I said nothing, and the small man continued, “Its good to know she’s in the hunt, at least. Do me a favor, young man. You look like a reasonable individual. And when this is all over and done with you might find an offer I have to be very appealing. But for the moment…”
He fished around inside his tunic for a moment, then pulled out a thin black wand. “I suspect you’ll want to get in for the bidding tonight, without being noticed, and without the price being driven up for your human appearance. This will let you get past the bouncers. Here, take it. I offer it free and without strings.”
Despite myself, I reached out and took the wand. It had an oily touch to it, and almost seemed to want to squirm out of my grasp.
The collector smiled, “There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” and touched his forehead by way of salutation, turned smartly on his heels, and headed off. I watched him until he disappeared from sight. Then, regarding the cold, empty building of the Burrows, I walked two blocks over, hailed a carriage, and returned to the Wyvern.
Drusilla did not show up for lunch as promised, which added to my consternation. I wanted to ask her who the little man was and exactly what the box was all about. As it was, the luncheon hour arrived and passed without so much as a note from her. After spending most of the previous evening on a cold bench, I was in no mood to wait any longer than I had to. I was halfway through the shellfish course-Prawns du Chionthar-when there was the slightest waft of air over my left shoulder. Long experience told me who had arrived and I did not even look up from my crustacean.
“She has not shown up,” I said simply.
“I did not think she would,” said Ampi calmly. “The idea that a simple acquisition would turn into an auction has probably upset her. She is probably making other plans to acquire the box even as we speak.”
I frowned at my prawn. I didn’t want to believe that Drusilla would abandon me so easily. “Perhaps she is in trouble herself. Waylaid by bandits or short collectors or something.”
Ampi drifted slowly into my line of sight. His face was drawn with concern. Say whatever else you want about genies, when they are concerned you know they are concerned. Still, he would not voice them until I asked. “How was your research?”
The djinni nodded slightly and said, “Productive, but I fear expensive. The sage Prespos could teach the dao something about hard negotiations. What I discovered was of interest, however.”
“And that is?”
“The Vermeers were an Iriaebor household,” said the djinni. “But their forte was more magic than money. They were a household of spellcasters.”
I nearly choked on my shellfish. “Like the Wands?” I managed, suddenly having visions of the patriarch of the Vermeer clan showing up in my bedroom late in the evening.
“Similar, but not exact,” said the genie. “The biggest difference being that the last of the line died out almost a hundred years ago. If the girl Drusilla is a member of that clan…”
“‘Daddy’ must be very ancient indeed.”
“You do not seem surprised.”
“Hardly,” said I. “If one thing these mystoricals prepare you for it’s that the heroine rarely tells the truth the first time out. Indeed, most of the heroes ignore whatever the heroine says until after the third attempt on his life. Most likely some far flung fragment of the family trying to regain its insignia and ancestral lands. Or perhaps Vermeer was a name she pulled out of an old book, as a cover.”
My logic was irrefutable, for Ampratines remained silent, if only for a moment, before resuming the argument “If you say so, sir. However, in the light of this, I would recommend we reconsider the situation and our employment with the mysterious lady.”
I shook my head and motioned with a prawn claw, “No. In the stories, whenever a hero gives his word, he lives by it. It doesn’t matter if the heroine is not what she says she is. Often, she’s better.”
“I cannot dissuade you?” said the djinni.
“Not a whit.” I pulled out the black wand, “What do you make of this?”
The genie took the thin black rod from my hand. He had a look on his face akin to revulsion. “Unpleasant material. Not from around here, as you would say.” He held it up to a light, then handed it back. “It is a spell rod. Arcane device, sometimes used in the south. You break it to release the spell within. The runes say that the spell can alter your appearance. The illusion would last until you were struck or choose to drop the charade. Where did you get it?”
“Someone with a mutual interest,” I replied, “Someone who thinks I should get into the auction tonight. And yes, there will be an auction tonight.”
The genie’s face creased with concern again. “Someone?”
“A collector, who argues a separate claim on the box,” I said, holding up the claw again. “I know, I should not trust him either, but I think the first order of business is to get a hold of the box. Then we can sort everything out.”
A deep sigh, again. “As you wish, sir.”
That evening, after breaking open the wand, I turned to Ampi and said, “How do I look?”
The genie frowned, canted his head to one side, and asked, “Something’s wrong.”
“Wrong? How can anything be wrong?” I turned back to the mirror. Looking out was a rather dapper-looking dark elf in my clothes. My hair was ghost white, and my skin the color of night, a purple verging on ultraviolet. I smiled and primped for a moment.
“I think its the smile,” said the genie at last.
“Too flashy?” I asked.
“Too present,” replied Ampratines. “I can’t think of any drow smiling, unless the situation dealt with accidental dismemberment. Try to frown.”
I attempted a scowl.
“Better, but not quite,” said Ampi. “You don’t look angry, only petulant. Try to look more tragic. More angst-ridden.”
I scowled harder.
Ampi let out a sigh, “I suppose that’s the best we can do. Here, take these.” He handed me several long strips of white cloth.
I gave the genie a quizzical look and he explained, “The drow often communicate by a language of signs. Should you be challenged on the matter, you can complain you have been wounded and unable to respond.”
I looked at the bandages, and took them from him. At least he had stopped trying to convince me to abandon Drusilla and was trying to be constructive. As I wound the bandages around my wrists and palms, he continued. “I’ll summon a carriage. I would keep the hood of my cloak up while in the Wyvern, though. I don’t think the Upper City gets much in the way of underground conqueror races and might not appreciate your continence, and I will not be there to aid you.”
I blinked at the genie. “You aren’t coming? I was looking for someone to ride crossbow on this adventure. Just in case things go wrong.”
“I will be along presently,” said the genie. “I asked the sage Prespos for a particular item, and will be along myself as soon as I retrieve it.”
And with that I was off for the L.C. again, bundled in the back of the carriage, my face hidden beneath a voluminous cloak. The illusion had provided the cloak, along with a pair of ridiculously curved long swords. The latter were extremely dashing, but made sitting properly impossible. I ended up sprawling across the back of carriage, wondering if this inability to sit was what made dark elves so surly.
Night had fallen in the Lower City, which meant the gray of the day had surrendered at last to the smoky blackness of the evening. There was a haifling guard posted outside the Burrows this time, vetting the various individuals. Traditional revelers and regulars were being turned away at the door, along with a few angry humans. I waited my turn in the queue, practicing my scowling. Being made to wait helped my acting immeasurably.