The Year of the Dead Rose by Rachel Parsons	Table of Contents Chapter 5 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 appear in this issue.
Chapter 6

Mark Stone was what the worshippers of the man-god call a Judas man, what the people call an Arthur, after the halfbreed who had betrayed them to the followers of the man-god on the old world. After leaving the inn, he headed toward a secret rendezvous that he had set up much earlier.

The inn had been a diversion to last him until time for his appointment. It had been a rather gratifying coincidence that he got another commission when he was there, but not entirely unexpected. It was places like Wynne’s Inn where commissions were hatched. He had lied about being in between commissions, but he had found it prudent to do so; many of his employers would be upset if they knew of his other employers. Sometimes, they worked at odds with each other.

If Wynne was willing to back the naked woman, he knew that she must, in spite of her nakedness, be someone with resources. Wynne would not back her own son if there wasn’t something in it for her.

He was riding a bay mare, and his saddle bags contained a myriad of sins best not discussed. But as he approached Arbeth Dactyl, as magnificent as his steed was, it fit right into the flow of traffic. Mummers, with their brightly covered wagons; yeoman, coming to market with their vegetables and foodstuffs, families, in wagons, or on horseback, making a day at the market, tinkers with their caravans merged with hundreds of sight seers, carters, hucksters, drovers, with their cattle and oxen.

Stone loved cities; he listened to the barking of dogs, the screaming of children, the men and women shouting from higher storeys, felt the jostling of the throngs as he headed through the gates to the tavern where his assignation was to be held.

He burst through the doors to a room brightly lit by torches and by windows with streaming sunlight. There were men merrily making bets on sports events, as minstrels sang to them of such competitions. He went to a dark corner and sat, waiting for his appointment to show up. He admired the high beams in the ceiling of the tavern, rising in stark contrast to the mouse droppings he had stepped on getting to his seat. One of the beams had an immense spider web, which looked like a storm cloud that had taken up residence in the inn.

The barmaid came up to him, took his order. He smiled. She was in a dowdy, gray gown and blood-splattered apron. Her dress made her seem large in the hips and either fat or pregnant. He wistfully thought of the inn he had just left. There, you would know the physique of your serving wench as intimately as you were willing to pay for. Here, although not exactly in a respectable establishment, that was not the case.

The mayor and cabinet of the city had declared certain behaviors unacceptable. Nudity in taverns was one of them. In fact, all nudity in women outside of brothels had been banned about six weeks ago, with one notable exception. An exception which gave him a good idea who the naked woman was whose commission he had just taken. But she was right: her name was anathema in New Dyved, and the agents of that kingdom were everywhere. He had no idea why this Rosalyn Morgan was so important to the naked woman, but he knew that she, too, could be in grave danger from these agents.

He took a deep drink from his flagon, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, picked his nose, and stared at the changing clientele of the tavern. People came and went, hardly noticeable. Through the tables a man in black clothes, cowl and cape came toward him.

The man’s face changed; it became different as he passed each table. A shifting spell. He wouldn’t be a true shifter, but he had the power of illusion. He could make you believe in any form he chose to present to you. Stone couldn’t even be sure that he was a he. That thought made him nervous. One woman boss was enough. The naked woman had filled his quota for females in charge of him.

The illusionist sat down without a ‘high-de-ho.’ He slightly disgusted Stone by picking his nose. Aye, Stone had the same odious habit, but at least he did not eat the contents of his nostrils.

“How fares the world, Mr. Stone?” The voice had the quality of a dweller at the bottom of the sea that had to shout, in a gurgling manner, to be heard at a distance.

“It fares well; it fares well, Mr.-“

“Best you do not know.” Pick. Swallow. Ahhh.

“That’s the second time in one day that my client has refused an identity.”

“You work for another?”

“I work for many people; that is how I stay my own man. But fear thou not; if I like your commission, I will be as loyal to you as to her.”

“Her?” The cowled man looked amused. “You will take a job from a woman?”

“From this one, I will. She is naked.”

“Ah. That changes matters.”

“Not between us, I trust.”

“No, not between us.” Pick. Swallow. Ahhh.

“Good.” Stone flagged down the serving wench, made sure both his and his would be employer’s flagons were filled. She carried over an urn, splashed the brew in, and nearly dropped the pitcher on the cowled man’s right boot. The two men waited until she left.

“I picked this bar for its discretion. But you might as well know: I am being followed,” the illusionist said.

“Can anyone follow you? You change from person to person.”

“One can. And has. He wants what I want.”

“Ah. And what is that?”

“An item.”

“And the nature of this item?”

“That is for me to know.”

“I need to know it if I am to find it.”

“You need only to know where to look.”

“And where is that?”

“Just keep on going until you get to it; then stop.” After that remark, which Stone never did understand, even on his death bed, the cowled man dropped a purse, seeming to conclude their business, and before Stone could protest, he made his leave. His art of illusion could make him completely disappear, except for his leather boots.

They always forget the leather boots, Stone thought as he watched the disembodied boots clomp across the room, tramping on boogers that seemed to fall from nowhere. Rather than take offense at his patron’s sudden departure or follow him, Stone shook the bag. From heft and noise, a handsome sum.

But earning it would have to wait. It wasn’t that he thought the naked woman’s commission was more important than finding an ancient parchment, but hers at least was easily put to rest. All he had to do was go to New Dyved, look up courtesan Rosalyn Morgan, and collect coins as a post man. Simple.

Proceed to chapter 7...

Copyright © 2007 by Rachel Parsons