A Thread in the Tangle (46 page)

“Marsais?” she called softly.
 
Startled, he whirled around, searching for the owner of the voice until he spotted her at his desk.

“I didn’t see you behind all those books,” he said, running his hands over his head.
 
“My keen observations whisper to me that you have a question.”

“What’s a fetish?”

“Hmm.”
 
He stroked his goatee.
 
“I should ask in what context you’re referring to before delving into this subject.”
 
She hopped up and went over to her book, which she had left on the rug, and read the sentence aloud.

“It says,
It is common for Imps to have fetishes.
 
This will often direct their course of action.”
 
She looked up at him in question.
 
“There’s more than one meaning?”
 
Marsais nodded and picked up his braid, shaking the coins in front of her eyes.

“These are fetishes, or talismans—trinkets if you will—most commonly associated with enchantments.”
 
She took his braid in hand, studying the coins, surprised to find the hair soft and lightly scented with oils.
 
The coins were ancient, tinged with green and faded with time, each carefully woven into his hair through their hollow centers.
 
Isiilde narrowed her eyes.

“Are these the same trinkets that you showed Witman?”

“Why ever would you think that, my dear?”

“There are three coins and they are the same size as the pearlescent discs you showed to Witman.
 
And you only just started wearing these.
 
They may look different but they
feel
familiar.”

“How do they feel?”

Isiilde shrugged.
 
She could not precisely say why.
 
Marsais appeared disappointed with her inability to answer, but said nothing.

“You had Witman disguise them, didn’t you?”

“You seem to think so.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think?”

“They are very likely something that you should not have.”

His brows lifted.
 
“Ever suspicious of your old master.”

“Curious, perhaps, but never suspicious.
 
What do these trinkets do?”

“It would be far easier for me to explain what they do
not
do.”
 
Grey eyes twinkled mischievously.

“And what is that?”

“Deter you from asking questions.”

“Questions are the stepping stones to wisdom,” she recited sonorously.

“
The Sacred Texts Of Oshimi
?”

“
A Study In Vagueness: A Work In Progress,
by the Archlord of the Isle.”

“Sounds tedious.”

“Diverting, more like.”

“Better diverting than dull, I suppose,” Marsais sighed wistfully.
 
“I’d prefer captivating.”

“You may prove to be if you answer my questions.”

“Hmm, coerced with flattery.
 
You have me cornered—do your worst.”

Determined not to be side-tracked by another circular line of questioning, she knocked her Master back on topic.
 
“So what kind of talisman does the Imp have?”

“Well, both meanings can be applied to these creatures.”

“The other being?”

“Why is Oenghus never around when you ask these questions?” he muttered.
 
“It has to do with desire—what gets your blood pumping.”

“Mine would be fire?” she asked, staring up at him expectantly.

“Erm—I suppose,” he said, slowly, eyeing her warily.
 
“It’s usually of a more intimate nature and slightly less dangerous.”

“You mean like what arouses a man?”

“Nicely put.”

“You know I do have a basic understanding of how that sort of thing works.
 
I learned a lot at the pleasure house.”
 
Marsais closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
 
“Does your head hurt?” she asked with sudden concern.

“Now it does.”

“Marsais?”

“Hmm.”

“Is that why the woman was putting her foot in the man’s mouth?”
 
Marsais groaned, bringing his hands up to massage his temples.
 
“I could ask Oen,” she offered, brightly.
 
His eyes widened in alarm.

“I’m only jesting, Marsais,” she grinned.
 
“By the gods, where is your sense of humor today?”

“Gone with the vision of my death.
 
It wouldn’t be much of a jest after Oen beat me to a bloody pulp.”
 
His tone was grave, but his face relaxed, and a hint of a smile played at the corner of his long lips.
 
“I suppose the erm—woman is one example, although everything becomes muddled when you throw Primrose spirits into the mix.
 
That particular wine has some very potent side effects,” he confided with a roguish grin.

“May I try some?”

“Absolutely not,” he said, firmly.
 
“I shudder to think how it would affect a nymph.”

“You’re a man,” she blurted out.

“That’s very observant of you.”

“What arouses you?”
 
Her curiosity couldn’t be contained.
 
Marsais blinked at her question, completely caught off guard.
 
His mouth worked silently for long moments before he finally cleared his throat, recovering enough to answer.

“That’s not something one asks during casual conversations.”

“I wouldn’t call any of our conversations casual,” she replied.
 
Marsais pursed his lips, eyes narrowing while he considered her observation.

“You have a point, but your question will go unanswered.”
 
She opened her mouth to ask another, but he held up a hasty hand, putting a halt to her line of inquiry.

“Come, my dear, I think it time I escort you home before you wheedle anymore unscrupulous information from me.”
 
He stuffed her book into her knapsack and slung it over a shoulder.
 
“Perhaps Oenghus will have something for my headache,” he sighed.

❧

As it turned out, Oenghus did have something for Marsais’ headache.
 
There was never really a question that he wouldn’t, because whenever Marsais joined them for supper, the evening transpired much the same as it always did: the Archlord and Berserker got soused.
 
Isiilde found it highly amusing, and in turn, the two ancients found everything else amusing.

Oenghus currently had his feet propped up on the table, leaning back with pipe in hand, while he and Marsais roared out a drinking song about the inevitable subject of drinking.
 
The nymph was lightheaded with laughter as she watched the blurry sitting room sway (she had been sneaking sips from both their mugs and was tingling pleasantly with warmth).

Their song came to an abrupt end when Oenghus tipped his chair one degree more than he ought to have, falling backwards.
 
Despite his height, the giant executed a fine drunken roll and hopped to his feet, spinning around to give an exaggerated bow.
 
Marsais applauded with hearty enthusiasm, sloshing ale all over his disheveled shirt.

“I’ll wager you five silver that I could weave a Rune of Holding around this mug before it falls.”
 
Isiilde brightened at Oenghus’ mighty declaration.
 
She always enjoyed their wagers.

“My friend, you can’t weave that rune when you’re sober!”
 
Marsais slammed his mug down in challenge.
 
Oenghus snorted and gathered himself with all the wobbly dignity of the truly inebriated.

“Ready?” Oenghus asked, cracking his fingers.
 
Marsais chugged down his ale in one long swallow and then tossed it in the air.
 
Oenghus slurred the Lore, his fingers a sloppy blur.
 
When the cup was a pace from the floor it shattered, bursting apart.

“Aha!”
 
Marsais slapped his hand on the table.

“That was bloody successful,” Oenghus defended.

“Your hand was too heavy; the mug hath been slain.
 
That’s five silver, but I’ll give you a chance to win it back.
 
I’ll wager that I can stop a full mug with the same weave, without spilling a drop, and what’s more—you can throw it at me.”

“Make it fifteen, you fool,” Oenghus grinned, dangerously.

Marsais stood up, bowed to Isiilde, and stoically tried to wipe the crumbs off his shirt.
 
The rangy Wise One squinted at Oenghus for a moment before taking a long step back.
 
He swayed from side to side as if he were on a deck at sea, shook out his arms, and held his hands at the ready, fingers poised.

With a satisfied grunt, Oenghus brought back his arm.
 
Isiilde closed one eye.
 
And the heavy mug sped towards Marsais, slamming into his face, knocking him off his feet in a wash of ale.
 
She squeaked in alarm.

Oenghus doubled over, roaring with laughter.
 
Despite the swaying walls, Isiilde hurried over to Marsais.
 
He was sprawled on his back, bleeding thoroughly from a gash on his forehead.

“That was very foolish,” she scolded, kneeling beside him to press a handkerchief against his wound.

“My dear, all men are pathetic fools,” he said, taking her hand in his, and then to her amazement, he brushed his lips against her knuckles, grey eyes wide with wonder, drinking in the vision of her.

“I’m up twenty silver!”
 
Oenghus staggered over.
 
“He’s an old bastard, Sprite, he’ll live.”
 
The Nuthaanian helpfully kicked Marsais in the ribs to demonstrate his living state.

“Blast you, Oenghus!”
 
Marsais let her hand slide from his grasp.
 
“I never said ready.”

Twenty-five

A
N
ANGRY
TITAN
must have been knocking on the tower, because the whole room was throbbing with rhythm.
 
Isiilde moaned and rolled over, encountering empty air and a hasty descent to the floor, softened by a thick rug.

“Bollocks,” she murmured, cracking her eyes open.
 
Daylight sent needles stabbing into her eyeballs.
 
She moaned again, realizing there was no titan, but rather, her own throbbing skull.

Isiilde lay curled on the floor for a time, wishing the kindly band of creatures that carried her off to sleep would come and put her back on her bed.
 
It seemed so very far away and hazardously high, however, they never came, and the nymph was forced to pick herself up off the floor.

She was still dressed in yesterday’s clothes, and she staggered out of her room, stumbling towards Oenghus’ bedchamber, where she found him snoring loudly.

“Oen,” she moaned, pathetically.
 
He growled and scratched at his belly.
 
How he could stand to sleep without blanket, or shirt was beyond her.
 
It was freezing and he had thrown open all the windows in his room.
 
“Oen!”
 
Isiilde tugged on one of his braids and he started awake, reaching for his war hammer,
Gurthang
.
 
She shuddered, batting his hand away before he could grab the fearsome weapon.