It was growing late, Brill noted, sleepily watching the technicolor projections the setting sun, filtering from their window through the incongruous mass of bottles, phials, potions, pots, and tinctures arrayed before it on their sill-made-shelf, had cast upon the study wall. They continued grinding away with their pestle. The market had been…demanding today. Many orders. Little time to fulfill them. It would be another late night.
Business was booming, it seemed, and though they regretted the impingement upon their reading time, Brill knew to be grateful for the surplus. They had seen the alternative. They peered down at the parchment on their desk, absentmindedly emptying the mortar into a mixing dish.
“Gar slime…” they muttered, creaking to their feet, rummaging through the pots and bottles on the shelf. Locating the requisite container–a bulbous, ceramic tub, sealed with a large cork for the…aroma of its contents–Brill lifted it gingerly, pausing mid-turn as a knock on their door echoed through the shop. “We’re closed!” they called back.
“Aint’ a customer!” came the response. Gene. Brill lifted an eyebrow, set the tub of slime on their desk, and proceeded to the door.
“What do you need?” they asked, opening the door to a restless Gene, hands on his hips, mid-pace.
“Need a favor,” the old man muttered. He was uncomfortable. The way he got before doing something impulsive, Brill noted.
“I’m always at your service, Gene,” they replied softly. “Though I am running short on time this evening, so–”
“Sorry,” Gene muttered. “Y’know those two kids been skulking ‘round the past few weeks?” Brill nodded. “Right. Younger one–the sister–jumped town with Dog Boy today to run some errand for Marko.”
“Bleeding Wolf is back?”
“Was. Maybe back soon, but that ain’t the point. Point is the girl left her sick brother in the alley by my shop, and he’s been layin’ there all day coughin’ his guts out. Was wonderin’ if you could do something for him.”
“That will depend on the reason for his cough,” Brill said. “I will need to examine him–can you bring him here?” Gene glanced over his shoulder.
“Weren’t sure if it was okay to move him. He don’t seem particularly conscious neither.” Brill sighed. The alternative it was, then. He grabbed a small oil lamp off a shelf near the door and lit it with the candle from his desk.
“Take me to him,” they said, their tone urgent partly for concern and partly–they hated to admit–for annoyance at having to leave the shop at such a late hour. Gene nodded, taking whatever implication he needed, and turned to lead, only to freeze at the rapid approach of a stranger on the dusky street.
The figure was tall, draped head-to-toe in a thin black cloak, though Brill wondered–at the swaying of the garment in the breeze, at the complete lack of visible ambulation beneath it–whether toes were something this creature even had. It stopped before the two of them, looming, silent, its face obscured by the twilight and the cloak’s drooping cowl. Then it spoke:
“Where might I find the one called Marko?”
The words were jarring, brassy, spoken not in tones but in harmonies, and they reverberated, as if through a long, metal hallway. Gene turned slowly to Brill, then back to the creature. He nudged his head in the direction of Marko’s.
“Big house. End of town.”
The creature declined its head in acknowledgment and proceeded down the street as quickly and eerily as it had arrived. Gene looked back to Brill.
“Think we need to handle that first,” he said. Brill agreed.
“Go make sure it’s under control at Marko’s,” they replied. “I’ll get the Mayor.”
With that they parted ways, Gene to his workshop to fetch his polearm, no doubt; Brill to Mayor Bergen’s residence at the town square. The boy would have to wait. Unfortunate though it was, a False God’s arrival in town put more lives in danger than his own.