I want a clear head for the meeting so I scan the street, looking for a sign, and soon find what I seek: a hermaphroditic figure that is the symbol of Ard Agdawn. At least, of the aspect I care to give patronage to.
Stepping into the temple, I am greeted by priestesses and choose the ugliest one to worship with. It is often the case that they make up for their lack of beauty through skill. She ends up being unremarkable in every way, but it is sufficient enough for my present needs.
The day passes uneventfully and I make my way to the pawn shop a good hour before midnight to provide my own reconnaissance before the meeting. The shop is closed and no light flickers from within.
A half hour passes and the pawn broker approaches with two other men in stride. I can’t make them out before I am forced to step out of sight, so I can’t tell if they are the men he had been drinking with the night prior—not that I know anything about them anyway.
I reach for the hilt of my dagger, to reassure myself, but remember that I left it at the inn. Carrying weapons in town is not permitted, except by those with special permission, like members of the town watch. Though I do carry a writ of exception due to my contract with the Adventurer’s Corps, the writ is quite clear that I am only permitted to carry my weapons when leaving and entering the city while on patrol. It would be comforting to have more protection, but unwise to be caught out in the middle of the night with a weapon and risk being locked up.
I will need to rely on magic if my safety becomes a concern. I did prepare what spells I thought most useful before coming but, despite the power I know it is capable of, being totally reliant on magic doesn’t sit right with me. Were my reagent pouch to be taken, my hands bound, or I to become incapable of speaking clearly, a wizard like me—even Val Maxis—is no more powerful than a dirt farmer. I made a vow to myself, long ago, to never be that powerless.
The men enter the shop and lamps are lit. A short while later, two more men approach and enter, carrying a crate between them. After a minute, one of them comes back outside, lights a pipe, and lounges by the doorway.
I am not suited for slinking about in shadow, so approach the shop early. It will be better that they are a little under-prepared by my early arrival, as well.
The man at the door seems unperturbed by my appearance, giving me hardly a second glance before tapping on the door with the mouthpiece of his pipe. The door opens a moment later and I step inside.
The pawn broker is standing behind the door and motions me to follow him, lifting a leaf in the counter to allow us into the back. He leads me into the back room of the shop and down a staircase hidden behind a cupboard.
I’d had no cellar when I had lived here.
It appears to have been dug out by hand and the walls are earthen and raw. Bits of roots and rocks are plain to see. The stairs are narrow and double-back twice in the short descent to the room below. It’s a tight fit for a man of my height and even the pawn broker—a man of average height—has to bend down. It’s awkward, but I manage.
I turn the last corner and duck under the beam framing the doorway and am surprised to see a spacious room. The first quarter of the room is dug out of the earth, but the rest opens into a cave that has been made into a serviceable store room through the addition of a level floor made of framed wood and planks. I am standing on the upper level of the room’s two stories. My head is mere inches from the low ceiling. From the entrance, I cannot see whether the cave has any other exits, but I surmise that it is a natural product of the underground streams and aquifers that are common throughout the region. It is often touted that tapping a well in Elysium is only a matter of digging a deep enough hole.
I see the other three men down below on the lower floor and descend the staircase without prompting. The pawn broker disappears back up the earthen stairwell.
A table sits in the middle of the lower level and one of the men is sitting at it. He’s a homely man of about forty and would be nondescript if not for the three fingers missing on his right hand. Standing nearby, holding a hefty sack, is a large, bearded man whose thick arms are nearly as big around as his thighs. The third man is leaning against the wall a little ways away, his features cast in shadow by the lamplight. From what I can tell of his form, he is wiry and thin. Perhaps he is the one responsible for procuring the goods I am about to peruse.
An empty chair across from him is obviously where I am to sit. Before I do, I make a mental map of the room and my route of escape, should such a thing be needed. I’d start by dazing the one standing in the shadows since he, most likely, is the most nimble of the group. I’d try to enthrall the heavyset man and get him to hold the man with the missing fingers. If the street rat is to be believed, the man missing fingers has a limp and wouldn’t be much trouble anyway. That would likely give me enough time to ascend the stairs and pass the pawn broker and his lookout without incident. I merely tell him I was not interested in what was on offer as I pass. By the time the others come up, I would be heading toward the good side of town and they’d be foolish to pursue.
I sit down across from the man at the table who gives me a nod.
The Wordbearer Chronicles is a dark fantasy web series with new passages on Tuesdays.
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