Secret Seller: Prequel to The Famine Cycle, an epic fantasy thief saga

2: A Fragile Situation

Nomusa and Xaron didn't take well to the change of plans. "But we just finished a job," Xaron complained as he lay back on the divan. "Can't it wait a day? I had big plans to stuff myself and practice my juggling."

Nomusa snorted. "You think that's important? I was going to see what I could catch at the taverns. If this is what it sounds like, I might not have another chance for a span — faresh, perhaps even longer!"

I crossed my arms. "He said the earlier the better. I'll be waking you both before dawn."

Xaron sat bolt upright. "Before dawn?" he exclaimed, sloshing wine over the already much-stained divan in his violent protest. "That's preposterous!"

I only smiled in response.

True to my word, I roused my wine-logged companions in the gray light before dawn, and with much cajoling and promising, managed to herd them to Maesos' shop within the turn of the sandglass. It was gray and drizzling outside, but my mood was better than it had been all during the season. Xaron, on the other hand, gazed out miserably from the hood of his cloak. "Did it have to be so early?" he complained for the tenth time. "It was supposed to be a day off."

"If you don't want to feel bad," I chided, "you shouldn't drink a barrel of wine at a time. You're not Nomusa."

"I wanted the record," he muttered as Nomusa smirked at him. Unlike Xaron, she was as alert and ken as ever. As far as a night of wine and revelry went, last night had been a tame occasion for her.

I raised my hand to knock again, but it opened and revealed a familiar grinning face. "Well, if it isn't my favorite Finches!"

"Your only Finches, I hope," I said with a smile, entering as he stepped aside. I would have hugged him, but he had on his glass smithing gear, and I wasn't keen on smearing ash and sweat over myself. As Xaron and Nomusa entered after me, I studied my old friend. His white hair stuck out at odd angles, seared gray at the ends where he hadn't been careful with hot tongs. His shirt, ragged and ridden with holes, hung loosely from his thick body under a dirty apron. But his kindly eyes had always been his best feature and made all the rest endearing.

"Sit down, sit down." Maesos gestured to a few chairs he had out for customers. Xaron gratefully complied, and I politely followed suit, while Nomusa continued to stand. Maesos shook his head with a small smile at her. "Always so stubborn. But no matter — I know you're allergic to small talk when there's interesting business about, Airene."

"Yet here you are, chattering away," I said with an arched eyebrow.

Maesos bellowed a laugh. "Guilty indeed! Well then, here's what I have." He cleared his throat and leaned forward. "Late yesterday, I received word from an acquaintance that a certain patrician, one Agmon of Iris, fell dead in the middle of the evening worship."

"That doesn't mean anything," Xaron protested. "People fall dead all the time. Especially old people." He raised his eyebrows irreverently at Maesos.

The glass smith chuckled. "Indeed they do, though don't expect it of me yet! But it was the manner in which he died that made this curious." He cleared his throat again. "It appears that his, ah, stomach burst open."

"Burst open?" Nomusa said with a frown.

"That's right. And what's more... Red pyrkin spilled out."

I narrowed my eyes. "Hold on. Agmon of Iris... Wasn't he portly, liked styling his beard, particularly fond of red robes lined with gold?"

Maesos nodded. "The very one."