Firebrand

Once Martel had explained the situation, Eleanor agreed they had to leave. While she shared his misgivings about Wulfstan, the spy’s story was unfortunately plausible. If there was any risk that through their actions in Tyria, they had allowed war to become possible, they had a responsibility to intervene.

Their hostess proved less understanding, on the verge of tears that they would leave much sooner than expected, and on such short notice. “Tonight?” she cried out. “I’ve barely time to prepare anything!”

“No need,” Martel told her. He would rather get going than wait around the guesthouse for the evening meal; food was not hard to come by, after all.

“Oh, there’s most definitely a need,” Lucrecia claimed. “Whenever my guests leave, I always make sure to give them a proper farewell, including my best dishes! I’ll get started straight away!” She hurried to her kitchen while Eleanor looked at Martel with a shrug, packing away the daggers she had bought for herself.

An hour later, all the residents of the roadhouse sat down for the meal. Besides bread baked with cheese and meat, their hostess served vegetables fried in butter and wrapped with slices of pork. “But this is your special meal for when someone leaves!” exclaimed Octavius, the merchant, as he saw Lucrecia stack the table with dishes. “Who among us will depart for other shores?”

“That would be us,” Eleanor admitted.

“Our young dignitaries, the esteemed wizards in our midst whose presence adds such shine to our residence,” he continued. Chapters fırst released on noveⅼfire.net

“Quite,” Martel mumbled. He would not particularly miss these conversations.

“This meal deserves a good wine, and all the more fitting to share a drink if you’re leaving,” declared Flavian. “I got a good one I’ve been saving, I’ll fetch it.” He got up and manoeuvred past the other guests on the couches to disappear up the stairs. Watching the blue-eyed clerk leave, Martel was unsure what made him feel uneasy. He had yet to see anybody else of Tyrian ancestry in the city, and knowing how Asterians treated such people, Martel ought to feel sympathetic toward him; it felt absurd to be distrustful due to a trait he possessed himself, especially having experienced such prejudice. All the same, he turned to Lucrecia. “When did Flavian arrive?”

She widened her eyes, perhaps surprised at being asked a rare question by the taciturn mage. “I’d have to check my ledgers to know for sure, young master.”

“I’m only curious if he arrived before or after us.”

“Oh, that I do know.” She smiled until Martel’s expectant look made her continue. “The very morning after you did. I remember because two different arrivals so close to each other is unusual, and he came so early, before anybody else had even gotten out of bed.”

“Is that so,” Martel muttered to himself. Wulfstan’s warning resounded in his head, and something else, nearly forgotten, returned to his mind; an oddity he had noticed when they first met.

“What has convinced you to leave in such haste?” asked Octavius.

“Affairs back home,” Eleanor replied politely.

“Ah, but of what kind?” the trader continued.

“Octavius, we should not pry,” said Clara.

“Ever the diplomat. All that work done for the envoy has affected you,” he laughed.

Leaning back in his seat, Martel let his eyes wander over the others. Gerald the smith, the only one as tight-lipped as himself. Octavius, the boisterous merchant. Clara, the clerk, whose hard face had lines making her look older than Martel assumed her to be. It occurred to Martel that all his knowledge about any of them came from what they had told him.

An idea came to him. Despite being after sunset, it was a warm evening, as the year had nearly reached summer. Using his magic, Martel added heat to the air until he saw droplets of sweat on the faces of his companions.

Flavian returned with a tray carrying seven cups, enough for six guests and their hostess. He carefully placed the filled cups in front of each of them. “I hope you kept it somewhere cool,” Octavius spoke, quickly reaching for his.

“Be glad you don’t work by a furnace,” Gerald replied in a rare jest, though even he had to wipe the sweat from his brow before he took his cup.

“It is unseasonably warm,” Lucrecia agreed.

“All the more reason to drink and share well-wishes of safe travels,” Flavian declared, raising his.

Eleanor reached for hers, but Martel placed a hand on her arm to arrest her movement. He looked at Flavian, who now shared a second trait with Martel besides the hue of their eyes; neither of them seemed discomforted by the heat. “Where did you come from, Flavian? Where’s your home?”

The other man chuckled. “Same as you. I’d think that obvious just by looking at me. It’s bad luck for your journey not to share our toast,” he continued, nodding at the cup in front of Martel.

“It’s a big province. Where exactly did you grow up?” Martel stared at him unflinchingly; by now, the rest had sensed the change in mood, and they put their cups down while looking confused at the others, though none saw reason to intervene.

“Just a farm, far from any settlement.” Flavian laughed. “Not worth mentioning.”

“Martel, what is wrong?” Eleanor asked.

“The first day we met, you claimed to be from Normark. Like me.”

“That’s right.” Flavian repeated his laughter, though it had a nervous tinge to it.

“That’s how Tyrians call it. Asterians, even those of us born that far north, call it Nordmark. Which makes me wonder why a Tyrian would pretend to be Asterian.” The room was silent in response, though between the heat and the tension, everyone seemed ill at ease. “If I wanted to kill someone in this city, Flavian, I’d use poison. There’s an alchemist or apothecary on every street.”

“That’s madness!” Flavian looked around with a hunted expression; everyone stared at him in response, either with confusion, fear, or hostility. He grabbed the nearest cup and poured its contents down his throat. “See? It’s just wine!”

“Now drink Martel’s cup,” Eleanor demanded, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword.

“I will not be accused of being some vile poisoner!” Flavian roared, and he jumped to his feet. On the other side of the table, Eleanor immediately followed suit, her blade two inches out of its sheath, which made him freeze.

“I know you came to kill me, Flavian. You came prepared for a fight, even. Or just a precaution, in case you feared I released a spell before I died.” Martel kept his eyes locked on the Tyrian.

“That’s insane,” Flavian mumbled. “Deluded speculation. My only crime is offering good wine to a paranoid wizard.”

“Drink Martel’s cup,” Eleanor commanded.

Martel had a faster way. With a flick of his wrist, he released a firebolt straight into Flavian’s stomach. The sudden burst of magic made the other guests flinch or throw themselves back, a few of them shrieking in response. As for Flavian, he stood unhurt. “You’re the only one not troubled by the heat, besides me,” Martel pointed out. “When you procured the poison, you bought a potion to protect yourself from fire as well.”

Eleanor glanced briefly at Martel. “Let us take him with us to the ship.” He understood her meaning; Wulfstan would know how to question him.

With a sudden movement, Flavian dove over the table. Eleanor’s blade was out and ready to strike him, and Martel summoned his shield, but they were not his target. Instead, the exposed Tyrian grabbed the cup in front of Eleanor and drank its contents. With a mirthless smile, the Tyrian looked at the others before he fell back into his seat.

The foam around his mouth, along with his eyes turning bloodshot, told Martel enough; he had been taught to recognise the signs of poisoning in his studies of alchemy.

“That’s a shame. Would have been preferable to take him alive,” Clara remarked, causing shocked looks.

“A man is dead!” Octavius shouted. “And we could have joined him!” He knocked his cup of wine over, spilling its contents on the table.

“Hardly. The mages were his only target,” she claimed in calm fashion.

“You don’t work for the Asterian envoy,” Martel said in sudden realisation.

“I do,” she corrected him, “but it’s not my primary occupation. You should leave. You’ll be safe aboard the ship.”

Eleanor glanced around, drawing her own conclusions before she turned toward their hostess. “Mistress Lucrecia, we thank you for a lovely stay. Please excuse us the unpleasantness. I am sure Clara can help you handle the situation.” She looked at Martel. “I will get the chest.”

They found the ship easily enough; no other Asterian galleys lay in the harbour. “I can surmise that Clara is another spy,” Eleanor said as they walked down the pier.

“Yeah. Wulfstan told me that military intelligence watches us. I didn’t realise how close. I’m more surprised that the Tyrians do as well.”

“Just the one. An assassin sent to deal with us, should it be needed,” Eleanor speculated. “Which proves one thing, unfortunately.”

“Which is?”

“The spy is right. Whatever is happening in Tyria, they must fear we are able to stop it.”

“We’ll prove them right,” Martel proclaimed. Soon after, they were aboard the galley, ready to set sail at first light.