“That was two span ago,” I said. “I’ve learned a lot since then.”
“Hand puppet?” Sim asked Wilem. Wil made an explanatory gesture and they both burst out laughing.
I motioned to Wilem. “Let’s go.”
Before we could head out, Sim handed me a small jar.
I gave it an odd look. I already had his alchemical concoction tucked away in my cloak. “What’s this?”
“It’s just ointment in case you get burned,” he explained. “But if you mix it with piss, it turns into candy.” Sim’s expression was deadpan. “Delicious candy.”
I nodded seriously. “Yes sir.”
Mola stared in confusion. Devi pointedly ignored us and began piling wood on the fire.
An hour later, Wilem and I were playing cards at the Golden Pony. The common room was nearly full, and a harpist was doing a passable version of “Sweet Winter Rye.” The room was full of murmured conversation as wealthy customers gambled, drank, and talked about whatever rich people talk about. How to properly beat the stable boy, I guessed. Or techniques for chasing the chambermaid around the estate.
The Golden Pony was not my sort of place. The clientele was too well-bred, the drinks too expensive, and the musicians more pleasing to the eye than the ear. Despite all this, I’d been coming here for nearly two span, making a show of trying to climb the social ladder. That way, no one could say it was odd I was here on this particular night.
Wilem took a drink and shuffled the cards. My own drink sat half-finished and warm. It was only a simple ale, but given the prices at the Pony I was now, quite literally, penniless.
Wil dealt another hand of breath. I picked up my cards carefully, as Simmon’s alchemical concoction made my fingers ever so slightly sticky. We might as well have been playing with blank cards. I drew and threw randomly, pretending to concentrate on the game when really I was waiting, listening.
I felt a slight tickle in the corner of my eye and reached to rub it away with my fingers, catching myself at the last second with my hand upraised. Wilem stared at me from across the table, his eyes alarmed, and gave his head a small, firm shake. I went motionless for a moment, then slowly lowered my hand.
I was so busy trying to appear nonchalant that when the cry came from outside I was actually startled. It cut through the low murmur of conversation as only a shrill voice filled with panic can. “Fire! Fire!”
Everyone in the Pony froze for a moment. This always happens when people are startled and confused. They take a second to look around, smell the air, and think things like, “Did he just say fire?” or “Fire? Where? Here?”
I didn’t hesitate. I leaped to my feet and made a show of looking around wildly, obviously trying to search out the fire. By the time everyone else in the common room started to move, I was already dashing for the stairs.
“Fire!” The cries continued from outside. “Oh God. Fire!”
I smiled as I listened to Basil overact his small part. I didn’t know him well enough to let him in on the whole plan, but it was vital that someone notice the fire early so I could spring into action. The last thing I wanted to do was accidentally burn down half the inn.
I reached the top of the steps and looked around the upper floor of the Golden Pony. There were already footsteps pounding up the stairs behind me. A few wealthy lodgers opened their doors, peering into the hallway.
There were faint wisps of smoke curling underneath the door to Ambrose’s rooms. Perfect.
“I think it’s over here!” I shouted, sliding a hand into one of my cloak’s pockets as I ran to the door.
In the long days we spent searching the Archives, I’d found reference to a great many interesting pieces of artificery. One of them was an elegant piece of artificery called a siege stone.
It worked on the most basic sympathetic principles. A crossbow stores energy and uses it to shoot a bolt a long distance at a great speed. A siege stone was an inscribed piece of lead that stores energy and uses it to move itself about six inches with the force of a battering ram.
Reaching the middle of the hallway, I braced myself and charged Ambrose’s door with my shoulder. I also struck it with the siege stone I held concealed against the flat of my hand.
The thick-timbered door staved in like a barrel struck by an anvil hammer. There were startled gasps and exclamations from everyone in the hallway. I rushed inside, trying desperately to keep the manic grin off my face.
Ambrose’s sitting room was dark, and made darker by a haze of smoke in the air. I saw flickering firelight inside, off to the left. From my previous visit I knew it was his bedroom.
“Hello?” I shouted. “Is everyone all right?” I pitched my voice carefully: Bold but concerned. No panic, of course. I was, after all, the hero of this scene.
Smoke was thick in the bedroom, catching the orange firelight and stinging my eyes. There was a massive wooden chest of drawers against the wall, big as a workbench in the Fishery. Flames licked and flickered around the edges of the drawers. Apparently Ambrose had been keeping the mommet in his sock drawer.
I picked up a nearby chair and used it to smash the window I’d climbed through several nights ago. “Clear the street!” I shouted down.
The bottommost left drawer seemed to be burning the hottest, and when I pulled it open the smoldering clothes inside caught the air hungrily and burst into flame. I smelled burning hair and hoped I hadn’t lost my eyebrows. I didn’t want to spend the next month looking constantly surprised.
After the initial flare up, I drew a deep breath, stepped forward, and pulled the heavy wooden drawer free of the bureau with my bare hands. It was full of smoldering, blackened cloth, but as I ran to the window, I could hear something hard in the bottom of the drawer rattling against the wood. It tumbled as I threw it out the window, clothes bursting into flame as the wind caught them.
Next I yanked out the top right-hand drawer. As soon as I pulled it free, smoke and flame poured out in an almost solid mass. With these two drawers gone, all the empty space inside the bureau formed a crude chimney, giving the fire all the air it wanted. As I heaved the second drawer out the window, I could actually hear the hollow rush of fire spreading through the varnished wood and the clothes inside.
Down in the street, people drawn by the commotion were doing their best to put out the flaming debris. In the middle of the small crowd, Simmon stomped about in his new hobnail boots, smashing things to flinders like a boy splashing in puddles after the first spring rain. Even if the mommet had survived the fall, it wouldn’t survive that.
This was more than mere pettiness. Devi had signaled me twenty minutes ago, letting me know she’d already tried the wax mommet. Since there had been no result, it meant Ambrose had undoubtedly used my blood to make a clay mommet of me. A simple fire wasn’t going to destroy it.
One by one, I grabbed the other drawers and threw them into the street as well, pausing to pull down the thick velvet curtains around Ambrose’s bed to shield my hands from the heat of the fire. This also might seem petty, but it wasn’t. I was terrified of burning my hands. Every talent I had revolved around them.
Petty was when I kicked the chamber pot on my way back to the bureau. It was the expensive kind, fine glazed pottery. It tipped over and rolled crazily across the floor until it struck the hearth and shattered. Suffice to say that what spilled across Ambrose’s rugs was not delicious candy.
Flame flickered openly in the spaces where the drawers had been, lighting the room while the broken window let in some clear air. Eventually someone else was brave enough to make their way into the room. He used one of the blankets off Ambrose’s bed to protect his hands and helped me throw the last several burning drawers out the window. It was hot, sooty work, and even with the help, I was coughing by the time the last of the drawers went tumbling onto the street.