The Legend Of Black Eyes 171 The Fence

"Yeah," he said in a sour tone. "The one who messed up our alliance with Crow?"

I snorted. "Don't be like that Osgar," I said. "She'll come around, trust me."

"You came to me to arrange the meeting," he said.

"And you refused," I replied. "What made you change your mind?"

"That's not the point Zedd," Osgar hissed at me. "Why did you track me down anyway?"

I accosted Osgar in Zimmer's Plaza, a forgotten relic of Biarkh's glory days. He usually takes this road before heading to the port, where he spends half a day contemplating the horizon. The other half, he spends gambling and whoring around. He'd wake up in someone else's house and sneak out, before finding his way back to Zimmer's Plaza.

"I got two invitations to watch Wolf-Fights," I said.

I fumbled into my pocket and drew out two letters, sealed with black wax. I handed one to Osgar whose eyes widened. As he took the sealed parchment, I tightened my grasp on my end. Osgar tugged at the letter but it wouldn't budge. He looked at me, realized that my gift wasn't free then sighed.

"I'm not setting another meeting," he said.

"I'm not asking you to," I replied, smiling.

"I'm not sneaking you into the Chancellor's house either," he said.

"You can do that?" I asked.

Osgar's looked the other way and let go of the letter. "Whatever it is," he said. "I'm not doing it. You won't buy me with an invitation letter to the best fighting show in town."

"Who are you talking to Osgar?" I asked.

"f.u.c.k you, Zedd," Osgar replied. "I'm not showing you how to break into someone's house. I'm not helping you free demons, or kill anybody. And most of all, I'm not setting another meeting."

"I don't want any of that," I said.

"What do you want then?" he asked.

"We'll sit and watch. I'll point to some people, and you give me names," I said.

"That's it?" he asked. "You won't ask me to take you to their houses later?"

"No," I said and smiled. "I promise."

He looked at the letter in my hand then s.n.a.t.c.hed it. He smiled like an innocent child as he ran his fingers on the sigil in the stamp. Two wolves circled each other, each running for the other's tail. It was the symbol of the Wolf-Fights.

"The fight's tonight?" Osgar asked. 

I nodded. "You have other plans?" I asked.

"N-n-no," he said, his eyes fixated on the invitation letter. "I'll be there, promise."

"I'll wait for you in Handels Market come sundown," I said. "Don't be late."

He nodded, smiled as he shot another look at the letter then pocketed it. He hurried off then, disappearing in the maze like streets of Merinsk. I headed for an old street in the Artisan Disctrict. There was an old man I needed to visit before sundown. I pokected my invitation letter and smiled. Osgar knew a lot of people. He might be able to help me save a lot of time.

Wolf-Fights was your typical fighting show. There's an arena, men and women fight to the death while a crazed audience cheers. Only this one added story to the fighters. Fighters wore costumes, and bickered before getting into action. People loved that more than a man ripping another to shreds in order to stay alive and gain a promised freedom.

What's more, fighters were actually getting paid for their performances. The longer you stay alive, the more heroic your story becomes, and the more money you earn as well. The first time I heard about this, I thought the world had really sunk deep. I was fighting in the pits to stay alive. My captor was a villain and an a.s.shole, but he admitted it.

The people running this fighting show were vicious, two faced, and very powerful. My first intention when I befriended that officer was to get on his good sides to earn an invitation letter. He was a crooked officer who swindled special invites from some n.o.ble's house. The n.o.ble, rich and influential, considered the art too brutal.

Invitations were offered to the highest bidder then. Or to the one who manages to speak to the officer's heart. It was nothing booze couldn't facilitate, and I got extra intel on Crow in the process. Sometimes, I can't stop but wonder, 'am I really lucky?'

I reached a large street lined up with artisan shops from each end. Tall buildings rose to touch the sky while people shouted orders down below. Young men engraved bra.s.s and silver plates. Others worked with wood, chopping some parts, polishing and engraving others. Handicraft was a repected field in Merinsk.

n.o.bility furnished their houses from renowned artisans. Those aspiring to suck up to n.o.bles through their new entreprises, rented big houses in tall buildings, and furnished them with tables, couches and beds made in this very street, where young blond boys worked hard, replicated some master's work that's all the rage lately.

In the midst of all that, there was this two storey house. It stood like a sore thumb amidst all the tall buildings, some of which were as tall at fifteen storeys. The first floor of said house is an old junk shop, as old as Merinsk. An old man sits there, every day from sunrise until sunset. He polishes old trinkets and buys s.h.i.t people don't need anymore.

I pushed the shop's door open and a loud clatter of old caskets and tin plates welcomed me in. I walked around piles of dust filled coats, tin cups, and pots covered with soot, until I reached a small desk. An old man with a white goatee sat, scribbling in a piece of parchment. He was writing in some runes that seemed vaguely familiar.

"What d'ya want?" he asked in a raspy voice.

"I heard you were looking for some knife," I said.

The man put down the quill and looked at me. He wasn't wearing any gla.s.ses, which struck me as odd. His face was barely wrinkled. Each strand of his white hair stood in a different angle. He caught me staring at his disheveled hair, tried to adjust it, then looked at me again.

"They never stay still," he said then shrugged. "Who told you I needed a knife?" he then asked.

"Word's out in the streets," I answered.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said then got back to his scribbling.

"Someone they call Fasthands said you needed a knife with a golden handle," I said.

He looked at me, annoyed. He pushed the table aside then got up. His head reached my stomach when he stood straight. He raised his head at me then sighed.

"Come with me," he said then turned around.

The next moment, we were standing in a wide library shaped like a horsehoe. Tall cases that could compete with the buildings in the Artisan District stood filled with books. In the middle, there were countless items on display behind gla.s.s casings. From golden hands to gigantic teeth, the place was a museum of some sort.

"How did we get here?" I asked.

"A simple vanishing spell," the old man said.

"And you teleported me in with you," I said.

"As I told you," he turned toward me, his face expressionless. "It's a simple spell."

I nodded, not quite sure of what to say. I was just looking for a good fence, not the my-awesome-spell-is-but-simple-one type of guys who'd obviously ask me to do something stupid for them.

"So Fasthands has gone and run his mouth again, has he?" the old man said in a flat tone.

"He didn't tell me anything," I said. "I just overheard him in a bar the other day, Whispering w.i.l.l.i.e.s, do you know it?"

"Don't act smart with me kid," the old man said, still in the same flat tone. "You found out about my network. This means I have a weak link. Do you know what happens to a chain with a weak link?"

"I breaks," I said.

"And you can't repair the weak link, even when you spot it," the old man sighed. "Of course, this is if we're not speaking in metaphors. If we are, however, we can always replace said weak link."

He walked around the different items on display, scratching his goatee and mumbling strange words to himself. I looked around, while the man made his mind. There was no door in the place, not even a hint for a hidden one. There were no windows either, just giant chandeliers that illuminated the place.

I was trapped here, and whatever the man asked me to do, I'll have to do it. I cursed inwardly.

'What happened to studying people before engaging them?' I asked myself.

'He could've killed you, yet he brought you here,' Eva joined in my internal, conflicted conversation.

'I thought we weren't in talking terms," I said.

'You aren't,' she answered. 'You still blame everything that happened on yourself. You're afraid I'd lecture you again.'

'Will you?' I asked.

'Another time, perhaps,' she said. 'Listen to what he has to say,' she went on. 'He doesn't seem like the type to ignore someone who'd done him a good favor.'

'He doesn't seem the type to forgive and forget either," I said.

'All the reasons to listen to what he has to say,' she said. 'And next time, do more research on people before you approach them, will you?'

I was about to defend myself when the old man spoke.

"What do you want from me?"

"Beg your pardon?" I asked.

I was still absorbed in my rage toward Eva. She'd been my internal voice of "I told you so,"  lately. She'd never miss a chance to point out my mistakes then disappear; refusing to answer me despite all the ingenious taunts I came up with.

"Why did you track me down?" the old man asked. "No one will overhear us here, speak freely."

"I need money," I said. I wasn't lying, just hiding some truths. "Fasthands said you paid handsomely for the items you ask for. I also heard you're offering three hudred gold coins for it."

"Do you have it?" he asked.

I reached for my belt and detached the knife that hung beside my sword. I unsheathed it and revealed it to the fence. The old man looked at it with greedy eyes. For a second there, I thought he'd jump at me and kill me to get his hands on it. He shook his head then and rested his brown eyes on me.

"How did you find it?" he asked.

"Fasthands also said you never ask question on how we get you what you desire," I said.

The old man chuckled nervously. "That stupid drunk!" he hissed under his breath.

He walked toward me. Even though he was a short man, the aura he gave off was nothing short of impressive; small men cast large shadows and such…

"How do you feel about making an extra three hundred?" he asked.

"You want me to kill Fasthands?" I asked.

The old man smiled.

"I don't know you," he said. "I've never seen you around, and I don't like working with people I don't know. The knife you hold is stolen. You probably killed its previous owner. I can make all those crimes disappear, or get the custodians very interested in catching the thief.

"Kill Fasthands, and no one will come looking for it, or for you. Fail to silence that blabber mouth, and your stay in this city will become uncomfortable."

"Why don't you arrange for Fasthands to get arrested, and have some unfortunate accident then?" I asked.

"Then I wouldn't be sending a powerful message," he said. "You kill him, exactly as I say you need to, and I'll consider further business transactions with you."

"Six hundred," I said.

"What?" the old man asked, surprised.

"A knife's worth three hundred gold coins," I replied. "How's a man's life worth the same? I'll kill Fasthands for you, but I won't do it for less than six hundred gold coins."

"You need a lot of money young one," the old man said. "I'll get in touch to tell you how to kill that son of a b.i.t.c.h."

I was about to say something when I found myself in Handel's Plaza, standing near the Wolf-Fights arena.

"Have fun watching people stab each other to death," the old man's voice rang in my head.