stern-faced secretary sucking a cigarillo and a dark-haired woman sitting on a wooden bench pushed up against the far wall. She peered over her reading lenses as they entered.
Eremul approached the receptionist’s desk. Sasha and Cyreena waited just behind him. The secretary was a large woman, fair-skinned and sporting an unruly mass of red hair that indicated Andarran heritage.
The secretary plucked the cigarillo from her mouth with one chubby hand and heaved a dramatic sigh at the sheer temerity of the public in disturbing her smoke. ‘Yes?’ she asked, voice full of righteous indignation.
Eremul forced his mouth into what he hoped passed for a smile. ‘A good morning to you! I would like to speak with the harbourmaster if possible.’
‘Come back later.’ The receptionist waved a hand dismissively and stuck the cigarillo back in her mouth.
‘This is a matter of some urgency.’
‘Are you deaf? I said come back later.’ The receptionist noticed her cigarillo had gone out. She tutted and began to fumble for her tinderbox.
The Halfmage reached forward and grasped the end of the cigarillo between his fingertips. He evoked slightly, teasing the magic out, shaping it into a fire spell. The tips of his fingers glowed red for a brief moment. Then he pulled his hand away and fixed the secretary with his most imperious stare. She looked at her cigarillo in astonishment. The end was now burning brightly.
‘Who are you?’ she whispered.
‘They call me the Halfmage. You may have heard of me.’
The woman on the bench turned to stare at him. The secretary’s mouth quivered, her chins wobbling. ‘You... you are the famous Halfmage? The wizard that killed Salazar?’
‘That’s right,’ he said. He wasn’t too big a man to accept a little adulation now and then.
‘But you’re a cripple!’
The smug smile on Eremul’s face evaporated. ‘And you’re a fat cow,’ he snapped back. ‘Why the fuck do you think I’m called the Halfmage?’ He glared at the secretary. ‘You tell the harbourmaster I want to see him this instant. Or else I’ll show you exactly why the Tyrant of Dorminia begged for death come the end.’ The last part was an afterthought. If he was going to bullshit his way through this, he might as well commit to the performance.
The receptionist reached under the desk with a shaking hand and withdrew a large iron key. She pushed it over the counter towards him. ‘This is the key to his office,’ she said, voice trembling. ‘It’s just down the hall, first door on the left.’
Eremul took the key from her unresisting fingers and nodded at the sisters. Then he manoeuvred his chair awkwardly around, accidentally bumped into the desk, somewhat spoiling the moment, and sped off down the passage beyond the reception area. He found the room he was looking for and placed the key in the lock. It clicked open with a twist, and he entered. Sasha and Cyreena followed behind him.
Sitting beside a table stacked high with paperwork, half-empty bottles of wine and what looked suspiciously like a pile of moon dust, was an ugly little man with a bandage around his right hand. His eyes were closed; he apparently wasn’t yet aware he had guests. Eremul and the sisters watched him for a moment or two. The rhythmic wet noises from beneath the desk were the only sounds in the room.
‘I’m going to assume that woman hanging off your cock isn’t the wife you spoke so fondly of.’
Lashan’s eyes shot open. ‘What the fuck!’
A head emerged, dirty brown hair and a dusting of white powder covering a face that had seen better days. The hooker wiped her mouth and smiled stupidly. ‘You want me to carry on, milord?’
‘No! Get the fuck out!’ Lashan cried. The whore scrambled out from beneath the desk and hurried from the room. Lashan began to fumble with his breeches, fixing Eremul with a stare of utter loathing. ‘What are you doing here, you bastard half-man?’
‘I’m looking for the
Eremul approached the receptionist’s desk. Sasha and Cyreena waited just behind him. The secretary was a large woman, fair-skinned and sporting an unruly mass of red hair that indicated Andarran heritage.
The secretary plucked the cigarillo from her mouth with one chubby hand and heaved a dramatic sigh at the sheer temerity of the public in disturbing her smoke. ‘Yes?’ she asked, voice full of righteous indignation.
Eremul forced his mouth into what he hoped passed for a smile. ‘A good morning to you! I would like to speak with the harbourmaster if possible.’
‘Come back later.’ The receptionist waved a hand dismissively and stuck the cigarillo back in her mouth.
‘This is a matter of some urgency.’
‘Are you deaf? I said come back later.’ The receptionist noticed her cigarillo had gone out. She tutted and began to fumble for her tinderbox.
The Halfmage reached forward and grasped the end of the cigarillo between his fingertips. He evoked slightly, teasing the magic out, shaping it into a fire spell. The tips of his fingers glowed red for a brief moment. Then he pulled his hand away and fixed the secretary with his most imperious stare. She looked at her cigarillo in astonishment. The end was now burning brightly.
‘Who are you?’ she whispered.
‘They call me the Halfmage. You may have heard of me.’
The woman on the bench turned to stare at him. The secretary’s mouth quivered, her chins wobbling. ‘You... you are the famous Halfmage? The wizard that killed Salazar?’
‘That’s right,’ he said. He wasn’t too big a man to accept a little adulation now and then.
‘But you’re a cripple!’
The smug smile on Eremul’s face evaporated. ‘And you’re a fat cow,’ he snapped back. ‘Why the fuck do you think I’m called the Halfmage?’ He glared at the secretary. ‘You tell the harbourmaster I want to see him this instant. Or else I’ll show you exactly why the Tyrant of Dorminia begged for death come the end.’ The last part was an afterthought. If he was going to bullshit his way through this, he might as well commit to the performance.
The receptionist reached under the desk with a shaking hand and withdrew a large iron key. She pushed it over the counter towards him. ‘This is the key to his office,’ she said, voice trembling. ‘It’s just down the hall, first door on the left.’
Eremul took the key from her unresisting fingers and nodded at the sisters. Then he manoeuvred his chair awkwardly around, accidentally bumped into the desk, somewhat spoiling the moment, and sped off down the passage beyond the reception area. He found the room he was looking for and placed the key in the lock. It clicked open with a twist, and he entered. Sasha and Cyreena followed behind him.
Sitting beside a table stacked high with paperwork, half-empty bottles of wine and what looked suspiciously like a pile of moon dust, was an ugly little man with a bandage around his right hand. His eyes were closed; he apparently wasn’t yet aware he had guests. Eremul and the sisters watched him for a moment or two. The rhythmic wet noises from beneath the desk were the only sounds in the room.
‘I’m going to assume that woman hanging off your cock isn’t the wife you spoke so fondly of.’
Lashan’s eyes shot open. ‘What the fuck!’
A head emerged, dirty brown hair and a dusting of white powder covering a face that had seen better days. The hooker wiped her mouth and smiled stupidly. ‘You want me to carry on, milord?’
‘No! Get the fuck out!’ Lashan cried. The whore scrambled out from beneath the desk and hurried from the room. Lashan began to fumble with his breeches, fixing Eremul with a stare of utter loathing. ‘What are you doing here, you bastard half-man?’
‘I’m looking for the
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