Obsidian
The Ivory Moon, Many Years Ago
(
Private)
Lôminzil exited the unnamed tavern and made her way through the winding streets surrounding the market. She moved aimlessly, turning to walk along several random alleys at first to guard against the possibility that the thief had mustered up the strength to follow her. Still, she took care to skirt around the market entrances to avoid the urchins who, awaiting the emergence of the shopkeepers, hung about each evening. Those children were bold and, in
Lôminzil’s opinion, overindulged by the citizens of Umbar. “Put them to work,” she always said. “Give them a task to do for some coin or a meal. Take them on and train them as apprentices. Make them work for what they want.” She’d certainly had to. Instead, the little beggars seemed to survive off pitying looks and a scrap of unsold meat here, a stale day-old loaf of bread there. By the time
Lôminzil left the tavern, the shopkeepers had indeed begun to emerge, exhausted from the day’s labors, heavy stall keys clanking on their hips. A few shouted and swatted at the children, but several others paused to toss them their unsold, useless goods as she had known they would.
She shook her head and continued along familiar routes until she reached The Ivory Moon. Its arched door, thick and reinforced with iron bars, could not entirely contain the raucous sounds of the crowd within - even when shut soundly against the night. When
Lôminzil entered the tavern, the shouts and chatter of men and women crashed over her like a wave. She withstood the roar and moved through the crowd to find her usual seat at the end of the bar nearest the back wall. A man and a woman with identical smiles - they were, after all, brother and sister - served drinks, and the barmaid winked at
Lôminzil even as she pushed four foaming mugs of ale toward a group of waiting patrons. As soon as she’d tucked their coin into her apron, she made her way to
Lôminzil and began pouring out another mug of ale.
“Here to see him?” She slid the drink across the bar and into
Lôminzil’s waiting hands.
“Mmmm,”
Lôminzil confirmed as she drank deeply from the tankard.
“Well, drink up, then,” said the barmaid. She glanced once around the crowded room with deep brown eyes lined with exhaustion and, in this case, a bit of mild concern. “He’s been waiting. One of those guards has been up here asking after you at least twice already.”
Lôminzil’s eyes went wide for a fleeting instant. She drank down the rest of her ale in two massive gulps, then hopped off her chair and slid sideways behind the bar through a narrow gap between the counter and the wall. “Thanks, Azrâ,” she said, passing the barmaid enough coin to cover both her drink and the tipoff. She pulled open the door which stood between the counter and the side wall lined with drinks; then, she stepped sure-footed onto the top of a long flight of stairs. The first time she had come through this door, she’d felt her stomach drop as her foot fell through the air before landing on that step. She had nearly tumbled her way into a broken neck in
Nîlû’s lair then, but she knew better now.
The door shut behind her - no doubt
Azrâ needed to reclaim the space taken up by the open door - and the sounds of the crowd instantly dropped to a murmur in the background. As she adjusted to the relative quiet on her descent into the basement, she heard three low voices speaking quickly.
Lôminzil made sure to step heavily onto the creakiest parts of the stairs, just in case the people below did not want to be overheard. Such consideration had earned her much favor with
Nîlû.
She turned left at the base of the stairs and entered his lair. It was a sumptuous space, for a basement: all the furniture was of rich, imported mahogany; a great carpet stretched across most of the floor, lending warmth to the underground space. The man for whom the pub was named sat behind a desk upon a massive chair, his long legs crossed and one booted foot tapping out an unknown rhythm in midair. The highly polished wood of the furniture gleamed in the light flickering in the hearth and the candles scattered across every surface. His clothing matched the richness of the wood in quality, but it was his hair and eyes which drew gazes whenever he entered a room. He was not even middle-aged by Númenórean standards, but his deep black hair had faded to white several years prior - well before
Lôminzil had entered his circles. His amber eyes shone like firelight, though with a keen intelligence which no flame could claim. Those eyes fell upon her as she walked into the midst of the great room, and he smiled. The voices she’d heard earlier, which belonged to the three people seated around a large table in a corner, fell silent. She knew each of their faces from the marketplace, of course: two bodyguards and the man with a grey streak in his hair.
“Lôminzil,”
Nîlû wasted no time on formalities. “I’d just begun wondering if you were ever going to turn up.” His eyes ran over her, searching out her intentions as well as her curves. Maddeningly accustomed as she was to the latter, the former was unsettling. Had he ever looked at her with anything resembling doubt before? The answer was, obviously, no. She had long been a trusted, invaluable cog in the machinery of his operations here. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his desk. “I believe you know my guests?” She nodded, and he grinned again. “They’ve been waiting for you, too. Waiting and hoping you would return with the goods, as promised.”
“I apologize for the delay,” she said calmly. One of the large men at the table looked up at her with renewed interest at the sound of her voice. She had that effect sometimes.
Lôminzil withdrew the slim package from her bag and ran her thumb over the wax seal, just as she’d seen the thief do earlier. To the grey-streaked man, she said, “I have your package here.” She set the parcel delicately upon
Nîlû’s desk, then stepped back a respectable distance to convey her indifference toward the valuables with which she had just parted.
“And the thief?”
Lôminzil gazed directly into
Nîlû’s strange, amber eyes. “She’s been dealt with.”
“Excellent,” he said, clapping his hands together, all skepticism forgotten. “I think that calls for a toast, wouldn’t you say, gentlemen?”
The men at the table were less enthusiastic about this proposition than her employer, but they acquiesced all the same.
Nîlû poured two fingers of whiskey into pristine glasses for each of them, even her, and returned to his massive chair. He raised his glass to his client.
“To the safe recovery of your jewels - and the elimination of that particular threat to my enterprise. Well done, Lômi.”
Lôminzil grimaced into her glass. The whiskey burned her throat, but it was still easier to swallow than
Nîlû’s unwanted flirtations. She tolerated them because he paid better for her work than anyone else, but she was quite certain there would come a day when she didn’t need him. She would tell him how she really felt when that day came.
Nîlû and the bodyguards made idle conversation about the state of Umbar’s criminal networks, and
Lôminzil listened with only the mildest of interest. The grey-streaked man remained silent and still, moving stiffly to lift his glass to his lips every now and then. Once
Lôminzil had swallowed the last of her whiskey, she set her glass down upon
Nîlû’s desk and begged them to excuse her. They waved her off with another toast and a chorus of thanks, and she ascended the stairs into the noise of the Ivory Moon’s common room. She waved to
Azrâ on her way out and, once she had emerged into the cool, quiet night, she took several deep breaths and made for home.
* * *
Nîlû drained his glass and strode to the bottle sitting upon his desk. “Another round, gentlemen?” he asked loudly, elated by the success of his chief alchemist. In addition to her skills with potions and concoctions, she was proving to be quite the clever schemer - it had been her idea to put a tail on the thief, rather than letting the bodyguards do all the dirty work. It would’ve looked strange, she had argued, for a giant man to slash a pretty girl’s throat or to snap her neck in the middle of the marketplace. Stranger things had happened in Umbar, to be sure, but
Nîlû didn’t want to draw attention to the operation and cause a scene.
Lôminzil had guessed that this thief, connected as she was, might have some guards of her own in the crowd, and convinced him to go the route of a quiet death by poison.
“No, I think not,” said the man with the grey streak in his hair.
“Ahh, Minlubên - surely two glasses of whiskey won’t do you in?” he protested.
“They won’t,” said the man, “but there is only so much celebrating one can do. You and your pretty assassin have merely cut off one arm of the kraken. And an anonymous arm, at that. My guess is that the head doesn’t even know who she was. Do you?”
“Just another rising-star thief out of the Warrens. She was good, I’ll admit that. But why does it matter? She’s dead now. I’ve seen the stuff Lôminzil uses on people like her. It isn’t pretty.”
“Mmmm.”
Minlubên brought the tips of his fingers together before his face and considered
Nîlû over them. Did this criminal, well-connected and successful as he was, not know the history of the Houses? Did he not know that it was in this particular thief’s very blood to manipulate and steal from the men who dictated life in the city? Sometimes,
Minlubên thought, it was a wonder that the city functioned at all, the way they all let their collective memories slide. Still, he said nothing. He would keep and use that bit of information when it suited him - and just now, with a half-drunk crime lord pushing another glass of whiskey at him, was not the moment.
Minlubên finally relented and set the glass on the table without touching its contents. He exchanged meaningful looks with each of his bodyguards, and the three of them rose as one.
“I thank you,
Nîlû, for your collaboration in this matter,”
Minlubên said. He and the guards walked toward the stairs, and he slid the thin package from the desk into his jacket pocket as they went. In payment, he left behind a fat bag of gold. “You and that - ah, Lôminzil, was that her name? You both have done very well. We may look to you for your services again.”
This was high praise from a man like
Minlubên.
Nîlû bent his neck to demonstrate his gratitude.
The three men ascended the stairs and reentered the tavern above with a sudden influx of noise, which died down just as soon as the door snapped shut.
Nîlû sat himself upon his heavy mahogany chair. Sometimes, he liked to imagine it as a great carven throne. In this fantasy, his fingers were bedecked with gold rings and all the jobs in the city ran through him and his people. He had one such ring already - a signet upon his left little finger. The bag of gold before him would put him well on his way to another, even after he’d paid
Lôminzil for her trouble.
Another burst of chatter from the tavern alerted him to incoming company. He swept the bag of gold into a drawer and shut it just as two pairs of feet came stomping down the stairs.
“Azrâ!” he exclaimed, straightening and smoothing his hair at the sight of the barmaid. He wouldn’t touch her now with her brother still upstairs, but they had exchanged more than a few passionate kisses after hours in this room.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” she said breathlessly. She had clearly rushed down here before the young man who trailed behind her. “This lad wants a word. I didn’t know you were expecting anyone after
Lôminzil, though, so I thought it’d be best if I came down with him.”
She was a clever woman.
Nîlû might be indulgent with certain women who worked for him, but an unannounced intrusion was likely to spin him into a rage. He had dispensed with his second-best thief only last year because the man showed up without warning to demand more work on one too many occasions. Now, no one would ever hire him.
Azrâ had seen all this transpire.
“You must be quite convincing, to have
Azrâ vouching for you,”
Nîlû said with a sneer, looking at the young man. He was slender and dark and wore an apron around his waist, just as
Azrâ and her brother did. “I’m afraid I’m not hiring - as you can see, we’re all set on bar staff. But what’s your name? Perhaps we’ll let you know in future.” He feigned politeness but he had no intention of doing anything of the sort.
Azrâ stepped aside as the man moved forward to speak with her employer.
“I’m Tolog. But it’s not a job I’m after, sir,” said the young man. He twisted a corner of his apron in both hands, betraying his nerves. “And I don’t like to cause trouble. But I just come over from the bar where I work. That is, the bar where
Lôminzil had her job. Most don’t know it’s got a name, but we just call it the Cloak.” He was rambling now.
Nîlû raised his eyebrows and drummed his fingers impatiently upon his desk. “Sorry. She hired me on to help her, y’see. Told me I’d be helping out
Nîlû - and you’re a legend. How could I say no? I was meant to put the poison in whatever drink that young thief asked for. The one with the dark hair.”
“Go on,”
Nîlû commanded, for
Tolog had paused to swallow his anxiety.
“Well, I did like Lôminzil asked. Put the poison in the girl’s wine and all. She even drunk it. I was s’posed to stand outside and make sure nobody else came in ‘til Lôminzil had done her bit. When she left, I was s’posed to deal with the body. Only I went back in and there was no body there at all.”
“What?”
“It’s like I said. I don’t know if she moved it herself or what, but there was no body. And I had my orders but couldn’t do ‘em, so I figured I’d tell you that something didn’t go to plan.”
Nîlû saw a dozen possible scenarios play out in his mind’s eye. Many of them - far too many - ended with the thief walking out of that tavern of her own volition. His right hand balled into a fist, and he rose to his full height. He towered over
Tolog by more than a head.
“You’ve done well to tell me this, Tolog. Perhaps I will hire you on, after all.”