4. Things Get Out Of Hand #2
I had a complex relationship with Cholerius.
I wouldn’t say he hated me as such, but we weren’t the types to giggle over a shared spellbook.
We vied for top spot at school. For a time, he majored in creative magic, excelling at the intricate art of weaving illusions.
Then, to everyone’s utter bafflement, he switched in his last year to magical law enforcement and bureaucratic administration.
Fern—the only person Cholerius seemed to tolerate—once mentioned that the man didn’t do well around chaos or anarchy.
And what was creative magic if not a masterclass in complete clusterfuckery?
Whatever his reasons for the career change, he’d always been stiff, over-regulated and put-together. My total opposite.
Wobbly legs or not, I dragged myself behind the counter to take my place at Kill’em’s side. I reminded myself to breathe.
Perhaps Cholerius is here to perform his regular inspection rounds. Right?
Yeah, nope.
A fleeting downward glance at the tabletop nearly made me choke on my tongue.
My money case overflowed with silver, glistening to the extent of blinding me.
Kill’em’s aggressive sales tactics had proved more profitable than I’d imagined.
Under normal circumstances, I would’ve been ecstatic.
As things have been, my insides performed a violent, nauseating flip.
“Hello, Cholerius,” I managed to croak, the words scraping my parched throat.
I smiled nonetheless, refusing to stand there like a pomegramon.
I swallowed hard, trying to bluff my way out of a corner.
“Lovely to see you again. I’m just… well, conducting standard commerce, as you see.
Making an honest living as a law-abiding, licensed craftsman. Same old.”
“Hmm.” Cholerius didn’t return the greeting. Instead, he tapped the spine of his ledger with two leather-gloved fingers and pinned me with a steady, unblinking green stare.
I shat my metaphorical pants while my mind raced through the mounting list of my offences.
Truth be told, a Council enforcer turning up at my stall any day, even for a casual check, already spelled trouble.
If we ignored the weensy-teensy detail—and by the goddess, I was trying—that I’d just committed a spot of illegal cross-planar violation, there were still other issues.
Take the contraband jar of Fern’s tempest-root stimulant tucked away in my satchel.
Or the fact I was vending several new prototypes without a single safety form to my name.
Every new alchemical creation required mountains of absurd paperwork before public exposure.
Well, the pages of my specification book were covered in…
more or less indecent drawings. Who had the time?
Cholerius ignored the buzzing crowd and the shiny fortune tucked between my stock. His sharp, calculating eyes locked onto me, deadpan and sober. Reaching into the breast pocket of his robes, he produced a delicate brass regulatory compass and held it flat in his palm.
Fuck. Not the compass, dammit.
The needle didn’t just point; it went nuts, spinning in frantic, chaotic circles, completely overwhelmed by the unauthorised residual magic that had bled into the air all around my stand.
With readings off the chart, the game was up.
“Standard commerce, eh? Does it include twisting the fabric of the space-time continuum into a cinnamon pretzel, Elian?” Cholerius said, his voice a modulated drawl laced with a lethal dose of snark. “I see you still have that flair for the catastrophic I remember so well from the Academy.”
He didn’t wait for my retort, not that I had a witty one to hand. His gaze roamed across my booth as if hoping something would spontaneously combust to illustrate his point.
“Do you remember the Courage Spark incident at the winter gala? That delightful little matchstick you invented to grant yourself two minutes of absolute bravado to ask… who was it again? Horacy Fergis to dance?” Cholerius offered a thin, mocking smile while my teeth ground in humiliation.
“Sadly, you miscalculated the compound. It misfired, prompting you to climb onto the main banquet table and inform the High Dean, in excruciating detail, what you thought of his articles on modern applied magic. I think you described the lot as the indulgent ramblings of a concussed moron? It was… certainly something.” His expression and tone cooled.
“Shame the dean punished our entire year for that antic.”
I winced at the memory.
My silence, however, didn’t put Cholerius off the mood to reminisce.
“Or that time you tried testing the Spring Feel match during Practical Introduction to Spellwork? And the fabric of your clothes turned entirely to butterflies? Left precious little to the imagination once they decided to flutter off, didn’t it? ”
A collective, intrigued gasp rippled through the gathered mob. The bastards were eating this up, while my ears burned as if I’d used the Brimstone Burster to clean them.
“Well, I suppose I should count myself lucky you haven’t managed to level the entire municipal district on this occasion,” Cholerius murmured, as he gestured vaguely to the spinning instrument.
“That’s enough now, clerk,” Kill’em growled, his voice a low, rumbling warning.
As if detecting my distress, he stepped closer, his motion entirely natural.
He placed a heavy, protective hand on the small of my back to calm me.
“I presume you have a point to make. You’d better get to it before I lose my patience. ”
The grounding weight of Kill’em’s touch worked like a charm.
I straightened, tilting my chin up. At the same time, I reached back and squeezed Kill’em’s other hand, trying in turn to soothe him.
The last thing I needed was for him to enter warlord mode and slaughter a Council representative on the first day of the market.
Even though one could argue Cholerius had it coming.
“Yeah, Cholerius, make your point,” Settie chimed in from the side, indignation making her voice high-pitched and sharp. “But try not to be a complete di—”
I elbowed her hard in the ribs, cutting her off before she committed contempt of office against a legal enforcer on duty.
Cholerius snapped the compass shut, the metallic click sounding like a miniature guillotine.
“Well, this is quite straightforward. My magispheric monitor registered a localised planar distortion of such magnitude that I initially assumed an equipment malfunction. Imagine my complete lack of surprise when the tracking ether led me directly to your… shockingly well-organised booth.”
He paused, a faint twitch of his eyebrow betraying his confusion as he surveyed the neat, tiered velvet displays, void of a single trace of my usual, err, relaxed chic styling.
Only then did Cholerius’s eyes flicker upwards, freezing as they took in the imposing frame of the ash-blond big’un standing beside me.
He blinked. A flicker of genuine, involuntary reverence crossed his features.
For a fraction of a second, the tightly wound arbiter looked derailed by Kill’em’s immense aura, his breath hitching before his official training kicked back in.
Recovering his icy, pedantic sneer, Cholerius smoothed his golden robes.
“And who, pray tell, is your oversized assistant? I don’t recall seeing, never mind approving, a labour permit accounting for individuals who look as though they recently conquered a small principality.
Or are you also employing undocumented workers without the proper paperwork, Elian? ”
“He’s just a friend. He’s only helping out,” I offered the lame and hopeless line of defence even though I knew it wouldn’t work.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kill’em’s expression darken. He appeared somewhat disgruntled upon hearing the just-a-friend description. Even more ridiculously, saying those words aloud felt wrong to my own ears. A sudden spark of confused frustration bit at me.
“Sir,” Cholerius addressed Kill’em in a stern tone, pulling his ledger open and readying his stylus. “I need your official statement for the record. Please provide your full name, title and origin to assist with this investigation.”
Kill’em didn’t bother answering. He looked down at Cholerius from an impressive height, his expression hardening into the stern resolve of a man used to giving orders rather than taking them. Ignoring the arbiter, he turned towards me, placing his large hands firmly on both of my shoulders.
“Elian,” his deep voice carried a tone of quiet command. “Does this quill-pusher represent actual authority in this place?”
“Um… unfortunately, yes,” I muttered. “He’s an enforcer for the Council. Kinda big fish.”
I could tell Kill’em didn’t find this bureaucratic intrusion amusing; his temper on the precipice of flaring.
His jaw clenched in a visible internal struggle.
As a soldier, he no doubt understood the chain of command—and the necessity of respecting law and order—because he chose not to obstruct the process.
He glared back down at the arbiter, his posture as rigid as iron. “Commander Ke?lhem Renyés. Highest Vanguard of the Realm. Originally from the Asirhw?n Regiment, currently stationed at the Sable Citadel in Barbarian Territory.”
For a time, Cholerius offered nothing but a blank stare, punctuated by the chorus of “oohs” and “aahs” from the crowd. His writing implement hovered in mid-air, forgotten. As the gravity of the information registered in his academic brain, he let out a flat, dry, “I see.”