"It's not the Scepters," Shamur called. "It's no one who means you any harm. I need your help, and I'm willing to pay for it."
When no one answered, she stooped to inspect the lock, and saw that it was nothing much. With her long-lost set of thiefs tools, she could have opened it in a trice, and perhaps she could manage with a hairpin even now. But it might be quicker simply to kick in the door.
A scraping sound prompted her to straighten up, whereupon she saw that dim light shone within the shop again, and a small panel above the lion's mask had opened. A pair of dark eyes peered out of the spy hole. "What kind of help do you want?" asked a husky contralto voice.
"The answers to a few questions," Shamur said. "Are you Audra Sweetdreams?"
"I might be. You mentioned payment."
Shamur reached behind her back, unfastened her pouch, extracted a coin, and held the white round up for the apothecary to see.
The panel bumped shut, and Shamur heard whispering, though as before, she couldn't make out the words. After a minute, the lock clicked and the door creaked open. "Come in," Audra Sweetdreams said.
The apothecary was a short, round-faced dumpling of a woman who, Shamur now saw, had needed to climb up on a stool to peek through the spy hole. She appeared to be in her fifties, and might have looked harmless, like some child's doting grandmother, if not for the slyness in her dimpled smile. She wore a slovenly brown gown covered with stains and burn marks.
In the corner lounged a dull-eyed fellow clad in a grimy scarlet doublet with the points undone. His skull was oddly shaped, pointed like an egg, and as if proud of this peculiarity, he'd shaved his head. He looked Shamur up and down, leered in approval, and casually saluted with the half-eaten chicken leg in his hand.
The shop itself was a chaos of crates and kegs. Bundles of dried, aromatic herbs and desiccated lizards dangled from the rafters. Animal teeth, bits of bone, dead beetles, and mushrooms caps lay scattered about the bases of a series of ceramic jars. On the same shelf reposed half a dozen empty green bottles, formed by a glassblower into slender whorled shapes of surprising beauty. Shamur surmised that Audra must use the vials for expensive compounds concocted for aristocratic patrons.
Compounds like poison and patrons like Thamalon, perhaps.
"What do you want to know?" Audra asked.
"First off," Shamur replied, "I want to know if you've ever concocted a venom lethal to women but harmless to men."
Audra's eyes widened in astonishment, or at least a simulation of it. "Mistress, this is a reputable establishment. How can you imagine I would ever deal in poisons? Well, to rid a home of rats and other vermin, but never for any sinister purpose."
Shamur tossed the platinum sun onto a stone table laden with retorts and an oven like those employed by potters. The coin shone in the light of enchanted bronze burners capable of producing a steady, adjustable jet of flame, which the apothecary evidently used like simple candles when not mixing remedies and elixirs. The noblewoman then brought out her blue leather purse, showing how fat it was. The money inside clinked.
"It's all platinum," Shamur said, "and all yours, if you help me. But don't waste my time. Do you brew such a poison or not?"
The plump woman hesitated. "I know it exists. I might be able to make it."
"I need to know if you ever have made it."
Audra grimaced. "Please understand, I don't know you, Mistress, nor do I know how you found me. I just might find my hand on the chopping block if I speak the wrong word in the wrong ear."
Shamur's mouth tightened. "Do I look like an informer?"
Audra shrugged. "I haven't yet decided what you look like."
"I assure you, I don't care about anything you've done recently, any affair in which the Scepters might still be interested. I want to find out about something that happened nearly thirty years ago, to Shamur Karn, daughter of Lindrian. No harm will come to you-"
Something smashed into the back of Shamur's head, and even as she fell forward, she realized what it must have been. She'd kept a wary eye on the shaven-headed lout in the corner, but unfortunately, Audra had another confederate in the room. Someone who'd hidden before Shamur ever came in, sneaked up behind her while the apothecary held her attention, and clubbed her.
At first she hadn't felt anything except a kind of shock, but as she sprawled on the floor, the pouch tumbling from her grasp, pain roared through her skull. It was so fierce that she wasn't sure she could move, but she knew she'd better try. She couldn't withstand a second such blow. If Larajin's thick wool cowl hadn't cushioned the first, she would no doubt be unconscious already.
A man bent over her, a sap in his hand. Her vision was blurry, but she could make out a braided black beard and the stained, uneven teeth exposed by a malicious grin. She wrenched herself onto her back, drew her legs up, and drove her feet into her attacker's gut.
Blackboard grunted and stumbled backward. Shamur rolled under a table and into the next makeshift aisle haphazardly snaking its way through Audra's heaps of possessions.
She knew the maneuver had only bought her a moment. She scrambled to her feet, nearly fell again when a wave of pain and dizziness assailed her, and fumbled the truncheon out of her sash.
Meanwhile, Audra was saying, "Did you truly think a stranger could sashay in here and cozen me into confessing my complicity in a murder attempt? I think not! I don't know what your game is, but you already know too much to suit me. I'm going to have the lads beat your head in and claim your money that way."
Blackbeard scrambled around a pile of boxes into the end of the aisle. He hesitated when he spotted Shamur's weapon, then took in her useless two-handed grip on one end of it. She was holding it as if it were a greatsword, not a baton less than two feet long. Her apparent ineptitude must have given him confidence, because he bellowed and charged.
She waited until he was nearly on top of her, then shifted to the "short grip" Errendar had taught her: single-handed with most of the length of the club extending back along her forearm. Blackbeard swung his leather bludgeon in a vicious arc. Shamur swayed backward, evading the stroke, then rammed the stub of baton protruding from the top of her hand into her opponent's solar plexus.
Or rather, she tried, but the lingering effects of that savage blow to the head were still making her clumsy. She only managed to hit Blackboard in the ribs, hard enough to hurt but not to stop him.
Now was the time for a two-handed grip, albeit not the preposterous one she'd employed before. She whipped the long section of her baton into her left hand then, gripping it at both ends, rammed it up at Black-beard's throat.
And missed again. Snarling, she smashed the stick down at the bridge of her opponent's nose. Finally she hit the target, crushing bone and cartilage with a crack! She pulled the truncheon back and drove it forward, breaking several of Blackbeard's crooked teeth.
He reeled backward, and she followed to finish him off. Then two brawny arms whipped around her from behind, one pinioning her arms and the other choking her. She realized that with her brains rattled, she'd forgotten all about the man with the shaved scalp.
For a panicky second, her mind was blank, then she remembered the counter to a choke hold. She twisted her head into the crook of Baldhead's elbow, relieving the pressure on her throat. Then she stamped, raking her heel down her assailant's shin and smashing it down on his foot, and drove the long end of the baton backward into his belly.