“Mm,” said Rezam, batting his thumbs against each other.
“It was difficult, but we were successful. We acquired a very old relic. It’s called the Black Globe, but I’m guessing that’s an alias. It’s reputed to come from the Gatekeepers, which means that it could have powerful protective magic. I’m hoping that we could somehow use this to restore Cyre to where it’s supposed to be, maybe drive the curse off the land.”
Rezam lolled his head from side to side as he considered. “It could also be planar magic,” he said. “If so, we could theoretically use it to reach back to moments before the Day of Mourning and snatch the whole country forward to our time. Hm. Say, who knows? Maybe we already did, eh?”
“What?”
The elf leaned forward, craning his neck out, his eyes wide with the possibilities. “Maybe the dead gray mist and all of that is the lingering effect of us in the future having saved our country from its terrible fate. Maybe we’ve wasted all this grieving, because we’re just moving through the patterns of things that had already happened when Cyre was taken, hey? Did you ever think about that?”
The Shadow Fox slowly blinked. At last she replied. “I’ll bring you the Globe then, shall I?”
The elf spread his arms wide. “You will do as the patterns of prophecy require, for the dragons will not abide a paradox,” he intoned.
The Fox curled her lip skeptically. “You’re a little odd,” she said.
Rezam’s face fell. “You’ve said that before,” he said, tracing his finger around a stain on the table. Then a small smile touched his lips. “But you know as well as I that investigative magicians must envision the whole realm of possibilities when trying to unravel arcane secrets.”
The Shadow Fox rose. “I know. I didn’t bring you on because you were an average person. I brought you on because you’re so good it’s scary.”
Rezam grinned. “Then bring it over. I look forward to seeing it.”
As she Shadow Fox left the laboratory, she glanced one last time at Rezam. Sometimes, she thought, you’re a little too scary.
Inside the Phiarlander Phaire the atmosphere was raucous and jovial. The tavern was filled to capacity with drinkers and diners, sampling some of the best wares to be had in Flamekeep outside of House Phiarlan’s magical feasts. A thick haze of tobacco and incense lurked about the rafters, and the clink of tin plates and flatware fought a hopeless struggle for dominance with the sounds of laughter and conversation.
Zabettia Besdal stepped through the front door and immediately felt as if she were drowning in an excess of civilization. Her body already starting to sweat, she loosened her cloak, then worked her way across the floor. She had to wriggle between chairs filled by overstuffed patrons and plot her course to avoid the many servers working the crowd.
She wound her way to the service counter and caught the attention of one of the staff, an old man with one eye. A long scar, a keepsake from a Karrnathi scimitar, draped across the other half of his face. He nodded at Zabettia in recognition.
“The Shadow Fox is back,” said Zabettia, raising her voice to be heard above the brabble.
“It’s about time,” grumbled the old man. “Where’s she been?”
“You know she never talks about that. But she did say that several other Cyrans lost their lives in the service.”
The man spat on the floor. “I hope they weren’t home when it happened,” he groused. “That just wouldn’t be right.”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Zabettia. She looked around the room, taking in the wide variety of people present. “She said to be on the lookout for Aundairian monks, or a Korranberg gnome traveling with a half-orc servant. She’s not sure whether or not they might have managed to follow her here.”
“That’s not much to go on,” said the man.
Zabettia nodded. “I know,” she said. Then she slapped her hand on the countertop. “Better than nothing, though,” she said with a smile. “Have to go make the rounds. Keep your eye open.”
The old man touched his brow in farewell. “By the fifth nation,” he said, then spat on the floor again.
“Well, that was a waste of time, monk,” said Praxle as they climbed off one of the caravan’s wagons.
Teron shrugged. “We took a chance. It didn’t pan out.”
“Instead we spent two and a half days getting sore kidneys bouncing on a cart in an Orien caravan.”
Teron didn’t bother to reply. He stretched out, as did his cat. Then he hopped out and placed one hand on the side of the wagon, and Flotsam walked up the length of his arm to perch on his shoulder.
“That has got to be the ugliest stray I’ve ever seen,” said Praxle, warming to his sour mood.
“He’s sort of my pet,” said Teron. “He just kind of likes me. We get along.”
“Look at him, monk. His head is way too flat and wide, his hair … well, he sure doesn’t bathe himself often, and I swear he takes two steps with his front legs for every three he takes with his rear. He’s built like a hyena.”
“He’s growing into a tom,” said Teron. He kneeled down to put the cat within reach of Praxle. “Here, feel his muscles at his shoulders.”
With a look of disgust, Praxle complied. The cat’s muscles were dense and powerful. He ran his hand down the cat’s back, and partway down the ribs, the muscles turned smaller and softer. He felt the terminus again, the sudden shift from thick to thin, “That’s…”
“Strange, isn’t it?” said Teron. “It’s like he’s maturing front to back.” He chuckled softly. “You should have seen him when he first started. First his nose grew all out of proportion to his face, then his head got big like this but he still had the body of an older kitten.”
“That sounds very ugly.”
Teron stood. “I guess that’s why we get along.”
“If you’ll pardon me for interrupting, Teron,” said Jeffers, “I have something that I’ve wished to enquire of you. I believe we are safe enough to ask you now.”
“What’s that, Jeffers?”
Jeffers glanced about and lowered his voice. “Back in Daskaran, you took a sword away from that guard, I was most curious as to how you accomplished that.”
Teron smiled, a brief but genuine expression. “Pick up that stick. I’ll show you,” he said.
Jeffers picked up a larger stick and held it like a dagger.
“Look. My hands are out to the side, right?” said Teron, placing himself squarely in front of Jeffers and raising his arms partway up. “It looks like I’m surrendering, but I’m not. My hands are ready.”
Jeffers nodded.
Teron flashed his hands together, striking Jeffers and stripping the stick from him.
Jeffers blinked, and rubbed his now-empty hand. “My apologies, but I didn’t quite follow that.”
Teron handed the stick back. “It’s an advanced technique,” he said. “Let me show you the foundation move. Watch.” He raised his hands again, and started moving them slowly towards Jeffers’ wrist. “I bring my hands in. My right hand strikes you on the inside of the wrist. My left hand strikes you on the back of your hand.” He paused, his hands just making contact with the half-orc’s larger hands. He started applying pressure. “As I move them in, what happens?”
“You bend my hand forward.”
“And how strong is your grip now?”
Jeffers tried to grip the stick firmly. “Very weak.”
“Right. Now if you do this fast enough, you actually make the other person toss the weapon from their hand. Here, try it on me.” He took the stick from Jeffers and held it.
Jeffers raised his hands to the sides of Teron’s hand, and aligned them with their targets. He took a deep breath, then slapped Teron’s wrist and hand, and the stick flew out of his grasp. “Why, that’s child’s play,” said Jeffers, pleasantly surprised with his success.
“Essentially, it is,” said Teron. “It’s basic body mechanics. The strike you saw me do is tough. You have to know how hard to strike, you have to power your hand through the enemy’s without overpowering the blow, and you have to have precise timing to grab the weapon’s handle as it flies from your opponent’s hand. There’s a few other points, too, but I think you get my point.”