Commandment (18 page)

The window warbled with a deluge of rain.

When Torkoth ultimately stirred, morning had invaded the pantry. The rain had long since faded in the predawn hours. He tried climbing out of bed gingerly so as to not disturb the child, but his exit closely resembled a limp.

He found Pythia planting flowers in a patch of dirt hedging the arcade. The curator looked up at Torkoth’s silent entrance. He was stupefied by the Half-man’s expression.

“You have been through an ordeal.” Pythia planted the spade firmly in the soft earth.

“To sheath that in my heart would aggrieve me less…” Torkoth pointed to the curator’s spade.

“The sun has barely risen.” Pythia gestured to faint beams peeking through shuttered windows. “The morning dew yet spangles the panes.”

“What a damn thief the morning is, it has robbed my eyes of tears. But it is time to leave. I am indebted to your hospitality.”

“What of her?” Pythia nodded to the stark door.

“I leave her in your capable hands.”

Pythia couldn’t shield an uncomfortable look. Before he could hedge, the Half-man stepped forward.

“I can see that times are lean, and every new recruit to Chiron’s Cradle taxes your coffers that much more.” Torkoth drew forth a velvet pouch from a pocket.

“I want you to have this.”

“That is a most royal pouch!” Pythia stammered.

“ ’Tis a silk pouch made from a sow’s ear, and contains an even unlikelier prize within.”

Torkoth handed the article over to Pythia. Puzzled, the curator stole a glance inside. His eyes catapulted up to Torkoth.

“Is this…” He began but words failed him.

“Yes.” Torkoth nodded.

“It can’t be!” Pythia gasped.

“But it is, I believe, the missing treasure from the Ephebe’s hand. Therefore, it belongs here.”

“I can’t accept this.” The curator sealed the pouch with a tug on the string and handed it back to the Half-man. Torkoth snubbed the gesture.

“It is not mine to guard any more. Sarah wills this to your keeping.”

“Of all the marvels!” Pythia sank back against a pillar, his knees flagging underneath.

“That should eviscerate your debt.” Torkoth comforted him.

“Sevenfold!” Pythia piped.

Torkoth stepped forward and planted his hand firmly on Pythia’s shoulder.

“I need you to take care of her.”

Leaving the curator buffaloed, the Half-man took leave of Chiron’s Cradle. As he closed the ancient door, he paused and produced the necklace studded with multicolored glass beads. He hung it on the door handle and quietly left the hospice.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
, L
AKIF TOOK EXTRA PRECAUTIONS TO MAKE
herself presentable. Her efforts were basically directed at taming her ever-incorrigible hair. No matter how much water she applied to slick back the mane, one rebellious lock sprouted out. Should she press the offending lock flat, another upstart lock would spring up. She wished that she had some of the green jam that Torkoth had given away to serve as hair gel.

Within her sack, she rescued the toothbrush. The article was in sorry shape. All sorts of lint congested the head as it had rolled around loose amid her dirty clothes for days. Lakif seldom found use for the item, preferring to use her own nails to extricate stubborn food particles from her pointed teeth. But today she broke down and gave her chops a thorough scrubbing, including the all important tongue scouring to banish halitosis.

She would have liked to have donned the fresh cotton shirt that had sat untouched in the bottom of her travel sack, but it was stained. Apparently, one of the trays she had stolen had been caked with grime. She settled for picking the accumulated lint off her normal clothes.

Needless to say, no small occasion would entice the Acaanan to so titivate. She wanted to make the best of impressions on Ceric Dumont, the owner of the Goblin Knight Inn. She pocketed the Stone and hurried off to find the tycoon. Before descending, however, she made a detour to Torkoth’s last known quarters.

Unfortunately, there was no response to her thumping. Faced with the defeat, she gave up hope of ever settling the score with the Half-man.

After a few inquiries, Lakif was led to the chamber master. This individual was responsible for the guest registry, parceling out rooms, and maintaining order to the constantly changing roster of guests. In an inn the size of the Goblin Knight, this was a full-time job.

The fellow sent word to Dumont of the Acaanan’s interest. Normally, the owner didn’t spend much time in the common room. But to her credit, her ear was always available to an entreating patron.

To the Acaanan, Ceric Dumont was the paradigmatic inn master, a model for all others. The two hadn’t exchanged pleasantries to date. But in the few instances that Lakif had seen her, she had been impressed by Dumont’s cordial nature with all her guests—race notwithstanding. In particular, she had proven herself amiable to the Acaanan by sending the herb wife, treatment that Lakif was unaccustomed to. Even the ostlers, who were generally expected to suffer abuse from an owner, enjoyed fair treatment at her hands.

Although Grimpkin was in general a safe district, episodes of violence naturally erupted from time to time. This was especially true in the liquor-lacquered common rooms. Rumor held that the Goblin Knight had never suffered the disgrace of open bloodshed within its ancient walls. Such a laudable distinction wasn’t claimed by any other such inn. It was believed that the Ceric line was to be credited for this, and Dumont herself superbly maintained her family’s bloodless tradition. Exactly why the Goblin Knight enjoyed such an honor was debatable. Some ascribed it to Dumont’s finer qualities. They avowed that she was so agreeable that guests feared falling into her disfavor, believing that such dishonor would be more painful than whatever grievance was pushing them to arms. Others weren’t so charitable with their appraisal of Dumont’s qualities. This minority swore to a terrific ire slumbering in her bowels. To cross her would disgorge a terrible reprisal. One so bad, in fact, as to discourage any thought of violence in the first place. Where the truth lay wasn’t clear, although both seemed equally likely.

This day, the inn owner’s disposition was of less interest to the Acaanan than her status as a giant of Grimpkonian society. Dumont was widely regarded as a pillar of the community. If any could offer wisdom concerning local alchemists, it would be her.

The most outstanding feature of the proprietor was her handicap. Her right arm was severed, just distal to her elbow. A metal band capped the nub. Lakif had heard no small amount of rumor concerning the disfigurement. A few asserted that she had been born without a limb, or it was so congenitally useless that it was medically amputated for aesthetic reasons. But most derided this version as bunk. They averred that Dumont had lost her limb. One person the Acaanan had spoken to claimed that the limb was severed in a battle. That a scar ran from Dumont’s lip to nearly her left ear tattled that she was indeed a veteran. Another claimed it was cut off after she received a bite from a rabid dura. The hastily performed amputation was prophylaxis against the affliction spreading to her brain.

The story Lakif favored was that it was severed by a dragon’s bite. This popular story was woven by an inebriated patron the night before her meeting with Lucretia. The story dated back many years, even before the Acaanan was born. At that time, Dumont was a young maid who had just assumed control of the inn. The role was thrust on her following the untimely death of her father due to a lung infection.

One stale winter morning, a dragon was found in the tower hearth. It had arrived during the night, attracted to the flames. As customary, three men were sent to prepare the hearth for the upcoming night. When the workers entered to stock the fuel, the serpent descended on the unsuspecting souls. It slew two of the astonished men outright, and the third narrowly escaped with his life.

No one knew where the dragon came from. It most likely was a rogue beast from Maladomini. Whatever its origin, the creature apparently had decided to make the tower its permanent lair. That the poor creature was insane wasn’t questioned. Its painful wails reverberated through the inn day and night. It was suspected that the beast had a terminal affliction or a rotting brain.

A sizeable force was sent to dispatch the intruder. The foray ended in disaster. Due to the specific construction of the tower, mercenaries were forced to enter in single file, and the creature baked them with its incendiary breath.

Waiting out the poor creature’s eventual death was out of the question, as the wyvern made frequent excursions into the surrounding district, causing no small amount of misery to the locals.

Finally, after much deliberation, a local pharmacist devised a plan. He concocted a poisonous brew to slay the moribund squatter. They tried lacing the carcasses of a dura with the poison. It was then delivered to the dragon as a peace offering. This failed completely, and it was concluded that the toxin wasn’t absorbed via the bowels. The pharmacist concluded that it had to be delivered directly to the bloodstream. Crossbow bolts had henceforth failed to pierce its scales, thus obviating this mode of delivery. In any event, not enough toxin could be administered on a single bolt to affect the dragon. The full dose had to be given, preferably by syringe.

Out of desperation, they settled on a shaky plan. They would lie to the beast, claiming that the syringe contained a medication that would cure its affliction. They hoped that due to the wyvern’s deranged mental state, it would fall for the ruse. The pharmacist ascended along with the youthful Dumont and a few stout mercenaries.

As they entered, Dumont begged the beast not to roast them, citing the miraculous cure they bore. The dragon was not convinced. It agreed to receive the shot if only Dumont would place her arm in its jaws.

In a fateful decision, Dumont complied. The pharmacist then injected the toxin between the scales into the soft belly. When the lethal toxin began burning the dragon’s veins, it knew it had been duped. It bit down, tearing the inn master’s arm off as easily as one shreds paper.

Hours later, when Dumont was fighting for life in bed, the dragon expired amid a concert of painful cries. Dumont eventually recovered from the mutilating wound.

Although lessened in body, that single sacrifice catapulted her fame throughout Grimpkin. By selflessly keeping her word and defending the public weal, her name became virtually synonymous with integrity.

Lakif liked the patron’s account of Dumont’s disability. Aside from the morbid details, it upheld lofty values, which warmed her dark heart. Furthermore, it was probably true, being as it was in striking harmony with the image woven into the tapestry above. But she wondered how the dragon had communicated its conditional acceptance of the therapy. Had it spoken? Lakif didn’t think that dragons were capable of speech.

In spite of this, Lakif approached Dumont with no small amount of trepidation. She knew that the word alchemist was always mouthed with a mild lacing of scorn. Inquiring about an
alchemist
was at best a touchy endeavor, considering the pall of distrust heaped on those reclusive scientists. It was perhaps the only profession that could claim to rival warlocks in public outrage. Lakif was puzzled about the origin of this hatred, as alchemists figured prominently in Grimpkin’s long history.

Dumont smiled as if delighted to finally meet the Acaanan.

“Your kind is resilient, Acaanan! Already springing around?” Lakif was relieved by her cordial tone. Whatever her physical disability, the
seignior
was a true presence. Perhaps it was due to her awesome inn. In fact, it was difficult to extricate the woman from her famed tower.

“Well on the mend, owing to the hospitality of the Goblin Knight,” Lakif replied.

“Excellent! How can I be of service?” Dumont allowed a window to broach the delicate subject.

“I’m not familiar with this region, having arrived only days past from Mordakai.” Lakif leaned against the bar. “All and sundry swear that you are well friended to this ground, a true arch of Grimpkin.”

Dumont nodded obliquely, as if questioning the truth of the praise.

“I bear an affliction from my youth, a disorder of the blood. It is a serious malady really; I bleed through my skin as others do perspire.” To this, a look of alarm jolted Dumont. “Since my youth, I have taken a certain medication, only available through the auspices of an elderly doctor near my home. Unfortunately, I am far from his adroit hand and have run short on the elixir.”

The seignior shook her head compassionately.

“I understand and can refer you to a competent pharmacist.”

“Actually, the doctor was an alchemist,” Lakif carefully broached the subject.

“You seek an alchemist? None live in these parts. Everybody knows that,” she replied flatly.

“What believe you, personally?”

“I haven’t heard a word of those practitioners in all my life.”

“Can’t something be done about this?” Lakif fretted. “The situation is dire.”

“There is one who might know,” Dumont mused.

“Who?” Lakif virtually shouted.

“You should inquire of the Bard.”

“Pardon?”

“An icon of Grimpkin the Bard is. You say I am an arch of this region?” She chuckled. “If I am an arch, the Bard is an edifice, as undying as any constructed of stone.”

“Say you, would this Bard know of alchemists?”

“If any, it is he. Part and parcel with Grimpkin he is. The Bard is the author of the gritty folio of Grimpkin’s past—both noble and ignoble. You could also say he is as much an element of that past as its dutiful chronicler. But only seek him if the situation is dire.”

“Why so?”

“It is said calamity follows his advice.”

“Where can I find him?” Lakif dismissed the warning and stared at Dumont, breathless.

“I don’t know where he haunts these days. But I do recall hearing that he was once employed at the law firm of Rhembald, Dulth, and Cawjul. Perhaps you could start there.”