A Battle of Wits

Night on the streets of Zadash.Phelan and Emmi walk down the wet and lamplit streets of the Pentamarket, where vendors are closing their doors for the night.

“What’s it like, the Cobalt Soul? I mean the organization, not the archives.”

“Open minded about most everything except hierarchy.”

“And what do they teach you?”

She thinks about that. “At its heart it is a living temple to The Knowing Mistress. You learn how to see the truth that underlies everything around you. Where to go for answers to questions that are unanswerable. How to protect yourself in the field on fact finding missions. And you get very good at alphabetization.

“I’ve always worked in the archives. I couldn’t leave Zadash for personal reasons during my training. But I’ve always wanted to be in the field. I have a proposal… but it’s not ready yet. When it is, I’ll present it to the council of curators, and if they see merit in my hypothesis, they’ll fund my expedition. And I’ll finally get out.”

“Fascinating! So what’s your proposal about?”

“I can’t say. It’s not time yet.”

“Oh come on, I told you mine.” He teases.

“I have a few more connection to draw before it will make sense to anyone who isn’t me.”

“That sounds like a lot of self doubt talking.”

“Just … caution. I have limited opportunities for this to be taken seriously.”

They walk for a moment in silence.

“Remind me where you are staying while you are here in the city?”

“At the Pillow Trove in the Tri-Spire, an absolutely ridiculous spot that will bleed me dry soon enough. Of course, I’m not used to having two gold to rub together so the idea of paying for anything I can’t manage through trading a couple of healing potions is all new to me.”

“So, tell me. Is it as extravagant as they say?”

“What, The Pillow Trove? Undoubtedly. Care to see it? I can give you a private tour. Satisfy your … academic curiosity.”

She smiles to herself. “Thanks for the lovely offer, but I think tonight I’d best be getting home.”

He shrugs casually. “As you like. The invitation’s open if you have a change of heart.”

They approach a boarding house about a mile and a half from the shuttered windows of the town center. Phelan holds the gate for her. “Emmi… Thanks for makin’ time this evening. I’ve appreciated both your insights and your company today. Perhaps the latter more than the former, if I’m honest.”

Emmi smiles, and turns back towards him. Without even a pause, she swiftly and unhesitatingly strikes Phelan just under the collarbone with a complex combination of stiff fingers. He grunts in reaction, taking a step back. She pauses, and looks him in the eye. “Phelan Ahearn, are you a werewolf?”

Phelan's eyes unfocus for a moment and he shakes his head violently, running a hand over his face. He looks at Emmi warily. “Well this is … interesting. What makes you think that?”

“You cannot lie to me, and we both know that. Are you or aren’t you?”

“No one turned me to a werewolf, Emmi. Promise.”

She frowns quickly. “Always clever, you and your word twisting. You do not want me to lose my patience.”

“Can I distract you with dinner tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Trip to the Temple of Tiamat?”

“Again, a lovely offer, but no. Are you a werewolf?”

Phelan scrambles for a response. “Is this just because of my pet project? No wonder alchemists tend to work in secret. Lesson learned. The hard way, as usual.”

“You care. That much is clear. But why? The plight of lycanthropes is not a common humanitarian one, on the whole. Research indicates they are reclusive and unstable at best, nightmarish agents of carnage at worst. And something about you is… different. Dangerous. Why?”

“That’s your “little golden book of things that go bump in the night” talking. And people can be taught to see things differently. Isn’t that what the Cobalt Soul is all about?”

“You ignore and deflect the latter, and, frankly, more salient part of my litany of observations. Fine. People can be taught. But why teach them?”

He doesn’t meet her eye. “Because I believe lycanthropes can defy your storybook conventions if given a fighting chance.”

Emmi sighs. She thumps him softly on the shoulder, followed by a flurry of short, light blows to his upper torso that move faster than the eye can see. Phelan winces, as he tries to dodge. “Hey! Stop it!”

She levels her gaze, seeming to stare deep into him.

Speaking almost to herself she says, “Immune to non-slivered attacks that are not magical in nature. Resistant to poison. Immune to disease. Tell me again, Phelan Ahearn. Are you a werewolf?”

He backs up. “How the bloody hell are you doing that? All right, I get it, so you’re a walking, talking monster-hunting reference manual. Why ask me questions when you’re already convinced of the answers? That’s not a valid approach to measuring a hypothesis. Unfounded conviction hardly befits your scientific mind.” But there’s no real heat left in his argument.

She crosses her arms as she looks at him. “A straight answer would speak better of you, but it is no matter. You evade the truth as though your response to a simple binary question is somehow a final judgement that definitively weighs your merits as a person. Let’s try a different angle. What are you thinking about right now?”

He clears his throat uncomfortably. “Ah… ask me something else.”

She tries not to laugh. “All right. What is your plan when Ruidus is full tomorrow?’

He sighs, giving up on pretense. “To keep my head down and stay out of trouble.”

“And how do you propose to do that?”

“Well, I … the working plan is to seal me up in a stone chamber with no windows and no doors. I’m not super fond of that approach, but it is quite effective, and I’ve used variations on it for years. And Ruidus is nasty business. For me, anyway.”

“I have an alternative proposal, if you don’t mind a few bruises. Come by the archives tomorrow afternoon. I can’t guarantee you won’t feel it in the morning. But I can promise you you’ll spend the night in safe and discreet hands.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“You can’t touch me, Phelan Ahearn.” She allows a little smile. “At least, not in a fight.”

The light dawns in his eyes. “I see. So I’m to be a research project turned training dummy, am I? All right, I’m listening. Strangely it sounds more fun than the alternative. Who knows, maybe we can help each other out.” He pauses and takes a deep breath, cautiously releasing it before speaking again. “When does this bloody truth thing wear off?”

The smile widens to a grin. “About ten minutes.”

“Then it is time for me to take my leave, Archivist Gräbner, before I say something more that I’ll regret. Sweet dreams, lass. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He turns.

“Gute Nacht, Phelan Ahearn.”

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