Demir’s thoughts were instantly knocked awry. What was a Vorcien doing way out here in the provinces?
Morlius suddenly lurched forward, grabbing Demir’s wrist and raising his cudgel. “I think you match the description too well.”
Demir’s heart fell. No getting that payout, then. Or meeting Slatina for dinner tonight. He would have to move on to the next town, interrupting his life and abandoning his friends and lovers like he’d done dozens of times over the last nine years. The very thought of it made him tired, but it also made him mad. He cast his mental net outward, using his glassdancer sorcery to make note of every windowpane and wine bottle in the cantina.
“Let go of my hand,” Demir said flatly.
“Or?” Morlius grinned at him.
Demir applied a small amount of sorcerous pressure. A wine bottle behind Morlius shattered, causing him to jump. A second shattered, then a third. Morlius whirled toward the rack of wine bottles, yelling wordlessly, reaching toward the bottles without touching them. Demir shattered two more before slowly and deliberately removing his left glove and laying his hand flat on the bar. When Morlius turned back toward him, the glassdancer sigil was on full display.
Morlius’s eyes widened, filling with that familiar look of terror that had gazed back at Demir from so many sets of eyes since he got his tattoo at the age of eighteen. It made his stomach twist into knots, but he kept that from his own expression. Morlius was not a friend. Morlius had just unwittingly destroyed Demir’s life in Ereptia, and he could damn well rot in his fear.
“I’m … I’m … I’m…” Morlius stuttered.
Demir leaned on the bar, channeling his disgust. “Take your time,” he said. The goon behind him fled back into the cellar, slamming the thick wooden door behind him. Smart man. “I have all day.” Demir burst another wine bottle, enjoying the way Morlius flinched. Demir knew that Morlius would do nothing. Who would, with a glassdancer right in front of them? If he so desired, Demir could get away with anything at this moment.
Demir drew in a deep, ragged breath. He was being petulant now. He’d made his point, but it still took a force of will to keep himself from destroying every piece of glass in the bar and then throwing it all into Morlius’s face. That wasn’t who he was. Demir touched the bookie’s receipt with one finger and pushed it toward Morlius again. The bookie stared at it for several moments before realization dawned in his eyes. He pulled the purse from his belt and set it on the bar.
“Take it. Please.” He was begging now. What a damned reversal.
“I’m not robbing you,” Demir said softly, “I’m just a customer getting a payout.”
Somehow, this seemed even more painful for the bookie. His hands trembled fiercely as he opened the purse and began to count out heavy imperial coins. He scattered the stack twice with those trembling hands, checking the receipt three times, before nodding at Demir.
Most of the glassdancers Demir had ever met lived up to their reputations, in some way or another. They enjoyed using the threat of their power to lord over others. They stole and they threatened and they seduced without thought of consequence. Such displays had never brought Demir pleasure. Occasional satisfaction, like putting Morlius in his place? Sure. But never pleasure.
He swept the coins into his hand and deposited them in his pocket. “I’ll have you know that I left Wallach on very good terms. All the judges and fighters got rich with my fixed fights. The only person who didn’t like me was the bookie stupid enough to make bets with his clients’ money – I’m guessing he’s your cousin. Be smarter than your cousin, Morlius. I left him alive, but I also left him very poor.”
“R … r … right.”
“If you say one word about this, or if I find out you’ve drugged any of my fighters…” Demir nodded at the shelf of destroyed wine bottles. “I’ll actually do something with all that glass.” He slapped the bar. “Have a good day, Morlius.”
Demir turned away before his frustration could truly start to show. Another lost life, another town he had to leave before anyone figured out who he really was. Another crack in his identity’s facade, held back by nothing more than a threat. Should he say goodbye to Slatina? She would – rightfully – want an explanation. She didn’t even know his real name. Best to just disappear. He was suddenly exhausted by it all, wishing he had some semblance of normalcy in his life.
He’d forgotten all about the Vorcien carriage out front, so it came as quite a shock when he opened the door to the bar and found a familiar face staring back at him. It had been nine years since Demir had last seen Capric Vorcien. Capric was thinner, more statesman-like, with features that had grown almost hawkish as he crept into his thirties. He was wearing a very expensive jacket and tunic, clutching a black cane with one hand. A pair of bodyguards stood in the street behind him.
“Demir?” he asked in surprise.
Demir peered hard at Capric for several moments, shook his head in confusion, then peered again. Sure enough, this was Capric Vorcien in the flesh. “Glassdamn. Capric? What the piss are you doing here?”
“Looking for you. Are you okay? You look miserable. Did you already hear the news?”
Demir felt his blood run cold. He’d gone to great lengths to make himself hard to find. If Capric was here with bad news, it must be very bad. He offered his hand, which Capric shook. “I haven’t. What brings you out to my corner of the provinces?”
“You have a corner? Talking with Breenen, you haven’t lived in the same spot for more than six months since you fled Holikan.” Demir felt his eye twitch at the mention of Holikan, and Capric immediately hurried on. “Forgive me, I just … It sounds like you’ve been moving around a lot.”
“I have,” Demir confirmed. “Stay too long in one place and people start to wonder why you wear gloves all the time. What’s Breenen doing blabbing about my movements? Did Mother send you out here to try and fetch me back?”
Capric looked around and said, “Can we speak in private? My carriage is just outside.”
Under normal circumstances, Demir would refuse. Speaking in a private carriage stamped with a guild-family silic symbol would bring up a lot of questions for Demir’s friends in this little provincial town, but that run-in with Morlius just now had already ended Demir’s stint. Besides, it was best to find out bad news quickly. “Lead on.”
He followed Capric out to the carriage. Local kids were running around it, alternately shouting barbs at and begging from the bodyguards. The bodyguards shooed them off as Demir and Capric approached, and they were soon inside, where Capric immediately pulled out a bottle of sherry and poured them each a glass on a fold-down side table. Demir was studying his old friend closely now, trying to get a read on this entire visit. He took a sip, set the glass back on the side table, and said, “What’s going on, Capric? How did you find me and what are you here for?”
Capric gulped his glass, poured himself a second, and sipped half of it before answering. “I’m sorry, Demir.”
“For?”
“Your mother is dead.”
Demir felt the blood drain from his face. “Is this a joke?”
“I wish it was. Breenen told me where to find you, and I rushed out here at speed to reach you before you had to read it in the newspapers.”