The curtains were made from the same material as the tablecloth. Drawn across the window the fine velvet gleamed in the flames from wall sconces. To either side of the room lay huge glass cabinets with rich ornaments and jewels sat upon the glass shelves. Necklaces, brooches, gold and silver rings, jewel encrusted daggers, drinking horns; goblets, jugs and cutlery of ivory and jade. Elora gazed about the Aladdin’s cave of treasure.
“I meant what I said earlier. There are things in this room which are priceless. Choose one and it is yours,” Grendel offered, gesturing about the room with her arm.
“There is no need Grendel. I don’t want anything.”
“Hush Elora. Choose something. I always pay my debt and I owe you my life, so please.” She opened her arm to the room once again.
Warily, Elora paced the room, gazing at the opulent objects and wondering what it was that she needed. Any of the treasures were worth a fortune, but her life aboard the Molly had taught her that you could live quite richly without having riches. She paused at the chest in the centre of the room. Black wisps curled like smoky fingers above the opening, never probing further than the shadows and retreating when the warm light touched it.
“Djinn smoke. It’s yours if you wish it. It’s more valuable than everything in this room combined, but it may cause you more trouble than pleasure,” said Grendel, tracing a slender hand along the rim of the chest, fine tendrils of the smoke intertwining with her fingers.
“What does it do?” Elora asked, intrigued.
“It’s what’s left of a powerful Djinn or genie, whatever your language names the magical deliverer of wishes. Some say that the smoke has power enough to grant a man anything his heart desires. Others, tell of wishes granted, born of trickery where the wisher is given more than what he wants and ends up forfeiting his life; his own soul given to the smoke.”
“My uncle used to warn me - be careful what you wish for, because it may come true.”
“Your uncle is wise,” said Grendel as she closed the lid of the chest. “Then perhaps a gold bracelet? The metal was mined in the mountains of Valaria, far beyond the reach of the Empire. Or its sister necklace or both.”
Elora eyed the bracelet and necklace, red fire from the sconces dancing along the polished metal. They were riches far beyond anything a girl like her would ever dream of owning. But what good would they bring? Would they keep her safe from harm, would they bring her uncle back?
“Both Bray and the Shadojak have an invisible pocket, a smuggler’s pocket to hide their swords,” Elora ventured.
Grendel’s eyes narrowed. “Argh. Smuggler’s pouches. Worth kingdoms, can’t be bought for love nor money and banned by the Empire. If it’s detected that somebody entering any of the cities has one, they would lose the limb that bears it. Only the Balancers may have them.”
“Oh,” was all Elora could mutter, feeling disappointment. Then watched as a cunning smile played on Grendel’s lips.
“But a small price to pay, I think, for what you did for me,” she said. “Wait here, I’ll be back.”
Elora waited, her eyes drawing back to the chest. It was surreal to think that a genie resided inside that small wooden box. A tiny part of her wanted to open it but she knew it would be foolish. Luckily Grendel returned before the temptation grew beyond control.
“Are you right handed?” asked Grendel. Elora nodded, “Then give me your left.”
Elora did as she was told. Grendel took her hand in hers, turning it palm up and rubbing something soft against her skin, yet she was unable to see what it was.
“Do you feel it? That’s the rim of the smuggler’s pocket.”
With her other hand she produced a silver dagger with a sharp blade. Without warning she pierced the pad of Elora’s thumb and made a fine cut down into the web of her hand and up the length of her index finger.
“Ouch!” exclaimed Elora, pulling her finger back; blood dripping from several places along the cut.
“Hush girl. Pain is a minor thing compared to the gift you’re receiving. And I can heal the wound up after.”
Elora gave her the injured hand back and braced herself for more pain. But it appeared that Grendel had done with cutting and placed the dagger on the circular table. An itching sensation tickled along the cut as Grendel traced it with her finger and thumb, chanting in a foreign language as she did so, until she reached the tip of her injured finger.
“Done,” she said.
Elora tipped her hand this way and that but couldn’t see or feel any difference except for the pain that smarted along the cut.
“Let me show you how it works,” Grendel offered holding her own hand up. “Place your finger and thumb together like so. Gently rub them until you feel the ends of the pocket.”
Elora copied her actions but still felt nothing. Maybe Grendel had put it on wrong. Then suddenly she felt it. Her thumb snagged against a light rise on her finger.
“Now gently pull them apart. Not too fast, until you’ve gotten used to how it works.”
Elora did as instructed and found the minutest of resistance and watched as the space between thumb and finger became a round black hole. It spread wide enough for her to put her other hand in.
She laughed. “This is brilliant.” Her arm disappeared to the elbow, yet she couldn’t feel the bottom. “How deep does it go?”
“It has no length nor depth. Its only limitations are of weight and by that, I mean how much you yourself can carry. Although the pocket is hidden from sight and touch, you must still bear its burden. It’s not unknown for people to be hidden inside. The perfect place to smuggle somebody across borders. Although it would be a giveaway for somebody seeming to struggle, huff and grunt whilst appearing to be carrying nothing. Do you see what I mean?”
Elora nodded, feeling thrilled with her new gift.
“Perhaps something to put in it?” continued Grendel as she opened the glass cabinet and retrieved an elegant dagger.
“No, I couldn’t,” began Elora but was shushed once again.
“Please. Dark times are coming I fear. And ill outcomes come to those ill prepared.”
The dagger was slender with a silver handle, a large sapphire set in the butt, matching another set in the silver sheath; polished to a high gleam they refracted the light from a hundred angles. She pulled it free, a pleasant ringing sound followed the blade out which appeared was silver with a light blue tinge to the metal; the sharpened edge a deep azure.
“It’s goblin silver, smithed in the Valiciern hills with dragon fire and folded over a thousand times. It can cut through steel and will never lose its edge.”
“It’s beautiful” Elora said, if such a word could be used to describe something designed to kill. She slipped it back into its sheath and placed it inside the smuggler’s pocket where it vanished.
The Shadojak suddenly entered the room, the flames in the sconces shimmering with the wind from the door. He stared at them, a frown forming upon a wrinkled brow. “What’s gone on here?” he asked.
“Nothing my Lord. I was only showing Elora some of my finer wares,” replied Grendel, whilst offering Elora a wink.
