Lord Gallendris had not been to many parties over the last few months, but it was important to him to keep up appearances. As his activities in the streets, his disguises, and his plans with Lord Thrane continued, Farek knew how it was important to remain—to the public—as the heavy drinking, flirtatious brother of the Mazaar.
In Soros, such public affairs were attended on a nightly basis.
He spent most of his evening with a curvy black-haired beauty named Silea. She was the cousin of another lord, apparently, and despite her rather annoying voice, her wide eyes, ribbon-tied hair, and luscious figure made for a good disguise.
He saw a few lieges of Lord Viodro at the party, but none of them looked at Farek any differently than usual. The only glances he caught from them were vaguely jealous and partly respectful. No one had cause to suspect that the recent ‘accidents’ in the fisheries were the enacted orders of a Gallendris and a Thrane.
The news of the evening came from Sheld—and it concerned the criminals that Jannia had gone to treat with. It seemed that the influx of such a prestigious financial transaction had drawn too much attention in that adobe for smugglers and schemers. Across the red waves of Raider’s Bay had come the tidings of anarchy and downfall. The Family of Lerran was in shambles, and the fortune, which had, presumably, purchased the city of Lo Mallago, was lost.
“I’ve never spent an evening with someone who draws as much attention,” Silea told him, drawing away from his examination of the feast hall. The hundred or so party-goers faded behind her smooth eyebrows and clear skin. “Does everyone look at you like a Mazaar wherever you go?”
Farek smiled. “Well, not everywhere,” he said. Referring, subtly, to his common poor-man disguises. He took a sip of his wine, and turned his focus onto Lord Paral Mavagar. The young lord was drinking amidst his insubordinates.
His arm decoration did not interpret his ambiguous comment the same way he had. “Perhaps I’d like to see you in that element,” Silea murmured and delicately set one of her fingers on his thigh. “As a man, not the prince…”
“I didn’t—” Farek pressed his thumb into the bridge of his nose. “I have to go. It’s nothing you said. I just can’t celebrate as long as I sometimes do.” It was his impatience with this charade, not her.
Silea pouted while Farek untangled his shoulder from her arm and kissed the back of her hand. “Next time then,” she said.
“Of course,” Farek said, smiling. “Good evening.”
Lord Gallendris abandoned the evening festivities and retired to Norrey’s Pub. The burley guard outside grinned when he saw Farek striding crookedly through the smoky shadows. Artoc clasped his better’s hand and opened the door for him with a simple, “Milord.”
Norrey took a step away from the busy far the evening. He had a few lovely maids in his employ and they tended the counter while he sat a two-person table with his friend. “I didn’t expect you back this soon. Were the evening offers not satisfactory?”
“Oh, she was beautiful,” Farek said. “But I’m not in the mood.”
The innkeeper chuckled, and pushed his fingers through his black mustache. “I asked a few sources of mine about an assassin with a crossbow,” he muttered beneath his breath.
Farek raised an eyebrow and leaned forward.
“But first a drink.” Norrey made a pewter bottle appear from behind his back and set down two tankards on the small wooden space between them. While he poured for them both, Farek shifted uncomfortably and pulled the leather glove out from his belt where he had folded it. It was the assassin’s, and somehow seemed like a continuing factor in his investigation. He set it aside on the tabletop so it wasn’t causing a blister against his hip and grabbed the tankard that Norrey had finished. “There were three killings, over the last fifteen years. No culprit caught, all contract hits. The assassin of each of these three particular murders used a crossbow and entered the target premises without detection.”
“So he’s struck before. Who is he?” Farek asked.
Norrey took a sip of the spirits and set his cup down. “He was never caught! No one knows who he is. Except Lord Thrane, as you pointed out.”
Farek sighed. He stared at the plain leather glove. Would its mate solve the mystery? He forced his hand inside it, but it was a tight fit. Norrey smiled and they each took another drink. Farek let out his breath again, frustrated, and leaned his forehead into his gloved hand.
And then, he couldn’t move. His eyes were looking to Norrey’s left, at the flower pot on the window sill. He couldn’t move his eyes and his hand was glued to his forehead. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t open his mouth to cry out or ask for help. He strained against whatever force held him, but the most he could do was make his frame tremble.
It took Norrey a moment to realize something was wrong. He frowned and asked, “You alright? Too much drink?”
Farek tried to squirm out of the magical grip that stilled his body. Norrey put his hands on Farek’s shoulders. He shook Farek, but Farek still had no control over himself. “What’s wrong?” Norrey questioned, panicked. He looked around Farek, but no one had even noticed them. And then, at last, he looked at the glove.
With caution, the innkeeper grabbed the leather back of the glove and gradually pulled it free of Farek’s face. It slid off, with difficulty, from between his palm and his forehead. Farek didn’t budge. If it wasn’t the glove, then what? Is it because of Gravagan? Am I going to have to live like this?! What is happening?
Without many other options, Norrey sat down and bravely donned the glove. As soon as it slid onto his hand, Farek’s muscles returned to him and he stumbled out of his chair, nearly toppling the table and shaking drops of alcohol onto the wooden surface. “Gods,” he breathed. “What was that?”
Norrey shrugged, staring at the glove on his hand. With a look of curiosity, he reached across the table and touched the palm of the glove against Farek’s forearm. Again, Farek could not move. It took Norrey a moment to be certain that he had paralyzed his friend again, before he removed the glove. Farek remained paralyzed, until Norrey slipped it on once more.
“So… the palm paralyzes the assassin’s victims,” Norrey said, as Farek sat down. Even though they’d been examining the strange effect together as trusting friends, his heart was racing with an instinctive fear. “And putting it on clears the spell.”
Farek blinked. “How many people can we paralyze at once? How long is the effect without wearing the glove? How… where did the assassin get this?” He turned the glove over in his hand, careful not to touch the palm. Without a hand inside it, the accessory didn’t seem to have any magic whatsoever. He’d had it tucked between his belt and his hip, after all.
“How should I know?” Norrey held out his hands in exasperation. “I don’t know any magicians.”
Lord Gallendris started to laugh. “I do,” he said. “And I think it’s time I pay him another visit.” Of course, he would have to find the strange old man. He had given Gravagan coins with his family crest, so he could stay in Soros at little expense, but he had no idea, in truth, as to where the prophet had taken up residence.