cklarock

Rumric bows as he slips the letter into his vest. Ah, you see, Ranoux, he whispers as the three companions head for the family Apothecary. A mission!

A letter, Ranoux observes.

An intrigue!

A delivery. Ranoux makes a great show of disinterest. To the city mortician.

To be delivered in secret! Rumric waggles the sealed letter. Mark my words, this is the start of a great adventure; youve said it yourself, glory cannot but follow daring.

The words adventure, intrigue, daring, and glory had not ever (so far as anyone can recall) been part of the common lexicon of the Peece-Waterian family, but Ranouxs exuberance has been infectious (at least so far as Rumric is concerned). Arna remains silent, as is his custom.

The apothecarys apprentice is a young girl of undetermined years, the sort of wisp that might be assumed to be much younger due to her stature and bearing. Rashan is dark-haired and black-eyed, and graced with the pale skin held to be so desirable among those who study the forbidden necromantic arts.

When the group arrives, they find the master apothecary asleep in his chair, as drunk as would be expected of the man this late in the morning (if you have business with the master, you must arrive not so early in the morning that he is shaking, but neither so late that he is insensible).

Hello, his apprentice says with her usual distracted air. When Rashan speaks, she often steals glances at points in space beside or just behind her companions; her eyes track the unseen.

Weve a letter from father, Rumric says. For your father, and youre to lead us to the morgue, Rumric leans close, in secret.

The morgue! Rashan claps her tiny hands together. Well take the sewers!

The sewers? Ranoux demurs. Not in calfskin.

Dont worry, Rashan says as she begins bundling suspicious lumps into her satchel. The undead are mostly gone these days.

Undead?

Still, everyone better take one of these. Rashan hands Arna a small, wet sphere.

What is it? he asks, pocketing the thing.

Rashan smiles distantly. A charm against the hungry dead.

No thank you dear, Rumric says, refusing his lump. He steels himself and opens his mouth once before asking, Is . . . is that a human eye?

Well, of course it is, she replies wistfully.

Arna grimaces and puts his hand into his pocket momentarily before snatching it back.

Rumric purses his lips. Where does one . . . collect . . . eyes, if I may be so bold?

Rashan looks directly at Rumric for the first time since beginning to pack. Oh, you know, she sighs. Here and there.