“Bene darkmans, Drothe,” said Jelem. “I hear you’ve been looking for me.” The other men at the table looked at me the way they might acknowledge a cockroach that had just crawled from beneath the table.
Relations between the Kin and the Zakur, the Djanese underworld in Ildrecca, have always been guarded. They pay their share to us (mostly), and we leave them alone (mostly). My artifact smuggling occasionally puts me in closer dealings with the Zakur than most other Kin, but it doesn’t mean I have any more clout with them. They’re Djanese; I’m Imperial. It’s a basic fact neither side forgets.
Jelem is one of the few exceptions. He’ll work for anyone if the price is right.
I nodded to Jelem. “Bene darkmans,” I said. “Can you drag yourself away?”
Jelem glanced down at the unclaimed pile of coins in the middle of the table, then at the chit he had placed before him a few moments ago. “Now isn’t the best time, Drothe.”
My face remained expressionless as I reached into the bag I was carrying and drew out the rope I had retrieved from my rooms-Tamas’s rope. I tossed the coiled mass onto the table.
I hadn’t known what would happen, just that I wanted to get Jelem’s attention. It worked.
The rope landed on the chit in front of Jelem, shattering the bone with a loud crack. Pieces flew across the table, skipping off coins and sending gamblers scampering.
“Whoreson Imperial!” they shouted at me in Djanese. “Camel fucker!” “Gods damned stealer of shit!” Then there was the usual litany about my parentage. But none of them came at me. I was here to see Jelem, and they knew better than to cross him.
I pretended not to understand what they were saying and instead watched Jelem. Of all the men at the table, only he had remained seated during the display. He quietly regarded the smoking rope, then reached out to gingerly pick it up between the knots.
“I’ll be sitting out the next few hands,” said Jelem in Djanese as he pushed out his chair and stood up.
The other men grumbled and glared at me as they returned to the table, dark eyes simmering with anger. I gave them a sneering smile in return and turned away.
Jelem and I settled in at a small table against the outside wall of the cafe. A boy stuck his head out of the front door to see what all the commotion was about, and I waved him over. I ordered in Djanese: a pot of coffee for myself, another for Jelem, and whatever light fare they had in the kitchen. The boy ducked back out of sight, and I let myself relax into the thin cushions of the chair.
I remained silent as Jelem examined the rope. He ran it lightly through his fingers, over and over, always avoiding the knots, whole or charred. Now and then, he mumbled something to himself, or to the rope-I wasn’t sure which.
Through the wall, I could hear soft, rhythmic music and the low hum of voices coming from inside the cafe.
“I see some of the spells have been used,” said Jelem at last.
“I can vouch for that firsthand.”
Jelem glanced up at me, raising an eyebrow in appreciation. “Not Nicco’s, I assume?”
“Not his style.” I frowned. “Why?”
Jelem shrugged. “He’s one of the few people I can see affording this. But yes, if he were after you, you’d either be dead or two days away from the city by now.”
“The Blade’s name was Tamas,” I said.
“Any idea who hired him?”
Our coffee arrived then. Jelem and I regarded each other as the boy filled our cups and left.
“That’s why I’m here,” I said.
“Ah,” said Jelem. He looked back down at the rope, tsked, and set it aside. Then he took a long sip of coffee. “This isn’t good.”
I knew he wasn’t talking about the coffee.
I’m told there are a lot of different ways to categorize magic, but, when it comes to the Kin, we have only three labels that matter: legal, illegal, and imperial.
Legal glimmer is something we ignore. There’s no money in it. Between the Imperial Cult, which has things like blessings, the comforting of souls, and “miraculous” salves sewn up, and the Sodality of Street Mouths, which has a lock on mending spells, wart removal, luck charms, and other day-work glimmer, there’s no room to maneuver.
Illegal glimmer, though, is another story. It’s been one of the monetary cornerstones of the Kin for ages. Need someone hurt without leaving a mark? A stone building fired? A rival’s shipment to rot on the docks? There are people who can speak that kind of spell-for a price. A high price.
And for an even higher price, a piece of portable glimmer can be made-magic that anyone can use; magic that can hurt or break or kill with hardly any effort on the user’s part; magic that was banned three centuries ago after the Golem Riots of Nimenia. Magic that will, in short, get you hanged if you’re found with it on your person.
As for imperial glimmer, well, even we know better than that. Tweaking the imperial nose with a bit of rope like Tamas’s is one thing, but playing with magic that was gifted to the emperor and his court by the Angels, magic that could level buildings or burn a forest to the ground in a matter of minutes? Let’s put it this way: People who make or use portable glimmer die; people who play with imperial glimmer become examples-lasting examples, for decades or longer.
Tamas’s rope was the portable kind of glimmer.
“I need to find out who sent the Blade after me,” I said. “Finding the person who made that rope might help. You know portable glimmer, so…” I let the sentence trail off meaningfully.
“Not possible,” said Jelem, his eyes focused on the coffee in the cup before him. “Yazani, or Mouths as you like to call them, don’t leave their names on the things they make. At least, the smart ones don’t, and I suspect whoever made this rope is smart.”
“Then how do the Paragons track them down?”
Jelem shrugged. “I’m not an imperial magician: I don’t know.”
I poured myself another cup of coffee.
“However…” Jelem said.
I grinned. I had suspected there was more to it than a simple “no.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t take a look at the rope itself.”
“For a price?” I said.
“Even so.”
“How much?” I asked.
Jelem spread his hands in a single, elegant motion. “Hard to say. It will depend on how complex the magic is. Once I have a better idea of who glimmered the rope, I can better-”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “I thought you said you couldn’t tell who made it.”
“I did.”
“But-”
Jelem held up a hand. “Bide.”
I leaned forward in my chair. “Don’t you tell me to bide. If you’re playing me-”
“No,” said Jelem, pointing past me. “Bide. Your food is here.”
I looked up and almost put my face into the plate coming past my shoulder. It veered away at the last moment, and the boy smiled apologetically as he adjusted his arm to place my dinner before me.
It was a salad of nuts, leafy greens, and sliced fruit, all tossed with a spiced oil. He set down a stack of flat bread beside it, along with a bowl of chopped peppers and softened beans marinated in red vinegar. Typical Djanese fare.
As the boy bowed and walked away, I suddenly realized just how hungry I was. I tore into the repast with relish. Jelem laughed indulgently, commenting on the superiority of Djanese food compared to imperial fare. I shrugged noncommittally, as my mouth was too full to answer.
After a few minutes, I slowed my pace somewhat. A new pot of coffee arrived, and I used its sharp flavor to cut the sweet heat of the salad oil. Now that I was bothering to taste it, the food was excellent. I said as much to Jelem.