Chapter 3 - Part 3

Azu's hot and horrible breath rasped across his neck and Clasq did his best not to gasp. It was several hours into their observation of the warehouse block. His muscles ached and his mind was like a slate that had been inexpertly wiped over and over, leaving a smear of chalk behind. Within the first two hours he had worked out the rotation of the warehouse watch and noted the movement of large crates and drays that bore the markings of the port of Savendor and the stamps of the various transport guilds that moved it over land. After that, most of his effort was spent trying to find new places to stand and new excuses to stand there, rather than actually observing anything. All of his energy was strained on the building, watching it, ensuring that he wasn't himself being observed by its inhabitants, so Azu's furtive message shivered him.

"Boss, someone's coming up on us," the imp more muttered than said. Clasq, of course, had been granted the power to understand his devious little servant implicitly. There was a thread of communication that could not be severed, that made him at all times aware of the presence of Azu, that helped him comprehend even the words the imp spoke in the infernal tongues, that granted him the ability to feel Azu's emotions and gave the horrible creature that same access to Clasq himself. So, he had merely to form the thought in his mind to warn Clasq, and even the half-spoken warning was clear as a crystal bell ringing in a high tower.

Along with the warning there came a distinct visual message, like an impression in wax. Azu sent him a warning, an image of a man who walked with a rolling, prize-fighter's gait. He wore a blue mantle with a lining of fur and his face was graced by a nose like a crushed plum. This did not bode well. The man was sidling up on him, sloughing through the mud in the alleyway. Both Clasq and Azu knew him - his name was Theomyr, but in Trantz he was called simply "the Counter" because he made his living making books. Clasq owed him some ten thousand thalers (give or take a few fennigs), and had been avoiding him for the better part of two weeks.

Clasq grunted as Azu's little claws dug into his neck and the devil sent a series of images, like flashes of lightning. This was a barrage of coins and nearly-empty cups, the sorry tale of Clasq's gaming woes. Dice, dice, cards, cards, loss, loss, and now... the Counter.

There were many gaming hells in the city, and Clasq had seen them all, but the one where he'd had his run of bad luck, the one in the Leznian quarter with the two bears on the sign, well those were all owned, as it were, by the Counter. So, the money that Clasq had lost, all those thalers from the Embassy, and the debt that he accrued, it all belonged to the Counter. This Leznian who had once been a merchant and was now a land magnate in Trantz, was not to be trifled with. And now, while Clasq was about his real business, serving the interests of the Profectine Republic, here came his chief creditor with a truncheon in hand.

Clasq sucked in a deep breath and swung around the corner just as Theomyr was about to come into the alley. The Leznian, to his credit, didn't respond to this provocation except to slightly raise his club. "Theomyr," Clasq oozed, flowing into the street and putting his arm around the bandy-legged thief. "Fancy meeting you here."

"I don't know what you're doing, and I don't want to know," Theomyr growled as Clasq piloted him away from the warehouse, "but you've been ducking me, Celendano, and I don't like," and here Theomyr gripped the club with both hands and made a wrenching motion, as though strangling something, "ducks."

The truncheon, Clasq noticed, had a metal cap with a sharp spike atop it. He ignored the tension knot forming between his neck and shoulder and walked up the street with the angry little bookmaker. "Master Counter," he said, "I know that I owe you a great deal of money. You know that my accounts in the Republican Bank are overdrawn and my credit is exhausted. You came here to threaten me and, possibly, even to hurt me so I would understand how important it is that I turn up this money by any means I can." Clasq had given this speech half a hundred times in half a hundred cities throughout the world, always on the Embassy's dime. He just couldn't stop himself - when he was on assignment, he loved to lose money. "But I assure you, I already know. It's just a waste of your energy to..." He tapped the club. "To... ah... demonstrate it to me."

Theomyr started to growl, but Azu fluttered into the Leznian's face. "We got things to offer, though," said the imp, before the bookmaker could bring his threat to bear.

"That's right," Clasq agreed. "We work at the Embassy and we can arrange certain affairs for you; on top of that, we have a certain set of skills that are... somewhat unique for scribes. Obviously, you've met my compatriot, Azumaryndor, and it should be clear by now that I put my name on a warlock's indenture, so..."

"You want to work for me," Theomyr asked, his huge, furry brow twisting itself up in concern. "To work off your debt?"

"You have it exactly," Clasq said, real relief creeping into his voice. "After all, you should have someone to go out and make threats like this on your behalf... shouldn't you?"