“Well, not advertise, no.” Heraldin rolled a pair of green glass globes in one palm, grinning as he watched the chemicals within them swirl. “If you call it ‘Arson’s Friend’ they’ll throw you out and call the bannermen on you. That’s its street name. But any reputable alchemist would sell it as Imperial flame olive oil.”
Jynn’s eye locked on the bard. “Imperial flame olives?”
“Yes. Small red olives imbued with fire.” Heraldin pinched his fingertips together as if holding up one of the fruits. “People use them in drinks, funnily enough, but they’re in high demand because—”
“Come with me!” The archmage started for the door. Patches leapt from his bed and trotted after his master in case the sudden activity meant that there was about to be a treat, a walk, or in the very best of cases, both.
“What?” said Heraldin, his fingers still holding the imaginary olive.
“Where are we going?” asked Gorm, hurrying after the mage.
“To my office!” said Jynn, already pushing out the door and into the dim hallway beyond. “Come on! Hurry!”
“Not sure what the rush is. Always a rush for me, always somethin’ terrible if I don’t hurry,” grumbled Friar Brouse. He scratched his thin beard. It was the only part of Brouse that could be referred to as thin, and one of the few bits that wasn’t covered in the heavy yellow robes of a theological support friar. “Everyone always comes callin’ with a so-called emergency, and I says ‘is it really an emergency,’ and then they says ‘of course it is,’ but then it’s spilled jam on the altar or sommat like that. Sommat like this,” he added accusingly.
“It’s an emergency,” said Sister Varia. The priestess of Al’Matra was wearing a long green and white robe, accented with simple silver jewelry. “It’s very concerning.”
“Nobody’s running around. No shoutin’ or people carrying water to a fire. No ghostly apparitions or demonic incursions.” Brouse set his work bag on the grungy floor of the temple and removed a tattered, black briefcase from it. Inside the case, an array of crystals sat in neat rows in a black velvet setting, each with a small plaque beneath it. The one labeled “Al’Matra” was glowing green. “Oh, it’s an emergency, they says, but it’s got none of the hallmarks of an emergency, so far as I can tell.”
Sister Varia stiffened a little bit. “The high priestess and the high scribe are both very concerned about this matter.”
“Ha! ‘Very concerned,’ she says. The high priestess and the high scribe should both know that I don’t come running for ‘very concerned.’” The portly Human snorted. “If your goddess isn’t dispensing fiery justice or trying to stop a fated end-of-an-age sort of prophecy, she can wait until after breakfast like everybody else.”
“It’s almost noon,” protested a nearby acolyte.
“Had a late call last night at the Temple of Dogs,” snapped Brouse, giving the young man a nasty look.
“We are sorry, sir.” Sister Varia did her best to smooth things over with the portly friar. “They thought it was very pressing.”
Brouse cast a sidelong glance at the young Elf. “All right,” he grumbled. “I’m here now, ain’t I? Save the apologies for whoever’s handling my bill. In the meantime, what’s wrong with the statue of, uh…” He paused to read the plaque at the base of the sculpture. “High Scribe Niln?”
“It’s his face,” said the acolyte.
Brouse considered this. “Good lookin’ enough to me. Maybe a bit mousey.”
“It looks fine. It’s just… different.”
“Different from how he looked when he was alive?” asked Brouse.
“Different from how he looked yesterday,” said Sister Varia. “Brother Aphius discovered him this morning.”
“Hmph,” said Brouse. He reached into his bag again. Holy symbols, translucent crystals, bundles of herbs, strings of beads, and the other tools of a theological support friar lined the interior of the case, neatly arranged within an intricate system of pockets and straps. He selected a few from the bag and laid them on the floor.
The copper coil spun. The blueish crystal flickered with inner light. A string of beads between two yew twigs swung back and forth with metronomic rhythm. The crushed leaves were crammed into a long pipe, which Brouse lit with a match.
“There is no smoking in the sanctuary,” chimed Sister Varia.
“Incense,” said the friar around the pipe. “Helps soothe angry spirits and align cosmic waves.”
“Really?”
“Probably.” Brouse puffed furiously as he stared at the string of beads, conjuring blue-gray clouds around his head. “You’re getting higher than normal causal waves here, but that’s just population destiny. Seen it all the time.”
Sister Varia looked confused.
“It’s all the people in the city. Get so many fates crammed together, does funny things with predestination, it does.” The portly man waved away her question and the smoke in his eyes. “And the latent fate around here is…”
He glanced down at the bluish crystal, which had sputtered out in a plume of azure smoke.
The friar shrugged. “Well, it’s probably high as well. Doesn’t matter though. Aside from that, everything in here looks mostly normal.”
“Normal?” the priestess exclaimed. “The statue moved!”
“No, some metal moved, and it happened to be part of a statue,” explained Brouse. “Spatial distortion from your standard predestined event can warp materials. Maybe some warrior down the street realized his true power, or some mage figured out some whizzbang secret. Or something. Point is, your basic fluctuations in fate can twist a hunk of bronze, and you might think it looks like he’s moved.”
“He—he’s got an entirely different facial expression!” protested the priestess.
Brouse shrugged and waved his strange device at the Al’Matrans. “These readings don’t lie. No magic. No concentrations of power from any known deity or fiend. No recent miracles. This is just mundane, everyday destiny. See it all the time.”
“You don’t know that.” The priestess drew herself to her full height and then stuck her nose up a little more. “The gods work in mysterious ways.”
Brouse grunted and rolled his eyes. “Drake spit. No they don’t.”
“I beg your—”
“They do the same thing over and over,” said the support friar. “The sun rises, the seas wave, rivers run downhill, plants grow, animals eat each other, people eat the animals and plants, and then kill each other even though they’re full. Happens every day. Nothin’ mysterious about the gods’ ways; they work in repetitious and predictable patterns. Sometimes to mysterious ends.”
