Oopa took a deep breath. She glanced down to the street on the other side of her and saw red-robed figures awkwardly trying to scale the crates. Another was taking aim with a crossbow—
One of the ceramic tiles next to her exploded with a plonk. It was the sound of a last chance quickly evaporating.
Oopa kicked at a couple of tiles to loosen them up as she scrambled to her feet. She half-crawled, half-sprinted along the gable of the roof as the first red-robed figure clambered up onto the tiles. The man’s pursuit was brief and ended with a scream over the chalky sound of sliding terracotta, followed by an undignified plop and a chorus of reptilian bellowing.
Oopa didn’t have time to glance backward. She launched herself into the air as she reached the edge of the roof, and a crossbow bolt slammed into the tiles where she had been a moment earlier. A split second later, she slammed into the top of the building across the street and scrambled over the edge.
This rooftop was flatter and didn’t have any precipitous drops into drake-infested pits. The building was on the edge of one of Kesh’s famed waterways, just a few streams down from Ogdin’s Canals. She used the gleaming, white pillars of Ogdin’s Cairn to orient herself, then plotted an escape route back to the sewers. The route would take her across the canal to the Sandmills and through the bustling slums of the Dockman’s Quarters.
That meant that right now was as quiet a moment and as high an altitude as she would enjoy for quite some time.
After a moment’s thought, Oopa ducked behind a set of abandoned falcon cages and pulled a small, round stone from a pouch on her bandolier. She tapped on it impatiently, growling to herself as the magic took a moment to fire up. Then a tiny, rose-colored light bloomed within the glassy surface.
“I went to the Crimson Grove. It was a risk, but I saw the trees and they’re full,” Oopa whispered to the stone. “I mean, they’re laden with fruit. That’s because they grow year-round. They’re always in season! And the growers aren’t happy I found—”
A sudden shout rang out from a nearby roof. She looked up to see a pair of red-robed men emerging from a stairwell, brandishing their long, curved blades.
“Have to run!” she said and tapped the stone once more. It flared pink in her hands as she sprinted toward the north side of the rooftop. Her muscles tensed and stretched as she launched herself off the edge of the roof, out over the canal. She glanced down as she leapt. The water was an azure slash through the sand- and bone-colored streets of the city. At its edge, she saw a flash of red.
The final pursuer. The one with the crossbow.
The bolt hit home before the thought did, punching into Oopa’s back with enough force to flip her over in midair. Something pink and bright flitted past her face as the messenger sprite flew above her, speeding off toward its destination.
Then she rolled in the air again and lost sight of her final message. Trailing blood, she plummeted toward the dark water below.
The crimson olive dropped into the amber liquid with a faint plop.
It began to spark and fizz on contact with the fluid, dancing above the flashes of light like a mad imp dancing over flames. Its wild jig sent streams of tiny bubbles to the top of a fluted glass, which the waiter placed in front of an ancient Scribkin wearing horned spectacles and enough foundation to whitewash a fence. Cracks and fissures spread over Merrin Fumple’s face as she smiled and lifted the glass in a toast. “Imperial flame olive,” she said. “Adds some punch to any drink, and it’s doubly good on a chilly day.”
The Gnome took a sip. Light flared and a cloud of steam erupted around her.
“Whoo. Ha ha!” Smoke curled from the corners of Merrin’s grin. “A bit pricey, but you only live once.”
Heraldin Strummons wore a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. He suspected that Merrin had lived at least three Human lifetimes, and spent them draining the coin pouches of countless hopeful musicians. Still, a dozen of those aspirants had become famous, and if Heraldin wanted to be the one to round out a baker’s dozen, he needed to make a good impression. “Worth every penny,” he said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, then added, “You know, they use Imperial flame olives to make explosives.”
“Do they?” Merrin asked with a smile. “Is that why they’re so hard to get?”
“I would guess so.” Heraldin had no idea about the state of the olive market, but his penchant for fighting with glass chem-bombs kept him in contact with the alchemical industry. “Their oil costs more than liquid gold, but to the right buyer it’s worth the exorbitant price.”
“All I know is you can definitely use them to make amazing snacks and cocktails. You should try one while they’re still in stock.” She took a sip that set her silver eyebrows alight.
“I’m good with my moonwater,” Heraldin said. Moonwater was much like river water, as far as Heraldin could tell, except that it was served with a slice of grundant on the rim and cost two giltin for a glass.
Everything was like that at Salvatore’s, an upscale restaurant tucked between even more upscale buildings in the center of the Sixth Tier. All of the dishes boasted exotic names, elegant garnishes, and extravagant prices. Heraldin suspected the dim candlelight wasn’t so much to set the ambiance as it was to obscure the numbers on the menu.
“Moonwater does sound good,” Merrin said. “I think I’ll try one of them as well.”
“Be my guest.” Heraldin managed to force the words through a brittle grin.
Merrin was always the guest at lunch. That was, Heraldin understood, a key part of the arrangement. If some aspiring bard wanted Merrin’s time, they bought her a meal. If the hopeful minstrel was worth talking to again, Merrin would buy the meal next time and call it square. Of course, if a hopeful bard wasn’t worth Merrin’s time, she’d call it even anyway; the musician got a shot pitching to a top industry agent, and Merrin got the most expensive thing on the menu.
She liked to have a few drinks. She liked to make small talk about her grandchildren. She liked flirting with the waiters—especially Halflings, it was said—and speculating about whether or not she was too old to have a little fun. She had a loud laugh that she employed often and took quick notice if nobody joined in. It was all a game to Merrin, the sort that cats play with doomed mice. As the bard playing the part of “rodent” for the afternoon, all Heraldin could do was try to keep the game from ending prematurely or in tragedy. Eventually, he knew, the conversation would turn to his work.
Their turn to the matter at hand coincided with the arrival of Merrin’s third cocktail. “You must have brought me out to pitch the ballad of the liche-slaying heroes of Andarun,” Merrin said as she inspected her glass. An illusionary ship sailed across the surface of her deep blue drink.
The comment caught Heraldin off guard. “Well, I mean someday I hope to do it—”
“It’s such a great story,” said Merrin. She capsized the boat with a long sip. “Six heroes, thought to be criminals, return from exile to save the kingdom and slay the overlord of an undead army. And the liche and one hero are father and son? That’s the sort of twist that makes for the best epics.”
“Ah, yes,” said Heraldin. “And I look forward to writing it, once I get the—”
“I mean, who else is going to get the rights, with you being one of the heroes?” Merrin said, peering at Heraldin through her thick glasses. “You’ve got first swing on the biggest ballad of the age!”
Beads of sweat bloomed on Heraldin’s brow. “Ah, well, it should make getting them easier—”
“You don’t have them yet? No problem. It’ll be easy.” The Scribkin waved the concern away with a fork. “They say most of your partners are back working with the guild by now. That means they’ll have agents, and agents love money. Trust me on that one, I know.” She gave a barking laugh. “Just go to their agents to sort out the rights. Everyone will want a cut, but that’s the business.”
The bard cleared his throat. “Actually, some of my companions are unrepresented—”
“What? Oh, good thing you’re all friends, then. Call in a personal favor. You need to get those rights. Oh, the food!” The shriveled Scribkin smiled as a waiter placed a plate of lettuce and tentacles before her. “Ah, Salvatore’s always has the best mentalopod. It’s dangerous if it’s too fresh, but if you wait too long the brain squid isn’t even wriggling anymore. The chef here always gets it right.”
She pointed to one of the faintly purple, severed appendages pulling itself across her plate toward freedom.
“Never was one for Arakian food,” Heraldin said, then quickly changed the subject. “Anyway, did you read the draft I sent you?”
“Hang on. I want to enjoy this.” Merrin held up one hand to pause the conversation while another maneuvered a fork to strike.
