‘Well, dang it,’ I said. ‘If this is the day I meet my ancestors, reckon I’ll do it standing on my own two feet.’
‘I told you, there’s—’
Whatever the old man was going to say next died when he saw me rise from the chair.
‘That’s not …’
I picked up the bottle of wine and noted the vintage scrawled in grease pen. Probably the most expensive bottle in the place. Must’ve been a good fee.
‘This isn’t right,’ the mage said, looking very much like a confused old man discovering he’s become lost very far from home.
‘Maybe the spell didn’t work?’ I suggested.
‘Impossible. My spells never fail me. Never.’
‘Well now, that is a conundrum.’ I held up a finger. ‘Perhaps this Kellen fellow is vastly more powerful than you’ve been led to believe.’
The old man started mumbling. ‘But … But everyone knows Kellen of the House of Ke is the weakest of mages. He only ever sparked his breath band. His magic is as weak as a child’s!’
I nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes, even I’ve heard that. So if your spells never fail, and this Kellen fellow isn’t powerful enough to break them, then, well, that only leaves one explanation, doesn’t it?’
I picked up the white cloth from the table and began wiping the black make-up from my left eye.
‘Ancestors! You tricked me! You’re not—’
I smiled innocently. ‘Now be fair, friend. I did try to warn you that I wasn’t this Kellen of the House of Ke you’re looking for. I mentioned it several times, if you’ll recall.’
The mage reclaimed his composure and his finger started twitching into what the Jan’Tep call somatic forms. ‘Whoever you are, the fact that the chair didn’t bind you means you’ve no magic to protect yourself with. So now you’ll tell me where Kellen is hiding or I’ll have you begging me for a quick death!’
‘I’ll tell you for free,’ I said, tossing the dirty rag over the mage’s shoulder. ‘He’s right behind you.’
The mage whirled around. The bartender lay unconscious on the floor. The drunk who’d been snoring in the corner was now standing behind the old man, wiping at his own left eye with the rag.
‘A trick!’ the mage shouted. ‘A filthy trick!’
Kellen Argos – at least, that’s the name he’d given when he’d hired me – smiled sympathetically at the old man. That disturbing black pattern circling his eye that we’d spent hours painting around my own was now glistening in the dim lantern light. ‘It’s as you said, my lord magus: I have precious little magic to work with. Tricks are all I’ve got.’
Completing my end of our contract, I smashed the wine bottle down on the back of the mage’s head as hard as I could. Glass shattered into a hundred pieces, wine spilling all over the old man’s greasy hair. He crumpled like sackcloth.
Kellen Argos knelt down next to him, listening for a heartbeat before searching the mage’s robes and pulling out a bag of coins. He fished out a few of them, which he stuffed into his own pocket before handing the rest to me.
I looked inside the bag. There was a small fortune in there; enough to buy me a minor title and a nice little mansion on the outskirts of the capital if I wanted. Enough to make me suspicious. ‘What’s the catch?’
Kellen grabbed one of the unconscious mage’s arms. ‘Give me a hand with him.’
Between us, we hefted him up and sat him back down in what had been my chair.
‘That seems a little cruel,’ I said.
Kellen patted the old man on the head. ‘No worse than what he’d had in store for me. Besides, by now his employers will be on their way here to celebrate. Maybe they’ll take pity on him and hire another mage to release him from the binding spell.’
‘Why not just kill him? Aren’t you worried he’ll tell people how you pulled this off?’
‘I’m counting on it.’ He walked over to the bench where he’d been pretending to sleep and retrieved his coat and black frontier hat, the band above the brim inscribed with silver sigils. ‘Next time the queen’s enemies want to hire themselves a lord magus to do their dirty work, they’ll have to pay a lot more for the privilege.’
He headed for the saloon’s swinging half-doors.
‘One more question,’ I asked before he could leave. ‘You work for the queen, right? I mean, you’re an official of the Daroman court?’
‘That’s what they keep telling me.’
‘So why aren’t there a dozen royal marshals or palace guards here backing you up?’
He set the hat on his head. It was a little too big for him. Although we really did resemble one another – enough to fool strangers anyway – he was a couple of years younger than me and looked a lot more … tired.
‘They also tell me I don’t play well with others.’
‘What about next time?’ I persisted. ‘You won’t be able to use this same trick twice.’
He swung the doors open, letting in the fading sounds of last night’s celebrations from the street outside. He turned back to me and a wicked grin escaped the corner of his mouth like a scavenger sneaking out the back window after stealing your supper. ‘Guess next time I’ll just have to come up with a new trick.’
City of Glories
There are two sides to every city. The top shimmers and shines, magnificent towers reaching high into the air, drawing the gaze of travellers for miles and miles with promises of civilisation and companionship. As to the other side? Well, as with any good trick, sometimes it’s best not to look too closely at what lies underneath.
1
The Arrest
Nothing stinks like a capital city in summer. Streets already crowded with lords and labourers begin to burst as endless caravans of merchants, diplomats and those impoverished by bad harvests or foreign raiders roll through the gates in search of profit or protection. Upon a gleaming white arch at the city’s entrance an inscription bearing the Daroman capital’s motto beckons visitors with a promise: ‘Emni Urbana Omna Vitaris’.
From The Imperial City Flows Prosperity.
Also, sewage.
That’s the thing about great cities: they can solve hunger with more food, security with more soldiers, and almost everything else with more money. But there’s only so much shit you can swirl around before the flagstones begin to reek.
‘This place stinks,’ Reichis chittered above me.
The soft flutter of fur-covered gliding flaps heralded a light thump against my shoulder as the squirrel cat made his landing. My two-foot-tall, thieving, murderous business partner sniffed at my face. ‘Funny, you don’t smell dead.’
‘I’m fine,’ I said, not eager to resume the lengthy argument begun in the early hours before dawn when I went off alone to face the mage who’d been sent to kill me. All I wanted now was a bath, some quiet and maybe a few restful hours without any attempts on my life.
Reichis sniffed at me a second time. ‘You smell worse than dead actually. Is that whisky?’ He poked his muzzle in my hair and sounded more than a little intrigued.