The Aquamancer’s Secret - Part 2/3
The more Taliana learned about Ilyan, the more secrets it seemed he had.
Well, That Happened
Taliana came home one day to find that “home” had caved in.
“Exactly as I warned!” one of her aunts was shouting at one of her other aunts, as various of Taliana’s cousins worked to dig out their possessions from the mud filling what had been their burrow that morning. “Two days of steady rain, one heavy cavalcade on the road above us, and BAM! We’re lucky we got everyone out in time. I TOLD you those builders had lied about installing support beams!”
Taliana sighed, tossed aside her lab coat, and pitched in. Not surprisingly, Twigly was in the thick of things, covered head to toe in mud as she shouted orders to everyone else. “Look alive, there, Jevan!” she said. “You’ve got a bit of the wall ready to collapse if you’re not careful. Yo-ho, Marigold! The green rug’s in the muck under your paw—see it?”
“‘Look alive’?” Taliana questioned. “‘Yo-ho’? You’d fit in great with a pirate gang.”
“Great idea!” said Twigly. “Maybe I’ll go join one. Basket-weaving, it turns out, is not for me.”
“You can’t swim,” Taliana reminded her. “And you get sea-sick just looking at a body of water.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Twigly, tail drooping.
A Poorly Executed Attempt at Bribery
After the cave-in disaster, Taliana’s family ended up in one of the city’s homeless shelters. The “plan” was to stay there just a couple weeks, while the various working members of the family saved up to pay for a new burrow to be dug somewhere. The truth, Taliana knew, was it was going to take months. She, as one of the few adults without any young mouths to feed, contributed more to the fund than all of her uncles and aunts combined.
The shelter was . . . passable. It was dry, and relatively free of crime (especially once Twigly started patrolling with a poker that she insisted on calling a rapier). The food, however, was awful. After a couple days of gagging on burnt and over-salted porridge, she started eating out for dinner.
So it was that she was sitting alone in a tavern one evening when a young male human approached her table. Before she could object, he slid into a human-sized seat opposite her snippen-sized perch.
“It’s Taliana, isn’t it?” he said, touching his cap in welcome.
“Yes,” Taliana said without thinking. Sloppy. Classic fresh-eared apprentice mistake: don’t reveal your name to sketchy strangers in taverns.
“The name’s Herold,” the young man said, touching his cap again. “I, ah . . . heard you’re the apprentice for that aquamancer on Renner Street, right? Ilyan the Estimable?”
Taliana narrowed her eyes. “Who told you I worked for Ilyan?”
The human paused, then cleared his throat. “Your cousin.”
“Nice try,” Taliana snapped. “Twigly would have chopped your ears off before telling you anything.”
He shrugged. “Your other cousin.”
Split infinitives! He had outflanked her. She had too many cousins.
“What do you want?” Taliana said between bites. She’d have left then and there, except she’d paid good money for this potato salad. (And it was delicious.)
The human swallowed, his fingers rapping the table. “I, uh, happen to have noticed . . . well, . . . I know your family lost their home last week, and . . .”
Taliana shoved a bite of celery into her mouth. “. . . and?”
“Well . . .” the human straightened. “I know a patron who would be quite willing to fund a new burrow for your family.”
“I assume there’s a condition?”
“A minor one. He has a small problem that you’re uniquely suited to help with. He’s an aquamancer, new to the trade, new to the city. He’s heard your master is one of the finest aquamancers around, and is wondering if you’d be willing to give him some . . . pointers . . . on how to approximate Ilyan’s masterful results.”
Coordinating conjunctions! Why did this potato salad have to be so tasty?
“I’m sorry,” said Taliana, trying to harness some of her cousin’s cheeky bravado, “but I’m afraid I’m bound by a nondisclosure contract. I can’t discuss my master’s work.”
The human dropped a small, heavy bag on the table with a clink. “Besides funding a new burrow, my client is also willing to pay you for your time. Generously.”
Taliana hefted the bag. Easily a hundred shekels. A whole month’s worth of pay.
She slide it back across the table. “No deal.”
The human leaned forward. “There’s more where that came from. A hundred shekels now. Another hundred later.”
Taliana shoved the last bite of potato salad into her mouth and stood up. “Even if I did know the old man’s secret—which I don’t, and probably never will—I’d never settle for a pathetic sum like two hundred shekels.”
“Three hundred,” said the human.
Taliana strode away, ignoring the man’s escalating bids. “Four hundred! Five!”
That man, Taliana thought, is hopeless at both bribery and haggling.
“Tell your ‘client’ to invest his money in something more practical,” Taliana called over her shoulder. “Maybe a triple-beam balance from Larrisa.”
Edibles
One morning, Taliana showed up at the shop to find a completely different version of Ilyan. Instead of his patchwork coat and tattered cap, he wore a finely tailored suit, trousers, and vest, topped with a bright blue cravat. It was like the quixotic aquamancer had been transformed into a high-end banker. (Don’t tell Twigly. She hates bankers.)
“What’s with the makeover?” Taliana laughed.
“It’s my birthday!” Ilyan said. “Come, hang your coat up, I have a matching scarf and vest. We’re going to hit the town. All my regular customer know I’m closed today.”
“Hit the town?” Taliana repeated.
“Of course!” Ilyan said. “There’s a recently unveiled statue in the eastern market that I thought we’d go see. Maybe shop for a new rug while we’re there—the textile selection is always better there. Then, we grab some edibles!”
“You mean . . . food?”
“Victuals! Yes, you know what I mean. What’s your favorite tastable?”
“Tastable?”
“Delicacy. Confection.”
Talaina didn’t have to think hard about it. “Pudding cakes,” she said. “My family has them at the new-year festival each year.” She hid a frown. That wouldn’t be happening this year, unless Twigly apprenticed herself out to a pudding cake maker (which was unlikely, as she’d been caught stealing from each one in the city. How was she not in prison by now?).
“Pudding cakes it is, then!” Ilyan said, stepping outside. His gaze immediately turned to the sign above his shop door. He gazed at it a moment, thinking, then looked down sharply at his apprentice.
“I’ll be doing my semiannual accounting next week,” he said sternly. “If I find evidence that your vandalism has hurt my number of customers, I’m taking the losses from your paycheck.”
No customer had yet to even mention it. Taliana interpreted Ilyan’s “threat” as a tacit surrender.
Spying on the Spy
Taliana and Ilyan were browsing their seventeenth rug when Taliana spotted him.
The young man drifted out of sight behind a vegetable stand, seemingly engrossed in studying a rutabaga. But she had recognized the round face.
“Master,” she hissed, moving closer to Ilyan. “Don’t look, but there’s a human male, watching us from across the street.”
Ilyan wrapped up his conversation with the rug seller (who, coincidentally, was the twenty-seventh person that day that Ilyan knew. Taliana was beginning to be convinced that the man knew half the city).
“Human male,” Ilyan repeated, without looking in that direction. “Do you mean the young man in the red vest and black trousers, with the faux gold armbands and the dueling knife tucked in his belt?”
Taliana spared a glance at the vegetable cart. “Yes,” she said in surprise.
“He’s been tailing us since we saw the statue,” Ilyan said, turning bag to the rug he was examining. “Possibly earlier. I’m not sure.”
“He tried to bribe me a couple weeks ago,” Taliana said. “Cornered me in a tavern and tried to buy your secret.” In hindsight, she probably should have told Ilyan about that encounter sooner. Oops.
“He’s the same man who flashed the passably counterfeit passable three months ago,” Ilyan said, moving on to the next rug. “Persistent fellow.”
“Why is he shadowing us?” Taliana said.
“Probably watching to see if I buy anything unusual for an aquamancer,” said Ilyan. “Good luck to him. He’s obviously trained in pyromancy, not aquamancy.”
Taliana’s eyes widened, and she spared another glance in the young man’s direction. He lacked the tell-tale red cloak, but his garb definitely gave off the vibe of a member of the pyromancer’s guild.
Alarm bells rang in her head. In Imperium, you did not mess with the pyromancer’s guild. Each pyromancer excelled not just in summoning fire, but in stealth, espionage, combat, and a dozen other skills. It was an open secret that guild members were frequently hired to perform theft, robberies, and other crimes. The guild held enough political clout that it blocked any attempt to prosecute its members for guild-sanctioned missions.
Pyromancers were not cheap. If whoever wanted Ilyan’s secret had hired one . . . then Ilyan and Taliana were in trouble.
“Should we do something?” Taliana whispered.
“Yes,” Ilyan said. “Help me settle on a rug.” He saw the alarm in her eyes and grew more serious. “Don’t worry about it, Taliana. In sixty-three years, do you think this is the first time someone hired a mercenary to get at my secret? Just be careful and don’t let yourself get cornered alone anywhere. If our friend visits the shop again, let me handle it.”
Taliana did her best to ignore the man’s lurking presence for the rest of the day. Though she found she had lost her appetite for pudding cakes. Well, almost.
Green-Vest Guy and the One-Armed Korrik
“Okay, question,” Taliana said one day.
“I’m not telling you my secret,” Ilyan said.
“I wasn’t going to ask that!” Taliana said. I was trying to be more discrete, she added mentally. “Green-Vest Guy. What’s his deal?”
“Who?”
“Every couple weeks, you get a visit from a tall, well-dressed man in a green vest. You go over ledgers with him, talk in whispers.”
“Confidential, I’m afraid,” Ilyan said. “And no—this secret is not THE secret.”
“Second question,” Taliana said. “The one-armed korrik. All our other suppliers just drop their crates off at the counter. But he gets to take his into the back, where, conveniently, he can unpack his wares without any customers seeing what’s inside.”
“He’s an old friend,” said Ilyan. “He ships some high-priced, specialty ingredients out of the Emerald Lake region. Gives me a slight discount in exchange for a good chat.”
“I see,” said Taliana, filing the information away. She had come to her own conclusions. She’d noticed that each time the one-armed korrik came by, several empty bottles of rosewood powder were replaced with full ones. This despite Ilyan never using the ingredient in a single recipe.
As far as Taliana knew, anyway.
A Favor
“Twigly,” Taliana said one night, “I have a favor to ask.”
“A favor?” her cousin said, looking up from a length of twine strung between her fingers. “Hold on. I’m almost at snippen’s cradle.”
“Do you know how to spy on people?” Taliana asked.
“Sure!” Twigly said. “Just finished an apprenticeship for a noblewoman, spying on her daughter at social dances.”
That was . . . horrifying, but Taliana had more important things to think about. “You have anything else you’re up to?”
“I was thinking of stopping by the bear trainers tomorrow, see if they could use an assistant . . . yeah, probably a bad idea. My calendar’s free. What do you need?”
“There’s three people I want you to watch out for,” Taliana said. She described the young pyromancer, the green-vest guy, and the one-armed korrik. “If you spot them, follow them around. See what they’re up to. Who they visit. That type of thing. I’ll pay you out of my salary.”
“You can count on me!” Twigly said, attempting a salute with her hands still entwined, resulting in her ears getting entangled in the loops of yarn.
“This better go better than the noodle incident,” Taliana warned. “I still haven’t regained all my tail hair.”
“That was an accident!”
“EXACTLY.”
Prices and Profits
Something had been bothering Taliana ever since she had started selling for Ilyan. His prices. They were high. Not exorbitantly high, but higher than any other aquamancer in the capital.
One day, while scrubbing the tables of the mixery, she cleared her throat. “Master?” she said. “I have a question, if you don’t mind.”
“You’ll have the question whether I mind or not, so you may as well ask it,” said Ilyan.
“You know Bartamew? The aquamancer down the street?”
“Hmm.”
“He sells his strength tincture for only three and a half shekels,” Taliana said.
“Hmmmmm.” said Ilyan, not looking up from where he was sorting seeds.
“I had a customer complain yesterday that charging seven shekels was unfair,” Taliana continued.
“H-hmm,” Ilyan hummed.
“Double the price.”
“Hm.”
They worked in silence for a minute.
“So . . .” Taliana said.
“You think we should lower our price,” said Ilyan.
“I think it would sell more, if we did.”
Ilyan paused, peering over his spectacles. “And what do you think we should lower it to?”
Taliana moved to the next table. “Maybe four shekels,” she finally said. “Four and a half.”
Ilyan didn’t respond immediately.
“Pricing,” he finally said. “A foundational business principle. Set it too high, and no one buys. Set it too low, and you can’t meet your costs.”
“Yet we have to compete with the other aquamancers,” Taliana said.
“You’ve seen the other shops,” said Ilyan. “They proudly post their prices. ‘Strength potion: three and a half shekels. Ambrosia of agility: two shekels. Sleep aroma: one and a quarter shekels.’ They each compete for the lowest price. Do I do that?”
“No,” Taliana said. Ilyan’s prices were nearly always several shekels higher than the going rate.
“How many strength potions have you sold this last week?”
Taliana had tallied the ledger just that morning. “Six.”
“I happen to know that last year, our friend Bartemew averaged twelve per week,” said Ilyan. “Then Nachimans undercut his price, and Bartamew’s sales plummeted. So he cut his prices even lower than Nachimans’, and now he’s back to selling a dozen a week.”
“We could go even lower than him,” said Taliana. “I worked out the math this morning. Our ingredients only come to two and a half shekels per potion.”
“So we cut our price to three shekels,” Ilyan said. “Customers flock to us. We sell maybe twenty potions a week. At half a shekel of profit per potion, that’s ten shekels of profit per week. But remember: you’d have to triple the number of batches you make. Subtracting the additional labor costs, I profit maybe eight shekels per week.
“Compare that to where we’re at now. For the last decade, I have consistently sold six or seven strength potions a week, every week, at seven shekels per potion. Once we subtract your labor, that’s around twenty-five shekels of profit—triple what it would be at the lower price.”
“But why do people still buy from you, when you are double the price?”
“Because my potions work,” Ilyan said. “Does Bartemew have the money to invest in a triple-beam balance? No, he does not. So he gets the ratios slightly off. Can he afford to hire the best apprentices? No, he cannot. So the recipes are followed sloppily. And, of course, does he have a little extra secret—an expensive one, I might add?” Ilyan winked at her. “No. My customers pay a higher price, yes, but they get much more value. So you tell me. Should I lower my price?”
“I guess not,” Taliana said.
She finished scrubbing the tables in silence, pondering what he’d let slip about his secret. An expensive one. It was the first real clue he’d given her in five months.
On the Trail
“I found Green-Vest Guy,” said Twigly one evening.
“Where?” Taliana asked. They were having dinner together in the homeless shelter. The food quality had blessedly improved recently, though the roof had sprung a leak.
“Southern district,” Twigly said. “I followed him to an orphanage.”
“An orphanage?”
“Yep. He spent a few minutes inside, then left and visited a couple shopkeepers on Arbor Street. Spent a few minutes at each.”
“Then where did he go?”
Twigly shrugged, biting into her apple. “I lost him.”
“He gave you the slip?”
“Something like that.”
Taliana gave her an appraising look. “You got bored, didn’t you.”
“He just kept going into shops, talking with the shopkeepers for upwards of a quarter of an hour each,” said Twigly. “I was getting hungry.”
“You’re always hungry.”
“True.”
Taliana pondered this intel. What was the man doing at an orphanage? Was he involved in Ilyan’s secret, or was he just some sort of merchant or city official?
“Good work,” said Taliana, handing Twigly a silver piece. “Keep it up.”
“And how about you?” Twigly said, pocketing the silver with a single fluid movement. “Have you found the old man’s secret yet?”
“I have some theories,” Taliana said. “But they’re just that. Theories.”
“What about his other secret?” Twigly said.
“What other secret?”
Twigly rolled her eyes. “Come on, cousin. Don’t tell me you haven’t done the math. The old man has a constant stream of customers. His potions are twice the normal rate. He only has a single apprentice to pay. His profits must be huge. We’re talking thousands of shekels per year. Yet the old man has only half a dozen outfits, never travels, and sleeps in an upstairs room of his shop instead of a palace. What does he do with all that money?”
The question followed Taliana all the way to bed. The more she learned about Ilyan, the more secrets it seemed he had.
An Overheard Negotiation
Most of Ilyan’s customers were either regulars—Taliana was beginning to learn some of their names—or tourists. The tourists would gawk at the old man’s displays, excitedly ask all sorts of probing questions that Taliana couldn’t really answer, and stick around hoping to catch a glimpse of the elusive old man. Sometimes they even bought something.
Occasionally, a customer would come who was truly desperate.
One morning, a young avir woman was waiting outside the door when Taliana opened for business. Her hair was frazzled and her skin grey. (Avirs, a species similar to humans but more delicately built, had hair and skin that visibly reacted to their emotions.)
“Do you have a cure for blackbane fever?” the woman gasped as soon as the door opened. “It’s for my two daughters. They’ve been bedridden two days. Can’t keep anything down.”
“Aquamancy can’t provide a ‘cure’ for anything,” Taliana said, quoting one of Ilyan’s common disclaimers as she returned to the counter. “But it can fight the disease and curb the fever, giving your daughters a fighting chance.” Taliana looked the customer up and down, noting the simple dress and worn shoes. “Their best chance is windsbane tonic, but I’m afraid it will be expensive.”
The lady’s face faded to a deeper hue of grey. “How much?” she whispered.
Before Taliana could respond, the door to the mixery opened.
“Tamathyst,” Ilyan’s voice called. “I’ll talk to the lady. Send her back if you please.”
The woman disappeared into the mixery, her hands shaking as she clutched her purse. Soon Taliana could hear the murmur of conversation. No other customers had arrived, so after a moment’s thought, Taliana pressed her ear against the door of the mixery.
“. . . the local apothecary,” the lady was saying. “He gave me coriander for the fever, but it did nothing.”
“Windsbane tonic is much more efficacious than coriander,” said Ilyan, his voice soft but firm. “But much more expensive, because the ingredients are extremely rare. Windsbane root comes only from the southeast edge of Kanonbry. You’ll need three doses per daughter.”
“How much will it cost?” the woman said, her tone desperate.
“For six doses? The ingredients alone cost me seventy-five shekels.”
No response, except what sounded like a woman struggling not to weep.
“How much can you afford?” Ilyan’s asked, his voice so low that Taliana could barely hear it.
“All I have is seven shekels, sir.”
A pause.
“I’ll sell it to you for two.”
That was the day Taliana began to understand what Ilyan the Estimable did with his profits.
An Overheard Agreement
A week later, Taliana was just nodding off when a shrill whisper woke her.
“Taliana!” Twigly cried. “Up! I found him!”
Taliana rolled over. “Who?”
“Your young pyromancer friend.”
Taliana jumped up, hurriedly donning a vest and following her cousin out a window onto the roof of the shelter. “Where?”
“Just three streets over. I think he’s waiting for someone.”
They scampered across moonlight rooftops, which at night were easier to traverse than the streets and alleys below. Taliana shivered, glancing up at where a dark orb hung in the night sky. She was almost never out at night. No one was often out at night. Night was the realm of the Void—the domain of demons, darkness, and danger.
When they arrived at their destination, the street was empty.
“Shadows,” Twigly hissed. “He can’t have gone far. We’ll split up. You go right, I’ll go left. But be careful. This is a pyromancer we’re talking about. Blundering buffalos, why didn’t I bring a knife?” The snippen disappeared, scurrying into the darkness.
Twigly was the one saying to be careful? This did not bode well.
Taliana glanced again at the Void, hanging in the sky, and nearly lost her resolve. Then she took a deep breath and headed in the opposite direction.
One block over, she peeked over the edge of a roof and froze.
Two figures stood in the alley below her. One held a candle in his hand. No, that wasn’t right—he held a flame in his hand, casually tossing it from finger to finger. He was the taller of the two, with his back turned to Taliana. The flickering light illuminated the face of the other, shorter man: the round-faced pyromancer with the brown hair.
“Look, you know I need your help,” the round-faced pyromancer was saying. “I’ve had this assignment for four months now. They’re getting impatient, and I’m running low on money.”
“How much is the job?” The taller man’s voice, deep and direct, cut through the darkness like a knife.
“Five hundred shekels,” said the shorter man, “plus a budget for bribes.”
The taller man huffed. “I’m working gigs that pay ten times that much.”
“That’s because you’re working special jobs for the vizier himself,” the shorter man said with a hint of annoyance.
The taller man passed his flame to his other hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Look,” said the shorter man. “I don’t even care about the money at this point. I just want the job done so I can move on to another assignment.”
“Fine,” said the taller man. “But if we’re doing this . . . we’re doing it my way.”
The light snuffed out, and the men started moving away. Taliana blinked, waiting for her eyes to adjust back to the darkness, then followed them, doing her absolute best to stay silent. By the time she reached the far end of the roof, the street beyond was empty. Pyromancers could move extremely fast when they wanted to.
She huddled in the dark. What now? Should she go find Twigly? Go back home?
The short man’s “job” was obviously to get Ilyan’s secret. He’d failed to bribe first Ilyan and then Taliana. So he’d gone to someone else for help. She shivered, recalling the taller pyromancer’s harsh voice. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it MY way. He did not seem like the kind of person to waste time.
Her mind made up, Taliana started running toward Ilyan’s shop.
Breaking and Entering
By the time Taliana arrived at Ilyan’s shop, she had almost talked herself out of it. The shop looked perfectly normal. Was she jumping to conclusions? Acting too hastily? She leaned against the shop door, debating whether she should knock and wake the old man. Surely her news could wait until the morning, right?
Then the door moved under the slight pressure of her paw, swinging open silently on hinges that had definitely not been greased the day before. She squinted up at the metal latch. It had been melted off.
A crash and a stifled yell sounded from the mixery.
Taliana scurried across the shop. The mixery door was hanging ajar, the lock smashed. A faint light glowed inside, cut off intermittently by moving shadows. She stopped just outside the doorframe, listening with growing panic.
“There’s nothing I can tell you!” That was Ilyan’s voice, tinged with pain. “Please, just let me go!”
A smack, and a grunt from Ilyan.
“Try again.” That was the short pyromancer’s voice. “This doesn’t have to be painful.”
“I’m telling you the truth,” Ilyan whimpered. “There is no secret. I have specialized instruments, the finest apprentices, time-honed recipes. That’s it.”
The taller pyromancer’s cold voice cut him off. “I don’t have time for lies, old man.” The room brightened with a flickering orange glow, and Taliana heard the crackle of flames. “Perhaps losing a few of your recipe books will jog your memory.”
“Be reasonable,” said the other voice. “Start with his ledgers.”
“There is no secret!” Ilyan pleaded. “I cannot tell you a secret that doesn’t exist! Do you want me to make something up?”
“Wrong answer,” said the low voice.
The orange glow flared as the crackle grew.
“No!” came Ilyan’s cry.
Taliana glanced around for a weapon. There was a loose piece of wood hanging from the underside of the countertop. But what then? Charge in with a stick to confront two highly-trained pyromancers each ten times her weight? She should have gone for the night watch the moment she overheard that conversation in the alley. By now it was too late.
“We’re not ignorant,” the shorter pyromancer said. “You’re the only shop in the city whose strength potions are free of side effects. Your fever tonics kick in hours faster than your competitors’. What is your secret?”
“Please . . . there is no . . .”
“Torch those ledgers behind you,” said the low voice.
Another increase in the flickering glow.
“Please!” Iyan said. “Will you kill me? In the dead of night?”
“Of course not,” said the low voice. “Just leave you standing outside a pile of ashes that used to be your shop, if you refuse to cooperate.”
Could Taliana find anything better than a stick? The mixery would have a fire poker and various knives, but she wasn’t in the mixery. She was in the sellery, which only held . . .
. . . potions, tinctures, and elixirs.
Taliana hopped up onto a shelf, grabbing a bottle. It was too dark to read the label, but she had each shelf and shape of bottle memorized. With trembling fingers, she popped the cork and downed a gulp, then a second. Her mouth filled with the taste of cloves and cinnamon.
Elixir of Confidence.
It started as a tingling in the tip of her tail, then swept through her like a raging tide. Her hands stopped trembling.
Who did these ruffians think they were? Barging into her shop? Threatening her master? She would show them.
“I keep telling you!” Ilyan repeated. “There is no secret! You’re going to ruin me for nothing!”
Taliana hopped to a second shelf, popping a cork off a tiny bottle and downing half its contents in a single swig.
Ambrosia of Agility.
This one would take a minute for its full effect to kick in. But already she felt looser, more fluid, as she climbed to the next shelf and took a swig from a third bottle.
Tincture of Strength.
Adrenaline surged through her body. Her muscles felt fit to explode as she grabbed a bag of powder, then leapt back to the ground. Reaching under the countertop, she grabbed the spar of wood and wrenched it free. The crackle of flames in the other room would likely mask the sound. So what if it didn’t? Let these hooligans come. She was more than ready for them.
Spear in hand, Taliana kicked open the door to the mixery.
Finish the adventure!
