Book of The Dead

Chapter B4C31 - Golden Wings

“Are you sure this fuckhead is any good, Fee?” MacReilly said doubtfully.

“You were full of confidence when we left the Birdcage,” she replied, not slowing her pace.

“I was just happy to be out,” he admitted. He cast a doubtful eye to the shabby buildings around them. “Would a highly qualified Arcanist really be living in a place like this?”

Feolin rolled her eyes.

“Is that snobbery I hear? From the great MacReilly? Hero of the people? Rough and tumble man's-man from the great northern mountains? If the people living here aren’t good enough for you, I suppose we can turn around and go back to the cage empty handed.”

She made to turn around but her old friend grabbed her arm with a scowl.

“Are you trying to ruin my reputation, woman?” he growled. “You know exactly what I’m trying to say! No fancy pants Arcanist is going to be caught dead in a neighbourhood like this!”

She shook his hand off, or, he let it go when she moved, and kept walking deeper into the tangle of narrow streets.

“I haven’t heard of this guy either, but he was an apprentice of Master Willhem, so he can’t be too bad.”

As if they would let the golds keep their arms and armour inside the Birdcage, Feolin thought to herself bitterly. Surrendering their precious, hard won gear had been one of the conditions of entry. Feolin had sold hers, and MacReilly had sent his back to his family in the north, both common options for the gold ranked Slayers in the capital.

After a few more twists and turns, Feolin grew frustrated and turned to the two handlers following in their wake.

“Are you sure the shop is around here? The streets grow more confusing the further out we go!”

The two Magisters sneered almost in unison, and she was forced to stifle a surge of anger. Being around these… people… had always rubbed her the wrong way, and now that she was finally out of the cage, it grated having her leash be held in such a brazen manner.

Hunting dogs set against the kin. That’s all we’ve ever been to them.

“You’ll find Almsfield Enchantments near the market, as was explained to you before,” one of the Magisters said with naked contempt.

“Master Almsfield has done work at the Tower,” the other sniffed. “If he is good enough for us, then he is certainly good enough for you.”

“That knocks him down a few fucking pegs in my estimation,” MacReilly muttered.

Feolin warned him to silence with a glance before she returned to marching through the streets. It wouldn’t do them any good to antagonise the Magisters, not when they were so close to having the first sniff of freedom in years.

To think I fought so hard to escape the rifts, and now find myself so desperate to get back to them. I’ve been such a fool. We are all fools.

When they finally came upon the market, she was almost surprised. She’d expected it to be loud, bustling, filled with people and noise. The reality was so startlingly different she almost didn’t realise she’d reached her destination when it was right in front of her. There were people, but far less than she expected to see at midday. Storekeepers still advertised their wares, and customers haggled over prices, but everything had an element of furtiveness, of fear.

The terror inflicted by the purge hung over the entire district like a pungent scent, so thick it almost formed a vapour she could see with the naked eye.

MacReilly sensed it just as she did. He snorted and curled his lip, his hands clenched into fists by his side. She’d been so preoccupied thinking of escaping the cage she hadn’t considered just what the purge had meant to the ordinary people in the province. After all, she almost never got to see them.

For the first time, she got a sense of just how bad it was, and it shook her.

“The store is that way,” indicated one of the Magisters, bored.

Again, she suppressed a flash of anger, and followed the directions down one of the side streets. A few doors down, on her left, she found an impressive-looking building, with a thin, blond haired man out front, sweeping the porch in front of the door.

He was so focused on his cleaning, he didn’t seem to notice them approach.

“Hello,” she called, and the young man startled, turning toward them with wide blinking eyes. “Sorry to disturb you,” she said, “my friend and I were hoping to speak to Master Almsfield. Is he in today?”

The young man stared at them for a few moments, then beyond them, to the two Magisters several paces behind. She could practically hear the gears turning in his head.

With a sigh, he turned toward the door and pushed it open.

“Come inside,” he said. “Please don’t mind the state of the store. We’ve only just reopened.”

So saying, he stepped through the threshold, and after a moment of hesitation, Feolin and MacReilly followed, their chaperones close behind.

Once within, she could see exactly what he meant. The interior of the store was clearly unkempt, with a thin layer of dust coating many of the surfaces. She frowned as she looked around. The state of the place was one thing, but the contents of the display cabinets were another. Water purifiers, heating stones, filters, chillers. These were the sorts of trinkets and gadgets middling households purchased to make their lives more comfortable, not the kind of weapons and arms Slayers would carry into battle.

Was this Arcanist really up to the task?

“Is Master Almsfield present? I would like to speak to him in person if at all possible,” she said.

The young man turned toward her and blinked owlishly once more. After a moment, he seemed to come to a realisation.

“Oh! Yes of course you can speak to him. I mean… you have spoken to him already…. That is to say. Ahem. I am Master Almsfield. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Feolin’s face tightened, but she managed to keep her disappointment off her face. MacReilly was not so disciplined.

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“Fucking waste of time,” he barked and turned his back.

A rude thing to say, though not incorrect.

“I’m sorry,” Feolin said, and offered a short bow, “I don’t think you are quite what we are looking for.”

She turned to leave irritated at wasting her precious time out of the cage, but the young man spoke before she got far.

“A pair of gold Slayers, out of the Birdcage with Magister chaperones, have decided to visit my store. It would be a shame if I let you leave just like that. Why not stay a little longer? I’ll serve you some tea and we can discuss your needs. I promise it will be worth your time.”

Feolin halted mid-turn. There was something different about his tone. She glanced back towards him, and for a moment, Master Almsfield appeared almost as a different person. The absent-minded expression on his face was gone, replaced by harsh lines and a cold, calculating look. Gone was the wide-eyed, blinking youth, replaced by a predatory, hard-edged veteran.

Then it was gone, as swiftly as it had come, and once again the affable, bookish youth stood before her, smiling gently.

She reached out a hand to tug on MacReilly’s shirt.

“Come, old friend. Let’s give him a chance.”

The northerner snorted, but allowed himself to be pulled around. Seeing their acceptance, Almsfield beamed at them and gestured for them to sit at the sole clean table in the store. He ran to fetch refreshments for them, nattering the entire time.

“I apologise for the state of the place. I was travelling recently, and, well, with the roads being what they are at the moment, as well as… you know… it was quite difficult to get around. I found myself quite delayed and by the time I finally managed to return, well, you can see for yourself just how badly things have gotten out of hand. My apprentice appears to have disappeared along with the rest of my staff. At least they did me the courtesy of locking the store behind them and not robbing me blind. Would you like tea? Do you take sugar? I’ve just started getting things back in order, but it's quite difficult at the moment. Suppliers don’t want to supply and customers don’t want to buy.”

He didn’t stop talking until they were all seated with a steaming cup of tea in front of them. He even rustled up a few slices of cake, which he offered to the Magisters first, both of whom accepted before sitting on a bench to the side of the store floor, within earshot of the table.

“Now,” he said, sitting across from the two Slayers and folding his hands together, “what can I do for you?”

“Weapons,” MacReilly grunted, out of patience. He squinted down at the tea distrustfully, sniffing at the herbal blend before pushing it away slowly. “We want enchantment work done on gear for the field. Are you up for that, lad?”

“Call me Lukas,” the young Arcanist said, his smile never touching his eyes.

“You look like you're barely old enough to be sweeping chips off the floor of a proper enchanter’s store,” MacReilly said bluntly. “I’m not filled with confidence looking at you, to be frank.”

Again, Feolin frowned. It was far more direct than she would have phrased things, but she didn’t disagree with the sentiment. However, there was something… unnerving about this young man.

As if sensing her thoughts, Lukas Almsfield met her gaze, and for a fraction of a second, she was struck by just how cold those eyes were.

There is something not right about this person.

With a flick of the eyes, the Arcanist assessed the two Magisters, who were too busy drinking, eating and chatting with each other to pay much mind to what went on at the table. When he glanced back at the Slayers, his demeanour shifted again.

“Let’s be honest. If you had options, you wouldn’t be here. All the big names are either not doing business, or are booked solid working for the nobles. Right?”

He waited impatiently until Feolin nodded. The change in him was so stark, it was almost as if she was sitting at the table with more than one person.

“So you ask around and find out there’s a little store in Shadetown run by someone who apprenticed with Master Willhem. That’s me. But I’m younger than you expected and don’t service Slayers, so you don’t expect much. Fine.”

He held up a single finger.

“This is the number of apprentices who’ve had their store endorsed by Master Willhem personally.”

He turned the finger until it was pointing back at himself.

“And this is him.”

He allowed the hand to drop to the table with a soft thud and turned to stare at MacReilly.

“Good enough for you? If not, fuck off.”

The grizzled northerner was silent for a moment, then barked a harsh laugh, causing the two Magisters to swivel their heads in his direction.

“I find myself liking this one, Fee. He’s got a little dog in him.”

“It’s a northern expression,” Feolin hurried to explain. “They breed enormous mastiffs to help fight the kin and value them for their grit.”

The Arcanist merely raised a brow.

“I’m aware.”

“Oh.”

After a moment of awkward silence, Master Almsfield placed his palms flat on the table.

“If I’m to be completely candid with you, much as you suspected, the kind of enchanting you want done isn’t the sort of thing I usually do. However, you wouldn’t be here if you had access to the specialists. So if we temper our expectations, I believe we can reach a point where both of us can be satisfied with the outcome.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Feolin nodded cautiously, “what sort of conditions did you have in mind?”

The young man leaned back in his seat for a moment as he considered.

“First, I would need to know where you expect to be deployed.” He held up a hand to forestall them, and the Magisters behind from protesting. “I’m not good enough to make something that will perform well in any environment. Depending on the rift, they could be fighting completely different types of kin and be exposed to completely different environments.”

“It seems reasonable to me,” MacReilly stated, twisting in his seat to glare at the Magisters. “Does it really matter if he knows we’re going to Blackrift?”

“Shut your stupid mouth!” barked one of the mages.

“Oh, shit. Cat’s out of the bag I guess,” MacReilly shrugged. “My mistake.”

Lukas appealed directly to the Magisters in an attempt to calm their anger.

“I have been cleared to work on the tower itself by the Noble Lady Recillia Erryn. Surely this won’t be too much of a compromise.”

At the mention of that name, the two settled back onto their bench, though neither looked pleased with this turn of events.

“We will have to report this when we return to the tower,” one stated, glaring at the unrepentant northerner.

“Of course,” the Arcanist nodded before he turned his attention back to the two Slayers. “The only other thing I require is that you provide the base weaponry. I don’t deal with Smiths or Forgers, so you’ll have far better odds securing the kind of things you want than I will. Give me a list of what you want enchanted and the list of effects you want to see. We can negotiate over those items before you leave, since I may not be able to provide everything you want.”

The two gold Slayers exchanged glances, then shrugged. It wasn’t what they wanted, but it was better than nothing, which is what they’d found everywhere else.

They spent the next hour considering their requirements and discussing the possibilities with Master Almsfield, who proved surprisingly knowledgeable about the rifts, kin, and the needs of Slayers despite not selling to them. He wasn’t afraid to tell them when he simply didn’t know how to do something, or if he felt their requirements for a particular piece of gear were becoming more complex than he was confident of handling.

After a great deal of compromise, negotiation and discussion, they had a finalised list in front of the Arcanist and he read through each item carefully. Finally, he nodded.

“This is doable,” he decreed. “I have more than enough cores on hand for this, so I can begin the moment your selected items are delivered to the store.”

“Excellent,” Feolin clapped her hands and sprung up from the table. She hadn’t had much hope when they’d approached this store, but things were going to work out reasonably well in the end.

Even the price was good, which was important. Gold Slayers in the cage generally had to take training jobs to earn money, and neither she nor MacReilly had ever had the appetite for it.

They shook hands on the deal, and the young Arcanist smiled.

“If you know any others heading out on deployment who need some help securing enchantments, don’t hesitate to send them my way. My usual clientele aren’t buying at the moment, so I could really use the business.”

“Aye, I think we can do that,” MacReilly agreed easily before Feolin could say anything.

Again, there was a momentary glint in the Arcanist’s eyes before it was gone again, and he appeared as genial and affable as he had when they’d first met.

“Until we meet again, then,” he said, and gestured for them to head outside.

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