The Year of the Dead Rose

by Rachel Parsons

Chapter 9, Chapter 10 appear in this issue.

Chapter 11

Making the sound of a cascade while spitting and spluttering, Stone grabbed a pylon. He pulled himself out of the water and then, from his knees, jumped upright. He shook himself as dry as he could, rubbing his hands through his hair. He needed to get dry as soon as possible. The weather here in New Dyved was suffering from the early onslaught of the snow gods, even though it was warm and dry compared to New Fairy. Still, he needed a change of clothes and some whisky. The clothes to prevent the chilblains; the whisky to help him map his next move.

At his hotel room, dressed in a mammoth fur-lined robe, sipping some coffee laced with whisky, “Terran coffee” the locals called it, Stone felt a cozy fire come from his belly through his entire skin. The fireplace crackled, and his leather chair was comfortable. He appreciated the comfort, as he reckoned it might be his last. The cowled man would be displeased; the naked woman also. Between the two of them, his chances of survival would make a death insurance agent laugh.

He put aside the question of how to find Rosalyn Morgan for a moment. He thought he knew how to reclaim the scroll. The question was: who would want it? He could exclude the cowled man, who was his patron. He didn’t know much about him, but he knew he wouldn’t steal what he had already paid for. That was his reputation.

He couldn’t exclude his other patron. He had recognized the seal and the handwriting. They were Queen Modron’s, of that there could be no doubt. Whatever it was, it would prove valuable to the naked woman, since Modron, he was pretty sure, was her mother. Was it valuable enough to excuse his failing? Perhaps. The scroll would mitigate it, at any rate, and he might be able to negotiate a settlement that kept his head on his body.

Who would steal the parchment? The most likely answer was some ruffian who didn’t know its value but knew it had some. The interested parties had commissioned him already. Not certain, but if it was your average varlet, then Stone had a place to start to regain it. His purse for its purchase, should it require purchasing, was almost unlimited. A courier bird to the cowled man would achieve that.

It was time to go shopping.

Every town and city has a place where you can buy and sell anything, where, for a price, anything goes. In Arbeth Dactyl that is the infamous Thieves’ Marketplace, the one next to the Column of the Native Peoples, with its statue of a human, a fairy, a shifter and a dragon on a podium. In New Dyved it is the rogues’ quarter.

It was the same as in Arbeth Dactyl, if you didn’t count the denizens. More humans, more offworlders; no firebreathers or shifters. Farrell had banned their presence as a favor to his good friends, the Terrans. But the endless shabby buildings that housed taverns, inns, houses of fallen doves, and gaming rooms were the same.

By the seventh tavern, Stone was feeling defeated, and not a little inebriated. You called attention to yourself in these places if you did not drink and although Stone could drink almost anybody in the five kingdoms under the table, even he was feeling a little wobbly. He thought that, after these commissions were done, he would spend some time in a monastery — he didn’t care whether it was dedicated to the barren moons or to the man-god — just to get away from endless udders being flung in his face, the suffocating smoke from a field of fags, and an ocean of whiskey and beer. He hadn’t thought he would ever get his fill of women, tobacco and alcohol, but it was happening.

“I hear you are looking for a man of letters.”

Stone focused on the two visions in front of him and got them, albeit unsteadily, blended into one. A stout man with piggish eyes and a nose that could double as a longbow. He wore a jerkin down to his knees, and his cuff had links of gold and silver.

“I am looking for a letter, man,” said Stone, almost giggling at his own witticism.

“Well, I may be able to help you. Allow me to introduce myself.”

“By all means.” Hic.

“I am Dol Pelbin, and I am at your service.”

Stone motioned with a flourish for the stout man to sit down.

“Let us conduct this in a civilized manner,” said Pelbin, snapping his fingers. Two flagons of whiskey appeared. Stone was too sloshed to perceive exactly how they arrived. It seemed by sorcery, but that was so heavily punished by the crown of New Dyved that he doubted even the magnificent Dol Pelbin would risk it. Shaking, Stone picked up the flagon and clinked it against the fat man’s.

“I will get straight to the point, sir. Straight to the point. As I am a man of business, sir. Business. There was a certain procurer in town who was challenging my authority. And there is a certain adventurer who did me the boon of disposing of this challenger. I am a man who honors his debts. When I learned that certain papers were taken from that adventurer, I was most distressed, as he had done me this boon.”

“I see,” Stone said and repressed a burp.

“But, and at this point, I am almost in tears.”

“Aye, in tears.” Stone nodded his head vigorously; his vibrating jaw was helping him focus.

“Because I am also a man of business. Of business, sir.” Pelbin took out a tiny box from inside his jerkin, opened it, and stuck some snuff up first his one nostril and then another. He drew in breaths and moaned in pleasure.

“Aye, a man of business.” Stone slapped himself first on one cheek and then another. Good. Pelbin was back together again.

“And those papers are worth a small fortune to certain, uh, gentlemen.”

“And a lady,” belched Stone.

Pelbin frowned. And then a look of enlightenment came to his face. “Would this lady be one with no clothes on?”

Stone involuntarily nodded. Damn his excess. He was revealing too much. Although not as much as the lady with no clothes on. He almost giggled again at this most witty thought. Most witty indeed. Giggle.

“Aye, the item is perhaps even more important to her than to anyone else. But she is unaware of the importance of this... uh... item. If she were to be made aware, well, it is the stuff dreams are made of, sir; that dreams are made of.”

“But I represent interests who would pay, say, ten thousand ducats?”

“You insult me, sir; you insult me.” Pelbin pretended to make to leave.

“Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we, fat boy?”

“Sir, I perceive you have had far too much to drink; far too much. But I am a man of business, so I will overlook this; overlook this, I will.”

“Bully for you. Now, what would be a less insulting price?” Something inside of Stone was making it hard to see. But if he could get the parchment back, and it would be of inestimable value to the naked woman, then he would achieve his goal — that of keeping his head and body united. And make enough to retire to New Dinodig, the finest cantrev in New Gwynedd. A kingdom by the sea where he could live like a king. Where sea dragons swam and no one need ever be sober. He was contemplating sitting on his veranda looking at the beach when his head fell into his flagon.

“The man can’t hold his whiskey,” said a gaunt, thin-lipped man in a black gown who had joined Pelbin.

“He can’t hold his jaundice root, at any rate. Well, it is verified. He is the man of the princess regent of New Fairy. She may not be aware of the importance of the parchment, but if she has sent this one to fetch it, she should be willing to pay a fine price. Contact her and the prime minister of New Prydain. I am told he will be visiting her. We should be able to set up a bidding war.” He interlaced his fingers. “Aye, a bidding war.”

“And the other who is interested?” asked the gaunt man.

“Oh, he already knows what is going on and will not interfere. Aye, a bidding war.” Pelbin moaned in pleasure after the manner of a man being pleasured by a woman at the thought. Then he left Stone snoring on the table.

To be continued...