by Damien Lake
Marik started a reply meant to sear his friend’s eyebrows off, then paused to consider Dietrik’s words. Perhaps he did swing his arms a bit more than usual. Perhaps there might be a bit more spring in his step. Perhaps he had even been humming aimlessly.
Before he could decided one way or the other, Dietrik continued. “You look as though you haven’t a care in the world. Have you, perchance, forgotten that Hilliard was nearly killed last night?”
He had not forgotten, except the fact seemed distant, shoved to the side by other, recent experiences. An entire plane of existence, where everything is dark, crystalline, perfect brown. “I haven’t forgotten!” he snapped.
“Good. Don’t you think our investigation may be at risk if we allow a stranger to accompany us?”
“She’s fine. She can’t be helping the dark guilds’ killers.”
Dietrik, exasperated, snorted in contempt. His words were acidic. “Tell me, friend, what has eyes but cannot see?”
Confused by Dietrik’s non-sequitur, Marik asked, “What? Are you entering the riddling contest next eightday?” Suddenly, he exclaimed, “A windmill!”
“I’ll tell you the answer,” Dietrik stated flatly after ignoring the outburst. “A besotted man, that is what. We are in the midst of dangerous machinations, and the last thing you need is to become wrapped up in a female’s wiles.”
Stung, Marik lashed back, “So you’re an expert in this area? I recall, once upon a time, when we couldn’t get you to shut up about a certain chandler to save our own lives!”
“The situation was completely different.” Dietrik’s countenance remained firm. “We were in no danger of assassination and that was only a bit of fun between clear-headed adults.”
Had Dietrik obliquely called him a child? Marik refused to acknowledge the implication. He had no liking for fighting with his best friend. “If you’re so suspicious, then keep an eye on Ilona. Isn’t this a golden opportunity to study her and learn the truth of it?”
Dietrik considered. “Perhaps. At least Hilliard is off safely. And secretly.” He passed his real message through his eyes.
“I won’t say where.” It irritated him that Dietrik thought that needed to be stated. He changed the subject while a flock of young boys ran past, waving small wooden swords with the words Arm of Galemar painted on. “Hilliard will be sober by the next event, won’t he? How long does that absinthe drink last?”
“How would I know? I have never drunk the brew before.” Dietrik still seemed concerned, though thankfully not about Ilona. “That worries me greatly, mate. Have you considered the implications?”
“Which ones? I’ve been thinking about implications all day.”
“How did Hilliard’s enemies know where to strike? The invitation was passed in person by Ferdinand only two days before.”
Marik admitted, “That’s been bothering me.”
“And according to you, the woman assassin joined this brothel two eightdays ago? Why would they place her there unless they knew it would be an ideal blind to strike from? I doubt they recruited a handy killer who happened to be in the right place and time for their purposes.”
“I see where you’re going. I thought of that too, on the way back to pick you up.” Dietrik waited, silently inviting Marik to expand on the topic. “Fact one, if they placed her there, they must have known Hilliard would be where the women from the Standing Spell would also be. Fact two, Ferdinand invited Hilliard to his place in person. Fact three, Ferdinand started loading Hilliard up with hard alcohol so he’d be falling down drunk. Fact four, Ferdinand brought in those women from the brothel where the assassin had been planted.”
Dietrik nodded. “In all of this, Ferdinand coincidentally keeps popping up. Do you believe in coincidence?”
“To a degree, but it doesn’t stick. I keep asking why Ferdinand would help a bunch of thieves from Spirratta attack a fellow noble. And in his own home, no less. Nothing makes sense.”
“I must admit I am hard pressed to find a reason. But if I knew everything about why nobles act as they do, then I would have made my fortune as a expensive merchant.”
“I can’t shake the feeling we’re missing an obvious clue,” Marik admitted. Onions and damned onions! “Maybe we’ll find that today. I’m not convinced yet that Ferdinand is involved with this.”
“Two eightdays,” Dietrik mulled. “That is the fact that throws everything else out of line. Perhaps they put one of their own in there because, with all this carouse, there was a good chance any of the nine fosterlings would come in contact with a brothel of the Spell’s reputation. Perhaps they gave up on Hilliard after you scared the survivors spitless.”
“Maybe. After getting lucky by rolling Hilliard as our charge, Fate might be giving us our usual run of bad throws.”
The sun had finally broken through the last of the morning cloud cover. Noontime warmth shone directly down on them while they walked in silence, Marik’s mind returning to Hilliard.
When he’d returned to the Swan’s Down, Hilliard had not improved at all. That worried Marik. His experience with hangovers taught him that they began to lose their edge if you forced yourself to work at a physical labor. In-between the breakfast and lunch crowds, Hilliard had moved to a corner booth away from the regulars where he continued to suffer. Landon abandoned his efforts to coax the young man outside for their limited archery practice. He and Kerwin loitered next to the long bar during lunch, the gambler engaged in his usual discussions regarding the betting board and the remaining contenders for the title.
Over a dozen cityguards arriving to claim the golden bracelet had made no impression on Hilliard. Landon had mentioned that to Marik upon his return. Apparently, the senior magistrate assigned to the investigation had expected to encounter trouble collecting the magical artifact. It threw him off balance when Landon calmly handed it over, along with the explanation that they had only taken it because Ferdinand Sestion wanted the dubious object away from his home. The archer then flummoxed them by demonstrating how it worked. A quill from the magistrate’s writing case was also shrunk to see if the bracelet would reduce anything, or only items already connected to the magic. They questioned him and Kerwin for a candlemark, then departed, satisfied that the assaulted noble’s bodyguards had related all they knew.
Right at that moment the two senior mercenaries were dragging Hilliard to Paddy’s stables. With coins to ensure the little man’s cooperation, they would use the open space where the horses exercised to hone the noble’s bow skills.
“Here we are,” Marik said when they reached the Standing Spell.
Dietrik inspected it briefly. “Not quite what I imagined.”
“I had that same thought.”
Marik found Rosa in the reception area again. Also a new man, obviously a proud member of the aristocracy. He apparently believed that silk was the only material worthy of touching his skin. Silk and lace.
Rosa met him, as before. Her manner was precisely the same. “I see it is you.”
“Ilona told me to come back. She’s expecting me this time.”
She cocked an eyebrow, clearly thinking that as unlikely as the Twelve descending to the mortal plane and spending the afternoon playing cards with their archbishops. Nevertheless, she brusquely ordered him to wait while she ‘confirmed the veracity of his assertion’.
The noble or rich man or whoever he might be studied the mercenaries with avid loathing. A sneer, no doubt for their clothing, curled his lip. He gripped a silver-topped cane in one hand while clenching a black, foot-long hat in the other. Marik thought he must resemble a walking kitchen stove if he strode around with that pipe-shaped contrivance perched on his head.
Rosa returned after only a brief absence. The noble opened his mouth, probably wants to demand she toss us commoners out, but lost the opportunity to complain due to Ilona’s arrival. She had changed her clothing to cheaper and less feminine garb, but still stunned Marik’s senses all the same.
Ilon
a wore no top at all, only a wrap that covered barely half her breasts. Their tops bulged, enhancing their shape and instantly drawing Marik’s eyes. She also wore loose brown breeches, baggy on her, as if sewn with a man’s body in mind. A leather belt cinched tightly around her narrow waist, matched by similar straps wound around each ankle. They bound the cuffs to prevent movement. Her small tan shoes looked closer to a lady’s slippers.
“I wasn’t expecting you yet,” she told Marik. “You’re early. Who is this?” She glared at Dietrik.
“Oh, uh…a friend of mind.” He fought to rip his gaze from her bulging bosom. They were not large, as men around the barracks judged such, yet were perfect on her. Everything about her blended to form a perfect whole. “He’s with me.”
Ilona’s mouth pursed. “Come on back then. We haven’t got all day.” She spun on one heel.
Marik followed, noticing the narcissist deepening to an angry red. That we were allowed inside his paradise? Or maybe he thinks Ilona will be spending the afternoon with us. She was, but not in any manner he might assume. Maybe he had cast his line for the madam’s daughter before and met with perplexing, to him, failure.
This time Marik walked past the open room where he had waited earlier that morning. Ilona lead them deeper into the building. Near the rear she entered a bedroom that, judging from the clutter spread everywhere, might be her own. The room was primarily free of the sweet perfume fragrances lingering in the halls.
A wide mirror of silvered glass that put Tollaf’s previous possession to shame rested atop a longer dresser. Ilona stopped before it and peered at her two visitors.
“I guessed as much,” was her cryptic comment. “I don’t have anything for your friend. You can change into that.” She gestured to a lump of cloth atop the doublewide bed.
“Change?” Marik asked the same instant Dietrik said, “Guessed at what?”
She addressed Marik. “Have you given any thought to where we are going? Of course you haven’t! Swordsmen have little use for an alchemist’s shop or services. You’ll draw more attention walking in dressed like that than if you ask the wrong questions outright.”
Marik lifted the rumpled garment. “Is this a robe? Or a turnip sack? Why would I wear this?”
“I pulled it out of the wardrobe room. It’s usually used for the ‘monks and nuns’ routine, but you can fix it up so you look like a magician.”
“A magician?” Marik felt amazed and appalled at the same moment. “Why would I want to dress up in this?”
“Because all the magician costumes have little stars and moons stitched onto them.” She met his stubborn gaze with one equally as immutable. “If you want to be unobtrusive, you are going to have to look like a man with legitimate reason to be in the shop! And I don’t think you’d make a convincing alchemist.”
“But I’m not a magician! I’m a mage. I mean I’m not a mage, I’m a warrior! I mean a swordsman! Will you shut up?” Marik hurled the bundle into Dietrik’s face to stop the snerks caused as he tried to hide his laughter. What’s his problem? I thought he didn’t want to be here!
Dietrik caught the robe and began unfolding it. Ilona ignored his protests by saying, “You can fake it. Magic is magic. All you need to do is look like you’re using a component to cast a spell. Take this.”
She tossed him a pouch from the dresser top. Suspicious, he opened it. Black, oily ashes. “Why would I want this?”
“It’s soot. Except I mixed in a handful of black powder. Any magic user worth his salt can cast a fire spell, so pretend you’re using the soot as a component if you need to. As long as the powder fires off and vanishes, you can convince anyone you need to that you’re a magician.”
Ilona treated his magic so matter-of-factly that it startled him. He also refused to admit he did not know fire spells of any sort. All he knew was the etheric sphere he’d used at the One Soul’s chapter house.
The memory of that night summoned the image of the murderer who had killed Shalla. His sphere had thrown the man against the wall, had destroyed the mail beneath in a shower of shooting stars. If the raw energy could ignite chainmail fragments like that, maybe it could set off the black powder as well.
She glared at him expectantly, fixing him with those brown eyes. Waiting for him to accede. Dietrik’s right. Women are dangerous. “Gods damn it all,” he muttered, reaching for the robe Dietrik held as a servant helping his master into his coat.
“Don’t you dare wear that,” she snapped, stopping him cold. Ilona pointed at his sword. Or his mail. Or his tunic for all he knew. “It will be seen under the robe. And hurry!”
Marik saw no screens to change behind. He glanced at Ilona, who smirked with evil knowledge. “Here, I’ll turn my back while you change.” It sounded condescending. She picked up a small clamshell case and opened the top.
As he shrugged out of his mail, he watched her dip a finger inside. It came out, the tip smeared with dark makeup. She lifted it to her face and dabbed in careful gestures he could not see from behind.
He quickly realized that the robe would be tight once donned. Anything he wore underneath would be revealed. Resignedly, he stripped down his smallclothes, which made Dietrik begin his snerking again for some reason. With a touch of indignation, he asked Ilona, “So what are you disguising yourself as, since it’s so important?”
“A thief,” she replied simply.
“What? A cutpurse?”
“Did I say that? I said a thief.” Whatever the difference might be was lost on Marik.
Dietrik decided to put an oar in. “How would a thief fit into an alchemist’s domain? Would that not be equally as conspicuous as a swordsman?”
“Not at all. You might be surprised at the uses a thief can find for a variety of items.” She clapped the makeup case shut.
“I would think it is dangerous to walk around looking like a thief. Isn’t the cityguard likely to stop you?”
Ilona shrugged on a brown shirt that matched the breeches and her hair. “The guard can’t arrest you simply because of the clothes you’re wearing. If I was loaded down with a thief’s tools, that would be a different story. But no thief walks around during the day carrying his tools.”
“You seem to know much about thieves.”
She met his eye. “Call it a city survival skill. Put this on too.” Ilona grabbed a belt from the dresser to which several smaller pouches had been tied.
Marik caught it in midair. It fit around his waist easily, though the belt made the material taunt between his midsection and his neck. At least the blasted thing had no hood.
“What to do about you?” Ilona studied Dietrik.
“It might be best for me to wait nearby rather than enter the shops. I might draw that unwanted attention you mentioned.”
“Stand by as reinforcement, is it? Works for me.”
“And me as well.” Dietrik cast Marik a meaningful look over her shoulder.
Marik scowled back, then stood still while Ilona appraised him. She pronounced him, “As good as he would get,” then added the final touches to her own outfit. Leather straps with buckles, matching the ones around her ankles, were fastened around her wrists under the sleeves, then further up her arms just below the elbows. The shirt sleeves concealed the higher straps but gave the impression of a hidden weapon.
She adjusted the ties closing the top half of the shirt, leaving them open enough so her breasts and the wrap were plainly visible. In an effort to keep his mind under control, Marik ignore them by studying her face. Still as beautiful as he remembered, even with the artfully applied makeup that made her appear to have bags under her eyes. A thief who worked at night would be tired during the day, after all.
Without ceremony, Ilona left her room, Dietrik following close behind. Marik glanced at his sword and mail, uneasy about leaving them in a strange place. Yet what could he do about it? Nothing, he decided.
Just before leaving, the mirror caught his attention. The mirror she had been facing while
applying her makeup. The mirror that gave her a clear view of the room behind her. Dietrik’s muffled laughter echoed in his ears while he stalked down the hallway, gnashing his teeth.
* * * * *
Ilona knew where to find the shops on Dietrik’s list and led them to the nearest. It did business outside the Inner Circle. When Marik thought about it, he would have been surprised if any of the disreputable establishments were within those hallowed grounds. Dietrik chose to loiter near a small kitchen two buildings away, a windowed wall open to the street where nine or ten men could sit on stools along the counter. The mercenary stood rather than sat, working on a bread bun stuffed with shredded chicken.
“If you need a hand,” Dietrik whispered to him, “then shout out, mate. I will come running in.”
How Dietrik expected to hear him over the street noise, Marik could not fathom. People filled the street who had resisted the tournament’s siren call, electing instead to remain about their normal business. The district looked shabby, yet well lit. A place in which one might need to check for his coin purse with greater frequency than normal but also a place a person could walk without fear of a sudden knife at his throat.
The alchemy shop was small, wedged between a boot maker and a building of no discernable purpose. Ilona ordered him to remain silent unless she prompted him. He almost demanded to know how she had wound up in charge before holding his tongue. Watching her interested him more than arousing her ire. Marik walked behind her, keeping a vigilant watch for the brief instances when the back of her shirt would rise over the top of her breeches, exposing the short spinal curve along her lower back.
They entered the shop. Aware that his preconceptions of late had proven skewed if not altogether false, he was unsure what to expect from a Thoenar alchemy shop. Marik found it as mundane as any other shop he’d ever been in, no different from the shop he and Maddock had briefly explored years before in Spirratta. It bore a resemblance to the small apothecary in Tattersfield that he had frequently visited as his mother’s illness worsened.