Page 54 of Prisoner of Darkness and Dreams
It’s been a long time since I walked the streets of Elmere. For all its supposed importance, it’s a city like any other, with poor neighborhoods and rich ones, roads filled with carriages and horses, shops busy with vendors and customers.
What itisn’tis anything like Hallowbane. Here you don’t have to always be looking over your shoulder for the next person who’s going to swindle you, or watching out for a ruined, driven mad by ephilin, who’s ready to rip your head off. Here the serious silhouette of the palace watches you from up on the hill, reminding you that there’s always some higher power nearby ensuring that order prevails. In this kind of city, people know their place. The gutter rats stay in the gutter, and the lords stay in their noble houses.
How boring. Nobles and gutter rats are all the same when you get a few drinks in them anyway, and at least in Hallowbane a man’s fortune can rise—or fall—on the toss of a coin. There’s no hierarchy, no certainty, no safety except for what you build for yourself. Makes life much more interesting.
“You better not be leading me on some wild goose chase,” comes the sharp tone of my traveling companion.
I turn to glance at the fae woman. Although I’m used to her wearing a glamour, there’s still something unsettling about the diminutive personstanding beside me. Maybe it’s because I know that in reality, she’s as tall as me, stronger too. It’s a bit like traveling with a viper that looks almost entirely like a fluffy rabbit.
Except her eyes. In any form, those stay bright with a dangerous intelligence. They narrow in my direction now.
“Trust that I wouldn’t prolong this little jaunt of ours any more than necessary,” I say. “Especially considering I never wanted to come in the first place.”
“I don’ttrustanything where you’re concerned, Wadestaff,” she says.
“Then rest easy knowing we’re nearly there,” I say, gesturing down the next street. “It’s just on the corner. And not to repeat myself, but I’d really preferMr.Wadestaff. Even just Corrin will do,LadyDamia.”
She flinches a little at my use of her title, and she glances around cautiously, though no one is paying us any attention. I’ve noticed she doesn’t like her noble appellation, so naturally I use it as often as possible, particularly whenever I need to remind her to play nice.
“Point taken, Mr. Wadestaff,” she says.
I nod in acknowledgment and head toward the building on the corner. It must’ve been a fine piece of architecture once, but now cracks decorate the plaster, and the paint on the windows has started to peel away. Still, the displays behind the windows make up for it, showing off fine oil portraits of lords and ladies and colorful landscapes of the Trovian countryside.
“Stay here,” I say. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Sure you will,” she says, raising a sardonic eyebrow. “And I’ll just hand you all the gold we brought too, shall I? I wasn’t born last decade. I’m not letting you out of my sight. Anything you say to that man, you’ll say in front of me.” The serpent I know lies hidden beneath her collar gives a lazy hiss of agreement.
I try to keep my expression casual, as if I’m unbothered by her blatant suspicion. Ishouldbe unbothered, after a lifetime with people wary of my very name.
“Alright,” I say. “But try to tone down the intimidation tactics, would you? This is a business associate, not some enemy you’re meeting in battle.”
She tilts her head, then surprises me with a smile. “Where you’re concerned, Mr. Wadestaff, I’m not sure they’re all that different,” she says. So the smile was at my expense—should’ve expected that.
We push our way into the shop, the creaking of the door announcing our presence. A man in his fifties, with graying hair and a thick, gingery mustache comes through from a back room. He wipes his hands on a paint-flecked apron as he greets us.
“Good afternoon. How can I help you?”
“Mr. Tunier?” I ask.
“Yes, that’s me,” the artist says.
“We’ve been admiring your paintings,” I say, gesturing to the host of canvases around us. “But we were wondering if you had something a littlelessunique?” I stress the last two words.
“Ah,” the artist says, his stance changing. He looks at us with fresh eyes and a knowing expression. “Perhaps something with more class?”
“That sounds right up our alley,” I reply.
He ducks back through the doorway, indicating for us to follow. We descend into a cellar where incendi lamps light a studio. A drawing desk is positioned at one end, and the walls are lined with easels stacked beside shelves full of parchment and art supplies.
“It’s nice to meet you in person at last, Mr. Wadestaff,” Tunier says as he leads us over to a table.
“You too, Mr. Tunier. And this is my assistant, Miss Adder,” I say, enjoying the insulted glare Damia throws me at the name.
Tunier gives her a polite nod, but his attention quickly returns to me. “You’ve sent plenty of work my way over the years. I’m grateful.” He pulls a long cylinder from a shelf, untying the leather cover on one end.
“My friends accept only the best, Mr. Tunier,” I reply. “So naturally, it was you I thought of when we realized we needed some…administrative help.”
“You flatter me,” Tunier says, pulling a scroll out of the tube and unrolling it across the table.
