Liar's Fortune
Twentieth Day of the Ninth Month 293 AC
The heavy iron bell affixed to the shop door gave its usual rasping ring, but the being who entered Enchanted Outfitters that day was anything but usual for a new shop at the edge of the Bazaar of A Thousand Sins. A Lord of the Efreeti resplendent in a cloak of crimson silk that trailed a delicate lacework of flame, bearing an ornate helm of gold and demon's bone in place of a mere turban, gleaming mithril encasing his full form. More fearsome still a halberd wrought from the bone of some unhallowed beast was slung carelessly upon his shoulder. No petty officer of the dervishes was this, nor minor Efreeti functionary come furtively to patronize a foreign shop, but a Champion of the Brazen Throne, a flame-weaver whose name was more fearsome rumor than fact in the Middle City.
"I would speak to the master of this place,
now," the genie barked at the sellsword who was slouched in a chair behind the counter, entirely ignoring the 'slave' beside him whose job it was to handle petty transactions, perhaps all the better given how pale with fear the latter was.
"Right away, friend," the warrior replied in a deceptively lazy tone, hand edging closer to the hilt of his silvered sword. Bronn was not one for taking chances, and from the look of things the fire-shrouded warrior noticed, though his lips only flickered in a short-lived sneer in response.
In the sudden silence the silken curtain that led towards the back of the shop swished, the lead-lined door hidden behind even that opened and closed without a sound.
Not long after a boy stepped forth, garbed in dark cloth, more sturdy than opulent, though the fringe of lace and silver thread around his collar marked him clearly as a freemen of some means: "What can I do for you, noble sir?" Maelor allowed some of his nervousness to leak into his tone alongside awe that was wholly counterfeited. The Efreeti were little better than the Listener's thugs when all was said and done, only richer, and he knew quite a lot about divesting people from ill-gotten riches.
The warrior scowled, perhaps trying to read an aura that was not there, or mayhap even thoughts hidden behind adamant wards. "Very well, then. I would ask why you work so assiduously to guard yourselves from the eyes of others. A merchant you call yourself but walk veiled like a spy."
No one moved, not a breath was taken out of turn, but Maelor knew his next words would decide the fate of the entire venture, and he would have to speak them blind, not knowing if the officer before him had come upon his suspicions on his own or had been sent by some higher power within the city.
"Gracious one, trade is my business, sorcery my craft, but neither are who I am," the boy replied carefully. "My uncle and I came here as exiles, drawn by the promise of a new life, bearing with us little of what was once a great fortune though with foes at our back. While I have no doubt the Sultan's blades would reap the lives of any foolish enough to carry this feud into this Eternal City, it would be cold comfort to us, lying dead among the ruin of our hopes for the future."
Hearing his cue, Bronn feigned bristling: "Then why did you hire us and not save your coin to buy some poison for when your foes are at the door?"
"Peace, master Bronn," Maelor raised a hand as though to ward off the warrior's anger. "None doubt your skills, but that does not mean we wish to see them tested. If it is bloodletting we wish to see then we shall go to the Circus of Pain and watch the Condemned."
The mention of the Circus, seen as a cheep distraction for the masses, drew a full-fledged sneer which also went a long way to dimming the suspicion in his eyes. Unless he was a much better mummer than Maelor gave him credit he had indeed come here alone, following some vague hint of impropriety. "You should be careful, little mouse, that the same veils you seek to hide in do not draw the attention of those far mightier than any foes you and your kin could ever hope to make," he said at last, burning eyes glancing around the displays and obviously finding nothing of note.
"If I may be so bold as to say, gracious one, there you are mistaken," the young sorcerer dared to make a further move, to try and turn misfortune on its head. "We do not seek foes of any sort, but allies in this new land that all might profit from it. We who are not warriors treasure their friendship above pearls."
The efreeti considered the matter a moment then shook his head, pride willing out over greed. "I have no need of your trinkets, peddler," he proclaimed, before leaving the shop by the same way he had come, leaving the shop no better, though thankfully also no worse than when he had come.
Maelor's smile as the door closed had nothing of the nervousness and servility it had showed before. He very much suspected that if he and the haughty genie were to meet again the latter would enjoy it far less.
OOC: That was a nat 1 on a d100 for encounter in the shop, but Maelor puled though on the bluff. He did not quite have enough diplomacy to turn things around, but you to at least have the face of one of the Sultan's elite guards to scry by if you ever want to.
