AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I shove open the door to the Gilded Thimble—and then I shove harder, while the hinges groan in protest. When I finally manage to push it wide enough and squeeze myself through, I have to kick it shut behind me.
It’s dark in the shop—fucking gloomy. Bolts and bolts of dusty cloth are stacked from floor to ceiling, covering every bit of the walls. It looks as if most of the fabric hasn’t been disturbed in years. Big barrels clutter the scant floor space, each one filled with more vertical bolts of cloth. There’s a rack of greasy-looking ribbons, a series of narrow shelves lined with spools of dingy thread, and a bookshelf stuffed with tattered paper patterns.
I sidle through the jumble to reach the narrow counter, which is studded with needle-stuffed pincushions, as if to fend off any customers who might have been brave enough to make it this far.
There’s a domed bell on the counter, but when I press the button on the top, it clanks rather than ringing.
“Ho there!” I call out. “I’m looking for Ayvish Thren!” My voice barely travels through the close, stuffy space; the sound is deadened by the ceiling-high stacks of fabric.
There’s a patched curtain between a pair of overstuffed bookshelves, so I vault over the counter, narrowly avoiding the needles, and I sweep it aside.
The shop continues on, in deeper gloom, like a tunnel into a mountain. Tall and broad as I am, I barely fit through the narrow passage between piles of wooden crates. There’s another curtain, and when I duck through it, something comes hurtling toward my face.
My hand flies up, grabbing my attacker’s wrist, halting the oncoming swing of the cudgel he’s wielding.
“Rupert!” he gasps. “Fuck, I wasn’t expecting you.”
He looks just as he did in Rupert’s memories—a gaunt man with a scraggly beard. His eyes keep darting from me to the curtained doorway, then to various other points in the room. Is he always this nervous, or am I just special?
In the dim bluish light of the smoky lamps, I scan the room, picking out the hallmarks of his trade as a thrash maker and dealer—pipettes, tubes, trays, scrapers, burners. No sign of anything remotely magical. In Rupert’s memories, I could see the setting in which they spoke about the fennisley. They were in the back room of a tavern, and from that conversation I gleaned the name of this shop. But I couldn’t see the layout of the Golden Thimble in Rupert’s mind—I could only glean the vague impression that somewhere within that shop lay all sorts of forbidden magical items.
I veer my gaze back to Thren, whose wrist is still in my grip.
“Ease up, man,” he says.
“I will, if you back off.” I release him, and he sets down his cudgel.
“Can’t be too careful.” He massages his bruised wrist. “Goddess, Rupert. What’s gotten into you?”
Judging from what I’ve seen of Rupert Diggs’ mind, he was a mild-mannered fellow, for a guard. A lover, not a fighter, forced into service as a guard because his family didn’t know what else to do with him. And he had the misfortune to glance admiringly at the wrong woman, at exactly the wrong moment.
In some strange way, I feel like I owe this to the real Rupert. I’ve borrowed his life and likeness for a short time—the least I can do is carry out his revenge. Especially since it suits my goals. Otherwise I wouldn’t bother, of course. I can’t be fulfilling vendettas for everyone I decide to use along my way.
“You know why I’m here,” I tell Thren. “The fennisley.”
“Keep your fucking voice down,” he squawks, his eyes bulging. “I told you, the price has gone up. Eight thousand chrons.”
“I’ll give you six thousand.”
He shakes his head, avarice gleaming in his eyes. “Eight, or no deal.”
“How do I know you even have it?” I counter. “I can’t be expected to shell out eight thousand for a product I haven’t seen. Show it to me, and then we’ll talk.”
Thren looks me up and down. “Got any weapons?”
“No.”
“Prove it. Strip.”
Grimacing, I pull off my boots and set them aside. Thren’s gaze latches on them, and I’m fairly sure he guesses that they’re special. He might even know they’re of Elvish make, even though they’re designed to mimic human handiwork. Only the keenest of eyes could tell the difference, and this fellow has made a career out of identifying and selling Elvish relics and gear.
But he says nothing as I remove my pants, tunic and vest and stand before him naked except for my socks. “See? Nothing.”
There’s another sort of interest in his eyes as he scans my body, but he only licks his lips and says, “Fair enough. Get dressed, but leave the boots up here.”
Up here? So we’re going down, then.
I pull on my pants and tunic, then grab the vest, thankful that he didn’t inspect it further. The only items in its concealed pockets are Juliette’s notebook and the charmed vial that links me to the original Rupert, and I don’t want to be separated from either item.
