Page 32 of Kilty Until Proven Innocent
Charles the Thirty-Seventh, court sorcerer, to be precise.
Well, if there was any man who could tell Drum about the poison used in the latest assassination attempt, ‘twould be Charles.
He rapped smartly on the door, which gave way under his touch, swinging slowly open with an atmosphericsqueeeeeek.
Ah. Nowthisis what Drum imagined a sorcerer’s hut would look like.
Dribbly candles lined every surface, some even stuck to the wall with their wax, causing the whole place to flicker with reflected light and also be hot as hell. There was something bubbling and smoking in a pot over the fire, filling the air with white fog and a scent not unlike a diseased goat.
And from somewhere in the mist came the sound of off-key humming.
Drum’s fingers wrapped around his sword hilt as he peered about.
Only years of battle-honed instincts warned him of the presence at his back. He whirled, just as an eddy in the smoke blew aside to reveal—
“Christ on the cross!” Drum bellowed, backpedaling.
Thecreaturewhich emerged from the smoke was hunch-backed, dressed in rags, its face a horrible agglomeration of warts andspikesand two eyes which were just black holes of nothingness. It lifted its arms, fingers curled into claws, reaching for Drum like a demon from hell.
“Whooooo distuuuurrrrrbbbs my wooooooorrrrrkkkk?” it groaned.
Drum slowly straightened, heart thundering against his ribcage. “Pardon?”
“I said—” The creature bent to one side, hacked loudly, then straightened. “Who disturbs my work? Sorry, this smoke is thick, aye?”
With that, the figure moved to the door through which Drum had entered, and—while Drum watched, not removing his hand from his sword—propped it open.
“There.” The creature flapped its arms, apparently to move the smoke out the door. “Could ye open that window over there?”
Frowning, Drum edged toward the window. “Are ye…are ye the sorcerer?”
The man—for now ‘twas obvious this was a man—was untying something from around his waist. “I prefer the termalchemist, but tradition is a bitch sometimes.”
So saying, he pulled off what looked to be an apron—covered in holes and slashes, the “rags” Drumhad seen earlier—and tossed it over one of the chairs. “Did ye forget how shutters work?” he asked, his tone only mildly curious.
Shaking his head, Drum leaned sideways to open the shutters and allow a cross-breeze in.
“Ah, that’s better,” the man said, reaching for his face. To Drum’s surprise, he pulled the horrific thing off.
Or rather, he took off what turned out to be a mask, covered in splotches and burns, to reveal a surprisingly young man.
Drum squinted. “Ye’re Charles the Thirty-Seventh, the King’s royal sorcerer?”
“Aye.” The man paused halfway through a bow. “Well, actually, as I said, I dinnae do anymagicper se, but people expect a bit of a show.” He waved his hands about, encompassing the dribbly candles and eldritch atmosphere. “And of course, my name’s no’ Charles.”
All Drum could think of to say was, “It isnae?”
“Nay, dinnae be daft. ‘Tis Stephanie. But as I said, tradition holds quite a bit of power around here, so the nameCharlessort of comes with the job.” He grinned eagerly. “Ye can call me Chuck. Do ye want something to drink?”
Drum glanced around again, fingers slowly loosening from his sword’s hilt. “Absolutely, unequivocally,nay.”
The other man shrugged. “Fair enough, fair enough. Ye ken what they say:Non calor sed umor est qui nobis incommodat.”
“Uh…” Drum forced his hand to relax as he glanced at the various alchemical accoutrements becoming visible. “I’ll take yer word for that. So…Chuck.”
“Are ye here to see me turn gold into an apple?”
Drum paused. “I thought ye alchemists were trying to turn thingsintogold?”
