The Trefoil Manuscripts

3: The Apothecary's Associates

Nullus quinta essentia -- Master and servant -- The Apparitor General
News of the world -- A proposition -- The cure -- An appointment
'A little bird tells me...' -- Another proposition -- A hard bargain

~oOo~

Leaving the park by one of the side entrances, Rotheric turns left and strides purposefully downhill, following Five Bells towards Oldtown. Although this bustling street deviates slightly from its initial course as it heads north towards Eastway and the park, at its beginning it emerges from Newmarket Piazza like a spoke from wheel. Rotheric reaches this origin quickly, and crosses the hexagonal piazza without even pausing to admire its spectacular fountain. He exits via one of the other five spokes: Tanner Street.

Damplestone's shop is on a tiny backstreet, quite difficult to locate, but only a short distance from the main thoroughfare. Rotheric always enjoys opening the door, hearing the sound of its tinny little bell, and breathing in the wealth of exotic scents that pervades it. The walls of the small room are covered from floor to ceiling in shelves and cabinets, which are in turn stuffed full of every conceivable herb, spice, tincture, distillation and mineral.

"Don't touch anything!" comes a cry from the back room of the shop. "I'll be with you in a moment!"

Soon Damplestone emerges, wearing his customarily stained and rumpled robes, and displaying more than a few fresh spills. He also appears to have singed off both of his eyebrows recently, together with a not insignificant portion of his beard.

"Yes?" he says, abruptly, squinting at Rotheric. "Who's that? What do you want?"

"It's me, you old fool. Rotheric. I have something for you."

Grimacing at the smell, Rotheric produces a small glass flask. Inside a greenish-brown fluid is slowly moving up and down, in defiance of gravity.

"Remember last week? You said that if you had a sample of a krjalki, you would be able to brew a particularly effective potion for my brother. Well, Master Damplestone, this is it!"

Rotheric carelessly throws the flask to the old man who nearly drops it on the stone floor.

"I shall expect this next portion for free - and I think under the circumstances, we can skip this fortnight's 'donation to your retirement fund' as well. Yes?"

Damplestone chuckles. "You're an impudent rascal, young Rotheric, I'll give you that. If this is truly what you say it is then you shall indeed have your brother's potion gratis. I must say, however, that at first sight it appears to be little more than river slime. How exactly did you come by it, and what makes you think that it is demon-ichor?"

Rotheric laughs, delighted at the money he's about to save. "Well, if we had a worshipper of St. Urocs here, I'm sure he'd go mad and foam at the mouth. Look at it, man! See how it moves about even when the flask is still - as if it is trying to escape from its prison. I took that morsel from a creature that emerged from the river this morning, all googly eyes and gibbering mouths. That sounds to me like a demon, no?"

Rotheric hesitates for a moment. "You do not intend that Sigeric drink that, do you? I'm no alchemist, but I think he needs less of the devil in him, not more."

"No, no, no," Damplestone reassures him. "Or at least, not in its present form. First the extraneous material must be removed by a process of resultion of coagulation, then an iterative process of cohobation must be applied to produce the quintessence of the evil. Once obtained, this perilous substance must be subjected to rigorous mortification, to utterly extinguish its potency and render it almost inert. In this attenuated form - the nullus quinta essentia - it has lost its capacity for harm, but still expresses its essential nature. This ingredient - when suspended in a suitably sanctified elixir, of course - then acts in conjunction with a beneficial agent to attack and expel a similar malign expression in a sufferer."

As he speaks, the apothecary's enthusiasm for his subject is obvious, but his face falls again when he notices Rotheric's evident bewilderment.

"But I digress," he says. "What were we talking about again? Ah yes, your brother. Well, you just leave this with me and I'll let you know how the process is going in a few days time. Very exciting, very exciting indeed! I shall commence immediately!"

He turns to leave, but then stops and glances back. "Oh, I'm sorry, my boy. Was there something else you wanted to ask?"

"Not for the moment, no," Rotheric answers. "I wish you good luck with your brewing and I shall return the day after tomorrow for news."

With that, he ducks out the door and heads towards Newgate.

~oOo~

Having delivered his still rather shaken master to a suitably diverting social engagement of a somewhat less stimulating nature, Salfard returns to the Lazaran residence in Northside to change out of his mud- and blood-spattered clothes. He enters unobtrusively, as is his custom, and does his best to avoid the other servants, who are in any event quite thoroughly occupied with their daily chores.

It is only when he is almost within sight of the door to his modest chamber that his stealthy ingress is finally foiled. A dry cough from behind him makes his heart sink, and he turns to face his discoverer with a sense of grim inevitability. As he had feared, it is the Old Master's manservant Garth, a conscientious but determinedly supercilious individual many years his senior. As his only nominal superior amongst the household staff, Garth very much enjoys reminding Salfard of that fact at every available opportunity.

"Young Master up early today, then?" he enquires, with an expression of sour amusement on his face as he surveys Salfard's all-too-evident sate of disarray. "Not hunting in the marshes again, surely?"

Salfard's face remains clam, stony faced to Garth's sour smile, and his answer avoids the old servant's question:

"Everyone admits how praiseworthy it is in a nobleman to keep faith, and to live with integrity and not with craft. Neverttheless our experience has been that those who have done great things have held good faith of little account and have known how to circumvent the intellect of men by craft."

"Does the Old Master fare well?"

"The integrity and praiseworthiness of the nobility is their own concern," Garth says, coldly. "And not a topic that was ever meant to exercise the idle tongues of their inferiors."

"As regards Lord Lazaran, I am pleased to report that he is having one of his better days. In fact, he asked me to convey you to him the instant I set eyes upon you. Under the circumstances," he continues, eying Salfard's soiled clothes with undisguised contempt. "I shall pretend that I have not seen you for the moment, in the faint hope that you will find more suitable attire in the interim."

A short while later, having hastily made himself more presentable, Salfard is led into Old Master's presence. His Lordship's bedchamber is richly appointed but very dimly lit, with only the occasional wan beam of light piercing the heavy curtains that cover the three windows. Lord Lazaran sits propped up in his bed, which is a massive and ornately-carved construction of dark polished wood, hung about on all sides with dusty but still vaguely translucent veils. Illuminated only by a reading lantern, the ailing lord's pitifully distorted form is just visible.

"My lord, I have finally located your wayward son's wayward servant," Garth announces, allowing himself a small smirk. "Do you require anything further?"

The invalid's immediate response is a protracted fit of coughing, but he eventually manages to wheeze: "No, no. Leave us, Garth."

"As you wish, my lord," the old servant says. He gives Salfard one last glance of withering contempt and then exits.

"Come a little closer, Salfard," wheezes the Lazaran. "I want you to tell me what my idiot son has been doing now. What is this that I hear about a duel? When is this absurd event to take place?"

~oOo~

Duelling always makes Rotheric hungry, so he makes his way to the piazza for a leisurely breakfast. He sits for a hour or so watching the crowds mill around him and chats with a fellow fop about the latest fashions. Later, he passes by Whelk the tailor where he purchases a new silk shirt and then he visits one of his female 'admirers' for a afternoon of surreptitious pleasure.

The effect of all this upon the contents of Rotheric's purse is, as might be expected, rather deleterious. Consequently, when he stops to purchase some refreshments on his way to his fencing schoool in the evening, he finds that his supply of coin has been almost completely exhausted. He recalls that he hadd been counting on being paid for the morning's entertainment, and realises that the unexpected denouement of that particular engagement and the miserly attitude of his employer has left him in an uncomfortable position. Resolving to pay a visit to House Lazaran at his earliest opportunity, Rotheric considers what to do for funds in the short term.

His train of thought is interrupted by a polite cough.

"Please forgive me for disturbing you," comes a quiet voice, the tone cultured and the enunciation precise. "But I wonder if I might have a few moments of your time, Sir Rotheric? It may be to your advantage..."

The speaker, it transpires, is a middle-aged man that Rotheric has never seen before. He has the bookish air of a scholar about him, but combined with an under-stated aura of confidence and authority that suggests a reasonably senior cleric or successful merchant. Dressed conservatively but expensively in dark or neutral tones, he regards Rotheric with a carefully guarded expression. Politely inclining his head to acknowledge the duellist, he gestures towards a nearby tavern.

"If you would care to join me...?" he prompts.

Quick to spot a potential source of income, Rotheric bows politely and follows the man into the tavern. Once inside, Rotheric sits with his back to the wall where he can keep an eye on the front door.

"Would you like a refreshment?" he asks the man first. Rotheric orders a glass of wine for himself. Once they are served, Rotheric leans back and studies the man's body language.

"How can I be of assistance?" is his next question.

The stranger gratefully accepts Rotheric's offer and directs him to a table in a quiet corner. He seems completely at ease and is obviously familiar with this drinking establishment, nodding a greeting to the ruddy-faced alewife. He sips at his beer before speaking.

"Aaahh," he exclaims. "That's better. First of all, please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Sarken, and I have the honour of serving the Ecumenical Council. In my official capacity, as Apparitor General, it is my responsibility to oversee the implementation of the Council's rulings, but I am also charged with certain investigative duties. It is in this latter capacity that I am here today."

He smiles at the bemused expression on Rotheric's face.

"But I can see that you are a little perplexed by this, so I shall come swiftly to my purpose. I know you are acquainted with an apothecary named Damplestone and that you regularly avail yourself of his services, procuring medicines, it seems, for your sickly brother. What you may not know, however, is that this individual is believed to dabble in more than mere remedies, and that even the nature of those concoctions may be suspect."

"The Council have long been aware of the existence of a secretive organisation in our fair city, a group of dangerous individuals that style themselves the Guild of Alchemists. Needless to say, this is no true guild and its activities have no legitimate sanction from any of the Councils. Our interest in this group - that is to say, the interest of the Ecumenical Council - relates to the pernicious nature of their activities. I don't mean to alarm you, but I have to tell you that these people are sorcerers, selfish and amoral magicians who pursue their lust for power without any regard for the teachings of the Churches."

"If, as we suspect, your friend Damplestone is a member of this organisation, then you and your brother may already be in great danger. Indeed, your relationship with this man has already placed you in a difficult position; aiding a heretic and sorcerer is after all a serious offence in itself. I believe that you did so unknowing, however, so if you will agree to help me with my investigations, then I can promise you the exoneration and the gratitude of the Council."

He pauses, studying Rotheric's face.

"Well, Sir Rotheric? I know that this may have come as a shock to you, but I must press you for an answer. Can I count on your help?"

~oOo~

Salfard opens his mouth to respond, but the ailing lord is convulsed with another fit of coughing. Having concluded this inadvertant interruption with a strangled curse, the old man pauses only to draw a ragged breath before continuing with his stream of questions.

"And what is that blasted fool Savaran up to now?" he asks. "Has there been any word from Tortun about poor dear Erengazor? Silly girl, never did know how to choose her friends. I knew her father in my youth, you know. Depressingly ignorant fellow. Well, Salfard? Speak, man! I must have information," he snaps, and then sighs heavily. "Garth is worse than useless in this regard. The only news he can bring me concerns the price of vittles or the improprieties of the servants. Arkat preserve me from that drivel! You are my only hope when it comes to civilised conversation," he concludes with a weak smile. "Do not disappoint me."

Salfard moves closer to the wheezing old Lazaran.

"Milord, I was overwhelmed by my neverending duties concerning the young master. Apologies for the long silences and lack of decent information. I shall endeavour to answer your enquiries regarding the world at large as best I can, but suggest that my news is in some parts mere gossip, in others idle rumours, and yet again, some may be outright lies and wicked misdirection spread abroad with cunning and knavery in order to achieve some aim politic. Howsoever that may be, I am sure your noble mind shall pick the wheat from the chaff, and can consider most conspiracies of little account for your people hold you in high esteem."

"I shall begin by answering your questions in the very same sequence in which you have kindly brought them to my attention. Thus, firstly, Savaran."

Salfard waxes eloquent on the subjects that his lord craves. Savaran is one of the Old Houses, whose current head is the Principal of the Council of Houses. His hunger for power is well-known, but it is not matched by notable wit or subtlety it his attempts to consolidate his position. The general consensus is that he holds the Principal post because the other, more capable, candidates are too busy fighting amongst themselves.

Other items of note from within Syran include an escalating series of violent incidents, apparently auguring open warfare between the city's two main criminal fraternities. These so-called Syndicates have co-existed in relative harmony for decades, so the news implies a change in the status quo - perhaps the rise of the rumoured third Syndicate.

The word from Tortun is that things are still in confusion, with Erengazor barely clinging to power while her nobles fight amongst themselves over who should be in overall control. This, Salfard assures his lord, should preserve Syran from her sister-city's unwelcome attentions for some time, but everyone expects that Tortun will eventually attempt to re-assert its authority at some point. Fierce debate rages as to what should be done when that day arrives.

Lazaran makes few interruptions and only does so when he feels that the servant has glossed over a point of particular interest. When Salfard concludes his report, the old man sighs and makes a familiar noise of satisfaction.

"Now," he says, fixing the servant with a slightly reproachful glare. "To less savoury matters. To wit: my son and your charge. What do you have to tell me about this duel?"

~oOo~

Rotheric takes a slow sip of wine in order to gain some time to think. He studies the man opposite him and after a while nods slowly.

"First, you must understand a few things, Sirrah. I do not 'aid' Damplestone as you put it, but merely do business with him in order to obtain some medicine for my brother, who is a bit under the weather."

"Secondly, if you think this man is a dangerous sorcerer and wish to offer his gizzards to the crows or whatnot, then I would be left without medication - and this would not be good. Alternatives would have to be arranged."

"And lastly... How much are you willing to pay for my services?"

"Ah yes," Sarken notes with a wry smile. "Compensation. Well I certainly have a sizeable disbursement at my disposal, which may be used as I see fit to pursue of this matter. If you were to be helpful, then I would see to it that you were suitably rewarded for your efforts. And if you do have some immediate expenses that require your attention, then I may be able to take care of them on your behalf."

"I am not asking you to assist me in your ahhhh... mercenary capacity, however. I am merely informing you that your complicity in a matter of this severity, were it to be demonstrated, would be regarded in a very grave light. You claim that your relationshop with this Damplestone is strictly a matter of business, but I'm not sure that explanation satisfactorily accounts for all of your dealings with the man. I'm referring to the regular contributions that you have made, irregardless of your purchases, to what you jocularly refer to as his 'retirement fund'. If questions were asked as to the nature of these payments, could you answer them?"

He pauses, arching one eybrow and regarding Rotheric with a faint smile.

"Were you to assist me, however," he continues. "No questions would need to be asked. A dangerous sorcerer would be unmasked - we'll overlook, for the present, your comments about gizzards and crows - and you would be recompensed for your diligence. Granted, you would have to find another purveyor of medicines, but that might actually be a good idea anyay. Damplestone has hardly furnished you with a miraculous cure for your brother's mysterious ailment, now has he?"

Rotheric carefully brushes away a speck of dirt on his sleeve and then leans back in his chair again.

"So, what exactly is it you wish from me? You seem to know a lot about Damplestone already - more than I could tell you. And he is not the kind of man you could challenge to a duel. Sure, I'd be the laughingstock of the town were I to challenge that piece of boiled asparagus. He hardly has the strength to lift his mortar and pestle."

Sarken laughs out loud. "No, no, you misunderstand me. I don't want you to fight him or threaten him. In fact, I don't want you to do anything to make him suspect that your relationship has changed in any way. Information is what I am after, and I believe that you are in a position to obtain it. I wouldn't go so far as to say that he trusts you, but you are sufficiently familiar that he will not suspect your intentions. This may make him careless enough to let his guard down."

"In particular, I'm interested in identifying his accomplices and learning when and where they meet. I don't expect him to consciously share this sort of information with you, but if you keep your ears open and your wits about you then he may let something slip."

"Let me put it this way: I'm offering you a way to extricate yourself from an unfortunate acquaintance and to do your duty as a citizen and a good Malkioni - with the promise of monetary compensation if you are sufficently helpful. What do you have to lose?"

"Not much, it would seem. But tell me..." Rotheric narrows his eyes. "...What do you know of my brother? He has no part in this and I do not want that to change."

"At present, I know very little, save that he suffers from a mysterious and persistent ailment, and you that are unusually devoted to him. I say unusually, because it seems that you are devoted to little else besides your own aggrandisement. If I were an unscrupulous man, I might exploit even this small amount of knowledge, but fortunately for you I am not."

He meets Rotheric's wary gaze calmly, his expression serious but sincere. "I have no wish to harm either you or your brother. You would not wish to have me for an enemy, but if you serve me well, then you will find that I am a good friend."

"Here," he concludes, producing a small purse and pushing across the table. "Take this as small token of my sincerity. Let us meet here again in a week's time. And if you have anything important to report before then, leave a message with the taverner. She knows how to contact me."

"Are we agreed?"

Rotheric studies Sarken for a short moment. Seeing no obvious hints of deception, the duellist nods his acceptance.

"I will keep an eye out for Master Damplestone's activities. I have a meeting with him in a few days anyway. So, we will meet again here in a week - but it might be that I have no news for you. That old man has a sly side to him."

"For now, I have other pressing business. So I'll bid you farewell and thank you for a most interesting conversation."

With that, Rotheric rises, pockets the purse and bows to Sarken before striding out of the tavern.

Once outside, he seeks out another nearby tavern for a hot meal. He opens the purse and discreetly counts the money therein. Seeing that there is a considerable amount, his spirits are lifted and with a delighted smile he heads towards an illegal gambling house where he proceeds to lose most of it on a single toss of dice...

~oOo~

The following day passes without incident. Rotheric spends much of it at the fencing school. Keeping busy helps him to ignore the sharp pangs of hunger and to drive off the consequent - if rudimentary - murmurs of conscience that arise whenever he remembers why he has precious little money to buy food today. He goes to bed hungry, and sleeps fitfully, disturbed by the piteuous wailing from the next room.

When he returns to the apothecary's shop in Oldtown the next morning, the proprieter seems unusually pleased and excited to see him.

"Ah, there you are!" he declares. "I've been expecting you - just wait there."

Damplestone disappears into the back room and returns a short while later with a small flagon of swirling, multi-coloured liquid. "I have a very good feeling about this," he announces, beaming. "Please, give it to the, ah, patient without delay and let me know the results. I had some help from one of my, ah, associates, and we think we may have hit upon something quite special. I am quite eager to know whether our confidence is justified."

Noting Rotheric's suspicious and rather bemused expression, the apothecary smiles pleasantly. "This is just a small sample, of course," he says. "And obviously there is no charge. If it does prove to be effective, we can discuss my fee for making more. Although..."

He beckons Rotheric closer and his voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. "My, ah, colleague did suggest that a permanent cure might be effected if we were able to work more closely with the, ah, patient. For the right price, obviously..."

Rotheric cautiously takes the flagon from Damplestone and eyes it suspiciously.

"So this should help my brother for a short while? Tell you what, Master Damplestone - I will give your potion to him and if there is any improvement, I will let you know the result straight away. As to your 'associates'.... Can you tell me more of them?"

"Ahhhh... not at the moment," the apothecary says cautiously. "But perhaps, if our concoction proves successful, we can all arrange to meet in a... more private venue. But don't dilly-dally here, m'boy - go, go! I have work to do and you have an elixir to deliver!"

Rotheric listens to the alchemist and then leaves the shop again. He is not heading straight home, though. He heads towards a Hightown villa and a married lady he knows there. A soft touch and very lonely, she eagerly welcomes him. An hour or so later, a grinning Rotheric leaves again, a valuable ring decorating his finger.

After a visit to a pawnshop and a trip to the market, the duellist returns home. He eats a quick breakfast and then unlocks the door to his brother's room.

Pausing at the door to let his eyes adjust to the dark, he sees Sigeric looking at him from the bed.

"I have a new potion for you to try. This one should help you get better."

A rasping laugh comes from the thing that once was his brother. "You said that of the last one as well. And the one before that.... What is it this time? Dragonewt blood? Troll eyes?"

"At least give it a try," Rotheric says. He moves closer to the bed, trying not to look to closely at his brother. The darkness helps. "I brought you food and water as well."

He puts the tray down within reach of Sigeric and steps back. He pauses in the doorway, trying to ignore the horrible noises as his brother eats.

"Get well soon, brother", he whispers softly before closing and locking the door again.

The following morning, Rotheric groggily draws the shabby curtains and notes that this day has dawned a little brighter than the last. That's nice, he thinks. Hopefully it won't rain today, then. He has a nagging sense that something else is different too, but as he stretches and yawns, his thoughts turning to breakfast, he cannot put his finger on it.

Two minutes later he is rushing to unlock his brother's door, simultaneously hopeful and terrified by the almost eerie absence of the pitiful noises that commonly issue from his sibling's room at this hour. The sight that greets him evokes an indescribable rush of emotions: his brother, sleeping, his normally twisted and pain-wracked body in calm and blissful repose for the first time that Rotheric can remember since childhood.

~oOo~

Rotheric arrives at Damplestone's shop in a breathless rush of excitment.

"It worked! It worked!" he shouts, then makes an effort to compose himself when he realises that the apothecary is dealing with another customer. Fidgeting with impatience and not even attempting to conceal his irritation, Rotheric waits until the woman leaves, ignoring the curious glance that she gives him on her way out.

"Damplestone!" he breathes. "You're a marvel! Sigeric is sleeping like a baby!"

"Now, now Master Rotheric," the apothecary tells him with a tolerant smile. "Please refrain from scaring any more of my customers and try not to let your excitement carry you away." He glances warily at the door and then beckons. "Come through to the back and we'll discuss this in private."

Damplestone's private quarters are a more disorderly version of the shop, with his modest personal furnishings - a bed, a table and a chair - almost completely overwhelmed by cabinets full of ingredients and workbenches covered with variety of works-in-progress. Rotheric peers about him with idel curiosity, but finds the spectacle rather bewildering. He is more interested in what the apothecary has to say.

"As I mentioned," Damplestone tells his visitor. "The preparation that I gave you will not effect a complete cure. If its effects are beneficial," he breaks off to favour Rotheric with a broad smile. "And I am guessing that they are beneficial?"

The other man nods enthusiastically. "Yes, yes, yes. Get to the point."

"Good, good. Well, unfortunately the elixir that I gave you can only provide a temporary respite. To effect a complete cure - if such a thing is possible - I believe that we must enlist the aid of a colleague. To this end, I should like to arrange for you to meet him - in strictest confidence."

He sighs. "I'm sorry to dwell upon this last point, but I'm sure that you understand the need for discretion - your brother's malady is not something that you would want the whole city to know about, now is it? Similarly, it is important for my colleague and I to avoid the attentions of those who regard our work as, ah, dubious."

He names an address in the Glassmakers district. "You know the place? Meet us there tonight, just after dusk. And please remember - tell no-one where you are going."

~oOo~

Rotheric does not hesitate for long before agreeing to the alchemists' proposal.

"I shall be there, don't worry. And thank you again, Master Damplestone. Until this evening."

The duellist bows and leaves the shop, the bell on the door tinkling as he leaves. In a good mood, he strolls along to a café where a few noblemen are seated. Recognizing Rotheric, they call him over and offer him a bite to eat.

One of the noblemen, Lord Elmar, a pimply-faced youth, leans over and whispers to Rotheric. "Er.... I am in need of your services... I've been challenged to a duel in two days time, and I'm not the best with a sword... er... do you think... you could?"

Rotheric nods and mentions an outrageous sum of money. "Half of it up front, m'lord. Have one of your servants drop it by this address today, along with the details". He hands Lord Elmar one of his expensive cards.

"Er... yes... of course. Thank you very much!" The relief is clear to see on the young man's face.

Rotheric lingers for a while longer and then heads for the market, using his wiles to get credit from the surly merchants. He arrives back at the house carrying a large amount of fine food and wine.

He spends the rest of the day talking to Sigeric and enjoying his brother's company. A servant drops off a large sum of money in the afternoon and tells Rotheric who to fight and where. At dusk, the duellist reluctantly leaves his brother and heads for the appointed meeting place.

The sudden sound of heavy footsteps behind him alerts Rotheric, as he takes a shortcut through a narrow alleyway. Whirling to face his pursuers and reaching for his rapier, the duellist is just assessing his chances against the group of heavily armed men bearing down upon him when they come to an orderly halt a few paces away. Their leader greets him warmly. It is Sarken.

"Well met, Sir Rotheric," begins the man, who styled himself the Apparitor General at their last meeting. "You'll forgive me for noting that you seem somewhat alarmed to see me. Is something preying on your mind, perhaps? A pressing appointment that I'm keeping you from?"

"Not at all, good Sir. I am on my way to meet... a friend of a friend, if you follow me. When I have gathered sufficient information that I think it worthy of your attention, I will seek you out. I would not choose to bother you with trivialities. Now, if you will excuse me, Sirrah, I *am* in fact a bit late for my appointment."

Rotheric bows deeply to the group and turns around, walking away with a steady pace.

"A moment, my friend." Sarken's tone is level, but there is a delicate hint of menace in his voice when he continues. "A little bird tells me that you have been to visit our mutual friend on two occasions since we spoke. On the second occasion, this very morning, you were described as 'excited'. Do you really mean to tell me that none of your dealings are 'worthy of my attention'?"

Rotheric fingers the pommel of his sword in irritation. How dense can people be?

"What I meant, m'lord, was that I intend to go meet our mutual friend's business partners - and then report back to you. I have not forgotten our agreement."

Rotheric speaks in hushed tones, not wanting Sarken's henchmen to listen in.

"I can tell you though, that the potion Damplestone concocted seems to work. My brother was cured of his... affliction, which was the cause of my excitement.

Now, I would of course be happy to stand here and banter all day, but as you well know, I'm expected elsewhere. With your permission?"

Sarken frowns slightly at Rotheric's flippancy, but seems satisfied with his explanation. "Very well, sir. I shall grant you the benefit of the doubt on this occasion. I must warn you, however: place no faith in the bedevilments of Damplestone and his cohorts. Whatever apparent curative properties this 'potion' has, I'll warrant that the effects will prove short-lived, if not entirely counter-productive in the long run."

He turns and makes a signal to his men, who promptly lower their guard and begin to withdraw. Also moving to take his leave, Sarken looks back briefly to make a final remark.

"Go then, off to your rendezvous. But do not forget where your loyalties lie, Sir Rotheric."

~oOo~

Relieved, but feeling more than a little uneasy after this encounter, Rotheric wastes no time in making his way to Glassmakers. Damplestone had named a street close to the district's northerly bridge and arranged to meet him there, outside a chandlers shop. The shop is easy to locate, although it seems to have been abandoned. There is no sign of Damplestone at first, but as Rotheric bends to peer through the dusty glass window he hears a hiss from the alley beside the shop. The apothecary, glancing around nervously, beckons him over.

"Come on - there's an entrance back here," he whispers. "I say, are you quite sure you weren't followed?"

Not waiting for the duellist to answer, Damplestone leads the way down the foul-smelling alley and through a tatty door at the rear of the property. Stairs lead own to a dimly-lit basement, where two other individuals sit at a table awaiting them.

The first is a tall, serious-looking man wearing a curious contraption on his face: two discs of glass in a wire frame, which perches on the bridge of his nose and hooks behind his ears. Rotheric has seen a similar construct only once before and only dimly recalls its purpose. The man stares intently at Rotheric, his eyes greatly magnified, and blinks twice.

The other man sits some distance away from the room's only light source: a dusty oil lamp, which sits at one end of the table. Rotheric cannot make out his face in the half-light, but feels that there is something vaguely familiar about him.

Damplestone introduces him to the men in hushed tones. "This is our client, gentlemen. As I was telling you before, the potion seems to have been effective and he would like to discuss the possibilities for a more permanent cure."

The apothecary turns back to address Rotheric. "This is my esteemed colleague, Bastian," he says, indicating the bespectacled gentleman and pronouncing his name in the Seshnelan fashion (bas-tyan), complete with the nasal vowel sound on the second syllable. "I also asked my ah... apprentice to join us," he continues, gesturing at the man in the shadows. "In case he can offer any insights. Bastian?"

The tall man leans forward, smiling eagerly, and extends a long-fingered hand. "I am very pleased to meet you, Sir Rotheric," he says, his carefully pronounced words betraying a distinct but unfamiliar accent. "Your brother's case is most intriguing for me. If you will permit me, I shall be pleased to examine him and we shall see what we can do about his regrettable condition. I cannot make the great promise, but I hope that you are confident now of my capabilities. It worked well, then, the potion? Most pleasing, most pleasing. What do you say? Shall we be partners?"

Rotheric is suspicious. "And what will be the terms of this partnership? I imagine that it is going to cost me dearly. I'm not made of money, you know..."

"No, no - I think you misunderstand," Bastian begins. "I am meaning to say..."

The man from the shadows interrupts him. "My colleagues and I have a different type of partnership in mind," he observes. "A mutually beneficial arrangement, wherein we apply our not inconsiderable combined talents to your problem, and you apply your own talents to ours."

Bastian beams at this "Yes, yes. This is it. Your talents for our talents. Fair exchange."

Rotheric frowns. "You have a duel that you wish me to fight on your behalf, perhaps?" he asks hopefully.

"Ah... no," Bastian admits, looking troubled. "Not a duel..."

"The duel that we are engaged in has a different set of rules," the man in the shadows interjects. "We have been fighting it for some time now, but our opponent is preparing to change the rules of engagement. We would like to anticipate this by taking the fight to him - engaging in a little giocco stretto, if you catch my meaning."

This phrase, which literally means 'close playing', refers to fencing techniques that are used for fighting close-in at seizing and grappling range. Rotheric is perplexed by this turn in the conversation, but the fencing analogy makes him feel a little more comfortable.

"With what objective?" he enquires.

"Why to relieve our opponent of his sword, of course. Or one of his most important weapons, at least. I'm afraid that the analogy falls down a little at this point, but I hope that you understand my meaning."

"That is a perilous manoeuvre," Rotheric tells him. "Especially if your opponent has a spare blade in his belt. This 'sword' that you wish me to disarm - does he have a name?"

Bastian and Damplestone are silent. The man in the shadows leans forward into the periphery of the lamplight, the revealing a distinctive but unfamiliar face. Something about him does spark a glimmer of memory, however, and Rotheric finds himself struggling to put his finger on it.

"You will help us, then?" the man says, a little too eagerly.

"I did not say that," Rotheric observes. "I generally make a point of knowing a little about my opponent before I agree to take on a client's commission. Name your 'sword' and I shall give you my answer."

The three other men glance nervously at each other, as if holding a silent conversation. Once again, it is Damplestone's so-called 'apprentice' who speaks.

"To be clear," he says. "When I said that we wanted to relieve our opponent of this weapon, I had a very... permanent solution in mind."

Rotheric nods impatiently, growing tired of the fellow's reluctance to speak plainly. "That is understood. Go on."

"And I should also warn you that the 'sword' in question is a noblewoman and an adept," he says.

"A woman?" the duellist exclaims, surprised.

"A sword in our opponent's hand. Make no mistake, Sir Rotheric: this is no delicate flower, for all her noble birth. She is an adept and a deadly foe. Is this going to be a problem?"

Rotheric does not answer. He has been experiencing a sudden lurching sensation in his stomach, akin to vertigo. Could this just be a coincidence, or...

"This noblewoman," he asks, trying to sound casual. "Is she a Heligan?"

The three men exchange a significant glance.

"She is," Bastian confirms. "You know the lady?"

~oOo~

Rotheric leans back in his chair, considering the offer. He feels some vague connection with this woman, but on the other hand, the cure for his brother clearly outweighs any scruples he might have...

"It would stir things up, this 'giocco stretto'... My brother and I might have to leave town for a while until things cool down. I would need a large amount of money as well as the potion."

The duellist mentions a sum, enough to keep him living comfortably and in reasonable style for at least a year.

"Well, good sirs. There it is. What is your reply?"

Damplestone blanches at this and Bastian's mouth opens in frank amazement, but the other man regards him levelly and narrows his eyes.

"That is a preposterous amount of money, Sir Rotheric," he says quietly, stressing the title in a way that unmistakably conveys his contempt for the honour that it implies. "As I am sure you know. Oh, I'm sure that we can provide you with a modest sum to compensate you for the undoubted inconvenience that this might cause you, but I do not think that you are in a position to bargain. Either you want the cure for your brother or you do not."

He smiles ruefully at this point, the grim humour of this expresssion contrasting sharply with the look of sadness in his eyes. "But I should warn you, my friend: the draught that we have already provided, while it has doubtless granted him a temporary release from his unfortunate ailment, will not last for long. And when its beneficial effects are over, I'm afraid that your brother's... distemper will return with a vengeance."

"Now... do we have an understanding or not?"

Rotheric has to suppress the urge to run this fool through with his sword...

"I hope your master has taught you to make more of this potion then, apprentice (this with a sarcastic smirk). Very well, I will consider your offer. I will need all the details you have on this woman; where she lives, her daily routine, her guards etc... Do you want it to appear as an accident? - or do you wish 'to set an example'? In any case, I'll take that 'modest sum' you offer for now. I will expect a permanent cure for my brother once this is over."

Rotheric looks Damplestone in the eyes, his gaze hard and uncompromising. "Can this be done?"

The apothecary trembles briefly under the duellist's gaze and then looks down quickly to avoid it. "Yes," he acknowledges. "Yes, I'm sure it..."

His 'apprentice' interrupts. "You shall have your cure, sir. As to the details that you ask for... these you shall have to discover for yourself, for we are not privy to the lady's habits, nor do we have the advantages of birth and rank that make you her nominal peer. She dwells, I am told, with her father and rest of their family, in Lord Heligan's mansion in Hightown. As an adept of the School of Tenebrous Wisdom, her duties must occasionally take her to the premises of that establishment in Northside. But perhaps you know this already, having already made the lady's acquaintance?"

He glances at Rotheric as if expecting a reaction, then continues. "No matter. As to the manner in which she meets her fate: I care not. Make it swift and make it certain, that is all."

Bastian opens his mouth to add something, then thinks better of it. Damplestine continues to scrutinise his lap. The third man produces a small purse and slides it across the table towards Rotheric.

"There. That should slake your lust for gold, for a short while at least. Do not ask for more. If you do not understand the value of the cure that will be your true payment for this deed, then you are even more of a fool than I took you for. I bid you good night, sir." He stands abruptly, and moves towards the door, inclining his head to his associates. "Gentlemen."

Damplestone glances at Rotheric apologetically, abashed by his continued accusatory glare. "I must apologise for my... ah colleague, my boy. He does tend to be rather... direct."

"Yes," Bastian adds, his magnified eyes blinking at Roethric through this spectacles. "But do not be afraid: if you do as he asks, I shall make certain that you have your cure. Hard times, as you can see, are driving a hard bargain." He hesitates, then produces a small object from his pocket. "Ca... excuse me, our friend should probably not be liking me to give you this, but I am not so... bitter as to deny you the gratitude that you deserve for agreeing to help us."

He hands the item to Rotheric, who sees that it is a small disc of metal very much like a coin, but with an unfamilar insignia engraved on both sides: a circle enclosing a geometric design that is something like a clover leaf. He looks quizzically at Bastian.

"It is a small thing," the man says, with as shrug. "But if you do find yourself in difficulties, then showing this symbol might turn an enemy into a friend. Or... the reverse of this," he adds, smiling apologetically. "But that is the way with these things, I am afraid."

"Very good," he says, to no-one in particular. "Now we should depart, I think. And please do not try to contact us until your... objective has been achieved. Many eyes are watching us, I fear."

~oOo~