The polished glass vial full of a strange, black slurry glistened like some queer sort of gemstone, sparkling in the dim, dusty light of a brothel window as it danced this way and that through a young woman's fingers. Ezrah watched the liquid's lazy sloshing and noted no separation, no debris. The brew was stable, properly homogenized, he'd done well. The color was correct, black as the viper, lingering, quiescent, and just as brutal when it struck. The Magus' Seven Nature Theory said the black brew killed any light shone into it, that it was given its color by the shade of the dying sun. Any thoughts of the esoteric aside, Ezrah always thought it remarkable what a body could accomplish given the proper... incentive. He reached up and caught the young woman's wrist gently, stained, calloused fingers sliding upwards, entwining with hers and closing over the vile securely, pressing it firmly into her palm, "Careful, if you loose the stopper, and that tastes our flesh, we'll die screamin'...."
The words were muttered into flesh, into the crook of the woman's neck, a warning bound up in a lover's little ministrations. The woman chuckled but didn't push the ruddy youth away. Genuine affection was rare enough in her world, there was no need to stifle tenderness even if it did crop up in the oddest places. Poetry was even rarer, "Such dire, lovely words. How did I earn such dire, lovely words."
"The pillow brings the poet, you know how it goes...," Ezrah yawned, scratched his chest idly and swung his legs over the bed's edge. His eyes alit on a leather bundle tucked onto the shelf near the door in the cramped quarters, "Is that the rest?"
"Aye, just like ya asked," Gentle fingers traced the memories burned onto Ezrah's back, exploring the symbols there even if they didn't recognize the story. The woman, the whore, Risa... was a rare sort of treasure, smart enough to know the true value of two hours in her bed. She knew she was no great beauty, her features largely unmemorable save for an unfortunately distinct pattern of acne scars on her face. But she has some virtues, her flesh and frame were somewhat fuller than the rest of Demeter's working girls, and her hips were wide and generous. She traded on her figure to bring in her johns, and she suspected Ezrah was no exception. The little glass vial's contents, true visra, pure Witch's Breath, was expensive, and Risa knew it. The boy could've sold it for fine silver, even in the Drowned District, gold even, if he risked a buyer elsewhere. But no, he'd taken her up on her offer instead. A favor for later, a lukewarm bath, two hours of her attentions, and the items he'd requested: a cloak, good leather work gloves, and a sailor's boot knife. A good trade in Ezrah's mind, though it would've set the Crone to muttering curses. Meh, her withered flesh had few and fewer yearnings, Ezrah was not so fortunate.
Risa was a treasure for more than her figure though. Her mind was sharp and she kept her word once it was given, qualities far more valuable than the sway of her hips, even if they were less readily apparent. Ezrah didn't mind a trade in flesh with her every now and then, even if he turned most of her peers away. She had a head for novels and stories, she made for lovely conversation, and he'd sired twins on her, a fact he'd gone out of his way to verify even if the mother herself thought it simple rumor. There's was no great, fiery romance, just a simple affection, a fondness, an odd friendship between a harlot and a considerate client. Ezrah pulled on his trousers and fastened his boots, offering the young woman the words of instruction to seal the trade as he rose to his feet and continued to dress, "That there in yer hand? Pure like that, it'll take life with a touch. A thimbleful, mixed in wine or bitter tea to mask the flavor, will drop a ten stone man after a few hours, a day at longest, with no counter anyone is apt to find. It'll leave no marks, save for a stink on his breath when he passes, and most'll name that corpse rot, more'n likely. That brew is unfixed, it'll hold true for a month, maybe longer. After two months though, it'll slant queer, still kill a man, just might take longer, might touch him strange, hard to say. Toss it after three months, it'll be harmless as garter snakes by then."
"Thanks for this, Ezrah. Ya don't know how-"
"Aye, I don't know, best to keep it suchwise," The lad offered Risa a rather rueful grin, but there was a knowing certainty in those dark eyes. Her schemes were not his to know, the less he knew, the less he could tell, the less he could be expected to know. It was a common courtesy of sorts. Any good apothecary did well to keep himself removed from the domestic drama of his clients, who knew whose cup his brew might sully after all. He finished dressing and set about pawing thorough the contents of the leather bundle, inspecting each one as he uncovered it. The cloak was large enough, but the material was cheap and rather ragged, it probably wouldn't last the year, but it would suffice for now. The gloves were a better story, fine things, stained from hard use, but thick and hardy, just like he'd asked. The boot knife was fine as well, the steel sharp and treated against rust, the handle simple, leather bound wood, complete with an even simpler leather sheath. Ezrah threw the cloak about his shoulders and fastened it, stowed the gloves in a pocket of his coat, and fixed the knife to the inside of his boot, "Good work as always, Risa, fine work."
"Just fine?"
"Fine and finer still," Ezrah chuckled and offered the woman a warm grin. He paused a moment before taking his leave, leaning back against the shelves, a slight furrow to his brow painting his demeanor a touch more serious, "How're yer babes, Risa? Heard the boy was down with thrush."
"Ya heard true enough," Risa's good cheer faded somewhat," He wouldn't feed from me without cryin' and hollerin' somethin' fierce. I pray it passes soon, Demeter'll drown him if he makes a racket again, likely as not."
Ezrah fished a packet from the pocket of his trousers and tossed it to the woman on the bed, "Here, somethin' better than prayers. Mix it with warm milk. He'll like it, sweet as it is."
The woman blinked, surprised. For a brief second, her mind flickered back to the idle talk she'd indulged in with her co-workers as her eyes flickered over Ezrah's face, the dark eyes and freckles, so much like the twins, Milo and Sarah. It was a possibility, sure enough, and she supposed they could do much worse for parentage. The flicker of doubt passed, and Risa remembered herself, remembered how things worked in the Drowned District, "And what'll this cost me."
Ezrah paused for a moment, cocked his head to the side and screwed up his face in a mockery of deep thought. He ended the sham in half a heartbeat and chuckled lightly, offering Risa a slight shrug, "Hmmm... well, I'd fancy a new story, for when I come round next. Somethin' with a happy ending, think ya could manage?"
"Aye, I figure I can, till then," the tension fell from Risa's shoulders and a chuckle pinked her words as she waved the lad off. Ezrah nodded with a smile an took his leave.
"Till then."
~~~
Outside the brothel, the rain swept the muck from the stones of the streets as it charged over the Drowned District. Ezrah held his face to the rain for a few moments before pulling up the hood of his cloak, letting the chilling shock of it chase away the warm, sensual lethargy of a brothel bed. Rain was some of the purest water the Drowned District ever saw, provided it didn't blow in from the direction of the factories. Alert and refreshed, Ezrah set off on his path. He had all the tools he needed now, and the weather was in his favor. Now seemed as good a time as any to head to the sewers and hunt the Warped Rats, the sewer rat's larger, pollutant-twisted brethren. Most avoided them out of habit, their meat was worthless and sickened the stomach unless you had the reagents to treat it, and their bite was as venomous as any serpents. Cut deep enough into that stinking mass of fur and twisted flesh, however, and you'd find a purplish sack near the stomach, full of a bitter, evil-smelling bile, with useful properties if you had the requisite skills. The rain would drive them up from the deep sewers, no doubt, and Ezrah knew their usual haunts.
Yes... yes he'd go to the sewers to hunt the rats, to hunt the rats and... and nothing else. Ezrah felt a slight burning, a slight itching against his chest and knew it was just his imagination, knew that the piece of folded parchment in the inner pocket of his coat had no magical properties. There was nothing special about the encounter, he knew that to be true, knew it would only become more true the more he told himself it was mundane. Just some passing holy man, the Drowned District always attracted a few mad cultists, promising this or that. More than like it was nothing but lies and delusions, and if not that, a snare laid to strip the poor of their already meager earnings. The food had been a rare enough treat. The Crone's cleansing rituals had found no malice in them, and Ezrah had eaten them without fear. But this map, this was foolishness, to follow some madman's whims into the city's bowels? Unthinkable. Just a fool priest, just a wandering madman, just some clever charlatan.... The titles rang out over and over again in Ezrah's mind, and each sounded more hollow than the last. That man... if nothing else, he certainly hadn't been mundane. Ezrah had been playing the beggar, an easy enough ruse and a common one used to ply his trade in the more... recreational balms in his possession beneath prying eyes. The man had come like all the others, offering his alms and... and that face.... There had been no eyes, nothing easily discerned in those shrouded features, but Ezrah knew... knew that the man has
seen him, emptied him of every trick and every mask and truly
seen him. That man knew he was no beggar, knew every inch of him, knew the story burned into his back even though Ezrah had hidden it with cloth and make-up. In one shuddering instant, that towering figure had stripped Ezrah bare and flayed his soul with words of the Shroud.... There would be no casual forgetting....
Ezrah gritted his teeth and swallowed dryly, setting off towards the easiest entrance to the sewers he could recall. Even covered in the cloak as he was, something in his stride, in the light swagger that lingered in it, betrayed him as Marked. Most of the Drowned District had learned to give the Marked a bit of room out of force of habit and obedience to the Myth each Marked took it upon himself to maintain. One could hazard a run on one of the Marked, perhaps you'd beat him and rob him, perhaps he'd escape, who could say? And then, after the days passed and your crime slipped from your mind to be replaced by more immediate worries, a pain would grip you, a hot knife that tormented the guts, a stinking sweat that left blisters on the skin, a burning discharge that left you raw, ragged and weak, who could say? The only certainty was that you would die screaming. Over the decades, the Drowned District had learned of the Marked just as the Marked had learned of the Drowned District. They learned to offer one another, if nothing else, a basic, crude respect.
Ezrah didn't worry about being accosted, even though he kept his ears primed and muscles loose and ready. Some things could be left to the subconscious. Let the sleeping mind remain wary, teeth bared. The waking mind could concern itself with more pressing affairs, like hunting rats and perhaps... perhaps going a bit deeper into the Labyrinth than intended. After all, who knew where the rats might lurk? There were obvious dangers, yes, but Ezrah knew better than most the opportunities that lingered in danger.
