The city of Arunahn rested at the base of a hill in the Great Isle’s highlands, near the headlands of the Gleaming River. It was smaller than Soros, but larger than the towns and villages they had encountered on the Great Isle. Unlike the military vantages of castles in Oshibor and New Mallam, the Baron of Arunahn ruled from a simple tower in the heart of the city’s residential district.
“Should we find an inn?” Matek asked as they marched toward the gate. They’d paid the ship that brought them along the Gleaming River to remain moored at the docking village near Arunahn, but had walked since dawn.
A gentle drizzle of rainwater collected in drips from the old stone wall and soaked Farek’s shoulder as he walked through. He looked at his men with a frown. “We’ve already spent so much time on the Great Isle,” he replied. “Let’s try to find this strange shop and return at once.”
“Shouldn’t be too hard,” Diaren muttered, smirking. “Look.”
Ahead of them, down the main street of Arunahn, were a dozen shops. Signs in the shape of an anvil or a beer mug hung along the way, as well as many shops indicated by an illustration. One sign hanging along the street was emphasized with a white star, and illustrious font: “Emporium of the Bizarre.”
Finally, one thing has been easy, Farek thought. It seemed everything in the last two Moons had been more complicated than necessary. Sievus held the door open and Farek entered the Emporium with a raised eyebrow. There were three statues facing the front door, and an eerie echo of the door’s creak rose up from them. The noise led deeper into the shop, catching the attention of two men near a bookshelf. The younger of the two patted his elder on the arm, said a word or two politely and then approached Farek’s group.
“Welcome,” the shopkeeper said, grinning to reveal a copper tooth. In the background, the old man went back to perusing the tomes on the shelf. He appeared a few years younger than Farek, with a glint in his eye and a firm handshake. “I am Drem, the tender here at the Emporium. How can we assist you, traveller?”
“I’d like to trade,” Farek said, following the shopkeeper through an aisle between shelves and glass cases. He spotted jewelry and trinkets in some, though some seemed to be empty. A mongoose in a cage in the corner whistled at them, but Farek gave it a wide berth. He opened the top of the pack slung over his shoulder and passed Drem the journal of Lord Breelin. “Only the person writing in the journal can see the words he has written,” Farek said. He’d written a few words in the journal himself, to test it. Where he saw words, his men saw only blank parchment.
“Interesting,” Drem said. “May I?” At Farek’s nod, he leaned over a table and wrote on the page with a small wedge of charcoal. He turned the journal back to Farek, but Farek could only see his own test scribbles. He shrugged. Drem smiled and closed the cover of the journal. He looked at Sievus and then back at Farek and smiled. “I have just the thing.”
From a shelf near the wall, Drem retrieved a square-bladed axe with a short wooden handle. The shopkeeper set it on the table in front of Farek for a moment, before sliding a small metal tray out of the weapon’s pommel. From his head, Drem plucked one of his brown hairs and pressed it onto the tray before returning the axe to its original state. Then Drem slid the axe across the table toward Farek.
“What’s the trick?” Farek asked.
“Swing it at me,” Drem said, grinning once more. “Strike me as hard as you like.”
Farek blinked. “If you say so,” he muttered. He gripped the haft of the axe and gave it a twirl to get an idea of its weight. He didn’t pull all his strength into the swing, but with a sharp blade such as it was, the weapon would cut. Instead, his swing toward Drem’s arm ended abruptly, without jarring Farek’s muscles or causing any sort of impact on the other man. Drem rolled up his wide green sleeve—there wasn’t even a bruise. “Do we have a deal?”
“We certainly do,” Farek replied, grinning. “Where did you ever get such a weapon?”
Drem snickered. “We could trade stories too?” He tapped the cover of the stolen journal.
Farek shrugged. “Haven’t the time for stories, I’m afraid,” he replied. With a smile he slid the short axe into his pack as well, blade first.
“Smooth travels then,” Drem said, bringing Lord Breelin’s journal toward one of the other tables. The old customer was still fascinated by that bookshelf.
A blast of rainwater pelted Farek’s face as he opened the front door of the shop. It was pouring out now. It would be a long, damp walk back to the Gleaming River, but not as long as voyage back to New Mallam, against the rainy season’s oppressive wind.