my crustacean.
“She has not shown up,” I said simply.
“I did not think she would,” said Ampi calmly. “The idea that a simple acquisition would turn into an auction has probably upset her. She is probably making other plans to acquire the box even as we speak.”
I frowned at my prawn. I didn’t want to believe that Drusilla would abandon me so easily. “Perhaps she is in trouble herself. Waylaid by bandits or short collectors or something.”
Ampi drifted slowly into my line of sight. His face was drawn with concern. Say whatever else you want about genies, when they are concerned you know they are concerned. Still, he would not voice them until I asked. “How was your research?”
The djinni nodded slightly and said, “Productive, but I fear expensive. The sage Prespos could teach the dao something about hard negotiations. What I discovered was of interest, however.”
“And that is?”
“The Vermeers were an Iriaebor household,” said the djinni. “But their forte was more magic than money. They were a household of spellcasters.”
I nearly choked on my shellfish. “Like the Wands?” I managed, suddenly having visions of the patriarch of the Vermeer clan showing up in my bedroom late in the evening.
“Similar, but not exact,” said the genie. “The biggest difference being that the last of the line died out almost a hundred years ago. If the girl Drusilla is a member of that clan…”
“‘Daddy’ must be very ancient indeed.”
“You do not seem surprised.”
“Hardly,” said I. “If one thing these mystoricals prepare you for it’s that the heroine rarely tells the truth the first time out. Indeed, most of the heroes ignore whatever the heroine says until after the third attempt on his life. Most likely some far flung fragment of the family trying to regain its insignia and ancestral lands. Or perhaps Vermeer was a name she pulled out of an old book, as a cover.”
My logic was irrefutable, for Ampratines remained silent, if only for a moment, before resuming the argument “If you say so, sir. However, in the light of this, I would recommend we reconsider the situation and our employment with the mysterious lady.”
I shook my head and motioned with a prawn claw, “No. In the stories, whenever a hero gives his word, he lives by it. It doesn’t matter if the heroine is not what she says she is. Often, she’s better.”
“I cannot dissuade you?” said the djinni.
“Not a whit.” I pulled out the black wand, “What do you make of this?”
The genie took the thin black rod from my hand. He had a look on his face akin to revulsion. “Unpleasant material. Not from around here, as you would say.” He held it up to a light, then handed it back. “It is a spell rod. Arcane device, sometimes used in the south. You break it to release the spell within. The runes say that the spell can alter your appearance. The illusion would last until you were struck or choose to drop the charade. Where did you get it?”
“Someone with a mutual interest,” I replied, “Someone who thinks I should get into the auction tonight. And yes, there will be an auction tonight.”
The genie’s face creased with concern again. “Someone?”
“A collector, who argues a separate claim on the box,” I said, holding up the claw again. “I know, I should not trust him either, but I think the first order of business is to get a hold of the box. Then we can sort everything out.”
A deep sigh, again. “As you wish, sir.”
That evening, after breaking open the wand, I turned to Ampi and said, “How do I look?”
The genie frowned, canted his head to one side, and asked, “Something’s wrong.”
“Wrong? How can anything be wrong?” I turned back to the mirror. Looking out was a rather dapper-looking dark elf in my clothes. My hair was ghost white, and my skin the color of night, a purple verging on ultraviolet. I smiled and primped for a moment.
“I think its the smile,” said the genie at last.
“Too flashy?” I asked.
“Too present,” replied Ampratines. “I can’t think of any drow smiling, unless the situation dealt with accidental dismemberment. Try to frown.”
I attempted a scowl.
“Better, but not quite,” said Ampi. “You don’t look angry, only petulant. Try to look more tragic. More angst- ridden.”
I scowled harder.
Ampi let out a sigh, “I suppose that’s the best we can do. Here, take these.” He handed me several long strips of white cloth.
I gave the genie a quizzical look and he explained, “The drow often communicate by a language of signs. Should you be challenged on the matter, you can complain you have been wounded and unable to respond.”
I looked at the bandages, and took them from him. At least he had stopped trying to convince me to abandon Drusilla and was trying to be constructive. As I wound the bandages around my wrists and palms, he continued. “I’ll summon a carriage. I would keep the hood of my cloak up while in the Wyvern, though. I don’t think the Upper City gets much in the way of underground conqueror races and might not appreciate your continence, and I will not be there to aid you.”
I blinked at the genie. “You aren’t coming? I was looking for someone to ride crossbow on this adventure. Just in case things go wrong.”
“I will be along presently,” said the genie. “I asked the sage Prespos for a particular item, and will be along myself as soon as I retrieve it.”
And with that I was off for the L.C. again, bundled in the back of the carriage, my face hidden beneath a voluminous cloak. The illusion had provided the cloak, along with a pair of ridiculously curved long swords. The latter were extremely dashing, but made sitting properly impossible. I ended up sprawling across the back of carriage, wondering if this inability to sit was what made dark elves so surly.
Night had fallen in the Lower City, which meant the gray of the day had surrendered at last to the smoky blackness of the evening. There was a haifling guard posted outside the Burrows this time, vetting the various individuals. Traditional revelers and regulars were being turned away at the door, along with a few angry humans. I waited my turn in the queue, practicing my scowling. Being made to wait helped my acting immeasurably.
Finally the party ahead of me was turned aside, a group of dwarf laborers bitterly disappointed that their evening game of “toss-the-darts-at-the-elves” had been interrupted. The halfling at the door scowled at me and said, “Private party tonight.”
“I know,” I said, trying to out scowl him. “There is an item up for sale. I wish to be included in that bidding.”
“Name?”
My mind went, for a tragic moment, blank.
“Ziixxxita” I snarled at last, trying to string as many Z’s and X’s together as possible.
“How do you spell that?” he asked.
“You spell it how it sounds,” I said, spreading my cloak and resting my hands on the hilts of the blades.
The halfling looked at the curved blades, then at my face again. Then he nodded toward the door. I gave the small humanoid a sullen snarl and passed within.
I was a late arrival. The half-orc barbarian was there, along with the fancy-dressed southern dwarf and a drow woman dressed in a low-cut gown that denied gravity, morality, and several local zoning ordinances. There were no less than seven mages of various nonhuman types in the room, and a few creatures that were wrapped in thick cloaks, species unknown.
Most of the tables had been cleared to the sides of the room and the chairs organized in a rough line facing the bar. A buffet table had been thoughtfully set up at the opposite end. As I entered one of the halflings was standing on the bar, thundering a large stave against the top and calling for order.
As I scanned the room my eyes locked on those of the drow woman. She looked as imperious as drow women were reported to be, but was not fully a drow matriarch. A drow debutante, then, but still one that could
