Tarant: the Boil, part 2

[moonshadows]

The door opened, much later than I had been expecting. Our dingy one-room flat didn’t afford much in the way of cover, but it had a water closet with a curtain and it was there that I stood, tense, dagger in one hand and Virgil’s shaving glass in the other, watching the door through the glass’s reflection. Although the glass was too small to get a good view, I did catch a familiar head of unruly light-brown hair and Virgil’s flushed face. I tucked the dagger away and replaced the glass in his shaving kit before pushing back the curtain to see what had taken Virgil nearly three hours longer than his estimate. The unsteady movements and slurred speech that greeted me answered my question more clearly than Virgil could have, in that state, and I helped him fumble his armor off while my brain ransacked itself for the contents of our shabby cabinets and matched ingredients up with a formula. Once the armor had been draped carelessly on a rickety chair, I forced Virgil down on the pathetic mattress and propped him up against the wall. It took a few attempts until he stayed there and did not fall over, too inebriated to argue or put up much resistance.

The purgative wasn’t hard to whip up; I grabbed the smaller metal basin meant for washing dishes and a clean, wet rag, and went to kneel by my protector. It took no urging at all for him to drink down the purgative, and positioning both him and the basin wasn’t much more difficult. When he’d finished, I wiped his face with the rag and set it and the basin aside before easing him down onto his side on the mattress. He was shivering and sweating from the results of the purgative, and I covered him with the thin blanket before I allowed myself the luxury of emotional reaction. Fortunately, he’d released his tenuous hold on consciousness and my quiet, relieved fretting fell on deaf ears. Once I’d gotten that out of the way, I set to work cleaning out the basin and finishing my other chemical projects. The addition of a hangover cure to my workload was practically nothing, and I quickly settled into my nighttime routine, humming snatches of song while cheerfully chopping, mixing, crushing, and distilling.

It wasn’t that I’d been unhappy in my very brief stint as just another thug in Maug’s gang, because I had missed the feral freedom of being Vorak, but it was my skills as an apothecary that had gotten us into what passed for the lap of luxury in the Boil. So while Virgil chummed it up with the other low-level scum by day, walking patrols and guarding half-empty warehouses, I brewed elixirs by night that made Maug’s favorites temporarily stronger, or faster, or tougher. Because I only gave ingredient lists and not recipes, Maug had no way to know which chemicals I was using for which elixirs, and I was amassing quite a stockpile of the raw ingredients for a hallucinogenic mixture that, when breathed or absorbed through the skin, caused the victim to lose all touch with reality for an hour or two. After all, even if we killed Maug, we’d still have to escape the Boil. Pollock’s gang was coming out second-best in their clashes, now, and I expected that Clan Maug would rule the Boil easily…eventually. In the meantime, Virgil made forays into the better parts of Tarant in the early mornings or evenings, selling the classier mixtures and bringing back certain ingredients hidden in packages of better food than the Boil could supply. So far, the Schuylers hadn’t surfaced, although Virgil did report that there was a city-dwarf lurking around the shop lately. Sometimes, he was given a day off and he spent it doing odd work in town to build up our stash of coin. A few times, he came back looking…relaxed…and I knew he’d done a job for Madam Lil. Tonight, he’d been drinking with Milo and Maug’s other trusted lieutenants, worming his way deeper into their confidence, building on his reputation as my bondman.

Around dawn, Virgil started stirring unhappily. As I had finished my work for the night, I set the mug of hangover cure within reach and knelt by his head, giving in to temptation and brushing his sweaty hair away from his face with tender fingers. I could no longer deny to myself that I loved this poor, sweet man who had followed me unhesitatingly into the worst section of Tarant. He saw himself as my protector, and in turn I felt it my duty to protect him, as well. Or perhaps it was my father’s blood, insisting that Virgil was part of my tribe and therefore, my territory. In any case, I loved him even more for silently brushing elbows with the shadows of his past for my sake. When he groaned and flailed towards his face, I caught his hand and brought it to the clay mug before he could accidentally knock it over.

“What-?” he croaked.

“It’s a hangover cure,” I soothed. “Drink it. You’ll feel better.”

The hand released the mug and retreated back under the blanket. “No,” he said, his voice deeper and rougher and harder than I was used to hearing.

Startled, I leaned away, eyeing that tousled head warily. As if he could see my expression through his closed eyelids, Virgil hunched deeper under the blanket and tried to bury his face in the ratty pillow. Minutes passed without a sound, without a single motion to betray that time had not halted its unrelenting march. Inside my mind, I struggled to balance Vorak’s ready rage with Clarisse’s quiet pain.

“Why are you angry with me?” I flinched as the words left my mouth; they’d come out sharp and challenging.

“I’m not angry at you,” Virgil shot back, sounding so furious that my mouth had opened to call him on his lie when he continued, “I’m angry at myself.”

Vorak retreated out of respect, leaving me Clarisse, and worried. “Virgil..?”

“I thought I was better than this,” he spat, words half-muffled. “That I had some measure of self-control. But no, one taste of absinthe and I turn into a bloody pig, wallowing in the filth of this place until I can barely stand to stagger back. I don’t deserve your bloody hangover cure. I deserve to suffer through this. Maybe that will teach me to shut my mouth before I pour the whole bloody bottle into it!” Weakly, he pounded his fist against the floor.

Mouth open, my mind churned to fit this piece in with the rest of the clues I’d gathered about Virgil’s background. I felt it a fair assumption that absinthe had been his drink of choice, and that he’d over-indulged on multiple occasions.

“Some protector I am,” he went on, more bitter than loud. “You should leave me here to rot. Go back to the Panarii temple, tell them who you are, let them escort you to Caladon. Find someone better to protect you and stop wasting your time with me.”

“Is that what you want?” I asked sharply, somewhat surprised that I couldn’t tell which side of me was angrier.

Now he opened his eyes and looked up at me, anguish and agony and longing written plainly across his features. “Of course not.”

Without looking, I picked up the mug and brought it to his lips. “Then you will drink this, and go on your patrol today, and when you return tonight you will bring me a bottle of absinthe. If anyone asks, I am furious with you for not sharing.”

“What are you going to do with it?” asked Virgil warily. “You’re not going to…”

“I’m not going to drink it. You are going to drink this,” I repeated, and obediently he levered himself up to swallow the liquid in the mug. “I am going to see what I can make with it. Perhaps I can alter it in some way so that it loses its inebriating properties, or use it to concoct a preventative antidote to prevent your faculties from being clouded by unaltered absinthe.”

I could see Virgil struggling as he lay back down. With pride, perhaps, or guilt…but when he finally spoke, it was to whisper, “You’re the Living One. My life is yours to do with as you will.”

Although he had to have been expecting me to chide him for calling me that, all I did was resume stroking his hair until the cure I’d mixed for him had erased the after-effects of inebriation. Neither of us spoke as he rose and donned his armor again, or grimly chewed the half-stale bread that passed for his breakfast, washed down with a mug of water. As he turned to leave, however, I called his name and he looked half-fearfully over his shoulder at me.

“Thank you,” I said softly. “For everything you’ve done for me, for doing…” I gestured at the boarded-up window. “…this.”

“For you, Miss…Vorak,” he said, catching himself at the last second, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “I’ll see you tonight, and I’ll bring you that bottle of absinthe.” Shyly, he added, “Thank you.”

The door closed behind him; I barred it and lay down on the mattress to take my rest, mind already gnawing at the puzzle of freeing my protector from the phantom grip of the bottle.

 

“I don’t know what you did to it, Vorak,” said Virgil, admiring the green liquid that sloshed inside the bottle. “Ever since you mixed this up for me, I haven’t wanted regular absinthe. I mean – I’ll have a drink, and I enjoy it, but then…” He looked at me, watching for a reaction. “It’s like eating a good meal and being full. You know the food still tastes good, and you could eat more, but you’re not really hungry. The boys think I’ve got amazing self-control because I don’t…” Flushing now, he looked away.

“I am a harsh mistress,” I said with dry humor, taking the bottle and tucking it away in the top cabinet. “The mixture will only protect you so long as you continue taking it each morning. I have not cured you, merely given you a weapon with which to cure yourself.”

“Thank you for not asking,” he said softly, still looking away.

My back to his, I replied, “I could say the same.”

“Pollock’s gang is starting to get desperate,” Virgil said once the silence had stretched enough. “There’s rumors that Maug will launch a direct assault soon.”

“Not personally,” I half-asked, sitting at the table whose surface held many assorted bottles, canisters, and jugs.

Virgil laughed and took the other chair. “No, not personally. He didn’t get where he is by risking his neck. But Milo…”

I caught his meaning immediately. If the gnome were leading the charge, Maug would be relying only on a pair of full-blood orcs for protection. It would be a splendid opportunity. Whether Pollock lived or died, we would have an excellent chance at killing Maug and escaping the Boil in the confusion.

“We need to find out for sure,” I said quietly. “Bring me another bottle of absinthe. Confess to Milo that the reason you haven’t been imbibing as enthusiastically is that I’ve found a way to make it even better. Invite him over to share my latest batch.” Lips firmly together, I smiled. “I have something I want to try out, and this is the perfect occasion.”

For a long moment, Virgil looked at me warily. “Milo was right,” he said slowly. “You are a dangerous woman. I’d say I was crazy for following your lead, but I know I’d be in more danger if you ever had a reason to turn against me.”

“Virgil, you can’t think that I would ever…”

“No,” he smiled. “I trust you. I just can’t believe that I’m living in a dingy hotel room in the Boil, calmly plotting against a very dangerous man, and…I think this is the happiest I’ve been in a long, long time.”

My cheeks burned, and I looked away. When I looked back, Virgil was adjusting the straps on his armor. “Be safe,” I told him, as I did every morning.

“Guard duty on the west warehouse today,” he said. “I’ll be back with that absinthe well before ten. Milo’s next day off is in three days.”

“That’s more than enough time.”

“I’ll see you tonight, Vorak.” Virgil smiled briefly.

I returned the momentary smile. “You’d better, or I will be very put out with you.”

Once Virgil had left, I barred the door and checked over my supplies. I’d need more spirit of camphor and tincture of arnica, and as always, more of Varham’s Aqua Vitae. The mushrooms Virgil had smuggled in for me were growing nicely under the sink, and every two weeks I decanted some of the hallucinate elixir into an empty bottle before adding more Aqua Vitae and chopped mushrooms to the parent batch brewing in a two-gallon jug. Once my shopping list had been tallied, I gathered the assorted bottles of combat-enhancing tinctures and delivered them to Maug’s stock master. He thanked me and handed over everything I asked for, and I retreated to the room I’d been given with next week’s requests. This week’s decanting would wait until Virgil returned; I put my supplies on the counter in the kitchen area and curled up to get some sleep while I could.

The mattress smelled like Virgil.

 

When Virgil finished barring the door and turned around, my hands were on him, flitting here and there, loosening buckles and straps until he could slide out of his armor…and I could rein in the desire to let my hands continue to removing his shirt, and slide over his naked chest.

“Decanting tonight,” I said by way of greeting, forcing myself away from all things I wanted to, but could never, say.

Virgil wrinkled his nose in mock-revulsion and held out a bottle filled with green liquid. “And celebration after?”

Laughing, I took the bottle. “We’ll see.”

We wore damp rags over our noses and mouths as we decanted the hallucinate carefully into an empty bottle of Varham’s and corked it. Virgil fed the small pieces of mushroom into the jug as I chopped them, and poured in the new bottle of Aqua Vitae. When the jug had been safely corked and hidden away again, we cautiously removed our makeshift masks and breathed tentatively – but the world remained as it should have been.

“Success,” I announced dryly, pouring out a measure of absinthe and handing it to him.

One packet of migraine cure…I unwrapped the folded paper and tipped its grainy contents into the bottle of absinthe. Mercury…where had I put that thermometer? There…there…this one. I fished it out from its inconspicuous tin of Famous Blood Pills and broke it against the counter, pouring the precious mercury into the bottle and discarding the glass. Once that was done I twisted the cap back on, making sure it was tight, and shook the absinthe to ensure its new ingredients were well-mixed. Finally, I tucked it in the high cabinet opposite the one that held Virgil’s anti-absinthe. When I turned back to my protector, I found him holding the glass…which still had absinthe in it.

“Virgil?”

Looking somewhat astounded, he said, “I don’t really want it. It smells lovely, but I’ve always liked anise. It just…” He took one step and poured the green liquid down the sink. “…doesn’t hold that much appeal for me anymore.”

“Time for a celebration, indeed.” I smiled warmly and took the glass from him, washed it out, and put it to dry with the others. “I think we still have some smoked beef…”

Side by side we sat on the mattress, eating bread and cheese and beef, quietly reveling in our nearness to each other. If my fingers happened to tangle with his, what of it? His were equally tight around mine, making my heart race and fueling dreams that could never be. Perhaps if we were to never leave this rough place, no one would care about the impropriety…but I had no doubt that eventually, events would force us out of our protective squalor and into the harsh light of society once again.

“I’d better get some sleep,” Virgil said finally. “Milo’s interested in the amazing absinthe he thinks you make; I’ll bring him by day after tomorrow. Do we have any more liquid soap?” He grimaced, fingers releasing mine reluctantly to dig at his hair.

“Let me check.” I dug through my assorted supplies and found a half-empty bottle. “Yes.”

Virgil took it with a look of gratitude. “Thank you. North patrol tomorrow, and I’d be scratching my scalp bloody if I had to do it without a shower first.”

He vanished into the water closet with its precious tiny shower and I cleared the counter in preparation for my night’s work. The hot water wasn’t the best – it took a few minutes to crawl through the pipes – but it was a mark of Maug’s favor that we had any at all. I could tell when it finally kicked in from Virgil’s groan of relief. It wasn’t wholly attention to my work that kept my back to the rest of the flat when he emerged finally – there was nowhere in the water closet to set fresh clothes where they wouldn’t be soaked from the shower’s spray.

“Good night, Vorak,” he called softly as he crawled into what passed for our shared bed.

For just a moment, I let myself pretend that I’d be joining him.

“Good night, Virgil.”

 

“Is this supposed to happen?” asked Virgil nervously.

“Yes,” I answered with a confidence I didn’t feel.

Milo shook his head groggily. “Is what supposed to happen?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “You were saying…? About the assault on Pollock?”

“Was I? Oh yes, that’s right.” Eyes still glassy, the gnome casually detailed the entire planned assault, including what security precautions Maug would have in place.

“Fascinating! And you say you’re the one who decides which two will be guarding his door?” I leaned forward as though enthralled.

“Don’t you think that could cause some problems?” Virgil sounded concerned. “I mean…those two…they’re bound to make trouble if they aren’t allowed to go bash some skulls tomorrow. Why not…” He suggested two orcs that, while fearsome in combat, could be outsmarted by a three-year-old child. “They’d be so happy you let them guard the boss that they wouldn’t care they missed the fight.”

Milo frowned, and I held my breath. Those two had never been allowed to guard Damian Maug’s door for that exact reason – any intruder would be able to talk his or her way past them. “That’s a good idea,” he said slowly. “I’ll make the change. Say, can I have another shot of at absinthe?”

Virgil and I glanced at each other. “You’ve already had it,” I said firmly. “It was the best absinthe you’ve ever had. You can’t believe how good it was.”

“Oh yeah…amazing stuff, Vorak. I don’t know what you did to it, but that was the best absinthe I’ve ever had. I can’t believe how good it was. No wonder your boyfriend doesn’t touch the regular stuff anymore.”

“I think it’s time for you to go,” I urged. “You’ve got that change to make. Good thing you thought it up yourself, because you’d never betray Damian Maug’s confidence by discussing the assault plan with us.”

“I think it’s time for me to go,” Milo echoed, the glassy look leaving his eyes. “Thank you for sharing your astoundingly good absinthe with me, Vorak. Virgil, you’re off-duty tomorrow as a reward.”

Whistling cheerfully, he hopped down from the chair and sauntered to the door, which Virgil barred behind him.

“Tomorrow,” he whimpered.

“Pack,” I ordered. “Get our things together, then get some sleep. We’ve got an exciting day ahead of us.”

“What about you?” he asked, quiet worry in his voice.

“I’ve still got some cocoa and tobacco. I’ll make myself a stimulant and sleep like the dead tomorrow night. It will help me go back to being awake in the day, as well. In the meantime, I’ve got to get our chemical weaponry prepared.”

Virgil didn’t answer in words, but I caught glimpses of him shooting me sharp looks as he gathered our belongings and stored them in our packs. He laid out his armor and sword, and my armor and daggers, and sullenly curled up on the mattress. Despite his worry, he was asleep in minutes. The plan called for Maug’s boys to assemble around dawn. We wouldn’t have much time; Pollock’s gang had been nearly wiped out, and he was holed up with the few brutes he had left, but Milo would be leading the charge from the shoulders of a half-ogre armed with a repeater rifle. How Maug had gotten his hands on one, no one knew. As quietly as possible, I pried up one of the boards covering our shattered window and peered out at the darkened Boil. Yes, I should be able to see them leaving from here, and then Virgil and I would have to move quickly. There was no way to know how soon the battle would be over.

I replaced the board and went to my chemical supplies. The bottles of hallucinate went onto the counter, while the absinthe that had been doctored into an interrogation formula went into several smaller bottles. Most of them, I tucked into our packs, but I kept one out. Just in case. Upon further reflection, I dug out the bottle of Molochean poison and carefully put a few drops in each of the helpful elixirs I’d made this week. To dump them would be to proclaim our guilt, but I didn’t want to just leave them there to be used by a rowdy and out-of-control bunch of thugs. Virgil’s anti-absinthe got packed away as well, along with the small batches of healing salve and such things, all carefully tucked into sturdy metal tins.

When there was nothing left to do but fret, I took a shower. The lukewarm water and harsh soap washed away my frantic thoughts, and when I emerged, I was Vorak once again. My lack of clothing did not bother me as I covered my nose and mouth with a sodden cloth and screwed a spray top onto one of the bottles of hallucinate. After all, if Virgil woke up, he would be highly unlikely to comment and more than likely to put it down as a dream. And I did so hate putting clothes on over wet skin.

Once I was dry and clothed, I dug out my sketchbook and jotted down all the things I’d been keeping in memory since my arrival in the Boil, then re-read my previous entries. When Maug was dead, our search for the owner of the ring would have highest priority – and I did not intend to let that James Kingsford fellow brush me off again. The addition of mercury and migraine cure to absinthe seemed to erase an imbiber’s memory of the few minutes preceding; Mr. Kingsford would never remember if he’d had it forced down his throat. When there was nothing more to read or write, I returned the sketchbook to its hidden compartment in the Molochean Hand agent’s pack, where the mysterious ‘GB’ ring was, and lost myself in watching Virgil sleep until the sky began to shed its velvety darkness. I checked my loose board, but no one was stirring outside…yet.

Restless again, I double-checked that Virgil had packed all of our things, double-checked the items we’d be leaving behind, triple-checked the ones we’d be using, and donned my armor. By that time, the first bits of the assault force were gathering outside, and I nudged Virgil.

“Mrghph,” he protested, and tried to roll over.

My makeshift mortar and pestle were good enough to grind dried leaves together; a bit of water turned them into a thick paste, and I tucked half of it into my cheek and forced Virgil’s mouth open enough to get the other half into his cheek. It wasn’t long before he came awake with a start, made a face at the taste, and reconsidered the urge to spit out the stimulant.

“I guess it’s time then, eh?” he asked quietly.

“Get your armor on,” I said shortly, my attention back on the group gathered outside. Milo was there, as was the half-ogre with the rifle. “Take the bottle with the spray top. We’ll leave the packs and the rest of the bottles here, and wear the Panarii robes. If we can’t talk our way past the two orcs, give them a spritz and hold your breath. I don’t know if Maug will be awake, or armed. We’ll have to fake it.”

“I’ve got a Molochean dagger,” Virgil said quietly as he finished adjusting buckles and straps.

“Good. That will muddy our trail. We’ll kill him, take his head and whatever else looks valuable, and come back here to grab our packs. Then we’ll make for the Garillon Bridge, spraying anyone in our way.” Realizing that we’d need masks, I strode to the kitchen area and brought out the rags we used for decanting and set them in a bowl of water.

“You own my life, Vorak.” Virgil’s voice was steadier than I would have expected. “I’ll follow you.”

Sword, daggers, poisoned dagger, hallucinate spray-bottle, vial of altered absinthe, robes. Outside, the majority of Clan Maug let out a roar that rattled the shards of glass still clinging to the window’s frame, and charged towards the South Boil. We were ready. I unbarred the door and Virgil followed like my shadow as I strode down the hall towards Maug’s office. Just as Virgil had suggested, the two dumbest orcs in the gang were there, fearsome with their broad axes and heavy clubs until one saw that no intelligence shone from their eyes.

“Boss wanted to see me,” I said with the air of one reporting as expected.

“Oh,” one of them said dully. “Right. I open door.”

Helpfully, the near-mindless brute held the door for us as we entered.

“What is it now?” Damian Maug snapped without looking up from his desk.

I flipped the lid off the vial of altered absinthe and charged. He looked up, but too late – with one hand I grabbed his hair and yanked his head back, and with the other I shoved the vial half into his mouth, the contents nearly spilling straight down his throat. He choked, but he’d swallowed the full dose and after a few seconds, his eyes glazed over.

“I’ve killed Pollock,” I said calmly, releasing his hair. “This is completely normal and expected, and you want to reward me.”

“Of course,” he said dazedly.

“You want to show me where you keep all the money.”

“It’s right over here…”

Wobbling slightly, he walked over to a chest and unlocked it. Several neat bags of coin sat inside.

“You want to give me a water-proof bag to carry it in,” was my next suggestion.

Obediently, Maug hefted an oilskin sack.

“That’s a nice hat. You want to wear it, then sit down at your desk and fall asleep.”

Virgil moved forward and pulled Maug’s chair out; wearing the bag as a hat, he sat and let himself slump, unconscious. Without hesitating, Virgil plunged the Molochean dagger into the heart of Damien Maug. I held my fingers on his throat, waiting for his heart to stop. When it did, I bent the body over the desk and held it steady while Virgil chopped off its head. With the oilskin bag already in place, it was simplicity itself to get the head inside and the bag tied without any further mess. I traded it to Virgil for the bottle of hallucinate, and he found a larger sack to hold both the oilskin bag, and our new and uncounted riches. When he was ready, he nodded. Hoods down again, we left the office.

“Boss doesn’t want to be disturbed,” I growled at the orcs.

“Okay-dokey,” was the genial reply.

No one stopped us on the way to our room.

“I’m not putting that thing in our packs,” Virgil said as I started lifting sacks of coin out of the bag.

“You carry it, then,” I told him.

He nodded.

We strapped on our packs, loaded the pockets of our robes with bottles of hallucinate, and tied wet rags over our faces. I looked at him; he nodded, and we began our escape.

It was easier than I’d feared; one spritz was all it took to send a gang member running, and at that we didn’t encounter more than a dozen on our way to Caleb’s bar – but we didn’t stop there. None of the Tarant guards gave us a second glance as we made our way to the bridge, and once we were halfway across I tucked the bottle away.

“We did it,” Virgil said, voice high and wobbly with relief.

“We’re not done yet,” I reminded him grimly. “You’re still carrying a head.”

“Oh, yes. Right. Uh…we should turn this in before it starts to smell, and then I think we’ve earned a good meal and a hot bath at the Bridesdale Inn…although maybe not in that order.”

“I heartily agree,” I said, feeling a bubble of laughter catch in my throat. Although laden with the scents of machinery and oceanic refuse, the air of Tarant smelled sweet indeed.