Previous Chapter: Arrested
Making a Deal
A cool pool of water beckoned to Hypatia as she slid out of her clothes and descended the tiled stairs. Stained glass windows rose from the floor and ascended towards the ceiling like emerald eyeglasses for the gods. Dragons, lions, and other stylized creatures stood watch, fearsome despite their crudeness. Someone colored their patterns ages ago before the establishment of the comital title, and his or her name was lost to history. Other than the soft echo of her feet, the chapel was soundless, a place for meditation and penance. No one used it besides her, nor would she have permitted them to use it, for Oudinot’s household was composed of vulgar men of low character who would have profaned the place. She had found the chapel accidentally when wandering about the ancient castle, and ever since the discovery, she’d kept it a secret for many reasons. Perfect place for an assassination she thought as she sank beneath the water. Oh well. When your time comes, it comes. It would not have been difficult to fashion a warden to guard her when she was indisposed, but the existence of such a thing would have ruined the sanctity of the environment. The cool, enveloping quiet of the water took hold, and she forgot about everything but the transmission.
Hypatia clutched the amulet around her neck and closed her eyes. It was a dark place, the only noise the beating of her heart. Gradually, his features formed in the darkness. A lean face, goateed, with disapproving eyes and long, stringy hair. He stood on a deck, looking out over a sea; the image rocked with the motion of the waves. She watched awhile before he twitched suddenly and looked over his shoulder. Then he realized what was happening and went below deck to his chambers. After latching the door of his cramped cabin, he sat down and closed his eyes.
“Yes?” he asked, his face impatient. There was no glimmer of recognition, which disappointed her.
“Firenze, how are you? It looks as though the Capetians are treating you well.”
She watched as he searched her face, looking for a name.
“Hypatia Almagest, Dortmund class of ‘70. We had Alchemy together.” She felt foolish pointing out this fact like an ignored school girl.
“My school days were long ago,” said Firenze, in a not-so-friendly voice. Clearly, he had no nostalgia for those days, nor had his social skills improved.
“I am in the service of Count Oudinot of Beaune, if you were not aware. You serve somewhere in Capetia, if I am not mistaken?”
“I’m a mercenary,” said Firenze. There was an uncomfortable silence.
“That must be interesting work,” said Hypatia. For some reason, she had thought that Firenze had a position in the Duke’s court, but it was obvious now that he had degenerated into an assassin and probably did work for the Secret Service.
“I’m afraid that I don’t have time for conversation,” began Firenze.
“Are your masters missing something?” interrupted Hypatia. “Perhaps a priceless relic historically associated with Capetian sovereignty?”
“Do you have it?” whispered Firenze, his eyes widening.
“If you are referring to the Heart of Rankar, no, I do not have it. I do, however, have the sorceress who stole it in my custody, and I’m sure she can tell you what she did with it.”
She watched with amusement as he tried to force his face into an ingratiating smile. It was not a good look, but no feat of facial contortion nor beautifying spell could improve the deceitful impression of the mercenary’s face.
“Please,” he said, opening his arms and bowing, “tell me more about this sorceress.”
“Her name is Cassilda, and she was found associating with three ruffians whom we detained, though I regret to say that they did not survive the process. She is a pyromancer and displays many other talents, though she was not Academia trained, I’d wager. There is a roughness about her, all raw nerve and tension. Perhaps she was noble-born, I don’t know.”
There wasn’t much else to tell. What difference would it make to describe the appearance of someone who could wear another face with a snap of her fingers?
“It seems you have our woman. It will take us two days to reach the coast, and perhaps another day to travel to Beaune,” said Firenze. “There is a reward of five-hundred sovereigns for the sorceress…”
“You can keep your money,” said Hypatia, cutting him off. “Beaune is currently at war with Rheine. You are traveling with the famous Medjay guards, I assume? There is a supply station in Moselle that is occupied by a small force of lazy Rheineland boys who do nothing but sleep and fish all day. If it were razed, and word spread that Capetian mutants burned it to the ground, well, Rheine might be a bit more hesitant to continue with hostilities.”
“I am not the Secretary of War,” said Firenze.
“There are a great many miles between our two city-states. We must only make them believe that you are willing to commit troops. Two Medjay marching astride the Count as he prepares to make peace will suffice, along with the raid. That is all I am asking for the sorceress.”
“I must run this past Amaro,” said Firenze.
“Just accept the deal, mercenary,” said Hypatia. “The sorceress is suspected to have set the town of Hampton ablaze. There are calls for her blood, and the Count has the patience of an ape. If he decides to execute her, there will be nothing I can do to prevent it.”
“I understand,” said the mercenary, scowling. “We will do what we can to expedite our journey.”
“Say ‘I commit to the deal,’” said Hypatia.
“I commit to the deal,” repeated Firenze. “Now I must take my leave.”
“Firenze.”
“Yes?”
“You never said thank you.” Hypatia smiled and opened her eyes to a murky darkness. She came up out of the water splashing and gasping for air, her muscles slow to wake. Transmissions worked best with some form of sensory deprivation, and Hypatia preferred water, taking the risks that came with submersion. One had to keep conversations brief and be mindful that the longer one inhabited a shared space, the more likely paralysis was to occur. Grabbing hold of the edge of the pool, she pulled herself out of the water and dried off with a towel before dressing and leaving the chapel.
Cassilda was in the dungeon, under lock and key in a special detention block watched by a Durn named Astain, one of the few holdovers from the previous Count. Oudinot had not loved his father, for the old man considered him a fool, and so he had purged most of his advisers. The jailer had avoided expulsion by being invisible in the same sense that a feature of the environment such as a tree or a rock is not acknowledged by those who see it daily. Indeed, he had become like a gargoyle standing watch—Durns were known for their stoicism and terseness—but Hypatia was a weakness of his. She had never had to use a bit of magic with the man, for he had always been willing to accommodate her every need. It was her looks, she was sure, that endeared her to Astain, despite being no great beauty. Durns preferred a certain degree of androgyny in their women, and Hypatia’s short, ragged hair and penchant for wearing men’s clothes must have rendered her especially attractive in his eyes.
He let her pass with a curt nod and a grimace that passed for a smile on his leathery face. She walked down the aisle, passing grimy, empty cells inhabited by darkness, mold, and ghosts. Cassilda lay on a cot, breathing slowly as though she were asleep, the adamant shackles still clasped around her wrists. Her appearance had started to fade—the beauty with auburn hair and a perfectly symmetrical oval face had vanished—and another woman had taken her place, one with a crooked nose and shadows beneath the eyes. Hypatia unlocked the cell and opened the door, causing her captive to sit up. The eyes were the same, still an unnatural color of green. Some are marked in such a way she thought.
“I don’t believe we have been properly introduced. I am Hypatia Almagest, councilor to Count Oudinot. As for my biography, I was trained as a magician at Bilbao, I collect Faerie artifacts, and I prefer Zanj rum to all the wine in Beaune. Also, I absolutely detest beating around the bush. Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself, Cassilda?”
“You killed that boy,” said the sorceress.
“No, you killed that boy. Haven’t you ever killed anyone? Did you manage to steal the Heart of Rankar without shedding a single drop of blood?” The sorceress registered no surprise on her face upon hearing Hypatia’s words.
“Do you know that you are the first sorceress I have ever met? You could’ve been a battlemage with your abilities. Dortmund loves such mages. They’d have nurtured your powers, teaching you how to cause the most amount of damage in the shortest amount of time with a maximum degree of spectacle. Of course the Conventum would’ve never granted you a license. The powerful ones never actually get to practice magic. This sort of self-regulation assures that the nobles don’t feel threatened and that the Conventum’s power is protected. They need not fear being usurped by magicians such as yourself.”
“What about Pliny the Black?” said Cassilda quietly.
“You must be the sort to believe in fairy tales. You steal the Heart of Rankar for some eldritch purpose, undoubtedly taken in by a crusty old legend discovered in a moldy tome, and now you speak of Pliny the Black, the immortal wizard, one-thousand years old and counting, as though he might materialize out of thin air like a Durnish devil. Not to say that there aren’t powerful sorcerers roaming about—yet even they must contend with Haliurunnae witch hunters, not to mention societal institutions that brand them pariahs and outlaws. They all meet their ends, someday. You will, after all.”
The sorceress slumped against the wall of her cell. She was not, Hypatia wagered, very engaged in their mostly one-way discussion.
“I thought you should know that I have contacted Capetian authorities, who will arrive here shortly to take you away, likely to be tortured by an inquisitor or two. I won’t try and scare you with anecdotal accounts of the processes and methods of the Inquisitors. We have one in this castle serving the Count, but don’t worry, I shan’t call him, he’s dreadfully dull to talk to, and he doesn’t need to know about you. Perhaps you’ll see him when you go before the Count. He’ll be the tall, thin man with skin the color of a fish’s belly and bestial eyes. When you see him, you’ll know instantly that he’s the type of man who isn’t really a man at all. A man has limits. Inquisitors do not.”
Cassilda’s hands fidgeted in the shackles, as though they itched to put themselves around Hypatia’s neck.
“The Capetians want to know what you’ve done with the Heart. I myself would like to know. Where have you stowed it? In an extradimensional portal? In the arms of an accomplice? Did you toss it to the bottom of the sea? Give it to me, and there will be an incident. Somehow, you will escape despite all the security. Those shackles will fall from your wrists. How does that sound?”
Cassilda said nothing and stared at the floor. Hypatia shrugged. If she wanted to die by a Capetian hand, then that was her prerogative.
“Very well then. That was the only way-out scenario, a last-minute offer that shall not come again. Come. There are people you must meet.”
She took the sorceress roughly by the shoulder and pulled her to her feet. Past the jailer they went and then up many flights of stairs. Beaune Castle was not the winding fortress that the Duke’s palace was, and it took them little time to reach the main hall, which was opulently adorned in golden tapestries, golden rugs, golden furniture, and golden weaponry. There was even a stag’s head mounted above the throne that had been painted gold. “Please excuse the terrible taste of the Count,” whispered Hypatia in Cassilda’s ear. “He’s all show and no tell. Gaudy is his middle name.”
On their way to see the Count, they were stopped by a small, white-haired man with a scowling disposition. He clutched a pendant around his neck and pointed at Hypatia, his finger awfully close to her mouth.
“Approach no further and state your business,” he said, huffing and wagging his fat finger. Cassilda thought that if she were not in shackles, she would enjoy making the man’s plump digits expand until they exploded.
“As councilor to his majesty, I need not report to the likes of you, Scripps. Take your finger away from my mouth before you find it shoved up a place where it will be very hard to remove. Now go sit over in the corner for a while and do not bother anyone else. I don’t want to look at you.”
Scripps shuffled away, his face contorted as though he were struggling with several conflicting emotions.
“He thinks that pendant keeps him safe from magic, but it’s really a useless trinket. I yearn for the day when I can finally push him down into a well,” said Hypatia to the sorceress. “And here is the Count. Do not speak to him; he won’t want to talk to you. The trick with the Count is to grab his attention immediately—if you lose it, then you’ve lost it forever. Any conversation lasting more than five minutes is dismissed and forgotten. It helps to mention his name a lot. Oh, and bow deeply if you value your life.”
The Count was a stooped, overweight man with a face that lent itself to leering. His clothes did not fit him well; he looked uncomfortable, perched on the tip of his throne as though he were trying to avoid aggravating a hemorrhoid. A military man stood before him, a general, Cassilda assumed, judging by the copious insignia that covered his uniform. Whatever he was trying to explain to the Count was not being comprehended—the nobleman’s neck was bent forward in an S-curve like a bird’s while his face tightened into an expression of senile impatience. Eventually he cut the general off with a wave of his hand and a loud grunt.
“Excuses, they’re terrible, I don’t want to hear them, I don’t want to hear excuses,” he said, in a voice that seemed comfortable talking over others. “This is simple stuff. I thought I had the best generals. You assured me you were one of the best. I don’t care how many lives it costs, that’s war, war is terrible but necessary, you need to get out there with the best generals and make a tremendous effort, and we’ll win this thing, we’ll get tired of winning, it’ll be great. Now get out of here. Leave. I’ve had enough. No more excuses. Go win one for our great country.”
The general was frozen for a second as dignity tried to prevent his walking away from the Count without a retort. He recovered himself just as his lips were about to part. As he made a swift exit, Hypatia approached the throne and bowed deeply. Cassilda did the same.
“Your imperial majesty,” she purred, her voice flowing like honey. “I have entered into negotiations to form an alliance that will give us an advantage over the dishonorable Rheineland swine and put an end to this war. Capetia has agreed to send us a legion of Medjay warriors in exchange for this sorceress. They could arrive in just a few days to secure your majesty’s victory. Shall I tell them that your majesty accepts this gift?”
A cacophony of voices erupted, and the entire retinue of the Count rushed forth, uttering protestations and hurling accusations at Hypatia. “Why do they want this sorceress?” said one. “She has been consulting foreign powers without the Count’s permission!” pointed out another. “Mutants in Beaune! The gods will smite us in retribution!” said the Minister of Religion, who had never been fond of Hypatia or magicians in general. The Count looked at the crowd, an evil grin forming on his face. He preferred infighting among his advisers because he thought that constant chaos was the best way to run a government. He was not aware of how disliked he was among the troops and the common folk, nor how close he was to losing power in a coup.
“Tell them we accept the mutants… why do we not have mutants? Who oversees making those things? Our mutants will be terrific, they will be the best mutants. No one will have mutants like us.”
A few voices shouted out, mingling with one another and then dying suddenly. No one wanted to take responsibility for creating mutants—the practice was a secret known only to the Capetians—and there was no use debating Hypatia’s alliance, for the Count had spoken, and he seldom changed his mind, no matter the argument or circumstance. Indeed, Hypatia was already pulling Cassilda away from the courtiers, her purpose as a prop having been served. When they had left the throne room and were alone on the stairs, Cassilda ventured a question of her captor.
“You are manipulating him, aren’t you? You are the only one he can hear clearly,” she said, stopping on the steps. They were halfway down to the dungeon, and the thought of sitting in the cell with only her guilty conscience for company was nearly unbearable.
“The Count is a buffoon. He used to have a certain low cunning, but his wits have left him as age and dementia took hold. I barely use any magic at all. I just speak in a smooth, viscous voice.” Hypatia smiled and gave the sorceress a good push. “Come now, there is no reason to tarry. Your cell awaits, sorceress. We must both get our sleep.”
“The Conventum condones your actions? I thought it was treason to interfere with the mind of a ruler.”
“It is treason to be caught interfering with the mind of a ruler,” corrected Hypatia. “The powers that be have given me free rein.”
“You’re worse than I am, but you operate through the proper channels,” said Cassilda. “How will that knowledge make you feel when they have my head on a spike?”
“The Count often speaks of winners and losers. He usually does so when attempting to justify some terrible policy he wants enacted. Though it pains me to say it, his Majesty (how I loathe to call him that!) is right. You are not a winner, Cassilda. How I feel about your fate does not change that fact.”
They said nothing else. The sorceress was handed to Astain, who escorted her to a cell. In the darkness, she did nothing but brood and churn in implacable anger. When daylight came, she unclenched her fists and was surprised to discover that her palms were encrusted in dried blood.
…
“That’s a castle,” said the Thief, looking out across the river at the turreted heights of the Palace of Beaune rising above the river bank. A zeppelin hovered among its towers, presumably an emissary from the North.
“Well they call it a palace, not I,” responded Fergal. “It is a rather imposing-looking fortress, especially by human standards. I never understood the reasoning that leads your people to spend such vast amounts of money and time constructing elaborate walls to hide behind. The larger the wall, the more obvious it is that something valuable is behind it.”
“That’s always been my thinking as well,” said the Thief. “The bigger the house, the more stuff to steal.”
The sun was setting behind the palace, throwing its dying rays over the wooded countryside. The waters of the river sparkled and shone. To the south of the castle lay acres of vineyards lining the hillside. There were people moving about the well-tended rows; one might at first thought them workers, but upon closer inspection, the glint of armor identified them as soldiers. They moved among the vines like ants, and the longer one looked the more evident it became that they were a multitude, a seething colony marshaling forces. They wore red and gold, the colors of Rheineland, and their banner was a lion with three heads. The three-headed beast’s origin was unknown, though it was suggested by some sources that the Emperor, before disappearing across the sea, granted the three cities of Hampton, Beaune, and Rheine to the first Earl, who had a lion on his shield of arms. Only the eagle-eyed Fergal could spot such details, for what little it was worth, for his companions didn’t care what was on the banner of the invading soldiers.
“You’ll never get a chance to lift a thing. The archers on the bulwarks will shoot you down as soon as you cross the river,” said Josun, stretching his leg. It was a marvel that he could walk on it. Soon after their escape, they had visited a healer, an herbalist who had thoroughly cleaned the wound and stitched it back together, sending the barbarian off with a concoction made of poppy seeds. The drugs dulled the pain and kept Josun mobile, but he could not be counted on to move very quickly, and only a sorceress’s touch could substitute for time and rest.
“They would never see me during the night, nor do I think they would spy Fergal. It is you who would fail to make it across,” responded the Thief. “Not that it would matter. Getting to the castle is one thing. Getting into it is another. You can’t pick the lock of a barred gate. We have nothing with which to scale the walls.”
“Perhaps the Rheineland soldiers have built a mine. They are doing something in that vineyard, and I don’t think it is harvesting grapes,” suggested Fergal.
“Mines are built to collapse walls so soldiers above ground can enter the castle,” said Josun.
“Well my people, in their distant days of barbarism, used to tunnel beneath the earth during times of warfare.”
“You sure about that?” asked the Thief.
“Well… yes, of course, though I’d have to consult my histories for specific dates and instances.”
They heard the creak of a rusty wagon wheel. A pair of donkeys dressed in lion skins came into view, pulling a cart loaded with crates. The driver was a tall, dark-skinned woman wearing gentleman’s attire, though the sleeves of her shirt were rolled up enough that her fractal tattoos were visible, revealing a Northron lineage. Upon seeing the company, she pulled the reins and stopped the donkeys and favored them with a long, penetrating gaze. She had a broad face, curly hair, and eyes that were light brown and sparkling with intelligence.
“You three gentlemen are an interesting sight in this country. I had no idea that Beaune was such an ethnically diverse nation, although you, sir, seem to suffer from genetic abnormalities, if I’m not mistaken,” she said, pointing at Fergal. “A macrocephalic, with disproportionate ears and enormous eyes. Your adaptations seem suited to either a subterranean habitat, or perhaps an arboreal environ. Do you understand what I am saying? Perhaps one of these gentlemen can translate.”
“He understands you just fine,” said the Thief, who had placed a hand over Fergal’s mouth to keep him from swearing. “My companions and I were planning on entering yonder palace, but it seems that a war has broken out, and that might be impossible. That wouldn’t be your airship floating among the towers, would it?”
“Very perceptive, sir. You must have glimpsed my tattoos and assumed that I was a Northron, and who else but Northrons travel by zeppelin? Let me introduce myself. I am Professor Rhea Callimachus, a scientist and natural philosopher. I am chiefly interested in ethnographic studies, and so I have obtained permission from the Office of Foreign Affairs to travel to Ur to study the ancient cultures and their ways. Beaune is my first stop, for Vaalbaran culture originated here hundreds of years ago.”
“Perhaps we can exchange some of our… um, diverse knowledge with you,” said the Thief, searching for words. “I am from Capetia, and Josun here is of the Roslagen, a race of seamen and warriors. Fergal’s people originate in the Mawlden Forest, which is full of all kinds of ancient relics and monstrosities. May we accompany you to the palace? We would be pleased to assist your studies.”
Professor Callimachus looked long and hard at the Thief before asking him what his name was. The Thief felt the eyes of his companions boring into him. A tremor twitched at the edge of his mouth as he futilely tried to suppress the answer, but alas, he could not.
“I am the Thief,” he said. Josun and Fergal groaned, but the Professor smiled.
“The Thief, not a thief?” asked Callimachus. “Are you suggesting by that sobriquet that you are more than a petty pickpocket or brigand?”
“Have you heard of the Royal Bank Heist?” asked the Thief. “Where ten-thousand sovereigns mysteriously disappeared despite the most advanced security system in the world? Over fifty guards stationed in the place, and all one had to do was simply step on the wrong tile and trigger a foot plate, and all of them would’ve swarmed. What about the defacement of the Capetian Police Station? The names of the sheriff’s lovers were painted in red upon the very front of the building in broad daylight. I made a pretty penny from that, I tell you! Soon, everyone will be talking about the theft of the Heart…”
One of Josun’s large hands landed on the Thief’s shoulder, and he fell silent.
Surprisingly, a smile formed on the face of the Northron professor.
“Well, you’ve convinced me! Hop on up, gentlemen. It seems that you are characters, and I make it a point only to interact with the most interesting of people, for such interactions lead to adventure, as well as revelation. I will take you to the palace in exchange for discourse. Is there a community of thieves in Capetia? Is there a robbers’ guild, for instance? Please, please, be careful, those crates are full of artifacts, and I can’t have them damaged.”
They loaded themselves onto the wagon and set off. The donkeys pulled the cart slowly, laboring hard under the hot Beaune sun. Vineyards rose up on the left and right, the vines heavy with dark purple grapes. Fergal leaned a hand out to seize a cluster of fruit, but Professor Callimachus pulled him back.
“Do not steal from the royal demesne, my diminutive friend. The Count is very touchy about thieves. He had a peasant’s hand removed yesterday for the very feat you just attempted. Also, there are lions hiding in the vineyard. That is why my donkeys wear lion skins.”
She pointed to a few rows back where Rheineland troops were visible standing among the rows, idling enjoying the grapes that Fergal had been denied.
“Will they take the palace?” asked Fergal.
“I think not. The palace was built to withstand a siege; it’s more of a castle, really. The main force of Beaune’s army is only a few miles away, having engaged the Rheinelanders at the border and successfully repelled their assault. These troops hiding in plain sight amongst the vines were meant to sandwich the Beaune army, though they did not reach the conflict in time. Now they surround the castle, perhaps with the intention of setting fire to the vineyards. If so, they are slow to act. Indeed, they are behaving strangely, for they have not hampered anyone’s passage to the castle. Something may be a foot. A coup, perhaps? Oudinot is not popular with anyone.”
“You are in his good graces?” asked the Thief.
“Certainly. I am a learned woman from the North, and though the Count does not respect knowledge, he does respect ostentatious displays of power. I had many impressive things to show him—a timed grenade capable of leveling a city block, a pistol that can remove a man’s head from four-hundred yards with unerring accuracy, a steam-powered jack—and I gave these examples of Northron technology to the Count. I’m sure he’s certain he can reverse engineer them, that is, if his engineers can pry the pistol from his grubby paws, but he will be sorely disappointed. So don’t accuse me of being an arms dealer, gentlemen.”
“We wouldn’t dream of it,” said the Thief.
A contingent of soldiers gathered before the palace gates, nervously leaning against ramparts hastily constructed to provide some illusion of defense. Professor Callimachus had Josun remove the lion skins from the donkeys before they approached the troops. They were hailed by a horseman, who bade them to stop as he and two pikemen hurried out to meet the wagon.
“Professor,” said the rider by way of greeting. “Who are these men with you? Surely you do not mean to bring them into the castle?”
“They are foreigners integral to my ethnographic studies, as you can plainly see. They are not Rheinelanders. If you wish to find Rheinelanders, then search the vineyards, for you will find plenty of them there,” replied Callimachus with the dismissive air of a noblewoman.
The soldier stared at the company with obvious distrust, before noticing Fergal hiding in the back, which caused a smile to break upon his face.
“Hey, aren’t you Hauver’s dwarf? He used to put a suit on you and have you dance around for the amusement of the boys! You think you could do that for the men? They certainly could use some laughs. No one understands what’s happening right now. The higher ups are having us do nothing but sit here and look helpless while Rheinelanders prance about our country. How is Hauver, anyway? I haven’t seen him in a while.”
“He’s dead,” said Fergal grimly.
“What? How’d he die?” asked the soldier, aghast.
“Bestiality. His rectum was torn asunder by a horse’s penis,” said Fergal.
The silence hung in the air like passed gas. Callimachus clicked her tongue and shook her head. She leaned in close to the soldier and gestured for him to approach.
“He’s suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder,” she whispered, “and so he says some strange things. Pay him no mind.”
The Thief saw the Professor slip the soldier a few coins. The soldier’s face maintained its stony expression, but he waved for them to follow him, and soon they were traveling beneath the portcullis. There were many people about, mostly soldiers and courtiers roaming the courtyard, many of them frenzied. Callimachus stopped the wagon in the center and pointed up at the enormous zeppelin hovering above. As if summoned by magic, several thick ropes lowered from the sky, their ends bearing large hooks.
“I set the wench on a timer,” she explained, “and despite our digressions, we made it back at the correct time. If you gentlemen would be so kind as to unload my luggage, we shall continue our relationship in the confines of my airship, a privilege granted to few Southrons, I assure you.”
The Thief stared up at the zeppelin and his stomach lurched. The thought of flying in sky with hundreds of feet of nothingness below reminded him of his fall from Capanne Mons, and he had no desire to relive that terrifying experience. He knew what he had to do, anyways. He placed his hands on his companions’ shoulders and brought them close.
“Go with this character and do your best to keep her interest. I’ll find Cassilda, and we’ll leave on the zeppelin. Trust me, I will not fail. And keep your eyes out for anything up there in the balloon that would be worth pocketing.”
After speaking, he turned away from them and vanished into a crowd.
“Where did the Thief go?” asked Callimachus.
“He’ll be back,” replied Fergal. “Now show us some of your infernal machines. And please, do not refer to me as a dwarf or a grotesque any longer, for I shall tell you of my people and their culture, and after I am finished, you will have learned more about the Huldufolk than any living man or woman.”
“And you’ll wish you had never asked,” said Josun, tugging on one of the ropes. “Let us up into the sky.”
Next Chapter: The Illusions of the Disillusioned
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