Firebrand

For the next days, Martel and Eleanor stayed at the tavern. They did not set one foot outside, having their meals in the common room and sleeping in their chamber. Eleanor kept busy discussing the expedition with potential volunteers and other organisational matters; Martel helped where he could and otherwise kept a watch of the many patrons frequenting the place, though he did not notice anything out of the ordinary. Between those interested in the expedition and the usual audience drawn to see the plays, The Firebrand was packed on most nights.

“So if I can’t pay taxes, I lose my house?” The question came from a Khivan, standing with her hands on his hips. She spoke loudly over the noise in the common room, full of people eating and drinking.

Eleanor, seated behind the desk holding her books, took a deep breath. “No, that would be considered rent. The home is yours regardless of the taxes you pay or fail to pay. In case of the latter, you will be required to carry out work or produce items for the good of the city, but we will never throw you out.”

“But I’m not a smith or weaver or something like that,” the Khivan continued. Despite her origin, she spoke Asterian like any native of Morcaster, and she dressed like one as well rather than the traditional garb of her people. “I cut glass, which there isn’t much need for. So you’ll be putting me to hard labour, then? In those mines I hear you’ll be opening?”

“Why wouldn’t we want a glassblower?” Martel inserted, sitting next to Eleanor. “I wouldn’t mind glass windows in my chamber.”

“No, I don’t make glass, I cut it. For lenses. So someone else needs to make it first, and then I can cut it into instruments.”

The two Asterians frowned. “What are lenses?”

“It’s the glass bits inside spyglasses. You know them? They make things far away seem like they’re close.”

“Ah yes, Master Fenrick has one, I think,” Martel considered. “You can make those?”

The Khivan nodded. “As long as a smith makes the housing for the lenses. I know some of my fellow craftsmen back in Khiva are making small, simple ones for old people as well, who got bad eyesight. So they can still read, for instance.” She threw out her hands. “But people in Morcaster don’t want to buy Khivan inventions, and I barely ever sell any.” Martel frowned. “You have your tools still?”

“Collecting dust, but sure. Meant to teach my son the trade, but what’s the point if he can’t earn a living?”

He turned to Eleanor. “Sign her up. The city will be her first customer – I can think of several who could use a spyglass.”

The Khivan looked at each of them. “Really? You’ll want my work? But what if I run out of customers? It’s back to hard labour for me?”

“Any surplus items you create can be sold in Nahavand,” Eleanor considered. “They cannot have any gripes about Khivan inventions, surely. Your name?” ᴛhis chapter is ᴜpdated by novel•fire.net

The response to Martel’s declaration in the Undercroft arrived several nights after the actual meeting. The tavern did close in the late hours, once the last play had been performed and only drunkards remained in the common room; once they had been thrown out, the staff locked up and went to sleep in the backrooms, where also the acting troupe and the two visiting mages had their chambers.

A solitary figure stalked through the alley to reach a backdoor. After extended negotiations between the lock and her lockpicks, the dark-clad woman could open the door and step inside. In one hand, she held a gold-edged dagger; in the other, she took out a stone inscribed with a symbol, specifically the rune of suppression. Holding out the token, she kept it in front of her as she moved down the hallway.

More than once, she passed a rune of warning, which did not activate, suppressed by the wardstone in her hand. She reached the chamber shared by Martel and Eleanor and put aside both weapon and ward to take out her picks. Kneeling down, she quickly unlocked it, and took out her previous tools again. Slowly pushing the door open, she held the knife ready.

As soon as the assassin stepped inside, a powerful grip closed around her wrist and threw her down on the ground. A flame was ignited, floating in the air, revealing two armoured mages, one of whom currently had the intruder wrestled on the ground; the other sat in a chair with a black staff across his lap. The latter smiled. “What took you so long?”

Choosing the common room for the interrogation, they dragged the assassin there and placed her flat on a table. She wore a few items made of gold, such as earrings and a bracelet on one arm; Eleanor confiscated all those along with the golden knife. Martel, meanwhile, studied the rune token she had also brought along. “Decent work. Though made in haste, I suspect. The enchantment is already fading. Your master is in a hurry.”

“She must have scouted us out to know we use runes to protect ourselves,” Eleanor pointed out. “And yet you did not notice her?”

Martel shrugged in defeat. “She’s a better spy than she’s a killer.”

As for the woman in question, she did not speak, and she lay still, no doubt waiting for the chance to break free and run. Unfortunately for her, Eleanor’s empowered grip on her throat did not allow any such opportunities.

From the backroom came Regnar and others of the troupe, summoned by the noise and their curiosity. “Ah, good,” Martel said. “I need you to send for someone from Ironside’s crew.”

The hedge mage mumbled and shook his head. “I hope you know what you’re doing. It’s always messy getting involved with the Nine Lords.” Despite his misgivings, he turned towards Ian. “Tell the old battleaxe we got someone for him.” The young man nodded and ran off.

“Don’t worry. This should end tonight.” Martel moved over to stare down at their prisoner. He raised his hand, engulfed in flames. “I will ask you one question. You can imagine what happens if you try to lie.” He held the fire close to her face. “Who sent you?”

Gasping through Eleanor’s grip, the assassin spoke. “Ox.”

Martel used his magic to sense her thoughts, and he felt no trace of deception. The answer he had expected. “Good.” He nodded to Eleanor, who released her grasp only to punch the woman in the face with empowered strength, knocking her out. Martel turned to Regnar. “Best you tie her up. You can handle her until Ironside’s man shows, yeah? I want the other Nines to know this is justified retaliation. Not to mention that Ox sent a reeve into Ironside’s territory.”

The hedge mage waved a hand about. “Yes, yes, it’ll be fine.” Out of thin air, chains of ice appeared to shackle the assassin.

“That’s a new spell,” Martel declared with an impressed expression. “I didn’t know old hounds still chased new prey.”

“Enough of your cheek,” Regnar replied sourly. “We’ll do our part. Just go and sort this mess out.”

Martel bowed his head and gripped his staff. “At once.”