A Quest of Heroes (Book #1 in the Sorcerer's Ring)

Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

Gareth stood in the crowded marketplace, wearing a cloak despite the midday sun, sweating beneath it, and trying to remain anonymous. He always tried to avoid this part of King's Court, these crowded alleyways, which stank of humanity and common man. All around him were people haggling, trading, trying to get one up on each other. Gareth stood at a corner stall, feigning interest in a vendor's fruit, keeping his head low. Standing just a few feet away was Firth, at the end of the dark alleyway, doing what they had come here to do.

Gareth stood within earshot of the conversation, keeping his back to it so as not to be seen. Firth had told him of a man, a mercenary, who would sell him a poison vial. Gareth wanted something strong, something certain to do the trick. No chances could be taken. After all, his own life was on the line.

It was hardly the sort of thing he could ask the local apothecary for. He had set Firth to the task, who had reported back to him after testing out the black market. After much pointing of the way, Firth had led them to this slovenly character, whom he now furtively spoke with at the end of the alleyway. Gareth had insisted on coming along for their final transaction, to make sure everything went smoothly, to make sure he was not being swindled and given a false potion. Plus, he was still not completely assured of Firth's competence. Some matters, he just had to take care of himself.

They had been waiting for this man for half an hour now, Gareth getting jostled in the busy market, praying he was not recognized. Even if he was, he figured, as long as he kept his back to the alley, if someone should know who he was, he could merely walk away, and no one would make the connection.

"Where is the vial?" Firth, just a few feet away, asked the cretin.

Gareth turned just a bit, so as not to be noticed, and peeked from the corner of his cloak. Standing there, opposite Firth, was an evil-looking man, slovenly, too thin, with sunken cheeks and huge black eyes. He looked something like a rat. He stared down at Firth, unblinking.

"Where's the money?" he responded.

Gareth hoped Firth would handle this well: he usually managed to screw things up somehow.

"I shall give you the money when you give me the vial," Firth held his ground.

Good, Gareth thought, impressed.

There was a thick moment of silence, then:

"Give me half the money now, and I will tell you where the vial is."

"Where it is?" Firth echoed, his voice rising in surprise. "You said I would have it."

"I said you would have it, yes. I did not say I would bring it. Do you take me for a fool? Spies are everywhere. I know not what you intend—but I assume it is not trivial. After all, why else buy a vial of poison?" 

Firth paused, and Gareth knew he was caught off guard.

Finally, Gareth heard the distinct noise of coins clacking, and peeked over and saw the royal gold pouring from Firth's pouch, into the man's palm.

Gareth waited, the seconds stretching forever, increasingly worried they were being had.

"You'll take the Blackwood," the man finally responded. "At your third mile, fork on the path that leads up the hill. At the top, fork again, this time to the left. You will go through the darkest wood you have ever seen, then arrive at a small clearing. The witch's cottage. She will be waiting for you—with the vial you desire."

Gareth peeked from his hood, and saw Firth prepare to leave. As he did, the man reached out, and suddenly grabbed him hard by his shirt.

"The money," the man growled. "It is not enough."