131. The Saint

Author's note

The first commissioned art should arrive on Monday!

***

“First, we need confirmation,” Luna spoke.

William nodded. “Both elves and the Aquientie were moved off our floor. They’re with the Riswalts now—we can’t just barge in. I doubt they’ll risk open contact if Q’Shar’s guess is correct.”

Luna looked at him. “You think the saint is kept in this hotel?”

“No. Not a bad idea, actually, but transporting her here would be risky. For now, we need confirmation that it’s even a saint, and who it is.”

“How? If they’re kept in their rooms with the Riswalts to watch them, there’s no way we can get in if they refuse communication.”

Silence descended over everyone.

“Can you check who is watching over them?” I asked, a scrap of a plan forming in my mind.

“No, but we can find out which rooms they’re in. We have someone on the nobles’ floor. Getting to them is impossible, though—I bet only the Riswalts will be allowed in.”

“Maybe have someone sneak in?” Ophelia suggested.

“Doors and windows have protections against that. The runes will pick up anyone not registered to the room and alert the owner,” Q’Shar said.

“Not necessarily,” I replied. “Can you find out which room it is—and who is registered to it? If they’re keeping an eye on the main members of the family, they’ll register someone as a guard. They should have people for rotation, so one of them should be outside now.”

Q’Shar nodded and sent out a cat to check the info. Apparently, the room registrations weren’t protected, so you could meet anyone you wanted. A quick bribe opened the book without the query being written in the log.

“Riswalt’s first son is registered with the Aquientie,” Q’Shar read, squinting.

“That’s strange. Wouldn’t they use the ‘borrowing bodyguards’ angle?” Luna asked.

“Political marriage,” Q’Shar answered. “I should have guessed. In the documents I got before the duel, there was mention of the first son getting engaged. They didn’t say to whom, as it wasn’t related to the duel, but I bet you the bride was the Aquientie family’s first daughter.”

“That would allow them full access to the room,” William nodded. “Nobles and their political marriages. How uncouth.”

“Uncouth indeed,” I parodied in a British accent. “Do you think he actually lives in the room?”

“They’ll keep up appearances. And the first son is the same lustful loser as all Riswalt children are. I bet you he tries to get in bed with his new ‘fiancée.’”

“Makes it easier,” I said with a smile. “Where is he now?”

“Where else? In the bar,” Q’Shar answered immediately.

“You didn’t even check.”

“I don’t have to. He practically lives there, with an occasional trip outside to the brothel. But we can’t kidnap him for blackmail if that’s your plan. Emmanuel doesn’t care for his children. He has many different brats with many different women, all of them spoiled little shits..”

“I heard he's fishing for a talented heir, but I didn't think he'd take the shotgun approach,” Luna commented with raised eyebrows.

“No kidnapping, I have a better idea.” I pulled out the soul cage. I was preparing for scenarios like that, especially with how useful the rats were in the fight with Peter. “Give me half an hour. And tell me how long it takes to walk back from the bar to his room. And Darius… Sekhmet’s ‘Lady of Pestilence’ concept—do you still practice it?”

Darius smiled and, instead of answering, extended his hand and then used his massive sword to make a small cut on his finger. The blood was black. I smiled broadly.

“Good. Ophelia, I need you to put on some skimpy clothing and knock out a guy.”

She raised her eyebrows. “If he touches me, I’ll snap his jaw.”

“As long as he can walk back to his room and vomit. Luna can change your face a bit with blood magic, and we should be set. Now, have any of you killed a spider in your room recently?” I asked the confused audience.

Cajetan Riswalt sat at the bar in his favourite spot—one you could say by now had his name on it. It was a stool right by the bar and slightly to the side. He swirled the expensive alcohol in his glass, the complex taste completely wasted on the drunkard.

“Another!” he shouted at the bartender, then snapped his fingers to get his attention, even though he was almost the only person at the bar. The man poured another glass without asking any questions, a slight frown crossing his face.

“What are you looking at, huh?” Cajetan asked with raised eyebrows. “Something you want to tell me?”

The man just turned around to put the bottle back in its place, ignoring the words.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said, downing another drink.

His attention was stolen from the glass by the sound of high heels on the marble floor of the hotel. He turned around to see the owner and smiled when he saw a beautiful woman. She seemed vaguely familiar. A part of his brain was trying to tell him something, but he promptly ignored it. She wore a short dress with black stockings and sharp makeup. She looked like she was about to go to a club, but that didn’t rouse his suspicions—some families had been in long meetings ever since yesterday. She might have been pulled from partying and into one, now here to relax with a drink.

She seemed to notice him, but then looked past and sat down on the other side of the bar.

“Hey there, beautiful,” he said, then snapped at the bartender. “Pour one for the lady,” he added before she could even order.

The bartender looked at her, question clear in his eyes.

“Large piña colada. And I’ll pay for myself,” she said.

The bartender nodded and went to prepare the drink.

“Yes,” she said, giving a short, cold answer. The man behind the bar passed her the drink and, to Cajetan’s delight, she took it but stayed at her seat.

‘Playing hard to get,’ he told himself. ‘I like that too.’

He settled in and started on his usual small talk about his relatively shallow understanding of magic. He didn't think she would catch on to that. If she was here to party, not for the politics, then he assumed she would be neither important nor from a better-known family. So he tried wooing her with a tale of his battle with a ghost, colouring the story a bit, mainly removing the two family guards who held the thing down.

He thought it was going well, but his tale was stopped by two large silhouettes entering the area. They were hard to miss and drew the eye even among mages, as the large mycanoid and the equally big dwarf lumbered into the place, both looking pissed.

They ordered a bottle of hard liquor without even looking his way and went to sit on the opposite side of the room. The moment they entered, Cajetan’s mood fell to the floor, reminding him of the Alhazred bastards. He’d tried to make his father proud and find out how powerful the so-called Merchant of Madness was—he’d even gotten one of his cultivator buddies as a distraction—but he got made fun of instead, almost getting a mind injury in return. The hatred in him grew, but then subsided slightly as he thought about his father’s plan.

‘Now that will show the arrogant bastard his place,’ he thought with a smile. ‘Right—he was the first son of the Riswalt family. He didn’t have to worry or get angry at vermin like that. His family would rule very soon.’

His eyes wandered to the woman beside him.

“Do you know who my father is?” he decided to go straight to the point. His mood for flirting gone with the arrival of the two men. “I can make your life here very easy, you know. A Riswalt word is worth a thousand obols.”

“Not interested,” the woman answered—but he knew better. She was still sitting here. Her knee was still touching his. This had to be a signal.

“Come on. What family are you from?” he asked, and bent down, placing his hand on her leg. The woman looked down, raising her eyebrows.

“I think that’s justification enough,” she whispered to herself.

“Wh—” he was about to ask, but she shouted at him.

“How dare you!” And before he could react, she slapped him across the face. She was fast—clearly trained. The slap burned like fire, and he could even taste some blood in his mouth.

Before he could do anything, another shout sounded, this one accompanied by a crash, as the dwarf rose from his seat, screaming something unintelligible at the mycanoid. The entire bar looked that way, as they did, he felt a hand squeeze his shoulder hard. He turned to the woman, ready to teach the bitch a lesson. But to his surprise, what he saw was her with her hand cocked all the way back. Before he could do anything, a powerful right hook connected with his chin, snapping his head to the side.

He didn’t fall to the floor—the last thing he felt was the hand on his shoulder holding him upright, pulling him slightly toward the woman.

A wet and cold sensation brought him back. He must have been out for a few seconds, as the dwarf and mycanoid were still shouting at each other.

“Go fuck yourself!” shouted the woman, holding the empty drink glass.

She’d poured it all over him, he realised. He was still confused, his vision swimming after the hit. He felt blood in his mouth and was pretty sure some of his teeth were loose. Anger burned in his chest—the only thing keeping him from shouting and trashing the place was the veil of confusion still over him and visions of what he would do to her once he got his father to get her for him.

He took a handful of napkins to get rid of the liquid, but soon realised he was drenched in it. It was sweet and sticky—no way to get rid of it with napkins.

“Fucking bitch,” he muttered in impotent anger and went to his room to change.

He walked the corridor, but even though he should have been back to his full self, the swimming vision didn’t give way. Instead, it was becoming worse and worse. It was now joined by slight nausea. He might have drunk too much, he realised as he stood up. To make it worse, his throat burned, like someone shoved something in there, scraping against the flesh.

He barged into his own room, the nausea getting to him more and more.

There sat the Aquientie and his beautiful bride, looking at him with hateful eyes that amused him so much. He saw the disgust and sadness on her face when he barged in drunk out of his mind. The wedding would be after the sabbath, although he could barely contain himself. He almost smiled at her situation before another wave of nausea nearly pushed the alcohol back up his throat.

He went straight to the toilet. The moment he walked in, his legs finally gave out, and he collapsed as the entire room started to spin.

‘This wasn’t alcohol,’ he realised.

He’d been drunk many times, and this wasn’t it—he’d never felt this bad. Before he could do anything more, he started vomiting like a fountain. Something was wrong. He finally raised his qi to strengthen his body, but he could feel it was having issues flowing. Someone did something to him, and at a sabbath, no less.

His vision started to darken as his hands holding the toilet gave way, and he fell to the cold tiled floor. Panic struck him—was he going to die? He lay there, feeling darkness overcome him as he closed his eyes. They would think he was once again drunk and unconscious.

He wanted to crawl away, to shout, but his muscles gave up. ‘My qi will fight it off,’ he thought to himself. ‘It must.’

It was the first time in his life that he actually wished he’d spent the night training rather than in bars. But it was too late. As his eyes closed, he didn’t see four cocoons swimming in the vomit unfurl, and four spiders crawl out of them. He barely felt one of the spiders bite him on the hand, and the symptoms immediately lessened as the remaining three spiders crawled behind the toilet.