Chapter 30: I despise that.
"Any suggestions on what I should pack?"
"An enchanted dagger, boss. Just in case."
"I always have one. Anything else?"
"That chain thing."
"Hmmm. Yeah. Sounds like a good idea."
"Sorcerer supplies?"
"I'm not sure. That's why I'm asking you."
"No, I mean, will you be bringing supplies for spells?"
"Oh. I suppose so."
So I gathered these items, tossed in some busberries in case I needed sleep, some Tivn leaves in case I needed to stay awake, then reached out to connect with Drevolan. It took some time since I didn't know him very well, but eventually, we were connected.
"I'll be prepared in an hour," I informed him.
"That will work," he responded. "Where shall we rendezvous?"
I pondered over this, then informed him, "There's this inn named Verenek's in South Avandryl."
* * * *
Every time I step into a cobbler's shop, I can't help but wonder how anyone's shoes turn out alright. That is, I've never encountered a cobbler's workshop that wasn't as dark as Nyxara's underworld, nor a cobbler who didn't squint as though he were partially sightless.
The remnants of clothing on this particular cobbler indicated his allegiance to the House of Chreotha, as did his elongated face and stubby digits. The amount of dirt under his nails could have adequately fertilized a garden. His head sported sparse grey hair; his eyebrows were thick and dark. The room reeked of leather and various oils, and I couldn't describe what it looked like except for it being dark and somber.
The Chreotha issued a silent grunt (I can't portray it any better than that) and gestured towards a shadowy spot that happened to house a chair made from pieces of leather strung across a wooden frame. I carefully sat down in it, and once I realized it wasn't going to give way, I eased into it. It was slightly smaller for a Imperion, which was enjoyable since Imperions are taller than humans, and it's bothersome to sit in a chair crafted for someone larger.
The cobbler shuffled out of the room, presumably to alert Voltaire of my presence. Voltaire was the man who had employed me, after a disagreeable introduction involving a game of Torben that was held at the back of his establishment. Liora had, I figured, intervened on my behalf, so I was reporting for work for him. I was also meant to be meeting a coworker.
"You must be Viktor Dravos," he voiced.
I jolted and nearly unsheathed the dagger from my sleeve.
"Mama?"
"It's okay, Opal."
He was seated directly opposite me, and I'd somehow overlooked him in the faint light. A slight smirk played on his face, possibly due to witnessing my startle, but I decided not to loathe him immediately. "Yes," I responded. "I believe you are Thorne?"
"I think so too. Since we both agree, let's assume it's accurate."
"Ummm... sure."
He observed me, still with the same cynical look. I wondered if he was attempting to provoke me into a confrontation, to see if I could restrain myself. If so, I disliked being scrutinized. If not, he was simply obnoxious.
He stated, "There's a guy who owes Voltaire some money. Not a huge sum; forty imperials. But he's being obstinate. If we can recover it, we split four imperials." I maintained a neutral expression, though I was astonished that my colleague didn't regard forty imperials as a substantial amount. This, I surmised, could potentially be beneficial for my future.
He continued, "Shall we depart?" As he said this, he passed me what appeared to be a smooth, circular rod, perhaps an inch and a half in diameter and two feet long. I gripped it. It was weighty enough to cause harm. He added, "Voltaire said you already know how to handle this."
"I reckon so," I responded, testing the weight of the weapon. "It's similar to a chair leg."
"What?"
"Never mind." I flashed a cheeky smile back at him, feeling a wave of confidence. "Let's proceed."
"Alright."
As we stepped out, I queried, "You'll be doing the talking, correct?"
"No," he replied. "That's your job."
* * * *
"How long will you be away, Viktor?"
"I'm not sure, Thorne. You're going to have to manage things as best you can. If I'm fortunate, I'll return in three or four days. If not, well, I won't be returning at all."
He gnawed on his lip, a habit I believe he adopted from me. "I hope you're gaining something out of this."
"Sure," I remarked. "I hope so too."
"Well, best of luck."
"Thanks."
Opal and I made our way to Verenek's. The host recognized me immediately and managed to suppress a frown. However, when Drevolan stepped in, I noticed he drew back his lips, almost snarling. I grinned and said, "Table for two, please. We'll have the dead bodies and seaweed. I'm sure you're still adept at serving them."
Indeed, he was, and I was gratified that Drevolan enjoyed the Venorium peach brandy, albeit a little disheartened that he was already familiar with it and even addressed it by its Venorium moniker. Nonetheless, he hadn't known about Verenek's prior. I think he took pleasure in being the sole Imperion patron in the establishment, too. I recalled encountering Liora there (by chance? Unlikely!) and wondered how the regulars would react to frequent Imperion visitors, and what kind of reputation I'd earn. Regardless, Drevolan seemed to relish the experience more than Verenek.
Tough luck.
We exited the door after having a couple of drinks each. Then Drevolan halted. I stood beside him. He closed his eyes, remained motionless, and then nodded at me. I steadied myself, and suddenly South Avandryl was no more. I anticipated feeling nauseous, and unfortunately, I was right.
I despise that.
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