Chapter 93 - Daggertongue

With dawn approaching, I donned my robe and cravat and headed for the upper city. I passed Annalisa, slumped asleep at the bar atop a pool of frozen spittle, in which her cup, a handful of copper clips, as well as her face, were firmly lodged. The precipice flickered between her horns, sputtering like a dying candle—no doubt a result of her loss in confidence in me. Or perhaps a reflection of my indecision. I hefted the sailcloth bag and ducked out.

The rain hadn’t let up, and I tucked the elven book beneath my arm and pulled my hood against the summer storm. Even treated against the weather, the driving patter would soak me to the bone.

Unless…

I drew the two of towers from my deck and charged it with my will. Rain began to slough off my outer layers. I wouldn’t be able to hold the enchantment all the way to the upper city, so I just had to hope the storm broke before then. These summer squalls rarely lasted longer than an hour or two. I splashed my way uphill toward the middle city, and then on to the estate district where the address Threadripper had supplied me was located.

I made good time. The streets were less crowded than usual, with people finding ample reason to be inside and out of the weather. Whatever Daggertongue wanted with the book, it better be worth it. And somehow, I doubted he was calling me up to spill a thousand cunnings out of his purse like Lady Pelladine had done. The two probably couldn’t be more dissimilar.

I was right that I couldn’t hold the stoneskin for a full hour, let alone the extra half of one it took me to reach the upper city. Unfortunately, I was also wrong about the storm’s duration. The end result is that I made it to the upper city in record time, soaked to the bone, and drenched in clammy sweat from the uphill trudge, to boot.

Since I had a few minutes, I popped into a public house near my destination to see if there was an opportunity to dry out by a fire. It was one I hadn’t seen before, tall and dark with wrought-iron workings and dark glass windows. Stone steps led up to a door beneath a hanging sign. Literally, the sign had a man etched, hanging by his ankle. The name beneath read The Last Request. Cheery.

I dripped my way over to the hearth and tossed my dripping robe up onto the mantle. Only then, did I notice I wasn’t alone. An elf sat in a high-backed chair near the hearth, glass of wine in his hand, muddy boots crossed on his ottoman. He watched me, eyes narrowed, in a way that left me feeling quite exposed, if I’m being honest.

The barmaid came by with a dry cloth and took my order (tea and stew) and my coin in advance before returning to the kitchen. This was an upper city haunt, and it was clear I was someone who ought show coin upon ordering. I mopped off my face, hair, and chest with the cloth while I stood by the fire. The sailcloth bag with the book in it, fortunately, had maintained its integrity. I lifted the flap and checked that the linen underneath was dry—on the off-chance Daggertongue actually offered me as much as the noblewoman from the repository.

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I saw the elf’s eyes following the satchel as I replaced the flap. But he still hadn’t said anything, and I wasn’t much in the mood for conversation, so I put the cloth down on the chair furthest from my silent observer and took a seat by the hearth. Before I knew it, a steaming mug had been set in front of me, and I took a sip.

The fire in the hearth flared from a gust, sending long shadows sprawling and reaching. I held my hand against the sudden brightness and the blowing ash. What’s more, I felt a tinge of magic in the air. Those grasping shadows weren’t illusions. And the stranger was suddenly in the chair next to mine. There was a Deck of Wills in his one hand, and the Prince of Demons in the other.

I shot to my feet, hand going to my pocket where my own deck lay.

“Your tea is getting cold, seeker,” the elf admonished.

I looked around. No one else seemed to have noticed—not that the house was packed. A few early morning risers and some who would soon be seeking their beds. I kept my hand near my deck and returned to my chair. Just my luck I’d bumbled into another Soul Seeker. I sat, and the elf picked up his wine. He idly shuffled his deck with the other hand. Despite his trick with the demons, it was a dragon that burned above his head. Scratch that, it was the dragon, Alkazarian. So solid I felt as though I could reach out and pluck it form his brow.

“We find a queer thing, this chance meeting,” said the elf. “You see, if there’s one thing more detestable than a man who makes an appointment tardy, it’s one who arrives prematurely. I don’t enjoy… people, I should say. Especially before they’re welcome. Tell me, why did you come in this establishment?”

“I’m part moth,” I said.

The elf quirked his head.

“The light was on.”

The elf’s eyes narrowed further, becoming slits so tight you’d swear he was asleep if you couldn’t feel the weight of his disdain crushing down. His hand stilled on his deck and he had the stillness of a predator as he watched me. In all the adventures in the undercity and fights with guild enforcers and adventurers and sharks, I never felt closer to danger than I did at that very moment.

“Have you ever seen a moth fly too close to the flame?” he asked.

I stared at the elf, because something deep in the primal part of my brain felt that if I took my eyes off him for a moment, it would be my last moment. Those creeping shadows that had escaped from the hearth began to slide across the floor, pooling underneath my glowering companion.

Without averting my eyes, I slipped the linen-wrapped book from the sailcloth bag. “Did you want to look at this or not?”

The shadows and the sense of doom withdrew, and the elf was suddenly sipping his wine. His deck was nowhere in sight. I felt like I needed that cloth I was sitting on, because I was sweatier now than I had been when I’d walked in.

Daggertongue held his hand out, and I put the books in it. I sensed I’d passed some sort of test—being that I was still alive. He set the volumes on his lap and peeled back the linen to reveal the green leather of the book within. He casually flipped open the cover and looked down at the first few pages. No gloves, no circle of protection.

“This is all that remains, then,” he said. “The rest of it is choking the middle city. Tell me, did you burn it all?”

How did he know? “It was that or lose it to Mother Mayaz. We beat her there by hours, at most.”

Daggertongue nodded. “Good,” he said. And then he tossed the books into the hearth.

I shot to my feet and stared at the crisping pages. I reached for it, but the dry tome was as good as any tinder. The fire roared and snapped, sending off purple flames from the strange inks and elven paper.

“Look closely, little moth, how I must finish your job once again.”