out.
“Some old business has caught up with me.” he answered, still not looking at us. “I had almost managed to secure the loan, but as you know, it requires a signature…” He sighed. “It seems even the independent institutions of Triport keep in rather better correspondence with my home country than I had thought. I… well. It does not matter right now. Ramsey,” Isha turned, “sell what of the vintages you can. For what it is worth, I am happy to authenticate any of them if the buyer will come here, since, as you can see, I will not be leaving anytime soon.”
Voice! I thought, clamping my mouth against the temptation to blurt out loud. But why are you whispering?
Sarah was swallowing hard. “It’s ok, mother.”
“Yes, yes, dear. Of course it is.”
“It’s ok.” Sarah kept whispering, as if she hadn’t heard. “I can sell... something. A blood sigil of my own. It’s got to be worth something. Anything.”
Ramsey came back upstairs with a well padded box and began carefully stacking some of the dusty old bottles into it. “Sam, you want to help me take this up to the Arcane Quarter? That’ll be stop one, I think. Least chance of getting robbed right off the bat. Or having our wares smashed by some careless street thug.”
Smashed. I thought. Shattered. Just like Sarah is looking right now. Just like all of Marissa’s proud plans. Just like a purple dreamcatcher, ground into the dust…
“No.”
Everyone turned to look at me.
“Go ahead and sell the wines, Ramsey. In case this doesn’t work. I’ve got… some debts to collect.”
No one stopped me as I went to the kitchen, where I tore off a square of waxed baking paper from the roll on the counter and retrieved my threadbare backpack. Out back, I nodded to the purple garbed guards as I stalked over to the compost heap, where, keeping an eye out for rats, I poked around with a stick until I found what I was looking for. Perfect. A three-day-old fish carcass, complete with the guts and skin. I carefully wrapped it in the wax paper, holding my breath to avoid the stink. The guards gave me a funny look, but didn’t interfere.
I then tapped my heels on the ground, leaping up into the morning sky, while to the south I heard the clarion call of trumpets. Must be Saturday. I thought with a quirk on my lips that I wouldn’t really call a smile.
Below me, the Black Bladesmen gathered in front of the empty space soon to be the Devils’ Den. The shining lady in gem encrusted platemail was already there, as was the pyromancer, and of course the one I was looking for.
Ok, then. Here goes nothing.
I leapt down and sauntered on up to the glittering crew gathered in Market District square, just as if I owned the place, and kicked Keenfang as hard as I could in the back of the knees. Caught completely unawares, he actually stumbled and fell. I fell with him, slipping the fish into one of his pockets as I did.
[Sleight of Hand check: Success]
“Oops.” I told him, before he could gather his breath to say anything. “You’d better watch where you’re going.” I put all of the mocking scorn I could into my voice. “Accidents can happen to noobs so easily.”
“What the…?” He was momentarily speechless in his outrage, and I pushed my advantage.
“What’s your name again?” I asked, as if in my contempt I could not remember. “Oh yeah, Keenfarts, wasn’t it?”
“Hey now, what’s this?” asked the platemailed lady. “No starting trouble in the city, you ought to know that.”
Both Keen and I ignored her. “I,” he announced, very clearly, “am going to kill you.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I matched his false cordiality from the other day, lilting and sarcastic. “Did I hurt your little feelings?” I gave him my best sneer, which was, admittedly, modeled on his. “Of course, that’s not the littlest part of you, from what I hear. Is it true that vampires suck, or do you just have to suck yourself off, since no one else will?”
Keen stood up, and I danced out of the way. We had the attention of the gathered crowd, and I tried not to overhear one of the onlookers bet on how many seconds until I was splatted all over the cobblestones.
“Three gods!” I announced loudly. “What is that smell?”
At this, Keen actually did make a face, and then, incredulously, reached into his pocket and removed the stinking mess of rotting fish.
“Haha!” I laughed and pointed. “It’s Keenfarts!” Some of the crowd laughed nervously, including one of the other Bladesmen.
Keen snapped his fingers, and the fish was instantly consumed in an oily black flame.
“Keenfarts!” I sang, doing a little dance. “Keenfarts, not so smart, pale and white in his littlest parts! Smells like fish, and doesn’t he wish, he could fart in his pants without going squish!”
More nervous laughter from the crowd, although the people immediately behind me were edging back in rather a hurry.
The vampire began muttering dark words under his breath, twisting his hands into arcane sigils. I felt a sudden nausea overtake me and oily smoke began to seep out of my clothes. The platemail lady stepped in front of him and hip-checked Keen, interrupting his spell.
“None of that.” Her voice was flat with authority, and though Keen gave her a look that said he’d love to set her hair on fire, he didn’t dare. “No PvP in the city, and the Bladesmen aren’t going to be taking any more fines because of you.”
“Well it’s too bad Keenfarts is afraid of a little duel.” I announced to the crowd, hoping like hell he wouldn’t kill me outright in front of so many witnesses.
“To the arena, then.” he said, equally loudly. “And I’ll teach you some manners there, you snotfaced little imp.”
“Oh, come now, Keen. Leave the girl alone.” suggested the wizard in red. “You’ll miss the raid. And then Tasha will win the kill count, and be so smug about it, and I’ll have to buy her drinks all week. And you know she isn’t my type.”
“Ha, I’d love to meet you in the arena.” I told Keen, in case he was likely to be persuaded by his guildmates argument. “I’d kick your ass any day of the week, hungover and hogtied. If I could stand the smell.” I brushed some imaginary dust off of my sleeves. “But I guess it’s your lucky day. I don’t have an insurance policy at the moment, so you’d just have to fart around the arena, all by your little self.”
“Oh, we can fix that.” The vampire breathed through clenched teeth, shaking with fury. I wondered if I had maybe overdone things a bit. “Let’s stop by the CLC headquarters, shall we?”
Yes. I didn’t let my elation show as he came up behind me and gave me a hard push towards Temple Hill. Instead I walked, no, sauntered, as calmly as I could, in spite of my heart hammering in my chest.
Thanks for the vote of confidence. I thought back.
I did know, but I didn’t let it show as Keen marched us up Temple Hill, past the line of unhappy supplicants, and into one of the grander entrances of the temple proper. Inside, huge vaulted ceilings supported bright stained glass windows, gilded frescoes, and twinkling candlelight scattered like stars throughout the space. I wondered how they kept the soot from the candles from staining the frescoes, until I saw the flames were not anchored to anything so mundane as wax and wicks, but instead floated gently in the air of their assigned space, an illusion of flame that would not heat or burn.
The highly varnished floor gave an impression of depth which added considerably to the grandeur, but Keen gave no more notice to it than he did to the scurrying cleric trying to attract our attention. Instead, he strode to a smaller hallway opposite the chanting choir and into a richly decorated series of offices in the north wing. Here, hushed velvets and hardwoods oozed respectability, and we were greeted by a stunningly attractive young woman with green eyes in the exact same shade as the velvet drapes. Possibly young, anyway; her fine features showed off strong elven blood, which might have disguised her age by decades.
A Fist Full of Sand: A Book of Cerulea (Sam's Song 1) Page 22