CHAPTER 572: THE STRANGE MISSION (1)

"Let’s go buy my dignity."

The bell over the apothecary door gave a soft, musical chime as they stepped inside, the sound at odds with the weight in the air.

The shop was narrower than it looked from outside, shelves lining both walls and crowding inward in crooked rows. Glass vials and stoppered bottles filled every inch of space, their contents glowing faintly or lying dull and sullen in the lantern light. Labels in neat script proclaimed names like Dragon’s Last Roar, Third Youth, Nightlong, Unbreakable, Endless Harvest. Some of the jars contained things that still moved—sluggish tentacles, a floating eyeball that drifted to follow them, a small plant that curled its leaves when Lyan’s cloak brushed past.

It smelled like herbs, dust, and faintly singed hair.

Behind the counter stood an older woman with sharp black eyes and a tight coil of grey-streaked hair. Her sleeves were rolled up, her apron was spotless, and her smile was the kind that saw straight through a purse.

"Welcome," she said. "Looking for courage, clarity, or poor decisions?"

"Poor—" Will began.

"Medicinal tonics," Lyan cut in smoothly. "For traveling clients."

The woman’s eyes flicked between them, taking in Will’s too-straight posture, Lyan’s balanced stance, the quality of their boots under the dirt. The smile deepened by a fraction.

"Of course," she said. "I am Madam Kora. And you?"

Will pulled on his Milo mask with visible effort. "Milo Thatch," he said, lowering his voice half a note. "Merchant. This is my guard, Roderik."

Lyan inclined his head without speaking.

Kora tapped one finger lightly on the counter. "Milo Thatch. And what does Master Thatch trade in?"

"Herbs," Will said promptly. "Tonics. Stamina brews. Things that keep a man on his feet after a long day." His ears went a little pink. "For, ah. Laborers. Farmers. Soldiers."

Kora’s gaze sharpened with amusement.

"I see," she said. "And what brings such... practical needs to my humble shelves?"

"We’re looking to diversify our stock," Will said, warming to his role. "Our clients keep asking for stronger results. Word is, the Gilded Morrow’s apothecary has the kind of mixtures that don’t fail at... important moments."

His flush crept higher.

Lyan folded his arms and stood half a step behind him, projecting bored muscle.

(He is not subtle.)

Griselda’s mental crackle had a hint of laughter in it.

(But at least he is honest.)

Azelia sounded pleased.

Kora’s lips curved. "We do offer certain... personal-strength-related remedies. Discreet, of course."

"Discretion is very important to my clients," Will said quickly. "They have coin. And pride."

"Imagine that," Kora murmured.

She moved with easy efficiency, adjusting a lantern wick, straightening a row of bottles. "I assume you don’t want anything from the front shelves, then. Those are for headaches and minor curses. For... deeper concerns, my employer prefers to approve buyers himself."

Lyan let the title slide over his thoughts. Employer.

"Your employer is...?" he asked, casual.

Kora’s eyes flicked to him. "A man who appreciates profitable partnerships. If you are what you say you are."

She gestured to a small table off to the side. "Sit. I’ll see if he is available."

They took the offered seats. The wood creaked under Will as if judging him.

Will leaned in until his shoulder brushed Lyan’s. "Is this going well?" he whispered.

"You have not yet mentioned your imaginary donkey," Lyan murmured back. "I’m calling it a success."

A door behind the counter, previously disguised as part of the shelf, opened with a soft click.

The man who stepped through it wore plain, well-cut dark clothes that would have been unremarkable if they had not fit him so precisely. His hair was neatly tied back, his beard trimmed short. A simple silver ring caught the lantern light on his left hand, and a gold pin shaped like a morning star—eight points, each tipped with a tiny dark stone—sat unobtrusively at his throat.

He did not look dangerous. He looked like someone who hired dangerous people and never raised his voice.

"Master Thatch," Kora said smoothly. "Allow me to present Vargan Morrow."

Will’s back straightened a fraction too much. "An honor," he said.

Vargan’s gaze moved over them like water, leaving nothing disturbed on the surface.

"The honor would be mine, if you prove as profitable as Kora suggests," he said, voice gentle. "You come highly recommended by... rumors."

Will let out a short laugh that bordered on nervous. "Rumors like to talk. Sometimes they even say true things."

Vargan smiled faintly. "Indeed. You seek performance remedies for your clients."

Will coughed. "Yes. Discreetly. They, ah... rely on my judgment."

"And you rely on mine." Vargan pulled out a chair opposite them and sat down with unhurried grace. "Before I entrust you with my best work, I like to know who I am dealing with. Where did you cross the border, Master Thatch?"

Will’s eyes flicked sideways, just slightly, toward Lyan.

"West," he said. "Over, ah... the usual post."

Lyan stepped in before he could name one that didn’t exist. "Darkridge Gate," he supplied. "We came through three nights ago. The rain made the trip... memorable."

"Darkridge," Vargan repeated. "And what rate do you get for smoked salt in Hollowford these days?"

"Hollowford," Will echoed, stalling.

Lyan answered smoothly. "Four silver a crate at the west warehouse, six if you sell directly to the inns. Nine if you pretend it’s a luxury from the coast."

Vargan’s eyes warmed, but only a little. "Spoken like a man who’s made the mistake of haggling with Hollowford innkeepers."

"I’ve made worse mistakes with fewer coins at stake," Lyan said.

(Like agreeing to this whole venture.)

Arturia’s prim disapproval brushed his mind.

Vargan let a heartbeat of silence stretch, listening to the space between their answers.

"You two make an interesting pair," he said at last. "A merchant who blushes at his own wares and a guard who counts profit margins. Not the usual arrangement."

"Milo is... very focused on customer satisfaction," Lyan said. "He handles need. I handle numbers."

Will tried to look like a man humble about his calling and mostly looked constipated.

Vargan watched him, the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes.

"Well then," he said softly. "Let us see whether my work satisfies your needs."

He lifted one hand, the motion small but precise.

"Kora. Sample vial seven."

Kora vanished into the back room and returned with a slim, dark-glass vial cradled in her palm. The glass was tinted so deeply it was almost black, the stopper sealed with crimson wax, an embossed eight-pointed star pressed into its surface.

Vargan took it between thumb and forefinger and set it down on the table with the kind of care usually reserved for holy relics.

"This," he said, "is Dawn’s Resurgence. Refined over years by alchemists from three kingdoms. No side effects. Pure distillate. Guaranteed endurance, even under... pressure."

He named a price that made Lyan’s mental abacus flinch. Enough to pay harvest wages for a village for a month.

Will’s eyes widened. Not with awe.

With recognition.

Lyan felt the tension coil through him like a drawn bowstring.

Don’t say it, he thought at him. Please, just this once, do not say it.

Vargan slid the vial a hand’s breadth closer. "Of course," he said, "a discerning merchant will wish to examine the product."

Will’s hand closed around the glass. He turned it, squinting, then brought it closer to his nose and pulled the stopper a fraction of an inch.

The scent that escaped was faint—herbal, sharp, with a hint of bitterness under something sweet.

Will’s eyes narrowed.

Lyan saw the exact moment understanding clicked.

"Will," he said under his breath.

Will tried.

For a solid two seconds, he truly tried. His jaw worked. His fingers tightened. A vein stood out at his temple.

Then the dam broke.

"This is just a cheap godsdamned border-town stamina brew with a fancier bottle," he blurted.

The room stopped.

Kora went very still behind the counter. One of the bodyguards shifted his weight, boots whispering on the floorboards. The eyeball in the jar drifted closer, as if in anticipation.

Vargan’s smile did not vanish. It folded into something thinner.

"I beg your pardon?" he said.

Will, now irretrievably in Milo-disaster mode, barreled on.

"I know this formula," he said, waving the vial slightly. "Dried goatweed, generic bitterroot, and a touch of silt pepper. Maybe a hint of wild mint to hide the taste. We used to give this to raw recruits so they could pretend they weren’t tired. It doesn’t fix anything serious. It just keeps you warm and makes you optimistic."

He jabbed the vial toward Vargan’s chest.

"You’re charging a fortune for something we used to buy by the barrel."

Lyan quietly died inside.

He could practically feel Arturia clutching at her metaphorical pearls.

(This is an insult. In a criminal’s lair. After dark. Have you lost all sense of tactical decency?)

Cynthia was laughing herself breathless.

(Oh, but this is delicious.)

Outwardly, Lyan managed a strangled sort of smile.

"My employer," he said carefully, "has very... discerning... senses. He can be blunt. It is a provincial habit."