not.
And so, if he could not drown the fear, at least he could drown the guilt.
It took him a few moments to realize that someone was sitting next to him-surprising, even in his inebriated state, given the sheer amount of space that someone occupied.
'When I said 'Go get a drink,'' Paldor told him, the chair creaking in panic beneath his bulk, 'I sort of meant from the dining room back home. We've got a very nice wine cellar there, you know.'
Jace shrugged. 'Gonna hafta be clearer 'bout those things, Paldor. What'm I, a mind reader?'
Paldor chuckled. 'It's just as well,' the corpulent crook replied. 'I really do need to get out occasionally. Reminds me why I hate getting out.' With a grunt, he drew a small bag out from the folds of-somewhere-and plunked it down onto the table.
'Wha's this?' Jace slurred suspiciously.
'This is the good news, Beleren. A bonus. From Tezzeret, for rooting out the traitor. Tezzeret and I, we don't like traitors.'
Paldor locked eyes with Jace, and even through his growing stupor, the mage felt the sudden urge to recoil. 'Now here's the bad news. You do not impress me. You're supposed to be this great and powerful mind-reader, and maybe you are, at that. But you're weak. You're squeamish. The Consortium employs the best, and frankly, I'm not sure you remotely qualify. If your powers weren't so bloody rare, I'd already be looking to replace your sorry ass.
'So take a few days off. I'll expect you in my office at the start of next week, and we'll see if we can't find you something a bit less distasteful to work on while you build up your intestinal fortitude. But Beleren-if you don't shape up, you're out, mind-reader or no. And make no mistake that when I say 'out,' I don't mean by the damned door.'
Jace never saw Paldor leave, for he was too busy watching the bag as though it were some venomous insect. He didn't want it, not a coin of it. The thought made his gut heave, and threatened to undo a substantial amount of the drunk on which he'd been working so hard. Hell, he didn't even know what to do with it, really. He was living in the Consortium's lodgings, eating their food, and already saving up his monthly fee. He thought briefly of taking the extra money and just running, but he knew damned well it was a foolish notion; he'd be in Paldor's office next week, just as ordered. Maybe by then, he wouldn't even be bothered by it.
But it would look strange if he didn't do something with the money…
Emmara Tandris returned home from one of her infrequent outings, arms wrapped around a bag of old adventure tales written in the original Elvish, to find a large crate waiting outside her door. Curious, she lowered the bulky sack to the ground and knelt beside the box.
A wisp of scent reached her, and she couldn't help but smile. She didn't even need to open the box, now; she could identify, by smell alone, the exotic fruits within. She reached out and removed the note that was stuck between two of the slats.
Couldn't help but remember our last conversation.
Hope these'll keep you until they're back in season.
You owe me at least one truly enormous dessert.
— Berrim
He'd joined the Consortium, then. There were precious few other ways he could afford this. Emmara stood, grateful for the generous gift, but a part of her couldn't help but wonder what he'd done to earn that sort of wealth.
She hoped, as the smile fell from her face, that he was all right.
Jace caught the wooden sword, ignoring the sting as it slapped into his palm. The wood was worn smooth and permeated with old sweat. He glanced across at Kallist and awkwardly adopted a similar stance. He tried, and failed, to ignore the dozen other men and women of the Consortium who had backed away to the room's walls, eager to interrupt their own practice long enough to watch the new guy get his head handed to him.
'Here beginneth the first lesson,' Kallist said pompously, a twinkle in his eye. 'You ready?'
'More than,' Jace hissed through gritted teeth. 'You're going down, Kallist.'
'Only if I bust a gut laughing at you, Jace.'
'That was the plan, actually.'
It wasn't quite the first time Jace had handled a sword, and he'd wielded both sticks and knives defending himself in his younger years, so at least he didn't come across as ragingly incompetent. In fact, he managed to parry two of Kallist's attacks, the clack of wood on wood echoing through the chamber, before pain and the beginning stages of a truly magnificent bruise blossomed across his left side.
Several of the observers winced in sympathy as the wood slammed home.
Kallist stepped in and extended a hand to help Jace back to his feet. 'So,' he began, demonstrating a grip, then reaching out again to correct Jace's attempt at imitation, 'here's why you missed that parry…'
There passed a few moments of discussion and demonstration (and bored shifting by the gathered audience), followed by another quick exchange of blows, and another ugly bruise for Jace. And again. And again.
And again.
But as the second hour of practice wound to a close, and Jace's lungs burned as badly as his sides, fewer and fewer of Kallist's strikes landed. True, he was using only the simplest techniques, and they were running at roughly half speed, but Jace was, at least, learning something.
Jace stepped in, slashing down with an overhand strike so clumsy it was laughable. Several of the observers snickered, and Kallist raised his practice sword in a contemptuous parry.
He felt nothing in the path of his blade but air, and it was finally his turn to hit the floor, gasping and clutching his aching stomach.
He looked up, just in time to see the illusion of Jace's arm and sword fade away, and the real one-which had slammed rather handily into Kallist's unprotected midsection-shimmer into view.
'Here,' Jace said, clutching at his battered ribs with his left hand, 'beginneth the first lesson.' He dropped the sword, reached out a helping hand.
With a grunt, and a muttered 'I'm just waiting until there are no witnesses to kill you slowly,' Kallist took it.
'Same time tomorrow?' Jace asked him.
Kallist rubbed his aching stomach and grinned a nasty grin. 'You couldn't pay me to miss it.'
CHAPTER TWELVE
From a balcony halfway up one of Ravnica's great spires, Jace stared downward, his eyesight enhanced by a touch of clairvoyance. He leaned casually against the railing and watched for a few moments as crowds of people ran screaming from the columns of fire that heralded the arrival of Baltrice's firecat. Their quarry, one of the bald and blue-skinned vedalken-named, uh, Serien? Sevrien? Something like that-rolled across the cobblestones and came swiftly to his feet, a gleaming shield on one arm, a brutally serrated scimitar in the other hand.
'Is this what you do with every potential recruit?' Jace asked disdainfully. 'I mean, what, you really couldn't think of anything new?'
Baltrice snarled from beside him, keeping half her focus on the struggle below. 'It works, doesn't it?'
'So do chamber pots,' Jace told her, cocking his head as the vedalken took a blast of fire on his shield, then riposted with a devastating slash that almost took one of the cat's legs clean off. 'Doesn't mean I don't prefer indoor plumbing.'
The fire-mage glared at him, and Jace wondered if she wouldn't actually have attacked him had her concentration not been required elsewhere.
He wondered, as he often had, just what it was about him that she hated so much. He didn't worry about it too terribly, since he readily hated her back-but he was curious.
'And what are your plans?' she asked gruffly, wincing in sympathy as her summoned pet took another nasty wound below.
