And so it went on. It lasted close to an hour and they were silent throughout. At the end, when Helthor finally gets his just deserts and the stage (it was my own adaptation of an old play) is strewn with bodies, there was a long, satisfied pause. Garnet, who had listened with great attentiveness asked, “And how did Helthor’s child rule Sardis?”
I gave him a long, silent look. There was something in his voice that said he thought the story was true, like I had known this mythical psychopath personally. I knew he was neither joking nor stupid, but this was one of his curious blind spots. Renthrette tried to give me a hostile look but she looked faintly confused. I had to say something to Garnet, but the question was all wrong. The story was over and Helthor’s son ceased to exist as soon as I concluded the epilogue. The son was closure, the restoration of order and promise of better things to come, nothing more. I answered him carefully.
“He lived long and happily, ruled his country well, and was accounted a great king and a good man.”
Garnet watched me thoughtfully for a moment. Everyone was silent.
“Good,” he said simply. And I suppose it was. Hadn’t I said all tales were true once told? They form a kind of reality, even if it’s one we can’t live in.
Having said that, of course, reality-my reality-had gotten rather odd of late. Aside from the horrors of being an adventurer, whatever that was supposed to be, I was still struggling with some key details that didn’t fit my pragmatic worldview. First there was Orgos’s sword and Lisha’s spear. Then there was the raiders’ ability to appear and disappear without leaving the slightest trace.
I started with Orgos.
“Are you ready to hear the answer this time?” he said.
I nodded. It was a lie, but I didn’t actually say anything, so it was only kind of a lie, right?
“The sword is an artifact of power,” he said. “It was a gift from Arthen of Snowcrag. I believe he found it, though he never said where. You’ve heard of such things, surely?”
“In stories,” I sneered, and then stopped myself and said simply, “Yes.”
“The stories are true,” he said, equally simply. “The artifacts are rare, most of them are very old, and most people who have one either don’t recognize what it is or don’t know how to use it, but they are real.”
“And you have one,” I said.
“And know how to use it,” he replied. It wasn’t a boast, just a statement of fact.
“And Lisha’s?” I ventured.
He gave me a quick look. He didn’t know I’d seen it.
“Yes,” he said. “Lisha has one too. Its power is a little different from mine, more versatile. I don’t know all it can do.”
“Are there any others I should know about?” I asked, trying not to sound snide. “I mean, if Renthrette has a magic bottle opener or something. ”
“We have no others,” he said.
“How do they work?” I asked. “I mean, I know.
“The crystal is what gives the artifact its power and character,” said Orgos, “though using it requires something of the wielder as well.”
“Like what?”
“It depends on the artifact, though they all need tremendous mental focus and a sense of purpose from anyone trying to use them.”
“So I couldn’t use it,” I said, grinning.
“No,” he answered. “I can use mine, that’s all. I couldn’t use Lisha’s if I tried, and I doubt she could use mine. They are very.
“Naturally,” I said.
“You wanted to know about it,” he said, a tad defensive.
“Let me try.”
I was kidding, really, but he drew it and passed it to me without a second thought. I took it and felt its weight in my hand. Then I stood up, threw back my shoulders, and held the sword above my head. I shut my eyes and focused. Nothing happened.
“Is there a magic word or something?” I said, squinting at Orgos with one eye.
“No magic word,” he said, smiling.
I shut my eyes and concentrated as hard as I could for about a minute; then I gave it back to him.
“I think it’s broken,” I said.
He grinned and sheathed it.
And did I believe any of it? I’m really not sure. I had seen things I couldn’t explain. This explained them. Kind of. I remembered how the sight of the sea had alarmed me in Stavis because it had shown me how out of my element I was. I wasn’t sure what “my element” meant anymore, especially since the Empire had shut the theatres down and tried to string me up as a rebel, but magic swords? Come on. If they didn’t exist, I was screwed, because my life depended on people who thought they did, and if they did exist, I was screwed, because. well, just because. How could I even live in a world where the words “magic sword” weren’t a kind of joke?
It was as if Mithos had been listening in on my thoughts and had devised a way to make me feel that, if I wasn’t exactly in my element, I could at least function usefully. The innkeeper, he said, had told us where we could get permits for the market. Since it was close by, he said we should take a pitch-covered torch and go right away.
It was late by the time we reached the office, but light showed under the door, so Mithos knocked loudly, then turned to me and whispered, “Take over, Will.”
“What?” I gasped, caught off-guard.
“Do what you do,” he said. “Talk.”
“It’s after eleven o’clock!” shouted a voice inside. “Come back tomorrow.”
I waited for a second, but Mithos just shrank into the shadows and stood there in silence.
“Er. open up,” I ventured, knocking louder, “we need to see you now.”
“Why?” demanded the voice, irritably. There was movement inside and I heard a woman giggle.
“We need to check your records from the Saturday market.”
“You can’t, they’re not public property. You need a warrant, or something. Can’t see them. Good night.”
Mithos tapped me on the arm with Duke Raymon’s seal. Ignoring it, my face pressed to the door, I spoke again, my voice officious. “I’m from the inspection office. Come on, come on. I haven’t got all night. I have to have the documents updated by tomorrow morning.” Mithos’s tap with the seal became more insistent.
“You’d better have all the proper papers,” said the voice inside, “or I’m not showing you anything.”
“I just want a look at one day’s entries,” I said, trying to sound official. “Though I could go back to the duke, get the paperwork which is so dear to your heart, and proceed to check every single market permit you have issued this year to make sure that number agrees precisely with your total commission.” There was a sudden silence and I knew I had the old chiseler. If this was anything like Cresdon, he would be issuing fake permits to account for the income he made from bribes. “Just show me the ledger and I’ll take care of the paperwork,” I concluded. “No questions asked.”
There followed muffled curses, a pensive silence, and then the sound of a couple of bolts being snapped back. Mithos, after one last poke with the seal I wasn’t going to use, stepped out of sight.
A middle-aged man with a potbelly, a robe thrown around him and belted with cord, stuck his head round the door.
“Is this really necessary?”
“Just get the ledger, will you, sir?” I said in the bored and superior tone of the petty bureaucrat. “It won’t take but a second, and you’ll still be employed in the morning. There now,” I added with the sarcastic condescension I had heard from Empire patrols a thousand times, “won’t that be nice?”
