Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen 1)

“That is understandable,” Annon said. “What we seek is information, not a deal.”

Dwyer shook his head impatiently. “Exactly. That is his business. Information. He remembers everything that anyone has ever said or written. Literally. I do not jest with ye, lads. For fun, he counts the mugs of ale and wine drunk in the Millpond each day as well as the number that are spilled. He gets his drinks for free because he tells the tavern master what to order and how much every moon cycle. He is never wrong, not that I have ever seen. He is uncanny, so they say. He is not like the crowd in the Millpond. He watches them, listens in, and feels what is going on in the room. He has the smell of it, you see. Drop a fistful of coins, and he can tell you how many ducats fell and whether they were silver or gold.”

Paedrin folded his arms. “He sounds rather boring. When can we meet him?”

Dwyer looked annoyed. “He accepts few visitors.”

“Take us to him, please.” Annon stepped forward, asserting himself as their leader.

Dwyer gave them another appraising look, scowling when he glanced at Paedrin, and then motioned for them to follow him into one of the rough, ramshackle clusters of buildings inside the disordered hive. It was dusk when they left the Millpond and getting darker with each step. Paedrin seemed to watch each sleeping beggar or drunk who shuffled along the path. He was tense and tightly coiled, expecting violence from every side.

Their destination was at the northern edge of town, a small two-story dwelling, a shop with a living place above doors. There was a lamp lit above stairs, but no light in the shop below. The shop was closed and locked, but Dwyer withdrew a key and opened it. As they entered, the room was full of books and paper, bottles of ink, and soft, padded chairs. The carpet was dirty and well worn. The place was rather shabby overall. There was a desk, a counter, riddled with scraps of paper and ink blots. A small staircase went from the back of the room to the upstairs floor.

“What do you sell?” Paedrin asked, looking around at the books and quills but seeing no merchandise. He could not discern what the man’s business was.

“Nothing,” Dwyer said, affronted. “I have no need to sell. I made my fortune nearly twenty span of years ago, betting on the Plague. When Erasmus said it was coming, I took all that I owned and bet it at the Millpond. I live quite comfortably on what is left and translate poetry.”

Paedrin stifled a chuckle with a feigned cough. “Poetry? Really?” For a stern man, he did not seem the type.

“You can be sure. I speak several languages and translate poetry from the original tongue into another. It is not as easy as you may think. Let me go upstairs and ask if he will see you.”

He went to the staircase and took the steps two at a time. There were voices above, and promptly Dwyer returned. “He will make an exception for the three of ye, but only because there is a Druidecht among ye. He trusts those folk.”

Annon felt a flush of gratitude.

Dwyer motioned for the stairs and then eased himself into one of the stuffed chairs, reaching for a book nearby and examining the binding and spine for a moment before blowing hard at the dust. Then he opened it.

Annon reached the stairs first and started up. Paedrin let Hettie go next and studied Dwyer for a moment longer. The lifestyle was not the ostentatious manner of one with wealth. He lived on the edge of town, in a ramshackle house. The brass lamp was soot-stained and had no frills. The stove was ordinary. The array of untidy books was a distraction to the eyes.

Paedrin followed Hettie up the stairs, watching Dwyer as long as he could, seeing no mark of nervousness or concern. They reached the top level, and Annon found the man pacing in the upper story.

There were books on the floor, stacks of them. Some were opened, others placed haphazardly. But what struck Annon immediately were Erasmus’s eyes. Or more precisely, the fact that they did not appear to look the same direction at the same time. His dark hair was shortly cropped; he was wide about the shoulders and skinny about the ankles. He did not look like a man of great wealth. First, he was too young. Second, his shirt was homespun, and he wore no shoes, only tattered slippers. He glanced at them, rubbing his mouth nervously, pacing back and forth by the window.

“Are you Erasmus?” Annon asked formally.

There was a twitch in the muscles of the man’s face, and he held up his hand, as if warning them to be quiet. “At so many paces per league, and then the walk from the Millpond to here. Yes, that must be it.” His strange eyes stared at them, but not directly at them. One of his eyes was crooked.

“What is it?” Annon asked, his voice lined with doubt.