Rexi and Talon

By Onyx Tao

Jack: Rexi and Talon by Onyx Tao is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://onyx-tao.sofurry.com.

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8. 'Zackton Silvercane'

The half-orc currently calling himself Zack watched Talon walk half-heartedly into the bathing chamber. It was a name, close enough to all the others he'd ever had to catch his attention, and different enough to forestall any casual connection between the identities. Task. Trask. Trick. Track. Jack. Jake. Zake. And now, Zack. Task-Trask-Trick-Track-Jack-Jake-Zake-Zack watched the door close, and made a small bet with himself; that the pretty little hybrid would, in fact, come cuddle up to him after he'd had some time to think.

Ah, but would the boy love him? That was the more interesting question ... at least the boy hadn't asked any inconvenient questions yet. Twisting Talon's emotions to love him would have been simple; Zack had -- in an safe place -- a draught known as a philter of love; let the boy drink it, and he would be besotted with the half-orc. He'd used them before. Effective, and as long as one wasn't stupid, it never occurred to his newly-fond loves that they'd been ensorcelled.

But he had never loved them, he thought. Liked them well enough. Tolerated them, when the magic pushed them to the extremes love-struck behavior. And he'd treated them well enough -- that, he thought, was at least half of the secret, if there was such a secret. Return enough simulated affection, let them never think themselves ill-used, and they'd never test or probe or wonder at their infatuation. He hadn't disliked them, but ... he had never loved, he thought, never ... actual, honest, real love. Conversely, they'd never actually loved him. Magically imposed affection, however potent, wasn't the same as real love.

Or so everything he'd read suggested. Perhaps it was merely his own cynicism that made him question that, when every book of magical theory said otherwise, when every word from every other praticioner he'd discussed the matter with, however obliquely, had repeated that standard wisdom back to him. It didn't seem true to him, though. They acted as if they loved, thought as if they loved, remembered as if they loved, explained themselves in terms of love ... in what way was imposed magical love different than real love? Because it can be undone with an unmaking, was the standard answer.

The half-orc pondered that yet again, and his thoughts circled around facts yet again. It was magic in nature, and that which unmade magic could undo it. But what of that? Under the effects of the right potion, he could defy his weight, lift himself off, skim the air, dance on the clouds -- until it wore off. Was that flight less real, for all that it could be undone with an unmaking? Was he almost-but-not-quite-really flying? What did that even mean?

Under the effects of a different potion, he could see things hidden with magic. Was that not real sight, real perception, real knowledge, or was it, too, almost-but-not-quite-really sight, almost-but-not-quite-really knowledge. He thought not. It was real, more than real. And if magic had such unquestioned -- if temporary -- power over objective reality, why were its temporary effects in the realm of the subjective somehow less real? It just is, was the considered opinion of every author, and every occultist he'd discussed it with.

It just is. Oh, it was framed in more complicated terms, complex arguments, philosophical speculation, and once upon a time he would have accepted it. Only ... the half-orc had come to the study of occultism late, and from a far different path than the authors and authorities he'd consulted, and what seemed so obvious to them as to need no explication seemed ... far less obvious, to him. For all that love was a subjective state, and insubstantial, even ephemeral, that hardly made it unreal.

No. Love was real enough; magic's influence over it real enough, that differentiating between induced and natural love without some actual difference was ... questionable. Very questionable. Or ... perhaps they had experience with supposedly-real love, and supposedly-false love and could, somehow, in hindsight, tell the difference? Something deeper and more profound than one experience was magic, and the other wasn't?

As far as he knew, the half-orc reflected while laying back on the sheets still fragrant with the fading warmth and scent of the half-elf, he had never loved anyone. Unless it was ... he turned from that thought. Not the supposedly wonderful true love idealized in ballad and story; not even the more mundane and plebian sort he saw day-to-day around him. Unless ... It was as if there were, not a gap, because he felt no gap, not a hole, not an absence, but a blind spot. Something he couldn't perceive, couldn't know, and because of that ... how could he express an emotion he didn't have?

But was that so? Why was he even here, again, after so many years, hunting for ...

Was it love? Had it been love?

How could he know ? The teenaged half-orc he had been hadn't understood enchantment, couldn't expect the effect of a charm, had no experience with the magics of suggestion, or fascination, or hypnosis, or any of the things around him. Clean clothes, baths, sex, theatre, bars, clubs, and private clubs ... Cheliax had been a -- choose the word, degenerate or sophisticated -- place even before the infernally risible Thrice-Damned House of Thrune, and a poor, illiterate, ignorant, needy young -- extremely young -- half-orc had been vulnerable. And of course he'd been taken advantage of. He hadn't resented it then, and he didn't resent it now; he hadn't felt abused while it happened, and he didn't feel abused today.

The half-orc moved himself over on the bed, to leave room for Talon, if -- as he expected -- Talon returned. He guessed it would take a couple of hours -- and, about two and a half hours later, half-woke as Talon entered the room and snuck -- or tried to sneak, at least -- into the bed.

The half-orc put an an arm around him, and pulled him in tight before letting himself return to sleep.

Sometime later, the half-orc snapped from sleep to full awareness, his hand closing around the dagger hidden in the sheets. A moment later the source of the disturbance became obvious; a large, circular mirror hanging on the wall.

"Wake, orcblood," a deep whisper oozed through the room. "Wake!"

"I am awake," the half-orc said, getting out of bed and deliberately tossing the covers over Talon, and the large orc glanced around the room. Talon pulled the cover up -- just a little -- and watched him walk over to the mirror from where he peeked out from between the covers. the half-orc looked at it, and then dropped to one knee. Black thoughts ran through his mind as he considered just which of his patrons could find him here, and which would awaken him. "Illustrious Nomos?" he asked, putting one hand palm-down on the floor. the half-orc feared Nomos in a way he feared none of the others; the others were human, or had been human, or were close enough to human that the half-orc could understand them. Nomos ... was not, and the half-orc reminded himself firmly that he did not understand Nomos. He must not second-guess Nomos. Do not be surprised at his demands.

"Yessssss," the voice replied. "You are observant and smart. And polite. Surprisingly."

"Welcome to my bedchamber, Illustrious. Although I was not expecting to ... receive you."

A thin, slithering sort of laughter filled the room. "And tomorrow you will have the mirror taken out, I presume?"

"Yes, Illustrious, unless ..."

"Unless?"

"Unless I have it taken out sooner." the half-orc said, feigning cheefulness. Do not show fear.

"Wasted effort, but if it please you it please you, I suppose. Nor did I miss your pretty little elf toy."

"I did not imagine you did, but he does not know how to behave in your presence, Illustrious." No, no, I'm not trying to hide him from you, I'm being polite. And you can't object to that, can you?

There was a moment of quiet, and then the voice spoke again. "I have a small task that I cannot see to myself." Apparently not.

"I am fully engaged, Illustrious," the half-orc's voice was surprisingly calm, and he put a hint of humility at his own limitations into it.

"There is something I need in Egorian," the voice continued.

"I cannot fetch it, Illustrious."

"You can arrange for it to be ... fetched. A small thing. Available for legitimate purchase."

How available? "And yet, there will be complications," the half-orc replied.

"One or two ..."

"I am engaged," the half-orc repeated calmly, because he couldn't say go away.

"Not for anyone I've spoken with."

"I cannot question that, Illustrious."

"For whom, then?"

"I am engaged, Illustrious." Patient endurance, this time.

"I will find out, eventually," promised the voice.

"I do not doubt that, Illustrious." So then why do you demand this from me, hmmm?

"But you will not tell me?"

"That is correct, Illustrious." I never burn my clients, not even for you. Nor would you respect me if I did.

"Be that way. This is a ... small, side-effort, a tiny thing. It will hardly trouble you."

"If you would have it so, Illustrious, and yet."

"Yet?"

"Yet you are in my sleeping chamber, some time after noon, asking me to do it, Illustrious."

"I will make it worth your time and effort," the voice promised.

"Of course, Illustrious, and yet, I am engaged. I cannot promise you my full effort."

"Find another to do it, then!"

"I am engaged, Illustrious."

"Will you at least consider my request?"

"Of course, Illustrious, but that does not change that ..."

"You are engaged, yes, I am irritatingly aware of that. You need not toss it in my face again."

The half-orc redoubled his attempt to stay calm. "I did not mean to offend, Illustrious, merely to say that where I am bought, I remain bought."

"You may also refrain from rephrases of that refrain."

"As you wish, Illustrious."

"And stop calling me that."

"If it please you, it please you, please you."

There was a dry chuckle. "You do dance on the edge, I must remember that's why I like you. I am reminding myself of that, over and over."

"Thank you."

"The daughter of a Duchess. Anatolle Frixelle. She passed away some time ago, and a number of her effects are coming up at an auction. A box of things."

"You want the box," the half-orc asked in a combination of question and statement.

"I do, but in particular I want a hand-mirror in the box. I want all of it; but the mirror is the crucial piece."

The half-orc nodded. "I understand. But, I cannot go to Egorian. It is not possible. I do not know if I can find a proxy, but ... perhaps I can. Are you certain you want me to attempt this for you? I cannot spare it my full attention, I cannot give it my full effort."

"By ... poor planning on the part of others, you are the only person in Cheliax I can reach," the voice growled. "It is an ... unusual circumstance." An unusual confession.

"I understand your dilemma. I ... will do what I can do."

"I will pay you well."

"I know," Zack said. "I estimate my chances at no better than one in ten of success, though."

"So little?" the voice said with displeasure.

"I cannot leave Coryntyn at the moment. In ..." and the half-orc paused. "Interesting. I had a thought. You have ... arrangements with the Pactmasters, Illustrious?"

"Yes. And do _ not _ call me that."

"Ah -- my apologies. You had said that," the half-orc said apologetically. "But my thought is that you could arrange a meeting between the Pactmasters and ... call them, foreign investors, if you wished?"

"Easily done," the voice growled.

"It may be that my two distractions cancel out."

"Now there's my clever little orcblood," the voice whispered. "Stands your success at one in ten now?"

"I think," said the half-orc said slowly, "I think ... I will contact you when I know more. When is this auction?"

"The event is upon us. A mere eight days hence."

"I must inquire as to your budget, if I am to do this, ah, legitimately."

"Five hundred thousand gold, and I have no cares for legitimacy. Keep what you do not spend."

"And arranging the meeting? You will do that for me, if I need it, as well?"

"If it be valuable."

"Then I accept, with the caveat that I cannot leave Coryntyn myself, and that my ... other business retains its higher priority."

"No mirror, no pay," said the voice.

"Fifty thousand gold retainer, to be paid to me immediately, and is mine regardless."

"That is ... not unreasonable. I had expected you to require more."

The half-orc nodded. "I am only partially free to act in your behalf. You know, and I have to say it, that I cannot and will not allow this to jeopardize my other business."

"I know," the voice growled. "I remind myself that this is why I like you."

"I cannot tell you how delighted I am to be of some use to you."

"I'm sure you can't," the voice said dryly. "You know how to contact me, yes?"

"I do."

"Then there is nothing more to discuss. This audience is over."

"Yes," said the half-orc, standing up. He glanced over at the window, and cringed. "It's the middle of the day," he muttered. "Nevertheless." He walked over to the mirror, picked it up off the wall, turned, and marched out into the hallway, looked up and down.

Ah.

"You!" the half-orc said loudly. "What is your name?"

Apparently too loudly. "Do ... Donal, Master."

"Then Dodonal, go fetch Rexi. Now!" the half-orc watched the halfling run off, and then set the mirror down, carefully, reflective side towards the hallway.

"Er ... Master Zack?" Talon asked, still huddled in the bed. Inconvenient.

"Yes?"

"You're aware you're, ah, not wearing anything?"

"Yes," the half-orc sighed, and briefly considered explaining that appearing naked in the corridor was meant to demystify him to the halflings, but all he said was, "I am aware."