I.3 - The Painted Poacher

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"A curse?" Monas repeated. Much to Tan's surprise, he sounded more impressed than horrified. "You must be quite the apprentice. Of which curse do you speak?"

"I don't know its name," Tan told him. "I dabbled in kuzoroism too advanced for me and now pay the price for being a fool." He lowered his voice just short of a whisper. "The skin on my chest has become ... abnormal. It's mottled, tinged with a sickly grey, flaky. Sore. The chafing against my robes has begun to draw blood."

"Ah. Has it spread?"

"Steadily at first, though when I awoke this morning I noticed it has reached my neck. It's only a matter of days before I'm no longer able to hide it. I'd hoped it would vanish by now, though it seems -"

"May I see this? It sounds like no curse I'm familiar with."

"Take my word, Monas; I've no time to waste exhibiting my embarrassment any further. I suppose a man who is as highly spoken of as yourself has a remedy just as potent as the curse I've laid."

"Then you supposed impeccably. I can think of two options and you won't like the taste or price of either." Monas raised his forefinger. "The first will merely halt the spread of the affliction and ease your discomfort, though your skin may remain somewhat discoloured, at least, depending on the exact nature of the curse you casted. By the sounds of things you're lucky to still be walking and talking. You can expect a week's worth to cost only thirty marakgel, twenty for a charming little kuzorocari like yourself, but this remedy will never rid you of the condition, only keep it at bay. Weekly dosages build up cost, so from one foreigner to another - don't be surprised; your Farban accent is atrocious - I suggest you consider my other offer. The second remedy will cure you, I promise. Two months and not a day longer. But ..."

The merchant twitched his gold-ringed nose and Tan leant in, closing the gap between them. "But? Come on, out with it, Monas."

"But, as wonderful as my creation is, it has some undesirable side-effects. Tension headaches, hypersomnia, a noticeable decline in libido ... Though that nasty curse you afflicted yourself with will be no more, and nobody in your order will be any the wiser. Except perhaps your partner."

"By the deities' cruel will, it seems my Shara has eyes for another."

"Perfect. What do you say?"

"Your price for the latter?"

"Seven thousand marakgel."

Tan almost choked.

Seven thousand Farban marakgel would be enough to buy a pure-bred warhorse. "Maedhros' name," he said, "you didn't lie when you said your wares are pricey. I'm only an apprentice, my friend. I'm new to the Order and earn little in the way of coin. Between you and me, clients seldom request the services of a venomancer. How much money do you seem to think I make conjuring preventative anti-venoms for paranoid Farban aristocrats? The cheaper one will do until I can put my earnings aside for the other."

"Six thousand marakgel, for my young Fen. You can't say fairer than that."

"I'm not here to haggle; I'm here because I didn't want the fuss. The other, if you don't mind listening."

"Five thousand and five hundred. You will not find this offer at any other stall."

"No, I said -"

"Five thousand and two hundred."

"That's three months' wages!"

"Five thousand. Four thousand. And that's final."

"Stop! Stop. Four thousand, you say? I suppose I'd be even more of a fool to refuse that kind of generosity."

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