She had wanted to simply travel to the lone bedroom they continued to rent in the Widowed Moon, particularly given how close it stood to the galen academy. Unfortunately none of Maylene’s accomplices knew her whereabouts, and Cyriana would certainly feel some anxiety if her friend failed to return. Thus she had little choice but to march for the outskirts. Plus there was a task she might as well perform during this forced jaunt.
Thank the gods Chaereas only desired two drinks before retiring to his bedchamber. Nursing cramps and flushed with sweat, Maylene had limped from his study and retraced her steps to the ground floor, grateful sensible galens followed an early bedtime. Deserted staircases and pathways were pleasing ones. Only guards treading predictable patrols remained alert, though not skilled enough to notice her movements beneath a blackened sky. Walls encircling Starwatch, though possessing a decorative, aesthetic appeal, were daunting for a thief to scale from the outside. Striking from within was another matter altogether. Ivy wove patterns against sturdy wooden trellises on the interior face, offering an intrepid escapee plentiful options. Leaving the academy proved almost effortless compared to entering. She only wished the outcome did not involve such abundant walking.
Weary leg muscles ached, threatening to slow her march still further. One final errand to accomplish before she could collapse onto her awaiting mattress. She kept one hand poised against a sheathed dagger should ruffians choose to be stupid. It was not long before she suspected the precaution to be a redundant one, since the hoodlums purported to be lurking failed to manifest. So far as Maylene could tell, the streets were quiet. Maybe her mannerism was intimidating enough to ward off any pathetic thugs, though the notion seemed a touch arrogant.
After traversing one vacated courtyard she reached her destination, an unassuming shop bordered to either side by equally humble stores. Maylene lifted a fist and whacked it against the wooden barrier. When no response was forthcoming she knocked again, and then once more after another silent interval. She felt exasperation churning in her empty stomach and only wanted to finish this chore. Eventually her thumping summoned the hunched man who resided within. Cursing and dragging feet drifted from beyond the door, growing ever louder and more insistent.
A wooden slat carved into the entry slid aside and squinting eyes bathed with candlelight peeked through. “What?” he snarled. “Why the racket?”
“Are you the locksmith named Morran?”
“Aye.”
“Lovely. Please let me in.”
“Ungodly hour for a chat. Be gone, wench. Sleep beckons me.”
“I wish to strike a business arrangement with you. A rather lucrative one, considering what your typical clientele demand.”
“Return come the dawn,” Morran commanded. “Sensible time. More light to be found.”
“I think not. I chose now in a deliberate fashion. The better to avoid sharing your shop with other customers. I want your full and undivided attention on this.”
“Still not hearing no reason why you should be bothering me now.”
“This is a job where half your earnings buy silence.”
“Why think I’m the one for such things?”
“I was referred by a mutual acquaintance,” explained Maylene. “She hired you several days ago to change all upper floor door locks in the Dawning Repose inn. You know her as Tala.”
“Yes, yes. Simple job, failed to strain my talents.”
“This one might. She mentioned I may seek out your services, having gotten the impression you’d be more than happy taking on another job. And she stressed my desire for discretion.”
“Ah, the kindred spirit. Said you’d have a hankering for smith work.”
“Which is what brings me here tonight. May I come in?”
Morran glowered and shifted suspicious eyes from one side to another, as though anticipating others might be lurking in the darkness. His face disappeared and Maylene heard enough metal scraping to border on the ludicrous. Leave it to a locksmith to delve into the exorbitant for his own door.
She waited impatiently until a final latch sounded and the entry crept inward. “About bloody time. Can we discuss commerce now?”
“Better still in the morning, but yes.” Morran carried a chamberstick in one hand, the tarnished brass saucer sullied by melted candlewax. He led her beyond an unadorned foyer into a workshop cluttered with metals and tools. The solitary candle he settled atop one surface left much obscured in darkness. “Speak your piece.”
“I want a key copied.”
“Have the original?”
“Wax plates,” she remarked, holding one closed locket in a hand.
“Tricky substance. Easy to smear and melt. Easier still to not have a usable mold because the key was pressed improperly.”
“Mine are pristine. I don’t do otherwise.” She popped the latch and handed the container to Morran.
An appreciative whistle passed between chipped teeth stained a rust tint. “Fine impressions. You’ve an eye for the task.”
“I’ve far more than that.”
Morran lifted her locket and held it above the candle, leaning forward to study intricate markings amid sallow illumination.
Maylene lashed out with a hand, seizing one bony wrist and yanking it away from wavering fire. “Don’t hold wax over the heat, you damnable halfwit.”
“Strange to come to me demanding my work but showing no faith.” He snatched his arm from her grip and placed the wax plates atop a table. “Assume I know my business. Never have I melted an impression like some clumsy apprentice.”
“Fair enough. You’re the expert here. But acquiring these waxes isn’t a task I can do again. I’ll find myself peeved if you spoil the impression.”
“No guarantees with wax. Hope you have a duplicate.”
“I know my business, too. For now I’m only sharing one copy with you. The other remains in my possession should you prove less than accommodating.”
“No faith.” He furrowed a greasy brow and held the wax plate close to his aquiline nose. “Warded, is it?”
“And a doozy.”
“Tala promised artistry to match the best artificers.”
“I’d say the assurance was truthful.”
“She has fine angles,” he whispered, surveying the impression. “Beautiful specimen.”
“Should I give you some alone time with that wax?”
He greeted her jibe with a scowl and placed the locket atop his table. “Name the job.”
“Two identical keys in quality iron. If I discover blemishes or other imperfections, I’ll squash the deal with nary a warning.”
“Ten silver for each.”
“You already quoted five silver for your silence and at most two for the key. Be pleased I’ve decided to request a second. And don’t attempt to swindle me again. I’m not fond of craftsmen who think themselves clever.”
“Aye, seven it is. Fourteen together for the both. Needing more by chance?”
“As it happens, I am. I also want a third key, though with one crucial modification.”
Morran scratched dark spots dotting his almost hairless scalp. “Key won’t fit the lock if I go changing elements.”
“I had a different alteration in mind. I need the specifications to match precisely with the others, but made from a shoddy metal liable to bend.”
“You keen to have cheap copper crooking in your hand?”
“I’m counting on it.”
A slippery gray tongue wetted thin lips. “Curious request. Makes a fellow’s mind itch.”
“I’ve paid for your silence. That includes among others and with me.”
“Fair’s fair. I’ll make a third one prone to kink, ‘cept it don’t speak to my skills.”
“You’ll need to try and get over any inner turmoil.”
“Me and Tala didn’t discuss no flimsy key, meaning we ain’t settled on coins.”
“Copper key, copper coins,” answered Maylene. “I’m thinking ten or
fifteen trinks for your handiwork.”
“That don’t buy silence though, which I bet you want. Same price to keep my trap shut. Five silvers.”
She rubbed her forehead and groaned. Maylene did not feel eager to haggle with this maddening bumpkin after an exhausting night crouched in Chaereas’ study. The coinage did not even belong to her, so who the hell cared? Tonight was a fine time to dismiss her natural inclination to wrangle over price, if only to embrace sleep sooner. Plus she had a feeling Cyriana might be torturing Thorkell on her account, and felt partially obligated to end his suffering before sunrise. “Fine. But in exchange I’ll expect you to shove aside all your other contracts and work on mine exclusively until finished. I’ll return in two days to discover three keys waiting, yes?”
“Aye. Ain’t no one else giving me so many sparkly coins.”
“Wonderful. See you soon.” Maylene strode to the entry and halted with one hand resting atop a smudged door handle surrounded by locking mechanisms. “Don’t disappoint me, old man.”
*
2 Nashrenir
“This is an absolutely necessary purchase?” questioned Cyriana.
Maylene brushed aside a scraggy street urchin and weaved between milling pedestrians, squinting against the midafternoon sun’s harsh glare. “I believe it is, yes. I’m enamored with the insurance it provides me in a pinch.”
“I won’t argue its merits then,” she conceded. “The legalities are a different issue altogether.”
“A thief lecturing a fellow crook on the immorality of shirking the law seems like the beginning to an awful joke.”
“And normally I’d cringe at the notion, but you remember my preeminent decree to the gentlefolk running this scheme with us. No breaking the law.” Cyriana shoved an overzealous clothing vendor from her path. “It risks unraveling the heist before we even start.”
“I thought the rules didn’t apply to me.”
“They apply to us all. If I have to follow my own directions, then so do you.”
“I can’t acquire these substances legally in the Empire. We aren’t in Lashon Hara.”
“Which brings us back to my earlier misgivings about needing to buy the items at all.”
“I rarely pull a job without a little added protection for those tricky scenarios we often land in,” affirmed Maylene. “And I’ve developed a fine nose for sniffing out the right locations to broach a transaction, where laws are considered quaint and fuzzy concepts. You’ll need to trust my fiendish mind on this one.”
“And this apothecary is one such place?”
“Seems to be. At least based on chatter I’ve discerned from verbose blokes in seedy locales. I’ll know for certain after I witness his mannerisms and eagerness to assist.”
Cyriana glanced sideward with a raised brow. “You aren’t likely to botch the quantities, right? I only ask because you’ll be playing with some serious fire here.”
“It’s me you’re speaking to. I don’t screw up my concoctions.”
“Regardless, best we keep this shopping trip to ourselves.”
“I’m with you on that.” Maylene noticed Cyriana appeared unusually fixated on one adjoining roadway. Her eyes darted beyond passersby and wooden stalls in that surreptitious style she practiced with such efficiency. “Feeling distracted, are we?”
“Wary. I don’t care for a peculiar sight.”
“What might that be?” Maylene asked.
“Never you mind until I know for certain. Go on ahead without me. I’ve abruptly decided I have a pressing engagement elsewhere.”
“It can’t wait?”
“Not this time. Oh, and try not to get arrested.”
Maylene watched Cyriana casually veer through pedestrians and cross the avenue behind a hansom cab. She disappeared among vendors and burdened shoppers a moment later. As ever, Maylene appreciated the ease with which her friend vanished in a way that raised no suspicions.
After a pleasant stroll along the bustling avenue she reached her destination, one narrow entryway squeezed between a clothier boutique and restaurant. Smoothed stone steps led to a second floor shop exuding smells that reminded Maylene of the forest. She entered and eyed one lone patron conversing with the proprietor, a trained apothecary named Silva who seemed closer to a century than middle age. Wending between cluttered surfaces, Maylene browsed flowers and herbs while the two men concluded their business.
The apothecary placed a stone pestle atop his table and scraped pallid flakes from a mortar into one leather pouch. He dusted residue from both hands, knotted his sack and handed it to the awaiting client. “Combine one spoonful with ginger tea every morning and be certain to drink the mixture in its entirety. Leave no dregs to wallow in your cup.”
“And this will treat my, uh, unfortunate symptoms?”
“Without reservation, good sir. Four days hence the inflammation will recede. Discomfort will quieten on the fifth. Roseshale petals are particularly efficacious, though I cannot guarantee tasteful. Best have food handy for afterward. Return to me if the infection flares again in the coming weeks.”
He collected the satchel in one hand. “Thank you for this. And for your discretion.”
“Think nothing of it.”
The man turned and walked with a bowlegged gait as though unwilling to risk his legs contacting one another. Maylene did not require a fertile imagination to envision where the inflammation might be plaguing him. She continued to peruse potted plants and dried greenery residing in glass vials while the door clattered shut.
“A fine day to you, friend,” said the apothecary.
Maylene turned from her inspection of withered leaves. “And to you.”
“Folks call me Silva.” The squirrelly man rubbed bony hands together and shuffled closer. A hunch protruded beyond his stooped shoulders, serving as a odd match to the hooked nose that almost seemed to kiss his lips. “How can I be of service?”
“I’m interested in purchasing a particular item.”
“You find yourself in the right place. No finer apothecary on the coast, it should be said. I’ve all manner of herbal remedies for sale to cure ailments and unwanted conditions.”
“What I’m hoping to find isn’t herbal.”
“A more peculiar request, is it? Herbalism is my specialty, though not my sole interest. Inquisitive minds dabble in varied hobbies. Speak your desire and I might still be of service.”
“Tetrodotoxin.”
The apothecary clacked his teeth together as though unnerved by her request. “Cultivating the toxin is illegal in the Empire.”
“And exceedingly lucrative, I’m told. Be a shame to decline a worthwhile business venture because some uninformed aristocrat tells you to.”
“Ah, but those selfsame aristocrats deliver harsh penalties to commoners who flout their laws. Ignorant or not, I have no wish to cross them.”
“Such a shame. I’d heard no substance was beyond your ability to acquire. Silva is the only genius who devotes himself to his craft rather than meekly stocking what he’s told is acceptable. I suppose your supporters were mistaken.” Maylene shrugged and turned her back on the squeamish man. “I’ll return if I happen to suffer from a cough. That seems to be all you have the stomach for. What’s the name of that apothecary over on Candlewick Row?”
“Now hold on, lass. Perhaps it’s best if you were not quite so hasty in judgment. I might fiddle with certain compounds on occasion. From a strictly academic standpoint, you see.”
She did not know whether to laugh or shake her head that such a transparent ploy achieved her aims. Question a man’s ego and no limit existed to what he would willingly divulge to prove otherwise. Such fragile creatures. “There’s no need to play coy with me. I know you sell illegal toxins. I wouldn’t be here if that nugget hadn’t been relayed to me.”
“Who have you spoken with?”
Maylene trusted this to succeed, since she paid a small fortune for information to put the apothecary at ease. “Shiva
nth of Athanaram. His Thierr could use some work, but I’m impressed a man from distant Balnir even spoke a local language. They disdain our northern cultures something fierce.”
An eager spark touched Silva’s shriveled features. He scampered to the door and slid a latch across notched wood. “I’ll temporarily shutter my shop while we reach an arrangement. I prefer us not to be disturbed.”
“I share the sentiment. Please show me your other wares.”
“Right this way, friend.” He beckoned her behind the counter and through a creaking door into one adjacent chamber where a bed and personal accoutrements awaited. Beyond that stood a cramped room little different from an embellished closet. Flasks, pouches and other materials decorated wooden shelves infested with untamed roots and foliage. Hand scratched notes were fastened to each small drawer.
“Pay no mind to the labels,” Silva asserted. “I’ve intentionally misidentified my specimens for the uninitiated who might insist on poking around back here. Each tag is for an innocuous compound to satisfy the fools.”
Maylene trusted his word, since the lettering was gibberish to her eyes. “And what might you have in stock for those of us who aren’t fools?”
Silva reached for a drawer and pulled it open. “Stub-tailed newt? Four gill sunfish?”
“I’m not interested in child’s play. I want only your most effective.”
“Aye, none of these for a discerning woman like yourself.” He waved his hand to dismiss those species and slouched to open another shelf. “Now the purple-ringed octopus is what you want. They’re harvested in the coral reefs east of Coolbreeze Isles. Little fellas are no bigger than my palm, but they’re right deadly. This venom makes my others seem playful by comparison.”
Maylene glowered and allowed silence to hang in the air until the apothecary squirmed. “I said I’ve come for your most potent and nothing less. I’m not some clueless tenderfoot here for a lark. I know what I’m about, and there’s only one species I’m interested in obtaining today. Shall we do away with your games? Because they’re beginning to tire me. You know darn well what I’m after.”
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