Jackal Among Snakes

Argrave took a long drink of the mildly warmed tea, having let it cool for some time. Elenore watched him—well, perhaps ‘watched’ was the wrong word, Argrave supposed. Anneliese was present, too. She held the teapot she had been rather obviously fascinated by. Her fascination probably stemmed from the fact that it needed no external heating. It was a self-contained enchanted item that could heat whatever water poured in it, and probably cost an exorbitant sum.

“You’re quite incautious,” Elenore said. “Or am I mistaking you?”

“Incautious?” Argrave put the cup down, enjoying its warmth. “I’m lost.”

“The tea,” she gestured. “Snakes are venomous, you know.”

“Oh,” Argrave nodded, enlightened. He was content to stay silent, let her think him incautious. As something came to mind, he asked curiously, “Do you actually have any poison on hand? Potent poison.”

Her brows furrowed. “Why?”

“Just wanted to try something,” Argrave shrugged. Anneliese glared at him, and he laughed. “Well, never mind. She won’t let me.”

“Do not act as though this is some overbearing interference,” Anneliese chided him, setting the teapot down. “You speak of poison.”

Argrave sighed. “I’m sorry.” He stayed silent for a bit, then poked her in the ribs. “You can’t deny you’re curious, though. What would happen?”

Anneliese swatted his hand away playfully, and then Elenore cleared her throat to break them up. “You wanted to discuss something with me?”

“Right,” Argrave spun the cup about with his hands, unembarrassed. “Want to make money?”

“Usually,” Elenore nodded. “I think everyone can say that, though.”

“I got some other stuff from the place I got your little gift from,” Argrave said. “I need some discrete appraisers to take a look at them. Order of the Rose items, enchanted? Some items from the Archduke’s Palace, too, in the wetlands. Some of them will be incredibly valuable, both personally and financially speaking. I’d like to entrust them with you. Ideally, they’d be turned around in a week. What I don’t keep, I give to you to sell.”

“A week?” Elenore placed her hands on the table, bronze tapping against the wood. “That’s—”

“More than manageable for you. Don’t act as though it’ll be costly,” Argrave interrupted. “You make the bulk of your money from unlicensed spellcasters who can’t get into the Order of the Gray Owl. You’ve got… I don’t know. Probably hundreds here,” Argrave waved his hands. “The majority of what I need is combat-oriented. There’ll be a lot of utility enchantments you can sell at a very high price.”

“Combat-oriented,” Elenore repeated. “Commanding troops into battle, perhaps?”

Argrave smiled. “Later, certainly.”

“I’ll take a look at them,” Elenore nodded.

“Good. I presume Rancor will crack open soon. Beyond that, I was wondering if you had any seeds that grow more mystical plants on reserve for this place. Food for Anneliese’s bird, you see,” Argrave pointed to her with his thumb. “I’ll pay.”

“Certainly. I don’t have details—you’ll need to speak to someone else. I trust them, worry not.” Elenore nodded, then pursed her lips. “Speaking of animals…. what do you think of dogs?”

Argrave frowned. “Is this code? Are you talking about House Quadreign? That’s their heraldry, after all.” Argrave shrugged. “One of their daughters is an exceptional mage, but other than that… not much of note.”

“A dog doesn’t remind you of anything else,” Elenore continued, leaning in a bit more.

Perplexed, Argrave looked to Anneliese—she gave no obvious signals of what Elenore might be driving at, implying the question wasn’t an emotional one.

“I don’t know. A bit messy, overfriendly… they’re fun sometimes. Hard to stay sad when you’ve got a big dog to hug.” Argrave cast a spell, and his Brumesingers dropped out of his coat, moving to stand up on the table. “Look at these guys, though. Food’s easy to get, no mess, quiet, ridiculously adorable…” Argrave ran his hands across their face, scratching between their giant ears. The four of them competed for his hand. “Hardly a contest.”

Elenore kept her hand on the table, observing in silence. “They are cute,” he heard her say, so quiet it was almost inaudible.

Argrave heard it, though. He sent the Brumesingers towards Elenore, causing her to lean back cautiously. After a second, her hand stretched out. One of the foxes practically shoved its head into her hand.

Then, the princess pulled her hand back. “It would be best if you head off before others arrive. I have some things to attend to, and this was promised to be a short meeting,” she said neutrally. “I will send some trustworthy people to handle what we spoke of. If you’d like to minimize contact with other parties, I can arrange that.”

Argrave smiled and tapped the table. Perhaps he should have been expecting this sort of reaction.

“Until our next scheduled exchange of stiff business propositions, then,” he rose while quipping, and the Brumesingers scurried back to hide away in his heavy gray duster. Her question of dogs lingered on his mind. He did not feel he could dismiss it so easily… and yet nothing came to mind. “Be careful. Remember what I warned about,” he said as he left.

Anneliese and Argrave exited out into the greenhouse. As they walked, Argrave asked, “What was the dog thing about? Any ideas?”

“Curiosity. Uncertainty. Beyond that… little else.” Anneliese looked to Argrave. “I cannot say it is something major.”

Argrave nodded. “I can’t, either. That’s what bothers me.”

#####

Ruleo sat on a railing, watching the man with the spear wander throughout the gray stone city of Dirracha. This settlement was giant—it was a great ring that encircled a mountain, the Dragon Palace of the royal family overlooking the buildings like some guardian… or prison warden. This man, whoever he was, had clearly not been around here before. He wandered, following some directions to various locations. It might’ve been difficult to follow, but the spear he bore made him quite identifiable and Ruleo kept track of him without issue.

His lack of direction marked him as foreign to the city, and as much was evident from when Ruleo saw his face. Though his quarry wore baggy, concealing clothing and blended in with the crowd very well, Ruleo had caught a few glimpses of the man’s face. His skin was darker than those of Vasquer and bore golden tattoos, some marred by scars. Ruleo travelled frequently and had seen his kind before—he was from the Burnt Desert. Not many of them made it past the Lionsun Wall, and even fewer of them were tame enough to survive very long in Vasquer.

Ruleo catalogued what this wayward tribal was doing. The places that he entered all had the markings of the Gray Owl, and he bought materials from them. Considering that he was a foreigner, Ruleo found it quite unlikely that this man was a Wizard of the Order. Perhaps he was a mage of a high caliber, and Ruleo simply saw an illusion. The notion was far-fetched, and so he dismissed it.

If the wayward tribal wasn’t part of the Order, he was buying something on someone’s behalf—after all, each time he left an Order-marked shop, he had something new. Ruleo knew of this process. The Wizard of the Order would imprint their magical signature on a document using their badges, and servants would use it to purchase items in their stead. It was a relatively common thing.

And since it was common, it was Ruleo’s primary lead.

If he could get his hands on the document bearing the magical signature… even if he wasn’t part of the Order himself, Ruleo had a few trustworthy contacts who might be able to get the signature checked, see who it belonged to. It might be a dead-end. Or… it might tell him a lot. He supposed it was solely chance.

Instinct told him Elenore was preparing for something. The way she talked, the matter with Rancor, the questions about Argrave… the more he thought about it, the more it stuck in his mind. She’d offered an incredibly generous offer for information on Rancor. Ruleo felt that a storm was coming. Gathering information had kept him alive in the past. And right now, he saw a sort of a lifeline.

The obstacle to that was lifting it off this wayward tribal. Considering the man brought a spear, he was probably a warrior, not at all used to dealing with covert operations. Even then, if he came from Elenore’s greenhouse, he was probably associated with her. Ruleo wanted to get information quietly, not provoke a good business partner.

Ruleo opened his pouch, reaching in. He pulled out a severed hand. Where its wrist began, an eyeball roamed about, searching. He set it down, and it scurried away. He had made that necromantic creature with Order of the Rose spells. It knew his will, and could reason well enough to do this job risk-free.

Ruleo turned around, content to let his creation do his work or fail. He crested a corner, looking for a safe place to relax, when an unexpected flash of black tinged with purple entered his view at eye level. He raised his arm instinctively—his gauntlets were artifacts and could take blows well.

Yet whatever was coming at him distorted in the air, warping as dancing purple lights faded in its wake. The thing—Ruleo now realized it was a glaive—struck him right beneath the armpit. The power behind the blow was tremendous and Ruleo took to the air, slamming into a nearby building. He expected to feel warm blood flowing down his side… yet didn’t.

“Look at that. Felt like hitting straw. Guess well-enchanted armor does make you stronger,” the tribal mused, spinning his glaive until it was ready to strike again. Ruleo saw he was missing fingers. “You’re following me. I don’t think it’s to ask me for a drink, either.” The man braced, ready to swing. “Talk. Elsewise, the next blow won’t be with the blunt side.”

Ruleo rose up, crouching while remaining non-threatening. That one blow might’ve shattered his ribs if not for his armor. Winded, Ruleo held his hands out, watching the glaive while remaining silent. His eyes darted around, looking for the bag that the tribal had been holding—it was sheltered in a small alcove, fully blocked by the tribal’s body. In other words, difficult to snatch easily.

“White eyes, dark hair… definitely a memorable appearance. You can talk now, or I can ask a certain Bat, and I’ll learn everything I need to know about you. Maybe you’re already acquainted, and that’s why you’re following me.” The tribal took another step. “You can talk to me. I can be a nice guy if I get what I want. Think of me like your dad. One of your siblings has been naughty. If you tell, I won’t punish you.” He smiled. “Not a bad deal, huh?”

Ruleo eyed the black glaive with bizarre purple runes on its surface, then the bag just behind the tribal. In his peripheries, the glaive started to move. Its very figure was blurry. Rather than try to block again, Ruleo kicked off the wall into a roll, dodging completely. The tribal adeptly redirected his glaive so it wouldn’t slam against the wall. He stepped in pursuit of Ruleo, cornering him once again. Ruleo had to admit—no options for retreat, no witnesses… this tribal had chosen his battlefield well.

“Let’s put the glaive down, yeah?” Ruleo held his hand out slowly. “I’m not following you. I don’t know why you’re taking swings at me.”

“Uh huh, yeah,” Durran nodded. “You pull that innocent act with the old ladies, not with me. It’s no coincidence I see you lurking, eyeing me from blocks away. I made circles around the damned streets to be sure I wasn’t being paranoid—you were so caught up in admiring my strut you didn’t even realize we’d been looping the same place. I’m flattered I’ve got an admirer, but I think it’s about time for the confession.”

Ruleo shifted on his feet, realizing now that the wayward tribal might not have been lost in Dirracha after all. He watched the man, debating what happened next. Deescalate the situation? Stick with his plan, try and distract the tribal while his necromantic creation stole the paper? Whatever it was, he needed to choose quickly.