2. Cal #3
Cal was surprised to hear Bald Locke sound almost obsequious. This client must be an important one to have him on his best behavior.
A gesture from Bald Locke sent a waiting pair of dock hands scurrying up the gangplank. They vanished into the ship’s hold and emerged a moment later carrying an ornate, lacquered box between them.
Cal’s eyes widened as he studied it. He’d seen a lot of treasure in his time, but something about this one called to him. And was it just his imagination, or did it leave a faint tingle of magic upon his skin as it drew near?
The pair of dockworkers deposited the ornate chest on top of a crate near Bald Locke, who opened it with a flourish and beckoned the masked man forward.
“Here it is, as requested. So kind of your master to smooth over its arrival—I doubt even the Brotherhood could have gotten something like this past Customs.”
The masked man studied whatever was inside. He extended a trembling hand toward it, then seemed to think better of it and jerked his gloved fingers back, shutting the lid instead. “My master will be pleased.”
He pulled out a small pouch and sprinkled some glittering silver dust atop the box, muttering an incantation.
In a flare of azure runeflame laced with streaks of silver, the box shrank to a fraction of its former size: small enough for the masked man to heft in one palm and tuck into a pocket on his cloak.
Cal had used such arcane trappings before.
His tattoo operated in a similar way, though the items stored inside remained shrunken until recalled, unlike this sort of shrinking dust that tended to wear off in an hour or so.
One of the many perks of living in Derimay was easy access to trade goods from Vantor.
Cal doubted one could find more readily available magical relics anywhere else in Allaria, except perhaps Vantor itself.
“I assume payment will come from the usual source?” Bald Locke asked.
The masked man gave a curt nod as he turned to walk away. “The account transfer will be waiting for you by morning.”
Apparently, their business was concluded. That meant it wouldn’t be long before Bald Locke returned to his office to finish dealing with Cal.
Cal glanced from Bald Locke to the departing man, hesitating. His curiosity had been well and truly stoked by now. An image of that lacquered box hovered before his mind’s eye, and he licked his lips as he imagined all the wondrous things it might contain.
Whatever it was, it had to be worth a Void-cursed fortune if the masked man’s master was paying via a bank account transfer rather than in person.
Such transfers were rare, reserved only for the richest patrons with thousands of gallants on the line.
Stealing such an object would be the perfect capstone to the night’s activities.
He bit his lip, his gaze trailing back to Bald Locke.
But standing up Bald Locke was a serious risk.
Even if the crime lord didn’t suspect what Cal had really been up to, leaving out of the blue risked burning his bridge with the Brotherhood.
And they were one of the few patrons he had left who still offered him work that piqued his interest.
Muffling a sigh, he waited for Bald Locke to move off, then hurried from the dock, cutting back toward the office at a swift pace.
He made it back before Bald Locke and had just settled into his chair and finished reverting his dockworker disguise to his usual Blackjack one when the door opened, Bald Locke striding inside.
Cal flashed him a broad grin. “Have a profitable business meeting?”
Bald Locke stared at him long enough to make his skin crawl before grunting and sitting behind his desk. “Always. Now, where were we?”
Eager to pursue that masked man while the trail was still hot, Cal forswore his usual antics, and within minutes, the barkeep was escorting him out with an extra twenty gallants in his pocket.
“Got somewhere else to be?” the barkeep grunted after Cal tried yet again to hurry him up the stairs.
Cal forced himself to relax despite his antsiness. “Of course, my good man. Opportunity awaits.”
When they finally emerged into the grungy tavern, Cal tossed the bag of extra gallants he’d wheedled out of Bald Locke onto the bar. The barkeep’s eyes widened. “Here—a little something extra for all your hard work.”
Perhaps that would buy him some good will the next time he had business with the Brotherhood. Rushing past the stunned barkeep, he exited onto the street and scanned the area. Shadow and shade! No sign of the masked man.
Well, that was all right. No one knew these streets better than he did. He started toward the nearest alley, shifting his disguise to a nondescript worker the instant he was out of sight. If the masked man was still out here, Cal would find him.
Assuming that someone with so much money to toss around wouldn’t be used to navigating the back streets of the slums, he stuck to the main boulevard heading toward Derimay’s upper districts. Sure enough, it didn’t take long for him to spot his quarry.
The masked man was walking slower than Cal would’ve expected, moving in fits and starts. Perhaps he was wary of an ambush? That might make things more difficult, though at least he didn’t appear to be traveling with any sort of escort.
Cal considered and dismissed several plans before settling on a classic.
Ducking into a nearby tavern that was decidedly nicer than The Last Drop, he snagged a beer from a table by the door and splashed it over his face and clothes.
Then, he waited until he had the masked man in sight and made a show of stumbling from a nearby alley.
Beaming drunkenly at the man, he held open his arms.
“Bert!” he cried, slurring his words. “There you are! I thought you left without me.”
The masked man spun toward him. “What—?”
Before the man could recover from his initial surprise, Cal pretended to trip. He collided hard with the man, nearly sending them both sprawling to the cobbled street. Clutching the man’s arm and lower back for balance, Cal laughed.
“Whoa, careful there, Bert! You don’t seem too steady on your feet. I think you might’ve had too much to drink.”
“Get off me!” the masked man snarled. He shoved Cal roughly away.
Cal stumbled back, pretending to almost go down again. He leveled a bleary-eyed glare at the masked man. “Hey, easy there, Bert. There’s no need for violence.”
“I am not Bert!” The man’s hand shifted aside his cloak to reveal a metal baton fastened at his waist. When he did, Cal also caught the faint gleam of a silver badge affixed to his chest. A protector! Cal had been right in his guess.
The man’s fingers lingered over the grip of the baton, his voice low and dangerous. “Now, get the Void away from me before I make you regret it.”
Cal raised his hands and slowly backed away toward the alley he’d emerged from. “Sorry, sorry. There’s no need for that. It was an honest mistake.”
Retreating into the shadows of the alley, he waited, watching the masked man to see what he did next. The masked man grumbled to himself, brushing off his cloak and wrinkling his nose. Then, he continued on in his odd, shuffling gait.
As soon as Cal was certain the masked man didn’t suspect anything, he flared duskflame to shift his disguise to a nondescript beggar and slipped away, making for his nearest safe house.
He kept a half-dozen of them scattered throughout the city, along with numerous smaller hideouts and stashes he could fall back on in a pinch.
It never hurt to be prepared for any eventuality. Cal had learned a long time ago never to trust in anything…or anyone.
He changed disguises yet again when he reached the safe house, this time altering his appearance to one of his minor aliases who kept an apartment in the building.
The elderly woman wasn’t much so far as covers went—anyone who looked too closely might notice her extended absences or odd hours.
But in this part of town near the docks, most people knew better than to poke their noses into anyone else’s business.
The instant he was safely inside the small apartment, he let his disguise drop and reached into his pocket, extracting the miniaturized ornate box.
He grinned as he studied its gilded exterior.
It had been almost too easy to swipe it from the masked man when they collided.
Hopefully, whatever was inside had been worth the hassle.
Patience wasn’t exactly one of his virtues. By the time the box’s enchantment finally faded and it had returned to its regular size, he’d about worn a hole in the floorboards with his pacing. Rushing eagerly back to his prize, he checked over its exterior.
It seemed unlikely there were any defensive wards in place since he’d seen Bald Locke and the man open it at the docks.
Still, he pressed a finger to the second thief’s mark on his chest and extracted his thief’s tools in a brief flare of duskflame.
The collection of thin crystalline lock rods inside had been a gift from someone he’d known long ago, and it had come in handy over the years to help him detect and disarm any magical traps.
When he was satisfied the box was clear, he tried to open it and was surprised to find it unlocked. Easing it open, his half-formed grin of triumph froze on his lips.
Nestled inside the box was a glass sphere of deep violet nothingness.
There must have been some manner of protective wards woven into the chest after all because now that it was open, he could sense the wrongness of the thing inside.
It seeped over his skin like an oil slick, leaving it crawling.
Though he’d rarely ever encountered voidflame, he knew at once that that’s what this must be.
No sane person would ever willingly work with a voidflame relic. Shivering, he sat back and stared at the orb while chewing on his bottom lip.
Just what sort of madness had his curiosity gotten him mixed up in this time…