Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [12]
At length the pawnbroker straightened. He was holding a scarf. A long, pale scarf that resembled an unraveled scroll of exceptional length.
Damascus’s stomach dropped. The scarf was the murder weapon of his vision. It embodied the one memory he didn’t want back. He croaked, “Why do you have this?”
The cat, apparently called Fable, hunkered lower, as if preparing to jump at one end of the wrap.
Chant gave him an odd look, but decided to play along. He said, “You paid me to keep it for you; said you’d be back for it either in a couple days or in a year, two at the outside. That was four years ago. You’re lucky I didn’t sell it off.”
“Four years!” It felt like someone caught him with a punch to the stomach.
“Yeah, just about, give or take a few tendays.”
Demascus’s eyes were pinned on the pale length of fabric. Part of him wanted to snatch it from Chant. Another part wanted to run from the evidence of his crime. And what had he been doing during the last four years? His mind was like a snowy plain, hiding everything beneath a cold white blanket.
“Are you all right?”
Demascus realized he’d been standing slack-jawed. He closed his mouth with a click of teeth.
“Ah, yes. I didn’t think I’d ever see this again …”
“You paid me to hold it. Which means it was safe, just like … Wait, did someone say something? What did they say? Was it Raneger?” Chant emphasized his questions with expansive gestures, and the loose end of the scarf swayed back and forth, following the man’s hands. Fable finally made her move and leaped for one end, missing it only by a hairsbreadth.
“Careful!” Demascus said.
“Hmm?” The pawnbroker finally noticed the cat’s antics. He wrapped the loose ends up and said, “You didn’t answer me. Has someone been spreading rumors about me?”
“No, nothing like that. I told you before, I don’t know anyone named Raneger. I’m sorry, I’ve had a long day like you wouldn’t believe, and I’ve … been sick.”
Demascus debated coming clean with the pawnbroker, who obviously remembered him. The man could be the key to all his lost memory. He wanted to tell someone, to relieve the burden of his plight.
On the other hand, merely because the man knew him from a past business dealing didn’t make him an ideal confidant.
Chant said, “Well, do you want this thing or not?”
“I do! I just …” He didn’t say that the last time he remembered touching it, he was strangling someone with it. “Say, I’ve got an idea. Since you’re closing up, what do you say to heading over to that inn across the way, the Lantern, for dinner and ale? My way to say thanks for holding onto my property for so long.”
The man pursed his lips, considering.
Demascus said, “Not to mention that since I’ve been … sick, I’ve fallen somewhat behind on current events. I need someone willing to answer a few questions for me.”
A grin split the pawnbroker’s face. “My specialty! If something’s going on in Airspur, I know it, or can find it out. For the right price of course.”
“I’ve got coin to spare,” said Demascus, patting the satchel containing all the silver and gold coins he’d looted from the fallen.
“Well, I am hungry. It takes a lot of effort to run a business like mine.” Chant ran his free hand over the bulge of his stomach. “It’s a deal. Let’s go. I hear the Lantern is roasting up bluestream squid tonight. One of my favorites.”
The pawnbroker removed a wooden dish from a cupboard. He set it on the floor, and Fable jumped down. She immediately began chowing down on the bowl’s contents as if she hadn’t eaten in a tenday. The man gave the cat one more stroke, then straightened. His other hand still held the balled-up fabric.
Chant said, “Take this already! For someone so concerned about keeping it safe, you’re sure reluctant to get it back.”
Demascus took the scarf. He rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger; it was parchment smooth, and almost warm to the touch. It was the one from his vision! The mere touch of the fabric transmitted a feeling of satisfaction and relief through him.
“Let’s go, I’m hungry,” said Chant, and firmly