After the unforeseen events that took place in the Tombs of Solario, Vance decided to take some time for himself. He didn’t go to work or go on hunts. Instead, he stayed at home and cared for his burns. He had a special balm that was sold in the markets of his hometown, Engelsburg, and he applied it to his damaged and disfigured skin in the hopes that it would reduce the pain and restore the texture. When he was done, three glass bottles, each with a label that said “The Enchanter’s Balm,” lay empty on his desk. He wrapped three layers of white bandages over the treated burns and hoped for the best results.

At least I didn’t have to go to a healer this time.

Standing naked in front of his mirror, he felt as if he had become one of the elven mummies. His only consolation was the fact that his face had escaped the marring effects of the alkali. His dark eyes were safe in their sockets, and his straight nose could breathe the fresh air of the forest. Even his gently-rounded cheeks, which had been easy targets for the splashing slimes, retained their soft color and shaven smoothness, in what could be described only as a miracle. He felt deeply grateful, not because he cared about his appearance, but because this face was his only reminder of his mother.

I can still see her in the mirror … for better or worse …

After tending to his burns, he had plenty of time to rest and relax. Driven by a sudden bout of nostalgia—a feeling that the Church would call nostalgie de la boue—he sat in his bed and perused several volumes on philosophy. The books were relatively old, and the paper was yellow and dusty; but Vance seemed to prefer their battered state over the pristineness of new publications.

Before each literary dive, he would always stop at the title page and read the words, “Property of Maven Hart,” written in faded ink, as if they conveyed the most important message the books could offer. There seemed to be no phrase more significant or meaningful than this short declaration of ownership. Even when shinier names, like Albert Nietzsche and Thomas Adler, were inscribed on the same page, he would often ignore them and focus solely on Maven Hart. And only grudgingly would he leave this name and turn the tattered pages to the metaphysical theory or the ethical system that the book explored. When he did, however, he would absorb the content like a sponge and commit most of it to his photographic memory—a gift that he had since childhood.

Having studied the writing style of the philosophers, he moved on the next day from reading to writing. But the subject of his compositional pursuit wasn’t philosophy, and he couldn’t call himself the sole author of his book, because he was inspired and guided by another creature. His subject was the language of goblins, and his indispensable (yet often uncooperative) guide was none other than Timathor-Gujkagoor-Khzujmar, whose intricate name became the first of goblin tongue to be transcribed into the human alphabet, when Vance wrote it on the title page.

The two sat near the firepit, with various items around them on the ground, and Vance tried to discover the names of these items in the goblin language. He used the weirdest gestures and the wildest gesticulations to elicit appropriate responses from Timathor. Sometimes the little goblin would lose its focus and turn away to watch a Royal Moth, but more often it would move its thick lips and pronounce a word or a short phrase—a prized sample for the passionate linguist. And Vance would record the guttural sounds after careful listening, hoping that they corresponded to the meanings that he had in mind.

Combining his new observations with some of the words that he had already known, Vance jotted down the seedling of a goblin dictionary:

“Ow—I, the pronoun.

“Mi—me, the pronoun.

“Baikahj—food.

“Gnedcha—to want or need.

“Ushga—to support or fight for?

“Jahmaar—love, like, or enjoy?

“Hinjaoor—hooray.

“Grechen—to follow.

“Huuth—Royal Moth.

“Suluum—slime.

“Hujma—human.

“Zinja—stone.

“Gurjahir—tree.

“Khamad—leaf.

“Kudahir—wood.

“Laigakhan—fire.

“Qurquj—dagger or weapon?

“Wufurthaal—armor.

“Ohrajimz—clothes or shirt?

“Nijgkanya—the sky.”

The list continued to grow as Vance brought more items from his storage or pointed to certain objects in the environment. There was no foolproof way to determine whether the translations were accurate, but he set two criteria that needed to be satisfied before he entered any new word into his dictionary: traceability and reproducibility. The first meant that he could trace the word back to a certain stimulus, such as an object or an action, while the second meant that Timathor used the same word more than once in response to the same stimulus. For example, in the case of the word khamad, Vance determined that Timathor used it four out of five times when it was shown a leaf, and this observation satisfied the two criteria and justified a new entry in the dictionary.

After he compiled a list of fifty goblin words, Vance turned his attention to grammar. He wrote, “It seems that the goblin tongue doesn’t have the same grammatical complexity of our language. Timathor seems to be formulating sentences that are always three words in length or even shorter. I suspect that all goblin sentences have the form: subject-verb-object, where each element is a single word. But it is also possible that Timathor is still too young and that it speaks with such a monotonic structure because of its immaturity. For now, I will assume that all goblins speak as Timathor does, and I will try to converse with Timathor to test the accuracy of my translations.”

And so Vance prepared to speak his first words in the goblin language, which he jokingly called Timathese in honor of his young goblin companion. It was impossible for a human to make the sounds that goblins made—the vocal cords were certainly not built for such a daunting task—but Vance tried his best to invent clever substitutions that could mimic the most demanding articulations. And he put these alternative sounds to the test only a few minutes after he created them. With a rush of uncontainable excitement, he held Timathor’s shoulders, forced it to look at him, and said, “Ow-gnedcha-zinja.”

“Zinja?” Timathor said.

Vance nodded and repeated, “Ow-gnedcha-zinja.”

Timathor picked up a stone and handed it to Vance.

“Ow-gnedcha-khamad,” Vance said.

“Khamad-mushta-baikahj! Kvu-gnedcha-khamad?”

“Ow-gnedcha-khamad,” Vance repeated.

“Chen,” Timathor said, and it picked up a leaf and handed it to Vance.

“Ow-gnedcha-nijgkanya,” Vance said.

“Hoohowe!” Timathor gaped at Vance before it shouted in visible distress, “Nijgkanya-mush-benkiru! Nijgkanya-mush-kazul!”

Vance laughed his head off. While the goblin continued to explain that it couldn’t help—that it couldn’t bring the sky—he wrapped his arms around it and hugged it with genuine affection. The confusion on its face was so dear to him, because it meant that even his illogical sentence had been understood. It’s a long way before I can speak fluent Timathese, but I’ve taken the first steps today. He lifted Timathor up and spun it around in the air, forcing it to share in the laughter. And every step, no matter how small, brings me closer to Haemal Hall.

***

After spending two days at home, Vance decided to visit Cromsville again, but his destination wasn’t the Sunshine Tavern, where his boss was cursing and fuming about the understaffed kitchen. Instead, he took an all too familiar turn and headed to the squalid streets of the poor district, whose name a sunlit sign revealed to be Old Bastion. As he walked, he tried to mingle with the crowds of gaunt faces, but his good clothes and foreign mannerisms set him apart and labeled him a misfit. Everything about him screamed Engelsburg, and the poor weren’t very fond of the richer north.

Eventually, the city guards accosted him and warned him, rather truculently, that outsiders weren’t welcome in the shabby neighborhoods. When he told them that he was no outsider and that he was looking for an acquaintance, their attitudes changed for the worse, and they warned him to stay out of trouble. One beady-eyed guard even went as far as to accuse him of being a wanted kidnapper—referencing several eyewitness reports of a well-dressed individual abducting a street seller. But a small bribe was enough for the over-suspicious guard to drop the unfounded charges, and Vance continued on his way.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

A while after these unfortunate encounters, he finally found the familiar face that he had been searching for. He approached a woman in a risqué blue dress and said with a mocking smile, “How’s business going? Are we moving up the social ladder? Or are the nobles pushing us farther down?”

Lauressa turned around with a start. When she saw Vance, she calmed down a little and said, “You again … You’ve got some nerve showing up here. Chester has you on his blacklist, and if his men recognize you—”

“How much would it take to free you up for the rest of the day?”

Lauressa hesitated before she said, “The whole day?”

Vance nodded.

“10 silver.”

“Don’t you think that’s too much?”

“5 silver,” she said. “But I won’t go lower than that. I’m taking a big risk here. If Chester sees me with you, he’ll get all sorts of ideas.”

“Here.” Vance smiled and placed a white pouch in her hand.

After a look of deep suspicion, Lauressa opened the pouch and found 20 silver coins. She gasped in utter surprise, checked her surroundings to determine if anyone had seen her receive the money, and then put the pouch away as fast as she could, hiding it in a secret pocket in her dress. A second later, she grabbed Vance’s sleeve and dragged him behind her into an alley. She walked between rows of run-down wooden houses. Then she took a sharp right, disappearing from the view of the pedestrians, and arrived near a chicken coop. As the hens clucked and cackled, she bent down to catch her breath and adjust her dress.

“What do you want this time?” she said with a sidelong glance. Then, with an audacity befitting her immodesty, she grabbed Vance’s sleeve, pulled it up, and revealed the stained bandages that were wrapped around his burns. “Do you need another healer? Chester’s the only one I know.”

“No.” Vance pulled his arm away and covered the bandages with his sleeve. “I don’t need any healers. I’m looking for a fence.”

“A fence? I know a few … How much are your goods worth?”

“Somewhere between 600 and 800 gold.”

“What? You have that much on you?” Lauressa stared wide-eyed, but when she noticed the unimpressed look on Vance’s face, she realized her mistake and said, “Of course, you don’t. You’re not stupid to walk around Old Bastion with that much money. Well … I hate to break it to you, but none of the local fences have enough coin to buy your goods. 800 gold … By Amirani, that’s more than we earn in a lifetime.”

“You mean you can’t help me?”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant at all,” Lauressa said quickly. “I … I happen to know someone who might have this much money. I used to … I … I used to work for him before I moved under Chester. But …”

“But what?”

“He’s more dangerous than Chester … a lot more dangerous.”

“You don’t need to worry.”

“And he’s not human.”

“A dwarf?” Vance said.

“No … not a dwarf. An ifrit.”

“What’s that?”

“You never heard of them?”

“No.”

“They’re natives of Carcassia Desert. They look like normal humans at first glance, but they’re double-crossing shapeshifters, that’s what they are. You know them by their red eyes,” Lauressa said, pointing at her own pupil. “I was like you, had never heard anything about them. But Nardeviv—the ifrit I’m telling you about—made them really famous around here. He arrived a few years ago with hardly a copper in his pocket, worked his way to the top, and ended up in the redspine trade.”

“I don’t care what he is, as long as he can pay,” Vance said.

“You won’t be able to strong-arm him the way you did with Chester.”

“Who said I would?” Vance laughed. “Chester is a lowly crook; he’s not the type you can have meaningful dealings with. But this Nardeviv seems more promising. I’m looking for a long-term partnership. If he stays professional and supplies the coin, I have no reason to make him my enemy.”

“Well, if you say so, then there’s no problem … His labs aren’t far from here. Come with me. I’ll show you the way there.” Lauressa walked past the chicken coop and stopped at a short fence. She grabbed the wooden pickets and shook them several times. When they didn’t budge at all, she turned around and said, “Could you help me for a second?”

Vance walked over to her. Without any reserve, he placed an arm across her back and another across her thighs. Then he carried her up with one heave. Her left breast pressed against his chest, but he remained oblivious to it as he tried to lower her on the other side of the fence. Even when she pulled down her décolletage with her finger, in an attempt to play one of her tricks on him, he hardly gave her any attention or reacted the way she expected. But she didn’t interpret his strict indifference as a sign of rejection; in fact, it amused her much more than the lecherous expressions that her clients made.

“I wanted you to give the gate a little shove,” she laughed, moving her finger away from her décolleté. “But this works too. Why don’t you carry me like this all the way? It’d make me feel like a Masran bride.”

“Dream on.” Vance lowered her on the other side of the fence. Then he leaped past it and stood next to her. “I don’t wanna break my back.”

“Are you calling me fat?”

“I’m sure my money hasn’t made you any thinner.”

Lauressa punched his shoulder—the only revenge she could exact.

The two returned to walking. They went through a maze of narrow alleys, as if they had been two rats in the cognitive experiments of a solar elf. Every time Vance thought they had reached the main street, Lauressa took an unexpected turn and sent him down a nameless path toward an unseen end. She seemed to be spending extra effort to avoid needless encounters, especially with Chester’s men. And Vance learned from her the ways of the street prowlers—the low-life magicians who could turn a dead end into an escape route and who knew no difference between public space and private property.

When she emerged from the filth that was Old Bastion, she finally forwent her magic and returned to being an ordinary pedestrian in the sunlit streets. As she walked among the crowds, however, she seemed to have become colder and more distant than before, although Vance had done nothing wrong to spoil her favorable mood. He wondered in vain about what was going on inside her head, and the more they walked, the more he felt at a total loss. It could’ve been that she was simply bothered by the spring heat and the traffic congestion, but he couldn’t be sure, since she neither talked nor complained.

“Enjoy the warm sunlight while you can,” she finally said, rolling her sleeves up to her elbows. “We’re taking a detour through this area. After a few turns, we’ll head back to Old Bastion. Nardeviv got rich, but he’s still part of the filth. And all the filth belongs there.”

“You don’t seem very fond of this ifrit,” Vance said.

“We have a history, and …”

“You don’t want to talk about it? To get it off your chest?”

Lauressa stopped walking suddenly and said, “I want to ask you something.” Passing pedestrians bumped into her, but she stood straight and stared with an unwavering glare. “Why are you giving me so much money? And why are you pretending to be all kind and caring? It makes me sick.”

“What’s gotten into you?”

“You think I’m disgusting. Everyone does. And I’m tired of your act.”

“I don’t think you’re disgusting. I never did.”

“Oh yeah, tell me another one,” Lauressa scoffed. “You didn’t forget, did you? How you knocked me on the ground and kicked me like some animal.”

“Anyone will overreact if you wrap your arms around their wounds.”

“You mean that was because—”

“Because you aimed for the salamander bite and got a bull’s eye.”

“But you never told me your name.”

“My name?”

“You don’t think of me as a human, so you never told me your name.”

“I think there’s something wrong with your logic there,” Vance laughed. “I didn’t tell you my name, because you never asked. Calm down. It’s Vance.”

“Fine, Vance,” Lauressa said, before she went back to walking. “I’ll do what you say. I’ll calm down.”

“You’re more sensitive than I thought,” Vance said, following her.

“I’m used to dealing with pigs. We mate in a sty, and they give me money to lose the guilt. But your likes … your likes confuse me.”

“I think I’ve been very straightforward with you.”

“Straightforward?” Lauressa sneered. “You’ve been toying with me.”

“Seriously, what’s gotten into you?” Vance stared out a snoopy pedestrian. “I was just lending you an ear because you seemed down.”

Lauressa stopped walking again and said, “There’s no kindness for the sake of kindness. You’re giving me money. You seem to care about me. And I’m just waiting for you to show your true colors. After you make connections, you’ll ditch me and forget I even existed, won’t you?”

“Listen, Lauressa,” Vance said, with a harsh, assertive tone, “this is only the second time we meet. And let’s make one thing clear from now: I don’t have the slightest intention to become your new lover or to save you from poverty. I’m doing a bit of charity. But that’s it. What are you expecting from me?”

“I … I don’t know.” Lauressa held her head. “I didn’t mean to say all this. It’s not my fault.” Her eyes teared up. “I know I told you I’d show you the way to the labs, but this is really as far as I can go.” She wiped the tears with the back of her hand, but more welled up in a matter of seconds. “Seeing Nardeviv again will just mess me up more. I don’t know why I suggested you meet him.” She turned around and strode away.

“Wait!” Vance said.

But she ignored him and continued to rush into the crowds.

“I said wait!” he shouted, although he was starting to attract the unwelcome attention of the city guards. “Lauressa!”

She stopped.

Vance walked a few steps closer to her, only to realize that she hadn’t stopped for him. A young boy had wrapped his arms around her legs and forced her to halt in place. He was only eight years old, and it would’ve been brutal to kick him aside. Lauressa looked down at him as she continued to wipe her tears. He had an adorable smile on his face, which was coupled with and accentuated by a cute outfit—the miniscule imitation of what a nobleman would wear, including all the furs and leather and jewelry.

“This is for you,” the boy said, unwrapping his arms from around Lauressa and revealing a bouquet of roses that he held in his right hand. “Would you please accept it, ma’am? Someone out there loves you. Instead of crying, would you please wait for them?”

Vance looked at the roadside and found a smiling florist—a plump woman standing in front of a wooden cart full of flowers. She must’ve overheard us. He sighed and watched as Lauressa accepted the bouquet. After she pretended to smell the fragrant roses, she patted the eight-year-old boy gently on the head, nodded gratefully to the warm-hearted florist, and finally hurried away toward Old Bastion. Vance wasn’t very happy that she was leaving him alone in this neighborhood, but he didn’t chase after her, because he knew that a pointless confrontation would ensue.

Good riddance to Chester and her.

The sun cast its golden rays, and the wind blew with the warmth of tepid water. The florist pushed her cart away; the crowds proceeded like ants; the city guards hovered like hornets. And while Vance alone tried to figure out the way to Nardeviv’s labs, the dandy eight-year-old appeared at his feet and wrapped his arms around his legs. Vance looked down at the child, and the child looked up at him. The sounds of the street died away. The longer Vance peered into the boy’s blue eyes, the more he felt an odd discomfort. Even the simple words that seemed appropriate in this situation—the “Shoo! Shoo!” and the “Leave me alone, kid!”—refused to come out of his mouth.

“I’m sorry, but I overheard you talking,” the boy said at last. “You mentioned you were looking for Nardeviv.”