The Past
The Phergus was a fence, a trafficker in stolen goods, primarily various and sundry things magical. In the course of his business, he sometimes came into contact with other fences, some of whom dealt in the more traditional articles of the trade—in precious metals, rare coins, gems, jewelry, furs, and paintings and other works of art. The story he told Oren and Ava began with another man's story, a man he called Schmidt.
Schmidt was also a fence, but in balmier seasons, he surfaced as an art dealer. He was the first person the Phergus had known who had "gone Remembered," a phrase for those who had been implanted with necromantic artefacts to permanently enhance them, though it often came with surprising catches. His knowledge of the art business was increased by the eye of a sculptor and the brain of a museum curator, among others. But he came to the Phergus with a request for help, a fraternal request, one businessman to another. He wanted a go-to on the Archebold clan, he said, and it had to be executed in a way that would guarantee the impossibility of the subject ever tracing the inquiry to its source. It might be possible, the Phergus had opined, but an explanation was definitely in order. "It smelled," the Phergus said to Oren, "smelled of money. And Schmidt was being very careful. Almost too careful."
Schmidt, it developed, had had a supplier known as Jimmu. Jimmu was a burglar and other things as well, and just back from a year in the desert, having carried certain things back into civilization with him. The most unusual thing Jimmu had managed to score on his breeze over the sands was a head, an intricately carved bust, enamel over platinum, studded with seed pearls and lapis. Schmidt, sighing, had put down his loupe and advised Jimmu to melt the thing down. It was contemporary, not an antique, and had no value to the collector. Jimmu laughed. The thing was magical, he said. It could talk. And not just any voice, but with a beautiful arrangement of clockwork and miniature organ pipes. It was a baroque thing for anyone to have constructed, a perverse thing, because a magical voicebox wasn't so terribly expensive compared to that. It was a curiosity. Schmidt replaced its spent dragonshard and listened to its melodious, inhuman voice finish reciting some bit of poetry.
Schmidt's clientele included a rich man whose passion for clockwork automata approached a fetish. He shrugged, showing Jimmu his upturned palms in a gesture as old as pawn shops. He could try, he said, but he doubted he could get much for it.
When Jimmu had gone, leaving the head, Schmidt went over it carefully, discovering certain hallmarks. Eventually, he had been able to trace it to an unlikely collaboration between two Silfanore artificers, an enamel specialist in Zaichaer, and a Solunarian jeweler. It had been commissioned, he discovered, by the Archebold clan.
He had begun to make preliminary passes at his collector, hinting that he was on the track of something noteworthy. And then he had a visitor, a visitor unannounced, one who walked in through the elaborate maze of Schmidt's elaborate security as though it didn't exist. A small man, enormously polite, who bore all the marks of a fleshcrafted assassin. Schmidt sat very still, staring into the calm brown eyes of death across the polished surface of a rosewood table. Gently, almost apologetically, the killer explained that it was his duty to find and return a certain artwork, a mechanism of great beauty, which had been taken from the house of his master. It had come to his attention, he said, that Schmidt might know the whereabouts of the object.
Schmidt said he had no wish to die, and produced the head. And how much, the visitor asked, did you expect to obtain through the sale of this object? Schmidt named a figure far lower than the price he had intended to set. The assassin produced a roll of bills, carefully counted out that figure, and set them on the table. And who, the man asked, brought you this piece? Schmidt told him. Within days, he learned of Jimmu's death.
"So that was where I came in," the Phergus continued.
The Present
The door to the Grey Raven opened and closed without anyone visibly entering. Aurin's faux gold brow twisted a bit, confused but alert. He heard muttering in a language he didn't recognize, but thankfully someone else asked the obvious question: "The Mists kinda talking is that?"
"Vilandroc," said a girl—no a little person—no, an actual dwarf! "Idiot." She glared at the man as she turned the corner around the bar and came into Aurin's view, and then up to his knee. He blinked. She was short, obviously, though he didn't know if she was short for her people. Short, reddish hair was pulled back and she was dressed like a blacksmith who had been on the road for some time. The Clockwork Wastes lay between Antiris and the Dwarven Hold States. Surely, she hadn't walked through there.
"You are the man from Kalzasi," she said, appearing none the less sure of herself for all that she had to look up quite a ways to see him.
"I am a man from Kalzasi," he agreed, sipping his ale. Perhaps he had spent too long here in Antiris. People were starting to know him, and not just Vadim in the bedroom sense. Another day and he would likely have Viorica dancing on his lap as well, but no, he had to return home.
"Is it true? Has Arcas been kidnapped?" She asked this incredulously; he supposed that made sense. Kidnapping a demigod seemed nigh impossible, and yet it had been done.
"Talon Novalys and his husband were kidnapped," he allowed.
"Not dead," she said, a certainty. "And there is to be war? This is why the airships won't fly to Kalzasi?"
"A war between Kalzasi and Zaichaer seems imminent, though that has been said before. Some ships have been allowed through the lockdown."
"They won't take me," she said, clearly reining in a fiery temper.
Aurin put a few things together.
"You're marked, aren't you?" he asked quietly. "A Dawnmartyr."
Her eyes cut to him suspiciously. But they softened a bit when she saw he didn't say it with disdain or judgment. She nodded.
"Then I will just have to walk." She turned to go.
"Wait..." He sighed. He stood. He downed the last of his ale, looked around, and then decided to just leave coin. The bill for his lodging had already been paid, and he wasn't one for messy farewells anyway. Vadim was taking a shine to him, but absence would make the heart grow fonder. Perhaps he would return for another romp in the bedroom when he had business in the city. And next time, he would score with Viorica as well.
"Why are you grinning?" she asked acerbically, snapping him out of his reverie.
"Pleasant memories," he said sourly, and slung his bag over his shoulder. "Come along. I know a captain making for Kalzasi. If you can't afford a ticket, I'll take you as luggage."
She spluttered indignantly as he walked past her, long legs eating up the space between him and the door.
"Don't fall behind," he chided, and then he was out the door.
Aurin measured his pace once they were gone, and he poured a bit of aether into his Rune to give her a once over. Indeed, he could see the bright light of her emblem, resonating similarly to the man himself—well, the demigod himself. She wasn't a one to open up, it seemed, but he coaxed a bit of information out of her. Long story short: she gave up on all her other responsibilities in order to find her God. He supposed it wasn't a particularly uncommon story for the religious lot, though he hadn't met many dwarves to compare origin stories.
When they passed through a shadowy arch with no people in close view, he let his glamour drop. He had sent his senses out and found nobody tailing them. She started, staring at him.
"That was Arkady Petrou," he said, hooking his thumb back over his shoulder at the face and history he had left behind. He pointed the thumb at his chest. "This is Aurin Kavafis. Aurin Kavafis has a deal with Talon Novalys to bring him information about his people, so I'm going to make sure you make it to Kalzasi. He won't be there barring a few miracles, but there are more of your kind there. Dawnmartyrs."
She was processing this, he thought. Eventually, she seemed to decide he was her best chance to reach Kalzasi and the Order she belonged to due to the mark blazing between her shoulder blades.
"Then may he bless you for aiding me, Aurin Kavafis," she said. He nodded, grunting. After a minute, she ventured, "What is he like?"
"The Shinsei?" he asked, glancing at her. Then he looked back at the road ahead, the road that led to the airships. "Tall."
