Shadows of the Scriptures

TWENTY-TWO: The Mermaiden

The girl had flown, they were saying.

Tarn snorted. They said a lot of things. Holder’s sake, they were raving on about how the Third Quenching was upon them!

He weaved his way through a crowd few syllables away from being a mob, listening to the Educatori presidential candidates. He ignored the guards patrolling the Capma District. They were always on patrol, since the Shadow-Men attacked, and now the incident with the smugglers and the unplacated mage girl. Tarn almost pitied them. Almost.

Past charmsellers, tailors and wheelwrights, he eventually reached his destination – a squat, white property, like the inanimate version of a swan.

Tarn was patted down to the bone by the security man. “Come on,” he moaned. “You don’t know me? I’ve been coming here since I was six.”

“Really?” said the security, fumbling presently at Tarn's crotch. “What’s my name then?”

Tarn clicked his tongue. “Why the fuck would I care?”

Security reached into his robes and pulled out a blade made of enamel or bone. “What’s this?”

“A knife,” said Tarn.

“I know what a knife is.”

“Good for you!” Tarn grabbed it back. “Now stand aside.”

“It’s a weapon. Can’t let you in with it.”

Tarn sighed. “I’d sooner cut my cock off than dare harm Yuiri.”

“Then you are wiser than you appear,” said Security.

“Look, I’m here to sell it, alright? So if you will kindly go fuck yourself – "

“Piss on you! No way I’m letting you in!”

“Let him in,” said an irritatingly sharp, instantly recognizable voice.

Security yelped and sided, chest puffed.

“Is that the noise your mother made when you popped out of her?” Tarn sneered as he stepped up the stairs, kissed the hand of the woman at the door, and followed her in.

The corridor inside was uncharacteristically empty. The woman took seat behind one of the many counters in here and regarded him. “So, what have you brought me today, thief?”

“Come now, Yuiri, you know me better than that,” said Tarn. “I’m no thief. I’m a trader. I trade valuable lost items for money.”

“You steal useless items and throw them at me so you’re not put in a cell,” countered Yuiri.

“Well, that’s one way to put it. But you do wound me. Was not the tiara I brought to you on Fecotento worth a hundred gold coins? It had to have been.”

“It was a fake.” Yuiri cocked her head sideways. “What do you bring me today?”

“Why, this.” With a flourish as smooth as quicksilver Tarn displayed the object of concern.

“A knife?” Yuiri scowled. “A fucking knife?”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t fuck, just like any other knife,” Tarn told her. “But I do pack another sword which would do the job well.”

She leered at that. A leer was as close to a smile as Yuiri’s lips ever got. “Are your days of prime that far in the past? Yesterday an infant girl brought me some trinkets, and they were more valuable than this.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to have a closer look?” Tarn placed the knife on the counter and nudged it towards her.

Yuiri seized her silver-chased monocle and studied the hilt of the thing, which Tarn the Thief-Trader had already done. The hilt was bronze with arteries of gold which formed a Trident glyph, packed in frayed leather. She drew a breath sharp as her voice and leaned back. “It could be a fake,” she said.