GLASS 4.4: LODUS

“It is a sorry Dracohost you bring to shadow me, yet I soar alone and still you will not set upon me, will you? Am I so fearsome, son of no cousin of mine? Whence this wretched ideology, this accursed democracy that makes me share in the blame of despotic leaders? I no longer care for this world. I reject it and all its wiles! Remove all constraint! Radical anarchy. A rule of one. It is how we were. It is how we shall be again. The strongest shall rise at my heels – the Empire shall reawaken. Do you hear me? I am about its business even now! You do not banish me – I reject my princedom! But I will keep my crown. I earned it. Take it if you will try me. No? No. I thought as much.”

– from Prince Deathwyrm’s rebuke, upon his exile

Fifteen minutes later, we left the pub and headed for the ‘alley’ – the perfectly-clean, perfectly-traversable walkway we’d passed on the way here. (So clean and traversable I would’ve had my doubts as to its utility as a place to safely change into our robes, were it not for our illusionist friend accompanying us.) Em must’ve been warming the air around us – either that or it was the beer – and it might’ve made for a pleasant experience, walking down the street in a group of my peers, enjoying their company. But before we reached the corner I could sense the people gathered there, sense the eyes on us.

Whispered words of violence. Body odour, and onion-breath. The gentle chink of weaponry.

“Trouble,” I said under my breath, just loud enough for the others to hear. I didn’t slow my pace.

“Only if we react the wrong way,” Killstop replied.

“S’only ten of ’em,” Spiritwhisper sniffed, moving ahead of me to the front of the group, swaggering brazenly.

“Should I…?” Em pointed a finger at the sky, only a hint of her drunkenness in her voice.

Killstop shook her head. “Not needed – trust me.”

“Hmmmm.” Nighteye sounded a little concerned; the druids were at the back of the group. “What’s going on, Feych-?”

The sound was smothered as Fangmoon pressed her hand over his mouth.

It was too late for more discussion anyway. We were there, the rogues’ shadows unfolding from the edges of the path, figures moving to stand in our way.

“Well well.” It was the voice of a Lowtowner, hard and merciless. “What ‘av we ‘ere?”

Almost a dozen of them. Short blades and clubs. Eyes that gleamed with greed and impatience.

“Been waiting long, Mr. Onion Breath?” I asked archly, looking around at them; they might’ve been standing in darkness but I fancied I could’ve counted the hairs in their beards if I’d had a need to.

I figured I could draw out a shield faster than they could attack, and I knew I could summon a demon faster, but I had several beers in me and –

Something was off. The looming shadows of the ten strangers had frozen unnaturally, barely wavering, as though they were branches being stirred by the night-time breeze.

Spiritwhisper drew back an arm, then carefully reached out a single finger, poking the thug who had spoken right in the middle of his forehead. Hard.

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Hard enough to throw the hireling off-balance, send him crashing back to the ground, stiff as a board.

None of the others reacted – they were eerily still, eerily quiet –

“Guess that’s handled,” Spiritwhisper said merrily. “You guys wanna mess with ’em?”

“Uh… what?” Fangmoon said.

“You know…” The enchanter spread his hands, smirking.

“Leave them in a compromising situation?” I asked.

“Bang on! I knew you’d get it.”

One of the rogues pirouetted out of the shadows on his tiptoes, hands held above his head, fingers interlaced. The others followed. Within seconds they were dancing elegantly in a ring about the fallen form of Onion Breath.

I smiled, the tight smile of one who is amused but knows he shouldn’t be.

“Just put zem to sleep, and ve vill call ze vatchtower before ve leave.” Em didn’t sound particularly amused.

Spiritwhisper looked wounded.

Fangmoon seemed to take a different perspective. “Or, make them curl up together and go to sleep, their arms and legs all lovingly tangled-up. The looks on their faces when the watchmen wake them…”

“Or just make them go hand themselves in to the watch right now?” I suggested.

Nighteye’s face had lit up. “There are, hm, a large number of possibilities, but I think you’ll find all of them are, hm, criminal to say the least, and the last thing we want is someone examining their memories, as, you know, hm, all of our identities are right there, and unless we track down the ones who sent them, removing our faces from their minds isn’t going to stop them –“

“You’re right,” I said, holding out my hand. “You’re right, and someone could come by here any minute.” I couldn’t sense anyone approaching, yet. “Killstop?”

She sighed. “The sensible way?”

That was the Tanra I expected.

“Please.”

She looked at Spiritwhisper. “Put them back in the shadows, give them a fifteen-minute countdown till they come around. Make them remember chasing us north, then east. We split up and got away in a crowd leaving the Fountains. They reconvened here to disappoint each other with their news.”

“Give me a minute,” the enchanter said with a shrug; if he was let down, he didn’t show it. He turned back to look at the ten miscreants, staring at each of them in turn.

Tanra’s eyes twinkled. “They’re very worried about Guildmaster Strolt, the serial philanderer with the moustache back at the Mare, discovering their failure.” She didn’t mention why or how his rakish behaviour was relevant – I got the impression from her off-handedness that it was probably just how the arch-diviner had chosen to categorise the snob the moment she’d delved into his past. “They’ll make excuses to each other and go home. Chances are within two weeks their sad little gang will be no more. One of them will even end up working as a nurse.”

“Seriously?” Fangmoon asked. “You can tell – all that –“

“Oh, sure,” Tanra said and shrugged. “They don’t run into diviners on a daily basis, you know? This one – he’s got a cancer living in his tooth, or he will have in a few years – that one – he’s going to be killed by a worshipper of the Blade-Lord –“

She didn’t quite seem to notice, amongst all the billions of details she was processing in her brain right now, the look of abject horror on Fangmoon’s face.

“Haven’t spent much time around diviners yourself?” I asked quietly.

The druidess just shook her head.

“– die of old age, but with a swollen thing in his side the size of his head –“

“Oooookay, Killstop.” I threw out a hand. “I’m not sure if it’s gonna be me or Fangmoon who starts throwing up first, but I know at least one of us will, so for Celestium’s sake could you…”

“Fine.” Tanra bared her teeth. “Had enough to drink? Think you’re fit to fly?”

“I can outfly you,” Em said.

Tanra gave Em an arched-eyebrow, ‘are you sure about that?’ look.

At the same time Fangmoon was staring at Nighteye, who was looking a little green.

“It might be time to sober us up,” she said warily.

“Think I… hm… forgot how,” he slurred, slouching against her.

She smiled sympathetically, and placed a hand against his head. Almost at once his skin returned to its usual complexion – he took a deep breath and stepped back on steady feet.

“Can you do that for the rest of them?” Tanra asked.

Fangmoon nodded.

Spiritwhisper had raised his hands, fingers splayed and pointing at our would-be-assailants. Now he lowered them again and turned back to us.

“Hope you all had a good planning-session while I was working,” he said, smiling smugly.

Fangmoon sighed, then shook her robe and wig out of her knapsack.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s do this.”

* * *