ON THE TRAIL
“I found Green-Vest Guy,” said Twigly one evening.
“Where?” Taliana asked. They were having dinner together in the homeless shelter. The food quality had blessedly improved recently, though the roof had sprung a leak.
“Southern district,” Twigly said. “I followed him to an orphanage.”
“An orphanage?”
“Yep. He spent a few minutes inside, then left and visited a couple shopkeepers on Arbor Street. Spent a few minutes at each.”
“Then where did he go?”
Twigly shrugged, biting into her apple. “I lost him.”
“He gave you the slip?”
“Something like that.”
Taliana gave her an appraising look. “You got bored, didn’t you.”
“He just kept going into shops, talking with the shopkeepers for upwards of a quarter of an hour each,” said Twigly. “I was getting hungry.”
“You’re always hungry.”
“True.”
Taliana pondered this intel. What was the man doing at an orphanage? Was he involved in Ilyan’s secret, or was he just some sort of merchant or city official?
“Good work,” said Taliana, handing Twigly a silver piece. “Keep it up.”
“And how about you?” Twigly said, pocketing the silver with a single fluid movement. “Have you found the old man’s secret yet?”
“I have some theories,” Taliana said. “But they’re just that. Theories.”
“What about his other secret?” Twigly said.
“What other secret?”
Twigly rolled her eyes. “Come on, cousin. Don’t tell me you haven’t done the math. The old man has a constant stream of customers. His potions are twice the normal rate. He only has a single apprentice to pay. His profits must be huge. We’re talking thousands of shekels per year. Yet the old man has only half a dozen outfits, never travels, and sleeps in an upstairs room of his shop instead of a palace. What does he do with all that money?”
The question followed Taliana all the way to bed. The more she learned about Ilyan, the more secrets it seemed he had.
*****
AN OVERHEARD NEGOTIATION
Most of Ilyan’s customers were either regulars—Taliana was beginning to learn some of their names—or tourists. The tourists would gawk at the old man’s displays, excitedly ask all sorts of probing questions that Taliana couldn’t really answer, and stick around hoping to catch a glimpse of the elusive old man. Sometimes they even bought something.
Occasionally, a customer would come who was truly desperate.
One morning, a young avir woman was waiting outside the door when Taliana opened for business. Her hair was frazzled and her skin grey. (Avirs, a species similar to humans but more delicately built, had hair and skin that visibly reacted to their emotions.)
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“Do you have a cure for blackbane fever?” the woman gasped as soon as the door opened. “It’s for my two daughters. They’ve been bedridden two days. Can’t keep anything down.”
“Aquamancy can’t provide a ‘cure’ for anything,” Taliana said, quoting one of Ilyan’s common disclaimers as she returned to the counter. “But it can fight the disease and curb the fever, giving your daughters a fighting chance.” Taliana looked the customer up and down, noting the simple dress and worn shoes. “Their best chance is windsbane tonic, but I’m afraid it will be expensive.”
The lady’s face faded to a deeper hue of grey. “How much?” she whispered.
Before Taliana could respond, the door to the mixery opened.
“Tamathyst,” Ilyan’s voice called. “I’ll talk to the lady. Send her back if you please.”
The woman disappeared into the mixery, her hands shaking as she clutched her purse. Soon Taliana could hear the murmur of conversation. No other customers had arrived, so after a moment’s thought, Taliana pressed her ear against the door of the mixery.
“. . . the local apothecary,” the lady was saying. “He gave me coriander for the fever, but it did nothing.”
“Windsbane tonic is much more efficacious than coriander,” said Ilyan, his voice soft but firm. “But much more expensive, because the ingredients are extremely rare. Windsbane root comes only from the southeast edge of Kanonbry. You’ll need three doses per daughter.”
“How much will it cost?” the woman said, her tone desperate.
“For six doses? The ingredients alone cost me seventy-five shekels.”
No response, except what sounded like a woman struggling not to weep.
“How much can you afford?” Ilyan’s asked, his voice so low that Taliana could barely hear it.
“All I have is seven shekels, sir.”
A pause.
“I’ll sell it to you for two.”
That was the day Taliana began to understand what Ilyan the Estimable did with his profits.
*****
AN OVERHEARD AGREEMENT
A week later, Taliana was just nodding off when a shrill whisper woke her.
“Taliana!” Twigly cried. “Up! I found him!”
Taliana rolled over. “Who?”
“Your young pyromancer friend.”
Taliana jumped up, hurriedly donning a vest and following her cousin out a window onto the roof of the shelter. “Where?”
“Just three streets over. I think he’s waiting for someone.”
They scampered across moonlight rooftops, which at night were easier to traverse than the streets and alleys below. Taliana shivered, glancing up at where a dark orb hung in the night sky. She was almost never out at night. No one was often out at night. Night was the realm of the Void—the domain of demons, darkness, and danger.
When they arrived at their destination, the street was empty.
“Shadows,” Twigly hissed. “He can’t have gone far. We’ll split up. You go right, I’ll go left. But be careful. This is a pyromancer we’re talking about. Blundering buffalos, why didn’t I bring a knife?” The snippen disappeared, scurrying into the darkness.
Twigly was the one saying to be careful? This did not bode well.
Taliana glanced again at the Void, hanging in the sky, and nearly lost her resolve. Then she took a deep breath and headed in the opposite direction.
One block over, she peeked over the edge of a roof and froze.
Two figures stood in the alley below her. One held a candle in his hand. No, that wasn’t right—he held a flame in his hand, casually tossing it from finger to finger. He was the taller of the two, with his back turned to Taliana. The flickering light illuminated the face of the other, shorter man: the round-faced pyromancer with the brown hair.
“Look, you know I need your help,” the round-faced pyromancer was saying. “I’ve had this assignment for four months now. They’re getting impatient, and I’m running low on money.”
“How much is the job?” The taller man’s voice, deep and direct, cut through the darkness like a knife.
“Five hundred shekels,” said the shorter man, “plus a budget for bribes.”
The taller man huffed. “I’m working gigs that pay ten times that much.”
“That’s because you’re working special jobs for the vizier himself,” the shorter man said with a hint of annoyance.
The taller man passed his flame to his other hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Look,” said the shorter man. “I don’t even care about the money at this point. I just want the job done so I can move on to another assignment.”
“Fine,” said the taller man. “But if we’re doing this . . . we’re doing it my way.”
The light snuffed out, and the men started moving away. Taliana blinked, waiting for her eyes to adjust back to the darkness, then followed them, doing her absolute best to stay silent. By the time she reached the far end of the roof, the street beyond was empty. Pyromancers could move extremely fast when they wanted to.
She huddled in the dark. What now? Should she go find Twigly? Go back home?
The short man’s “job” was obviously to get Ilyan’s secret. He’d failed to bribe first Ilyan and then Taliana. So he’d gone to someone else for help. She shivered, recalling the taller pyromancer’s harsh voice. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it MY way. He did not seem like the kind of person to waste time.
Her mind made up, Taliana started running toward Ilyan’s shop.