Some days, when watching ships entering and departing the harbours of Sheld was not boring enough, Farek would instead get his fix for dullness by listening to the breeze in the shutters of his sister’s office while she prattled on about the economics of Var Nordos, their rocky, humid isle.
“Farek?” Jannia asked. “Are you even listening?”
“I am,” Farek said.
“And what was I saying?” The Mazaar stood in the midst of a neatly organized office in a crisp grey gown with a straight cut. She drummed her fingers on a four-hundred-page tome on her desk and regarded her brother with skepticism.
Farek pressed his palms over his eye sockets and let out his breath. When she started to reprimand him, he interrupted her. “You were telling me about a shipment that would be coming in three weeks to my warehouse, and then distributed to two lesser lords of our fair city. You wanted to make certain you have a chance to speak with the ship’s Captain… so I will subdue him on your behalf.”
His sister scoffed and leaned on the desk near Farek’s chair. “Detain,” Jann corrected. “I said detain.”
“Ah,” Farek said, raising an eyebrow and leaned back in his seat. Even when he wasn’t paying attention, he absorbed the world around him.
Jannia raised a hand. “Enough,” she mumbled. She waved her hand dismissively. “Go about your day, and keep up the good work.”
“Thanks, sis,” Farek said. He lurched out of the chair and made for the door. He had big plans for the day, he hoped.
“I’m working on a new assignment for you,” Jannia said.
Farek paused, mid-step and looked back to her. There were bookshelves along the wall behind her, and a few pages piled beside the hefty book on her desk. He smiled.
“No details yet,” she said, matching his quaint expression. “Just a thought.”
“Thanks for the heads-up,” Farek murmured, and shut the door behind him. The quiet corridors of their mansion were warm, but a few open windows let the breeze through.
Farek had finally determined the inn where Master Gravagan had put up in Soros, but the establishment had been locked up by the time he reached it the eve’ before. There was no tavern to keep it open into the wee hours.
The inn held six suites, divided between two long buildings and housed inside a short stone wall. The bronze gate was propped open with a short shovel, and the door to the inn’s office had a sign hanging on it that read ‘open.’ Farek knocked once and pushed the latch down. He was greeted with a view of a cozy office, one that was opposite to his sister’s up on Coin Hill. There were three boxes piled next to the door, a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf laden with loose pages and books and tools, and a desk so cluttered with parchment, bowled fruit, and ink splatter, that it was a wonder anyone could find a chair in its midst. Nonetheless, someone had.
The manager of the establishment was a tall, bald man, with teeth like a gerbil visible through his puckered mouth and whiskered jowls. He smiled—or as close to it as his overbite would allow—and waved his hands to Farek. “Come in, come in,” he said. “Are you looking to book a suite? The Homestead is well known in Soros to be a true home away from home!”
“Thank you, but no. I’m just looking for a friend. I was told he was staying here,” Farek said.
“Did he tell you this?” the innkeeper asked. “Or was it… another friend?”
Farek blinked. “Uh, pardon?” He had actually gained a clue to Gravagan’s whereabouts via a homeless shelter down the street, and he’d been directed there from a tailor near Coin Hill who had repaired the magister’s satchel.
“This is the city of sorrows, and I am wise Master Onavri…” The man regarded Farek with wide, eyes as he spoke. He put a hand on a hammer on the adjacent corner table. “I have turned away many a loan broker and many a thug.”
“I’m not here to cause harm,” Farek said, raising his palms toward the strange fellow. “He’s probably expecting me.”
Onavri scoffed. “Probably not!”
“His name is Gravagan, typically wears a robe?” Farek scratched his scalp. “Just a few wisps of white up here.”
“Oh, oh!” The hammer was released and the innkeeper’s eyes lit up. “Master Gravagan! Yes, err, no. He paid, he stayed, he… awayed.” Dancing fingers walked through the air.
“Awayed?” Farek asked, raising an eyebrow. “When?”
“Perhaps a Moon ago?” Onavri suggested.
Farek looked around the crowded room. Sweat was beginning to collect on the back of his neck. There needed to be more ventilation in here. “Did he say anything? Where he was going?”
“Perhaps…” Onavri mumbled. “You are?”
Farek hated telling people who he was. A disguise, a false name, an illusion… these were his preferred public presence. He ground his teeth and then crossed his arms. “I’m Farek Gallendris.”
Onavri didn’t overreact or exclaim or even doubt him. “Then yes, he did say. He said to give you his letter.” Without another word, Onavri stumbled to his feet and turned around to the bookshelf behind him. He pulled a thin book out from between two others and withdrew a folded parchment that was different than the pages. “Here you are, Master Farek.”
Farek chuckled as a letter appeared in his hands. The man had known exactly where in all the chaos he had hidden the communication. “Thank you…” he said, and walked outside.
“Dear Farek,” he read. “I hope Master Onavri did not give you too much trouble—he’s a delight. Unfortunately, I have been called away from Var Nordos on urgent business. I am setting forth for Aloor of the Great Isle, though it may not be my final destination. If you require my aid, do not hesitate to send a courier or find me yourself, but my best advice is simply to follow the prophecy I gave to you. Until our paths cross again, good fortune to you. Gravagan.”
Farek sighed. He had wanted Gravagan to investigate the magical glove for him, because, to Farek, Gravagan was a slightly more trustworthy option than whatever sorcerer he could hire from the Academy in Noress-That-Was or some street shop in Port Deylus. As he walked back up to Coin Hill, he considered other options.
By the time he got to Norrey’s Pub, he had it. He would tell someone that someone else had told him about a glove that could cause paralysis. The person with the most information about the glove was likely the person who wanted it the worst, dead assassin’s not counting. When they tried tracking down who had the glove, Farek would make certain that everyone thought he knew who had it and that no one thought that he did.