Chapter 44 - Perfect Planning Prior, Performs

There was more to do, of course. I did several readings before we left for the day. Three for customers, for a bit of extra discretionary funding. Two for girls in the Mop. That second part was part of Mithra’s requirement for being my unofficial spymaster. I didn’t mind, as it also endeared me to the staff. Mostly, it was mundane affairs. No, that merchant is not leaving his wife for you. No, that man is not secretly a displaced prince. Do not give that hag two streets over money to cure your rotcleft. Pay for a legitimate mender.

Things that carried more weight when stated by a seeker than an oft-scolding friend, apparently. I didn’t mind, and honestly I’d have done it for Mithra for the asking (though I felt no pressing need to tell her that).

Annalisa trained in the meantime. I could hear the thock-thock of her striking the training dummy she’d put in the back lot of the Mop n’ Bucket the whole time I was doing my readings. When I was ready, she met me in the main room, wiping the dust and sweat from her face with a cloth. We left, headed on our first errand as I outlined my thoughts.

“If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right,” I said. “We’re going to go in well-provisioned, we’re going to go in with a plan, and we’re going to come back alive.”

“And it has to be within a week, because I’ve got a fight and I won’t make it if we’re dead,” said Annalisa.

“Yes, death does have that effect on prior commitments.”

We once again found ourselves walking the western boundaries of the Barrow toward Kindledown, making our best time to Brokier’s digs and also to pay a visit to the curio shop where I’d been ripped off only to then be flattened by a battle wand. I pinched the fabric of the cravat I’d bought there between my fingers, scowling.

“Is that the neckerchief you got last time we were in Kindledown?” asked Annalisa. “Didn’t you say it was enchanted?”

“It is,” I said. “Once I finally found time to divine the enchantment, I had initially been very confused by the results of my readings.”

“What was it? It seems important, somehow.”

“Well, it took me several different readings to suss out the enchantment on the cloth, which, as close as I can tell… is a spell of inflate value.”

Anna cocked her head at me. Then she chuckled. Then the chuckle turned into a full-blown belly-laugh that would have impressed an orc.

“Gods damn it all,” I said, face turning red. I didn’t blame her for laughing. Go fucking figure that my only magic item was a neckerchief of seeming more important than it actually was. No wonder I’d been so willing to shell out eight cunnings for the little black rag. Who would even waste the time and effort creating such a trinket?”

“At least it looks good on you,” said Anna, trying to control her laughs. I sniffed. It did look good against my blouse and seeker’s robes. If I was to adopt this Barrow Knave persona, as Drella had put it, cultivating an image was a big part.

“Thank you, Annalisa.”

“You’re welcome, Darcent.”

To cultivate that image had been Jeedle’s advice. He was running the pits side of the business, and he made clear to me in no uncertain terms, that it wasn’t the best fighters who succeeded in the pits. It was the most memorable fighters. The ones that built themselves as a brand. Storm-Laden was a stone-mottle orc who fought bare-fisted against armed opponents because, despite being proficient with both sword and axe, he couldn’t afford a weapon for his first three fights. Now, bare fists were a part of his image, and he’d lose a major part of his draw by picking up a broadsword.

Running Barrowdown, I’d found, had a lot in common with pit fighting. I imagine that’s why Kridick was so good at it, and why Annalisa and I were struggling to find our feet. Fresh graffiti lined the streets in the wake of Storm’s fight. Some depicted the orc actually eating the elf. Others showed him more accurately running the elf through with his own spear. My personal favorites were the ones that showed him urinating on the elf with a very comically proportioned manhood.

Graffiti was almost as good a source of current events as a newsprint. And when I evoked the four of knaves, some of the meanings of the markings became even clearer. A squiggly set of scribbles became a warning of territory marking. A pair of intertwined boxes told me of an undiscovered gambling den under a tavern. Three sets of eyes warned a particular street was being watched. Interesting. My initial assessment that the card would be useful in reading codes and secret meanings appeared to be correct.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

I was rather surprised that, out of the entire knaves suit, only the two was a direct attack. The rest were more oriented toward controlling a battlefield, or not combat oriented at all. I still wondered what the Cour.t of Knaves would do, if I ever managed to evoke them. But they still seemed outright absent from their own card. I didn’t know enough about the higher orders of each suit to know if that were normal, and Lancaster had only left one passage in the book on the subject. He’d said, a knave doesn’t come when he’s called, he comes when he pleases. So, that was less than helpful.

We reached Shaldar’s Curios without incident. I offered a nod to the guards, who had mostly recovered from Annalisa’s ministrations. They only returned my greeting with glowers, but they didn’t move to stop or disarm us. Annalisa had beaten them down with nothing but her hands and feet.

Shaldar saw me coming a mile away and made his way over.

“Ah, Master Stitches, Mistress Dunnemasrsh, welcome back to my humble home and store. The cravat looks quite at home with the colors of your trouser straps.”

“Not quite the greeting I was expecting, Shaldar,” I said. “Considering what happened last time I was here.”

“Last time you were here, you weren’t our mutual friend’s new boss,” he pointed out helpfully. I didn’t correct him. Brokier didn’t work for me, per se. But I did put the rat in my pocket with our little maneuver. If he’d followed my advice on the previous visit, and I believed that he had, then he should be a happy (or, at least, less terminally paranoid) wildkin.

“Speaking of our mutual friend, is he in?” I asked.

“I believe he is,” said Shaldar. “Shall I take you back?”

“I know the way well enough,” I said. On a lark, I tapped the four of dragons again, looking around the shop for any magic items I had missed on the first go-around. Now that I’d gotten more used to the card, I could feel more information about the things I saw—namely their value compared to their neighbors. In a way, it was almost a treasure sense. Which made sense for the suit of dragons. Unfortunately, I was disappointed by what I saw. The most valuable thing in the shop was tied around my neck.

We headed out the dusky back room of the shop, across the muddy culvert, and over to Brokier’s hovel. It wasn’t any cleaner, but at least the dwarves had been by and put a new, thicker door on it that might have actually given Annalisa pause. I pounded on it, and the panel slid back. The elf bodyguard hadn’t recovered as completely as Annalisa or myself, and still sported a black eye and a set of uneven stitches over his brow. His avian eyes narrowed when he saw me, but the slat slid shut and a series of metallic clicks descended behind the door.

It swung open, and I held my breath against the odor of the hovel. We ducked inside and Brokier came out of the back room, sniffing at the air.

“Ah ha, young masters.”

“Hello Brokier,” I said. “Do you have something for us?”

“Yes, yes, oh-ho. Come.”

We followed him back to his office/trash heap, which didn’t look like it had seen a broom since the last time we’d been there. Or really, since the orcs had leveled the city, if we’re being truthful. Brokier scavenged around on his desk, and I kept my left hand on the Deck of Wills in case he produced another battle wand. But he brought up a small leather purse that looked heavy with silver. He tossed it over, and it slapped into my palm with a weighty feel.

“Brokier is pleased, yes. The performance, most memorable, oh ho. And very profitable.”

“You were at the fight?” I asked, glancing at Annalisa. She shrugged. I hadn’t seen the rat-marked bookie there.

Brokier waved his hand dismissively. “Nay, nay. ‘Twas traversing in the tunnels beneath. Visiting friends, ha-ah. Heard the cheers, did Brokier.”

I didn’t want to ask him about the ‘friends’ he might have been visiting in the undercity. Giant rats mutated by the unsheathings were the least of the worries down there. But the fact he’d been down there at all…

“Brokier, do you go to the undercity often?” I asked. “And how do you avoid the monsters?

“Of course,” he said, thumbing the side of his nose. “‘Tis the fleetest way ‘cross the canals, if one knows the secret ways. Oh, yes.”

“How would one know them?” I asked carefully.

“They are marked, but only for those with eyes to see,” he said. “Not human eyes, nor,” he said, looking at Annalisa, “Those of devils.”

But I bet a knave’s sense for secrets could suss them. I felt the buzz of their attention in the deck. They could smell the secrets. Maybe this plan wasn’t suicide. I rubbed my chin.

“Are the young masters considering a delve?” he asked, sniffing the air. “Treasures abound in the deep. But dangers, as well. Oh-ho, yes.”

Annalisa looked at me, and I nodded. She turned back to the wild-marked. “We’re considering it,” she said.

Brokier rooted around on his desk until he found a scrap of parchment with little written on it, and then drew a quill and scrabbled something across it. I made a note to ask him where he learned to read and write.

“Paths, peers, potions, and provisions, oh-ho. The four pillars to surviving the undercity of Dragonmaw.”

“I always heard it as maps, medicae, mates, and meals,” I said.

“Charts, chuggers, chums, and chow,” added Annalisa.

Brokier held the scrap of paper out. “Yes, yes. But devils live in details. The finer points, will you need, if you are to continue making Brokier a rich and happy friend, ha-ha. Take, take. Brokier give. The mage who sold me wands and curios. A delver, he, ah-ho. Has survived many plunges, yes. Consult him. Buy from him. Don’t tell him I sent you.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“He’ll charge you double,” said the wildkin. “He does not like poor Brokier. Not after the last party I sent him down with.”