Firebrand

Chapter 363: Silver-forked Tongue

Chapter 363: Silver-forked Tongue

Silver-forked Tongue

Two lessons of training his fire ray proved exactly as dull as it had been last fiveday, but Martel endured. He could not tell whether the power and intensity of the spell actually increased; if it did, it happened too incrementally for him to feel the difference. As for the wall, it did not care to comment. But Martel knew that complaining about the exercise only risked detention, which would undoubtedly be worse. So, he gritted his teeth until it was done and he could leave the Circle of Fire.

His obligations done, Martel entered the city. It was too early for his meeting with the mysterious Serpentine writer, but he had decided to go to the coupling first and stop by The Golden Goose on his way back. Even though he did not have any ideas for new earth spells that he might teach Sparrow, Martel felt guilty about how long he had waited between his previous visits. If nothing else, he would check on her progress and discuss it with her.

When Martel finally arrived at the house of Weasel and the gang, he found his plans spoiled; Sparrow was not at home. She and the small chief had left to carry out their own schemes; probably roaming the harbour looking for unsecured cargo to pilfer. While Martel did not approve of such methods, he could not fault them when the alternative was starvation. Accepting that he would have to find the time to stop by another day, Martel performed a few bits of magic for the children and finally left towards The Golden Goose.

***

As the young mage stepped into the tavern, he let both eyes and magic survey the room. The place looked as it always did, busy with customers and a bard performing on the stage in one end. As for his supernatural ability, it told Martel of a few dead pockets, each of them tiny in size. The occasional gold coin in someone's pocket or jewellery of said metal adorning a finger or ear. Nobody wearing gold in such quantity as to suggest an intention of fighting a spellcaster, the way it felt when Martel magically examined an inquisitor or the like. Satisfied of the lack of any immediate threats, Martel got himself an ale and found an empty table, where he might wait for this letter-writing snake to appear.

It took a while before someone finally moved towards him. Martel's eyes glanced over the newcomer, deducing what they could. Leather trousers and a woollen doublet of good make, fitting for a courtier or well-to-do trader; fine garments, but still practical for travels. His belt buckle had the shape of a serpent eating its own tail, and a golden knife, from what Martel's magic told him, rested in the man's sheath. He came ready to fight a mage if need be, but the lack of gold elsewhere on his body meant Martel was not worried about battling him; plenty of vulnerabilities to strike.

Yet his clothes were far from his most distinguishing characteristic. Although his eyes and hair had the same dark colour of many Asterians, his facial features set him apart. Martel had only seen such once before, in the supposed trader who met with Lady Pearl in Smallport. This was no homegrown adder, but a native serpent of the Western Isles.

"Master Martel." The greeting was spoken with certainty, as if they were well acquainted, and accompanied by a flourishing bow.

Unsure what to make of this prospective conversation partner, Martel opted for standing up and inclining his head in a polite, if curt response.

"I have the advantage of you, of course. Please, you may address me as Charles." An Asterian name, but his accent when speaking the Asterian tongue suggested he had been born with another.

"Master Charles."

"Please, be seated again. We have much to discuss."

"So you say," Martel replied, even as he sat down while the islander took another chair opposite. "But your letter was sparse with details as to what."

"Forgive the subtlety. I know you Asterians prefer a more direct approach, at least in business. But given how freely information flows in this city, I thought it best to play coy." His lips, crowned by a thin moustache, smiled.

"Well, I'm here now. Nobody listening but me."

"So we would hope." For a moment, it seemed his expression turned overbearing. "But if Asterians value directness, I am told that mages do even more so, so I shall get to the point without delay."

Still taking him a lot of words to accomplish this, Martel thought.

"I represent the Silver Serpents, a company offering many services to facilitate trade. While our headquarters lie across the sea on the Isles, we have chapters in Aquila and now also Morcaster. And we are always on the lookout for skilled individuals to join our organisation."

There it was. This was an offer of employment. "I fear you have wasted your time. For the next two decades, my services are spoken for." Martel reached out to grab his mug of ale. Might as well empty it and head home.

As if reading his intentions, the islander raised one hand to make Martel wait. "But are you satisfied with this? What if you could be released from this obligation, free to choose a path of your own volition?"

"Perhaps you are not familiar with how the Asterian Empire works. I am to be a battlemage. No amount of bribery to anyone in the Imperial administration will save me from the legions."

Charles made the same smile as before, as if he knew a secret Martel did not. "Trust me. We make no investments, no plans without first gathering full knowledge and considering every step. If you were to simply disappear, taken safely far from these lands, what could they do? The reach of these legions does not extend to the Isles."

Martel was not inclined to take the idea seriously, but he felt curious nonetheless. "You think you can accomplish this?"

"I would not make the suggestion otherwise. We are highly skilled in moving not only goods, but also people around, especially without drawing attention to either."

Of everything Martel had considered this conversation might be about, he had never expected this. It seemed fanciful; he found it difficult to trust this islander, who spoke with such a silver tongue and refined speech despite Asterian not being his native language. Yet the thought of escaping twenty years of war… He could not dismiss this out of hand. "And what would you expect in return for this service?"

"More or less what you have already shown yourself to be capable of. Guarding ships or shipments valuable enough to warrant a mage, accompanying settlers or trade caravans across the Isles. They are beautiful, my friend, lush islands full of delights. And I can guarantee that payment and living conditions would exceed those of the legions."

"Mercenary work, in other words."

"That is one way to name it," Charles admitted. "But often, your mere presence would deter trouble. Certainly a far better post than dying on a battlefield in the endless wars of your empire."

The air felt heavy inside the tavern, burdened by smoke, countless scents, and the loud noise of customers. "I cannot make such a decision on a whim. I need time to think."

Charles bowed his head in acceptance. "Of course. But given what must be set in motion, if we are to go through with this, I cannot wait too long. There are many preparations to make, and I shall require your help in the coming fivedays. I shall be in this place at this hour two days hence. I would ask that you bring me your answer then, and we may set to work."

"Very well. I shall return then." Martel reached out and grabbed his ale to empty it.