The Doktor's Spyglass

Chapter 10.1

He climbed back to the roof before leaving and pulled up his makeshift canvas cable, taking it with him and leaving it in the sewer line below the cellar. There'd be little doubt in Tolvaj's mind who'd cold cocked Abney, but he preferred to leave no obvious evidence that it had been him. The rope and the descent from the roof might encourage them to look harder for the escape shaft, and he'd rather it be kept secret if possible. He'd put everything else in the room back as it was, hiding his dirty clothes under the bed. Hopefully they wouldn't notice the broken window catch.

Minutes later he was back on Eb Way, walking west into the Warrens. One stupid thing accomplished. Now on to number two.

The line between the west end of Ebsea and the east end of the Warrens was blurry, not bright. Thijis waited until he'd crossed well into the latter, and stopped at one of the little corner shops Warreners called potheks. One of the many peculiarities of the most infamous of Oridos' boroughs was that it had something of its own language. The dialect ranged from small differences like pothek to veritable second tongues, like the barter language the fences spoke at the bottom of the Gash. He'd heard alternative explanations for the persistence of pothek, ranging from a bastardized form of the Old Elimannen word for "shop" to a simple shortening of "apothecary," an allusion to the chemical concoctions, both medicinal and recreational, available at all of them. Either way the potheks were little dens of vice at the corners of larger blocks of sin, and purveyed all manner of questionable merchandise. Including milk, papers, black powder, and holdout pistols. Not to mention a nobleman's ransom in sauma.

What Thijis really needed right now was a message sent and a stiff drink, which the scowling, mustachioed fellow behind the counter at the pothek was more than happy to provide. Well, maybe not happy.

"Dram of whiskey," he said, taking a sheet of paper from his field notebook and borrowing a pencil from the clerk's cup.

"This ain't a bar," said the clerk.

"And yet," said Thijis, finishing his note and folding up the paper, "a dram of whiskey." The clerk grunted and fished behind his counter, finally uncorking a small bottle and pouring into a tin cup.

Thijis took it in one hit and handed the man his note. "I need to get this to Undersheriff Krizner, Kammerend Precinct. And that was terrible. I'll have another."

The clerk made no motion to take the paper, managing to look not only unpleasant but insulted.

"Do I look like a spend a lot of time in Kammerend?" he snapped.

"No," said Thijis. He held out the paper for a moment, then sighed. A crown slid across the counter between them, and suddenly the clerk's disposition changed. He only looked like he'd ignore Irik if he saw him being murdered now, rather than joining in. "Get it there quick like, and don't tell anyone where it came from, and I won't need any change. Deal?"

After a moment, the clerk nodded.

"No peeking now," said Thijis, "just because I don't have a proper seal on me." It didn't matter if he read it or not, but appearances must be maintained. "Where's my second cup?"

He poured again, Thijis slammed it back, and threw another crown on the counter. "Next time, friend, turn that frown upside down. It wouldn't hurt you to be nice. Mother likes us to play friendly, like." He smiled, tipped his hat, and walked out.

The mention of Mother would ensure the note got where it was going. You could never stop gossip, but if he hadn't wanted everybody to know he was sending notes to Krizner, he wouldn't have done so through a sour little pothekman.

His boots scuffing the rounded cobbles of Eb Way, he walked deeper in the Warrens before cutting left through a series of apartment buildings, making his way out of the criminal garden of Oridos toward a far deadlier doorstep.

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To be continued Wednesday, October 7th.  In the meantime, visit me at jamesdcormier.com or on Facebook at facebook.com/jamescormierauthor.

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