The Venomancer

I.2 - The Painted Poacher

The stall counter came to chest-height, so Tan stood on his bare tip-toes to make himself appear taller than he really was. He held his chin aloft and squared his slight shoulders, inflating himself beyond his natural width and appearing less like a scrawny teen in need of a good meal. He found himself leaning against a compartmented counter displaying what looked like a medley of ground-up leaves, vibrant pollens, tangled fungi and a selection of slick, fleshy orbs he hoped weren't any particularly delicate organs. Two men pottered the other side of it, both dark-skinned southlanders with striking pierced faces, and who wore golden kaftans and belts in the style associated with Saïlla Province, far to the south. The closer, shorter vendor wore an odd garment on his shiny head: red and green and fringed with tassels. Proud southerners, Tan concluded from their lordly demeanours. The easier to suck up to, the better.

He clicked his fingers twice, hinging on his most demanding scowl, and wasted no time drawing tassel-man's attention. The gold clad merchant exchanged glances with him, though did not submit to his impatient beckoning. Annoyingly, he was already occupied with a customer, and Tan looked over to see a mumbling lady shrouded in red, with an affliction on her arm that she seemed embarrassed to produce. Tan snapped his fingers again and leaned in farther over the counter, unsteady on his toes.

"Mister, I don't have all day," he said in Farban. Click-click.

He'd never truly grasped the etiquette here. The merchant released the troubled lady's hand, begged his pardon and came across with a resigning sigh. He gave Tan a smile despite his evident annoyance; the rings through his lips and cheeks issued a soft tinkle as his face creased. He presented his palms, facing upwards and parted to show Tan he meant him no harm with weapons or fists - a gesture the High Farbans used to greet each other. Tan returned it with a taut nod.

"Are you well?" said the merchant with well-practiced charm.

"Yes," Tan replied, "of course I am." He gave a vacant grin to fill the pause. He found High Farbans overly polite for his liking, bordering on awkward. They were far more courteous than he could ever pretend to be, but until he knew what persona he'd adopted in his red silks, he felt it best to conform. "I mean ... are you well yourself, sir?"

"You only need look at me once to see I'm well," the merchant chuckled, patting his broad stomach. "I have not been ill since I was a boy, yet you come bearing clothes of bright scarlet today, so it was worth my asking. What may I address you?"

Tan hesitated. With Farban honorifics being so complicated to outsiders, he did not know the correct answer. Was it worse to admit he had no title or guess at one without knowing what he was talking about? This is why I should never rush a theft. I told you, Shara. "First, since I have a pouch of gold to exchange for your wares, what may I address you?"

"A title is not important for trade unless you mean to sound like a braggart," said the merchant, "but since you ask, call me Ilimaco Monas, the travelling potions merchant from beautiful Ruiço. I have journeyed leagues from Saïlla Province with a world-renown name though a seldom seen face. You have heard of me, no?"

"Everyone worth a damn south of Sjoortha has heard of you, Monas." Tan had long emerged from the other side of being honest. "Even its icy winds whisper your name with fondness, my friend."

"Very good. I like you already, young man. The purple sash about your waist informs me you are an associate of the Order of Kuzorocari, though for what discipline of sorcery I cannot determine without your eye-mask."

"Non-elemental," Tan told him without delay. It was the only discipline he could remember the name of. "And my name is Ruri Kithvas."

"Fen Ruri Kithvas?"

"Yes," he said boldly. The sound of the word fit like a missing puzzle tile in his memory, even though the name was a well-trodden lie. "The lowest rank for those learned in the art, but a title all the same."

"Quite right, you are still young, after all. And what can I do for an apprentice of kuzoroism donning red? Surely the Order can heal you of whatever affliction you bear? I assume that is why you are here, Fen Kithvas. An illness."

"Why else stop at a fine stall selling potions and powders of the best variety?"

"Why indeed, when your kuzorocari of the healing arts live underground with the rest of your breed. Why surface to the market and trouble yourself coming to Ilimaco's famed stand, I wonder?"

He had a point.

Tan saw Monas' gaze intensify, with more than a hint of suspicion present with the arching of one black eyebrow. Perhaps it was too unusual to see an apprentice in the people's market buying his health when a trip to the infirmary would suffice. That was what every other member did. He's suspicious. But since Tan understood Monas took him for an ailed kuzorocari, he could reel the bugger in for all he was worth.

"Because you come recommended," Tan said, his voice as smooth as the silk he wore. He leaned forward on one elbow. "And because my order cannot know I'm ill. It's our little secret."

"Yet you wear red!" laughed Monas, throwing back his head on his thick neck. "A beacon of poor health in this great city!"

"A better disguise than my robes, should I happen to meet anyone who might recognise me."

Monas blinked twice and nodded. "Smart as you are handsome, but why must they not know you're unwell?"

"I'm a non-elementalist, Monas, and my branch is venomancy. Poisons are my speciality and the defence against them. If people knew my illness was a self-inflicted accident ... well, I've as good as ruined my own reputation and I'll be poor by the turn of the season. Under oath I can't lie to the Board of Sors and they ask far more intrusive questions than you do. You understand my problem, don't you? I want to reach beyond an apprenticeship some day and this isn't going to help my credentials. Between you and me: my situation is damn well humiliating."

He threw in a confession to make the lie convincing. He'd have to buy himself a drink for that one later.

"I sympathise," said Monas. "Forgive me for prying, but it pays to be suspicious of everyone at first when you work on a market, especially one as vast and central as this. I charge quite a price for my remedies and there are some folk that would see me out of a profit. What can I help you with?"

Tan let his eyes flutter closed in defeat.

"A curse."