The Eye of Wysaerie

Chapter Fourteen: A Taste of Pie

While Andercruik's driver did not see the telltale orange and green ripples in the puddle reflecting the flickering oil lamps of the porte-cochere, Leonidas burst through the carriage door before the flintwater ignited under the wheels, and the blast carried him twenty feet onto the wet flagstones.

Though The Knight of Nine Tails never wearied of flintwater—marveling as a single spark enveloped the coach in a tornado of fire, making flesh torches from the horse and driver, tearing the coach into kindling and cinders, and blackening the pillars of the carriage port--he turned from the aesthetic pleasure of magical fire to the professional interest of fulfilling a stubborn contract, as Leonidas Andercruik had already escaped death three times.

His most recent attempt on Andercruik was at the soiree, when Leonidas's poisoned cup was filched by a juggler. When the entertainer's drunkenness diluted the poison, the alarm was not even raised, and the assassin suffered the unfortunate duty of entertaining the woman who monopolized his attention long into the night, for fear that the gossip would tell unflattering tales of the discourteous Klyrnish Lord Dergaln, and make that identity less useful. Though the flirty Simona Bynde was pretty, propertied, and unprincipled, the way he liked all his lovers, she was much too garrulous, and her teeming femininity was too saccharine to one whose interest was tormented by thoughts of his target. When he was later taken unawares by the steward, lost his hiding place, and had to increase his distance from his prey, he admitted to himself that he might be distracted by his attraction.

After he stepped from behind a nearby pear tree, he sprinted through the rain toward the carriage porch. Though the storm drummed so loudly on the stone roof that it drowned out the whimpers of the faceless driver and horse, when they raced blindly into the yard, the rain could not douse the enchanted flames, and where they toppled to the sodden ground, the green and orange fires continued to blaze. As tragic moments engulf petty hearts and self-pity, watching their slow death by fire sublimated his love unrequited and unknown, and The Knight of Nine Tails drew his sword.

Where Leondias's body lay, there was only the flame-ravaged lion skin mantle. Had he not at that moment looked left, then right, the arrow that grazed his temple would have sprouted in the top of his head. Another arrow buried itself between flagstones. Blood leaked over his ear, neck, and cloak as he sprinted toward Andercruik's orchards. Only a few arrows followed in his wake, as they stopped when he cleared the stone overhang.

***

No sooner had Elgar sat down than the brutes stood over each of the adjacent chairs with an expectant attitude, though neither seemed to have more than a glimmer of forethought—nor a speck of now-thought. One was lean and sinewy, with a lumpy clay face like an unfinished ashtray, which seemed to crack around the apple he noisily chewed. The other was bestial, nearly ogrish in his clustered muscles, broken teeth, and shaggy hair. Both were unapologetically ugly, perhaps to complement and compliment their unapologetically vain Lord, Leonidas, whose strut into Mama Gorta's was needlessly showy, his suede leggings scraping noisily in the fallen hush. Draped over his shoulders was a green cloak, and at his side was a broadsword in a black leather scabbard gilded with suns and lions. When he sat across from the death broker, his guards remained standing, or rather half-standing, as they leaned ungainly on the backs of the chairs like human gargoyles.

Elgar himself was aged but not elderly, his green suit well-groomed and its polished brass buttons fastened over the perfect posture of his gaunt frame. It was his way to always eat with refinement, even at Mama Gorta's, though his favorite eatery was not a place of particular refinement. Though it was loud, and the clientele were often uncouth, none made a pie like Mama Gorta, its flaky, moist crust crumbling over the tender filling as the chew unclothed herbed, succulent meat in savory gravy, or spiced, lush fruit in syrupy jam. It was his way of dignifying his delight and respecting Mama Gorta's impeccable pie-craft to request silverware, to unbutton only his lower button, and to order her most expensive bottle of wine. As long as she was was able to serve the best dinner pastries in Vanoor, he would bring the high culture that her establishment deserved.