Slithering Maze 11: As the Rat Squeaks

Basysus, 27, 1278: Court of Lemongrass Inn. Arth Prayogar. Turning my room at the inn into an interrogation chamber…

Author’s Note: Kingdom of the Slithering Maze is a serialized fiction story that is a part of a collection called the Windtracer Tales. It follows the adventures of Tela Kioni and her crew dealing with expeditions in and around the world of Awldor. There they hunt down lost, and possibly lethal, relics of the Ancient Order, a near-mythical kingdom lost to the centuries old cataclysm, the Great Collapse.

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Previously: After discovering her room had been broken into, and the thief was still inside, Tela goes on a wild rooftop chase to catch one Garrik “The Rat’ Perlana, an old rival thief. The chase covers across balconies and rooftops only to end with a mid-air tackle onto a fruit cart in the street. Now, with her hands on Garrik, Tela hopes to get more answers than questions…

Basysus, 27, 1278: Court of Lemongrass Inn. Arth Prayogar. Turning my room at the inn into an interrogation chamber…

I slammed the fruit-stained logbook against the tiny wooden end table hard enough it jumped. My patience was like an ant on a hot skillet.

“Some offer guests a towel after tossing them into a fruit pile,” Garrik said casually, waving a hand. Almost as if ordering a cup of tea from where he sat in my room with Atha behind him.

A light green towel hit the thief in the face with a lumpy splat. Kiyosi crossed to the tan dresser nearby, picking up the next towel to use on Garrik.

“Better?” Kiyosi deadpanned.

Garrik dabbed at the splotches of fruit on his narrow face, raising an eyebrow. Kiyosi countered with a thin smile, blue tiefling tail curled in a silent laugh.

“Rude,” the thief sneered, “but thank you.”

Garrik had the typical build of an elf. He was tall, lean-muscled, with nature-toned brown hair and lightly tanned skin. But with him? Those angular dark eyes always carried a glitter of perpetual larceny.

I put my hands on my hips and glared.

“Out with it, Rat,” I demanded. “This logbook isn’t all that valuable. Who sent you?”

Garrik half-shrugged with a smirk. Skarri rested her hands on the hilt of her saber, and his smirk melted like snow in the sun.

In an attempt to reclaim some composure, or maybe ego, the thief sniffed imperiously. He brushed at his tailored brown vest and gray shirt, then tried to make his tan cloak look presentable. The pomegranate stains ruined the effect.

His thief tools, such as lock picks and a stylish, thin dagger, were over by me. Better safe than stabbed, I figured. Mikasi was busy checking them for nasty spring-loaded surprises.

“Garrik…” I huffed.

He shot me a poisoned steel look, shadowed by something I couldn’t quite read.

“You’ve no idea who, or what, you’re dealing with, Kobold Eyes!”

In a split second, I shoved away from the table at the cheap insult with a snarl. One hand shot for my whip, as the other instinctively reached for my goggles that protected my altered eyes from daylight. My twice damn golden-yellow ‘kobold eyes’.

Garrik leaped to his feet with an ugly look, avoiding Atha’s grip. His hands flashed to his belt, realizing too late his daggers were on the table behind me.

Skarri slithered between us, saber aimed at Garrik, her other hand at me.

“Stop!”

The temple guard narrowed her rust-red eyes at us. Slowly, she curled her copper-scaled tail around her, showing she wasn’t going to budge.

“This isn’t helping!” Skarri flicked out her forked tongue, tasting the air. She glared at us, then fixed me with a hard frown. “You know what’s at stake.”

Garrik narrowed his eyes at that. I just clenched my jaw and swallowed the rush of nightmares over how I got my eyes.

“Fine,” I snapped.

Atha stomped forward, grabbing Garrik by the shoulder. The thief tried to yank free, but would’ve had better luck trying to move an avalanche with a spoon.

“Hyu. Thief. Sit,” the minotaur rumbled.

The pale wooden chair in the middle of the room creaked in complaint as Atha shoved Garrik down into it. The thief sniffed indignantly, brushing at imaginary dust and not so imaginary orange seeds on his vest.

“People could use manners,” he muttered, shooting me a nasty look. “They’ll kill me if I talk.”

“Who?” Kiyosi asked lightly, idly toying with the towel in his hands.

“I don’t know,” Garrik replied bitterly. “They wore mostly black or red robes that stank of incense. Murderous, too. Caught them knifing some poor bastard recently, but they didn’t see me.”

He gestured to the stained logbook.

“They pay good money for things like that. So, I ignore what they do for fun, and who they are. Not my business.”

Skarri sheathed her saber, slithering back, satisfied Garrik and I weren’t going to come to blows. I narrowed my eyes at Garrik, watching his tight shoulders and a twitch at the corner of his eye.

“That’s bilge,” I decided flatly, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’ll buy the robes and incense. Arth Prayogar loves showy. You don’t care? Pure bilge. You’re a lot of things, Garrik, but you’re not stupid. You know they’ll try to kill you eventually because of what you know.”

A sharp snap of a spring behind me broke the tension. Mikasi, the source of the noise, was on the far side of the table, wrist deep in one of Garrik’s more exotic thieving tools. It was a brassy, box-shaped thing with too many gears. Nicodemus’ eyes and gray feline snout peered curiously over the edge of the table next to Mikasi.

“What incense?” Mikasi asked, a little wide-eyed, holding up a tiny, probably important, gear.

Garrik rose, but Atha shoved him back in the chair. The thief narrowed his eyes at the halfling.

“That’s expensive!”

Mikasi looked down at the mess of parts and then gave Garrik a sympathetic wince.

“Not really? I mean there’s a couple of parts that are, but for a clockwork lock picker, this isn’t that great.”

I bit my lower lip and tried not to laugh.

“Garrik, just answer the man’s question. What incense?”

After a withering look at Mikasi, Garrik blew out a ragged breath and slumped.

“Charcoal and something sharp, like burned copper.” He shook his head. “It came from some old beeswax candles. Best I know, I’m not an incense seller.”

Mikasi stared at the parts on the table thoughtfully.

“Beeswax candles?” he said. “Those are rare. Sounds like something for rituals or a temple.”

I squinted at the middle distance between myself and Garrik, tapping my fingers against my whip. This was starting to stink of something ugly, and I hoped I was wrong. I let out a slow sigh, staring holes at Garrik.

“All right, Rat. When you met these robed employers of yours, how did they walk?”

He frowned at me as if I were sun-addled.

“Not sure what you’re after, Kioni, but they sort of,” he wiggled delicate fingers in the air. “Glided. Like a dancer or an assassin.”

A pounding on the door to my room shattered my thoughts. I walked over and pulled it open. The others tensed, except for Garrik, who glanced around for a chance to escape.

It wasn’t the innkeeper. The last time I’d seen this centaur, he had a crossbow aimed at me while we stood on the side of the road.

“Lady Kioni,” the tawny-furred Trade-Warden rumbled with a long-suffering sigh.

I flinched a little at the title he tossed out in front of my last name.

“Tela is fine, or Windtracer, if you just have to be formal about it,” I murmured, letting him inside.

“Of course, Windtracer. Good to see you again. Especially without your basilisk around.”

Kiyosi grinned at me about the basilisk comment. I ignored him.

“Wasn’t mine,” I replied with a brittle tone.

The Trade-Warden had swapped out his previous armor for something less basilisk-scarred. It was a similar patched, dust-tan brigandine armor. This one was more of a vest with short chain sleeves, showing a wine-red tunic underneath. He glanced around the room, set up all too much like an interrogation, then took a slow breath.

“We didn’t get introduced the other day because,” his lips pulled into a thin line as he glanced around, “of certain people and a basilisk. I’m Trade-Warden Rhen Shotho about a possible fight outside.”

His shoulders bunched a little, as if he couldn’t believe his next words.

“Also, roof diving off onto a fruit merchant’s stall. Kernis Baat is furious and wants restitution.”

Kiyosi let out a small cough. Mikasi suddenly found a wind-up key very fascinating. Skarri, to her credit, didn’t look bothered one bit. I gave the first two a look that could rot citrus.

“That would make natural sense,” the temple guard replied. “I’m Skarri da’Kalla, assigned by my shaman, Liru da’Lerdat, to guard Tela Kioni and her crew. If you need it, I can provide accurate details of the events.”

I shook my head.

“Trade-Warden Shotho? We've got the thief here.” I waved a hand at Garrik, who bristled. “He was trying to swipe my property.”

“So I figured,” the Trade-Warden replied dryly. “It isn’t like you Windtracers jump off buildings for fun.”

Kiyosi coughed again.

“No,” I said icily, more at Kiyosi than anyone. “No, we don’t. If this Kernis Baat wants who’s responsible, send him the bill.” I waved at Garrik again.

“Why you…” Garrik rose halfway before Atha shoved him back down again with a grunt. “You tackled me off that roof!”

I folded my arms across my chest, narrowing my eyes at Garrik.

“No, I tackled you in mid-air, after you already jumped. Which I wouldn’t have had to tackle your bony behind if you hadn’t broken into my room in the first place!”

“That’s enough,” Rhen growled. “Both of you. Gentleman Baat just wants to be paid for his losses. He doesn’t care outside of that. Now me? I care.”

The Trade-Warden fixed us all, even Atha, which was a tall order, with a chilly glare.

“So first. Someone is going to pay Gentleman Baat his ten bits for that produce. Second, the rest of you are going to explain to me why I had to skip my quiet midday meal for a fruit fight. If not? I’ve got Trade-Wardens in the inn who’ll be glad to haul you lot down to the Shendril Fortress to think this over.”

The air turned chilly while a tiny collective shudder ran around the room like a manic squirrel. Shendril Fortress, or the Shackle, was infamous all the way down in Ishnanor. No one really wanted to see the inside of that ancient fort turned prison.

Kiyosi went tense, tail stiff. Skarri looked overcome with what might have been an overpowering need to apologize. Mikasi, bless his tinker halfling heart, simply held out a clockwork part to the Trade-Warden with an innocent look.

“Hold this, would you?” he grinned. “I’ve only got so many hands.”

Rhen took the gearbox instinctively, then frowned at it as if he'd just realized he had it.

I cleared my throat, trying not to chuckle. It didn’t quite work.

“Ah, Trade-Warden? Really, it isn’t all that complicated…”

We laid it out—from seeing the open balcony door, to Garrik’s leap from the roof. Garrik complained about being called a ‘second-rate thief’. Even Atha added his part, which was mostly a lament for his lost tea.

After another round of shouting, Garrik came clean. Well, as clean as he was able.

The thief dragged a hand over his face, glaring at all of us as Atha put him back in the chair one more time.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “Just… fine. I’ve been meeting that robed bunch at a flophouse in Arth Prayogar’s Old Quarter. Take the side alley off Grayclove Street. Look for the dry fountain of the armored centaur statue that has a broken off ear.”

Garrik shrugged before he slouched in the interrogation chair.

“Usually there are three of them, but only one of the robed bastards ever talks to me. A voice like bones in a meat grinder. That’s all I know, I swear.”

The words came out like a bitter tonic as Garrik shrank in on himself. Even Atha gave him a pitying look.

Kiyosi swapped a concerned look with me. Three robed figures? Gliding walk? Bone-gravel like voice? Neither of us said it out loud, but I could tell he thought the same thing I did.

Fateweavers. Probably.

Oh joy.

I looked past Atha and Garrik out the balcony doors to Arth Prayogar. The late afternoon sun was settling down into early evening. A warm, tired orange glow nestled over the sandstone and adobe buildings. Wind tossed a little prairie dust along like an afterthought.

“Trade-Warden? I’ll pay for the fruit,” I said evenly, walking over to my shoulder bag. “Ten bits to keep the merchant happy?”

Fishing out a battered coin pouch, I pulled out ten square brass coins with a hollow circle stamped in the middle.

“Better make it eleven bits, just to be sure,” I muttered, then offered the stack to the Trade-Warden.

Rhen accepted the coins with a clipped nod, eyes wary as if we were about to break down into another produce fight. He hefted the eleven bits in his hand, then dropped them into a leather-trimmed canvas pouch at his waist.

“My report will only cover petty theft, the pursuit, and a produce-related accident. Speaking of which…”

Trade-Warden Shotho fixed Garrik with an iron look while he handed the clockwork box back to Mikasi.

“You. With me. I’ve more questions for you.”

Garrik yelped in protest, but didn’t manage a coherent word before Rhen hauled the thief to his feet, dragging him out the door along with the elf’s gear.

“Old Quarter?” Kiyosi asked once the door shut.

Skarri shook her head, folding her arms over her chest.

“This could be a trap.” She glanced between myself and Kiyosi. “You realized something from what he said? You recognize the description?”

I glanced at the floor with a frown, pursing my lips. Slowly, I pulled out the folded note from my shoulder bag and looked at the map of Old Quarter on it.

“That old flophouse? I need to see it for myself.”

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Windtracer Tales is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In fact, it considers itself rather fancy and quite proud of itself. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. Any resemblance to persons living, dead, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

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