adventurer.” But brains are like that, coming up with the right thing to say right after you’ve said something completely different.
“Drusilla. Drusilla Vermeer,” she said simply, replying with a perfunctory curtsey and almost stumbling in the process. At once I leaned forward to steady her, and caught the scent of honeysuckle in bloom. She seemed faint and I walked her to the chair facing mine. The ultimate gentleman, I offered her my untouched drink. She sniffed at the mixture (one of Ampi’s specialties), then waved it aside with a delicate hand.
“Sorry, so sorry,” she said, even the wrinkle of concern that lined her eyes making her all the more beautiful. “I shouldn’t bother you, really, but I need a capable adventurer for a matter of some delicacy.”
I returned to my seat and nodded, then half-turned to order Ampi for some hot tea or some other suitable nostrum. But of course the djinni had already left for my new shipment of books, so I turned back to the young and beautiful Drusilla.
“I fear I’ve done a terrible, terrible thing,” she said, “And I need someone to help me.”
“There, there,” said I, unsure of what the terrible thing was, but confident that it would be no more than a lost pet or a misplaced locket.
“My family is one of the investing households that provides capital for the various traders. I was entrusted with a family keepsake, an amber box containing an heirloom belonging to my great, great grandmother.” She pulled out a lace handkerchief at this point and held it to her lips. I wondered if she was going to go to pieces entirely. In a small voice she said, “Its about three inches on a side, like a cube. I’m afraid I’ve lost it.”
I nodded, and realized I was nodding altogether too much, “How did you Jose-”
“I was such a fool!” she sobbed, “I was careless. I shouldn’t have trusted…“ She snuffled again, and even her snuffling was musical and sweet. “The fact remains that I lost it, and it is my responsibility to get the box back. It is very important!” She buried her lovely face in the handkerchief.
“So,” I said, reprising the situation so far. “You’ve lost the family thingummy, an amber box. You need to find the box, and need a capable adventurer to retrieve it.” This was the sort of thing the heroes of Miss RodigarGlenn would say. Repeating exactly what someone has just told you in hopes of gaining more information.
“Then you’ll help?” she said, blinking back the tears at me. Not quite the response I had anticipated.
Despite myself, I fell back on an earlier mannerism and merely nodded. Her face blossomed in a flower of relief and she warbled sweetly, “I knew I had chosen the right man.”
She made to rise, and I fought to regain control of the conversation. “This box, I have to say… if you lost it, we’ll have to spend a long time looking for it.”
“Oh, I know where it is,” she said brightly, canting her head to one side as if to reassure me. “It’s in the hands of a terrible person. I’ll need you to retrieve it from him.”
And then she smiled and gave me his name.
“‘Big Ugly,’” said Ampratines later as I recounted the story to him. “Not the most reassuring of appellations.”
“He’s a crime lord, apparently, in the Lower City,” I countered, trying to determine which set of trousers was appropriate for a meeting with the aforementioned Mr. Ugly. “Crime lords are not supposed to have reassuring names. The truly evil ones put a lot of X’s and Z’s in them.
Sort of like a verbal ‘beware of dragon,’ sign, or ‘no peddlers.’”
“Indeed,” said the djinni, holding out a dependable set of leather riding pants. I shook my head and chose instead my red satin trousers. I would send my own message to the crime lord, I thought, that we Wands are both stylish and not to be trifled with.
I hopped into the trousers while continuing, “Said B.U. operates a tavern as a front for his various nefarious operations, a place called the Burrows. That’s where I’m going to meet him.”
“And this Master Ugly stole the amber box?” said the genie.
“Unclear but likely,” I said, thinking back about what Drusilla had said specifically. “She said that she had lost it and this Ugly fellow had glommed onto it, and she wants it back. Money is no object, but this Ugly has refused to budge. I’m supposed to place the offer on the table and, as they say in the parlance, ‘put the lean’ on him.”
“And a lean fellow you are,” said Ampi without the merest of smiles. “And I suppose you’ll want me to attend you in this madcap mystorical escapade?”
I blinked at the genie and fastened the clasp of my cape (the dark one with the red satin lining that matched the pants). I had not thought about it one way or another, but had merely assumed that Ampratines would be tagging along. Still, there was something in the genie’s tone that bothered me, as if this were some adventure he’d rather watch from a safe but discrete distance.
“If you’re not too busy,” I said simply, the frost in my voice wilting the nearby potted ferns.
Ampratines merely nodded and we set out. Hiring a carriage outside the inn, we started the long descent into the Lower City. Ampi was silent for most of the trip, apparently brooding in thought. Only when we were deposited at the Burrows, a small tavern built into the hillside itself, did he speak up.
“I’m afraid I cannot accompany you,” he said, in a matter-of-fact manner.
“I say,” I responded, “If this is about your not liking my choice of reading materials, I…”
But the genie was already shaking his head, and motioned toward the door of the Burrows. There was an ornate squiggle of pounded brass over the door, surrounded by arcane markings. The markings covered the entire frame of the doorway, and, I noted in the flickering street-lamps, extended along the entire building. It looked like unruly scribes had targeted the tavern’s outer walls as an impromptu scriptorium.
“Mystic wards,” he said simply, “Magical symbols that keep creatures from other dimensions at bay. Master Ugly must be very worried about such beings, from the looks of things. With these wards in place, the tavern is proof against all manner of demons, devils, devae, archons, undead, elementals, efreet…”
“…and djinn,” I finished.
The tall genie gave a small shrug which he turned into a bow of admission. “I cannot enter. Indeed, I must confess that this many wards in one place give me a rather intense headache.”
“Very well,” I said, trying to imagine Ampi with a ripper of a hangover, “You’ll just have to keep an eye out on the street then. That happens in the books all the time, anyway. One of the investigators goes in, while the other one stays outside ‘riding crossbow,’ as it were. Do you have a crossbow on you?”
“I neglected to pack one,” said the djinni, “But I could scare one up if you thought it necessary.”
I waved off the suggestion, “It matters little. Stay out here and keep your orbs glued to the building. If anyone suddenly leaves I want you to be ready.”
“As you wish,” said Ampi, again with a small bow. He took two steps backward and disappeared among the shadows of the buildings directly across from the tavern.
I straightened my cape and climbed the six low stairs leading to the door in two large strides. I took a deep breath and plunged into the bar.
Now I had been in taverns from Waterdeep to Iriaebor, oftimes wearing something similar to my red satin cape and trousers. Usually, upon entering, there is a brief lull in the conversation as some of the resident bar flies check out the newcomer, and, once ascertaining that the new individual meant no immediate threat, turn back to their ales.
Not this time. The noise level dropped to an imperceptible level. One moment it was a typical tavern noise, the next it was dead silence. The last time I had witnessed something like this was when cousin Halian did his impression of grand-uncle Maskar while the old goat had suddenly appeared, unseen, behind him.
In this case, however, it was my own arrival that had squelched the conversations. I took the opportunity to look around. If the outer walls were decked with mystical wards, the inner walls were positively festooned with arcane designs. No wonder Ampi was getting headaches, I thought. The crisscrossing lines and whirls were enough to give anyone without sufficient alcohol in their system a splitting migraine, and was probably an inducement for those within to keep drinking.
But it was the patrons that were the clue to the sudden silence. There were about thirty of them altogether-a trio of halflings on high stools alongside the bar, a gaggle of gnomes plotting in a booth, a morose-looking dark elf (male) at the end of the bar, and a clutch of dwarves playing cards in the far corner. A pair of large, scaly ogres who apparently did the heavy lifting, and who were converging on my location at flank speed.
I put my finger on the problem at once. There were no humans present. Or to be more correct, there were no humans other than myself.
