“I didn’t say you should bring a weapon,” said Heliz, “I said you should bring something that looks like a weapon. Let’s go.”
As they left the market, Heliz’s brow furrowed. “So why is ’Unicorn hiring you to make barrels? They serve ale and wine. And those horrible little dry fish. They should be codpiece-deep in barrels!”
“You see!” said Lumm the staver, smiling. “That’s why I came to you. You ask questions that no one else thinks of!”
“Nice robes, by the way,” said Lumm as they paused at the main door to the Vulgar Unicorn, as though he hadn’t noticed that Heliz had changed his garments until they were lit by light from the tavern’s reeking interior.
“A payment,” said Heliz, already preoccupied. “Possibly a bribe. From a lone youth who confuses literacy with power. I hope that there are a few others like that in the common room tonight. I don’t know what’s going to happen, if anything, but if I tell you to do something, do it No questions. Pretend that you believe I know what I’m doing.”
Lumm nodded grimly, as if the cooper had been summoned to some higher calling. Heliz touched the bronze tablet in his breast pocket for luck, and they entered.
The common room was mostly empty, a testament to the barrel-maker’s concerns. Usually at this time of day there would be a brace of bravos whooping it up in one corner, and at least three plots unspooling in the back booths, not to mention a regular clientele of sailors, fishermen, pickpockets, snatch-purses, grafters, grifters, bilkers, smugglers, con-artists, tin changers, coin biters, ladies of easy virtue, and lords of no virtue at all. Now the majority of the previously listed had decamped to less-auspicious climes, leaving a double-handful of individuals gathered around a clear spot where the tables had been pushed back and a large chalk circle scribed. Along one side of the circle a list of foul words and phrases had been chalked and crossed out.
The air smelled of stale beer, wood smoke, pine dust, and vomit. And just a touch of brimstone.
Someone shouted Lumm’s name as they entered, and Heliz was almost knocked over by a charging water buffalo. In this case the buffalo wore a low-cut gown, copious bracelets, and enough perfume to gag a minor devil. Other than that, the comparison was accurate. The water buffalo embraced Lumm tightly, and the big man peeled her off as delicately as he could.
“I said I would bring help,” said Lumm, his face blushing furiously. He held out a large hand to steady the teetering linguist. “This is Heliz Yunz, of Lirt. He knows about these things.”
The buffalo wheeled on Heliz, and for a moment the linguist feared that she would embrace him as well. Instead she said, “Oh yes, your little friend.” She smiled and Heliz noted that her heavily kohled eyes were red from crying and lack of sleep.
The towering bar wench had stressed the word “little,” and despite himself Heliz stiffened his spine, which did him no good—his chin barely cleared the tattered lace decking of her bodice. Irritated, he turned toward the circle and the motley collection gathered around it.
He pretended to examine the chalk circle, but cast glances as well at the surrounding group. There were other employees—two of the kitchen servers and one of the cooks. Everyone else apparently had been sent home. No sign of anyone who looked like an owner. A gray-robed man sat calmly to one side; his very demeanor screamed bureaucrat. To the left of the bureaucrat was the Irrune warrior Lumm had mentioned, Ravadar, flanked by two bored-looking mates of similar tribal origins. (Heliz wondered why he never saw such a warrior alone—did they travel in flocks?) Across from them perched a dark-haired young person of indeterminate gender, playing with a long, delicate knife.
S‘danzo, or at least S’danzo blood, Heliz thought A people known for their curses.
Two drunks were splayed forward on tables, who might have been sober when the incident first happened but now were no longer conscious. One drunk was blond, while the other one had brilliant red hair. Big Minx, Heliz, and Lumm finished out the numbers of those in the not-quite-empty common room.
“Who’s the ‘little friend’?” said the warrior Ravadar with a challenging chuckle. “Not a frogging spell-caster, I hope.”
“Hardly,” said Heliz, trying not to rise to the bait. “I just know a lot about words. Someone told me that words were involved here.”
“Aye, cursed words,” snarled the Irrune, punctuating his comment with a hawking spit that missed the spittoon by a good foot and a half. “She stumbled into a spell and damned herself.”
“Evil eye,” muttered the S’danzo, apparently re-engaging a conversation their entrance had interrupted.
“Cursed words,” the warrior huffed. “She damned herself.”
“She had the evil eye put upon her,” said the dark-haired youth. “My mother’s brother, he had the evil eye put upon him, and he fell down a well. A well that had not been there the night before.”
“Your uncle got drunk and lost his way,” said Ravadar, and his allies laughed. The S’danzo-blooded youth gripped the knife more tightly but said nothing.
“What’s this?” said Heliz, toeing the list of phrases.
One of the kitchen staff, a blond girl with blackened streaks in her hair, said, “Those are the curses Little Minx used, best as we can remember them. One of them may have done this.”
“So you spoke the words?” said Heliz.
“Do we look like fools?” thundered Ravadar. “We described them and wrote them down so we could all agree with them. Words have power. Curse words most of all.”
“Who told you that?” asked Heliz, trying to keep his voice as neutral as he could for the moment.
The big warrior’s eyes flickered. “I always heard it was so.” Heliz remained silent. “It’s common knowledge,” the Irrune warrior added after a moment.
“Evil eye,” repeated the dark-haired youth.
“And you are?” said Heliz to the youth.
“I am …” Feminine features twisted beneath hard, masculine brows. “Merely curious.”
Ravadar let out a chuckle, “S’danzo won’t tell you it’s raining out even if they come in soaking wet.” His companions laughed in agreement.
Heliz ignored the comment, and instead looked at the scrawled list. “The first one reads …” He tried to sound it out. “Puh-ed-knawk … ?”
The Irrune leaped back as if burned, along with his two companions and the kitchen staff as well. Big Minx let out a squeal. It was the S’danzo’s turn to let out a laugh, harsh as a northern winter and sharp as a knife blade.
“Don’t say it!” bellowed the Irrune. “You would call down ruin on us all!”
“So what do you refer to it as?” said Heliz dryly. “This first epithet?”
The gray bureaucrat said, “We’re calling it Engaging with a Ilsigi Woman.” His voice was whisper-quiet. “An ill-kempt Ilsigi woman.”
“And the second?” Heliz looked around.
“A S’danzo not of her father’s issue,” said the youth in a flat voice.
“And the third?” said the linguist. He looked hard at the Irrune.
“Eating one’s dinner a second time,” said the big warrior. When Heliz said nothing, he added, “It’s a common curse in the north.”
“I do not doubt that it is,” said the linguist. He scowled at the writing, and said, “They’re not very readable.”
“Best that could be done,” said the gray man, “under the circumstances”
“So you are the scrivener of this list?” said Heliz.
“I am.”
Heliz squinted at the list. “You’re not very good at it.”
The gray man’s tone grew sharper. “A workman is only as good as his tools.”
“A poor workman blames his tools,” said Heliz, pulling his tablet and writing kit from one of the new robe’s deep pockets. He opened it on the table and produced a quartersheet of papyrus and a charcoal stylus. “Show me.”