A customer would tell Snaggle what he or she needed. Snaggle would leave his stool and his tea and fetch the appropriate box, each labeled by a code known only to Snaggle.
“What sort of knife?” the old man asked Iolanthe. “Knife for protection, knife for dicing and chopping components, knife for conducting ritual sacrifices—”
“A knife for scrying,” she said, and she explained the use.
Snaggle thought a moment, his brow furrowed, then, leaving his stool, he took hold of a ladder that ran on wheels along the floor, rolled it over to the correct shelf, and climbed nimbly about halfway up. He pulled out a box, brought it down to the counter, and opened the lid.
An array of knives were neatly arranged inside. Some of the knives were silver, some gold, some steel. Some were large, some small. Some had jeweled handles; some were plain. All had runes inscribed on the blades.
“This one is very nice,” said Snaggle. He plucked out a gold knife adorned with diamonds and emeralds on the hilt.
“But very much out of my price range,” said Iolanthe, “and it is too big and clumsy and made of gold. I have an affinity for silver.”
“True,” the old man said. “I had forgotten.” He saw her gaze go to one slender blade near the back and he was quick to respond. “Ah, you have the eye, Iolanthe. This one is like yourself—delicate in appearance, but quite powerful.”
He drew out the knife and placed it in Iolanthe’s hand. The hilt was silver and simply made, banded with mother-of-pearl in a crisscross design. The blade was sharp. The runes etched on it were intricate as spider web. She hefted the knife. It was lightweight and fitted her hand.
“Easily concealed,” said Snaggle. “How much?” Iolanthe asked.
He named a price and she accepted. The two never haggled. She knew that he would offer her his lowest price at the outset, and he knew that she was an astute buyer who would not pay a copper more than what an object was worth.
“You will need cedar to burn,” he said, as she tucked the knife up her tight-fitting sleeve.
“I will?” Iolanthe glanced up at him, surprised. “The instructions to the spell didn’t say so.”
“Trust me,” said Snaggle. “Cedar works best. Half a moment while I put this away.”
He shut the lid on the box of knives, climbed up the ladder, replaced the box, then propelled himself on the ladder across the floor to another shelf. He opened a box, drew out some sticks of wood as long as his index finger, and hopped back down.
“And add a pinch of sea salt,” he added, as he tied the sticks together with a bit of string into a neat bundle.
“Thank you, my friend.” Iolanthe was about to take her leave when a baaz draconian wearing the emblem of Lord Ariakas entered the shop.
“Can I help you, sir?” Snaggle asked.
“I seek the witch, Iolanthe. I am told she lives in the apartment above the store,” said the baaz. “I come in the name of Lord Ariakas.”
Snaggle glanced at Iolanthe, letting her know he would either acknowledge her or deny that he’d ever heard of her, depending on the sign she gave him.
Iolanthe spared him the trouble. “I am Iolanthe.”
The baaz bowed. “I have the information you seek, Mistress. Broken Shield Inn. Room number sixteen.”
“Thank you,” said Iolanthe.
The baaz saluted, fist to heart, and turned on his scaly heel and left.
“Another cup of tea?” Snaggle asked.
“No, thank you, my friend. I have an errand I must run before darkness falls.”
Iolanthe took her leave. Though confident of her ability to protect herself by day, she knew better than to walk the streets of Neraka alone after dark, and she had to pay a visit to the Broken Shield.
The Inn of the Broken Shield, as it was properly known, was located in the White Quarters district and was one of the oldest and largest buildings in Neraka. It looked very much like it had been built by a child playing with blocks stacked up one atop another. The inn had started as a one-room shack offering drink and food to those early dark pilgrims come to worship at the Temple. As its popularity grew, the shack added on a room and called itself a tavern. The tavern added on several blocks of rooms and named itself an inn. The inn sent out an entire wing of rooms and was now proud to call itself tavern, inn, and boarding house.
The Broken Shield was a favorite with the mercenaries, pilgrims, and clerics in Neraka, mainly due to the fact that it was “human only”. Other races, most notably draconians, goblins and hobgoblins, were not allowed. The patrons themselves policed this policy and saw to it that “dracos” and “hobs and gobs” did their drinking at the Hairy Troll.
The inn was crowded tonight, filled with hungry soldiers just coming off guard duty. Iolanthe had exchanged her silken robes for the plain black robes of a dark pilgrim. Her face heavily veiled, she waited outside until she saw a group of dark pilgrims file into the inn. She joined up with them and they all entered the inn together.
She immediately spotted Kitiara. The Dragon Highlord sat alone, eating her meal with rapid efficiency and drinking a mug of ale. The pilgrims separated, seating themselves at various tables in groups of twos or threes. Iolanthe slid into a chair at a table close to the others, but kept herself apart. No one took any special notice of her.
She watched Kitiara shove back her empty plate and sit back in her chair, her mug in her hands. Kit was somber, lost in thought. One sellsword, a comely young man, with long blonde hair and sporting a jagged scar down one cheek, came over to her table. She did not seem to notice him. He started to pull out a chair.
Kitiara put her booted foot in the seat. “Not tonight, Trampas,” she said. She shook her head. “You would not find me good company.”
“Come now, Kit,” the young man said persuasively, “let me buy you a mug of ale, at least.”
She did not move her foot and there was no other chair.
Trampas shrugged and went on his way. Kitiara drank the ale in a long swallow. The barkeep brought her another and set it down before her, taking the empty mug away. Kit drank that one too, continuing to brood. Iolanthe tried to guess her thoughts. Kit did not look irate or angry, therefore she was not worrying about her rebuff from Ariakas. She looked introspective. Her eyes stared at the ale mug, but she was not seeing it. Occasionally she would smile to herself.
She looked like someone reminiscing, thinking over past times, remembering happy moments.
“How very interesting,” Iolanthe murmured to herself. She thought back to the conversation she had overheard between Kit and Ariakas. They had discussed past times—Kit’s days in Solace. They had talked about her brother the mage, but judging by the warmth of her smile and the flash of her dark eyes, Kitiara was not thinking about sickly baby brothers.
“My lord was right. You do have secrets,” Iolanthe said softly. “Dangerous ones.”
Kitiara took a long pull from the mug and, settling back more comfortably in her chair, she put both her feet in the chair opposite, letting everyone in the tavern know that she wanted to be alone this night.
“Good,” said Iolanthe. The presence of a lover would have been a serious inconvenience.
Iolanthe left her table and walked up to a bar crowded with soldiers demanding ale or dwarf spirits, wine or mead or a combination of several. The bartenders, red-faced and sweating, bustled here and there, trying to keep up. The soldiers were loud and raucous, shouting insults at the bartenders and groping the barmaids, who were accustomed to the rough crowd and gave as good as they got. Iolanthe pushed her way forward. Seeing a dark pilgrim, the soldiers hastily drew back, making respectful, if grumbling, way for her. A man would have to be very drunk indeed to dare insult a priestess of Her Dark Majesty.