Chương 12: Chapter 11 – Supply Run

Passage had never been involved in a drug deal before. The whole situation had him feeling queasy and off balance, like he'd already smoked half of whatever Sable was about to buy. They wound their way through the narrow halls of the Night Garden. It was a smoke parlour in the bowels of a mostly sunken tower at the mouth of one of the outermost canals. A deep chill radiated from the stonework, the Night Garden itself a few flights of stairs below water level. It didn't advertise itself.

Security manned the door upstairs, but there was no password or obstacle to entry. No sign declared its name, and you'd likely struggle to find it if you didn't know exactly where it was. But, Passage supposed, advertising probably wasn't a problem for a business with such motivated clientele. A Stained must have helped enchant the place at some point to keep the water from seeping in. Out in the sunken districts, half the city lived underwater in a very literal sense.

The people out here had given up on trying to build atop stilts and accepted the rising waters, casting themselves into the depths. Every few steps, they passed another alcove or a room, each furnished with cushions and hammocks. A pale, sweet smelling smoke drifted along the ceiling of the corridor in a lazy river, fed by the breaths of dreamers.

Passage glanced through the beaded curtain of a room to his left, the man inside staring glassy eyed at a dancer, a pipe smouldering cherry red where it rested against his chest. He held it there, chin to sternum, lazily sucking down the smoke. His hands lay by his sides as if too heavy to lift. Despite the cold, he was pink and sweating, hair plastered to his head, great circles of moisture staining his clothes.

Passage shuddered, feeling like his father would appear from an alcove at any moment to ask his son exactly what he thought he was doing in a place like this. Much like low-Stains, the drug dens of the Gutters were not strictly illegal, they were just seen as another sign of the lower city's rot. The people within would not be rounded up by the Guard, but nor could any of them expect the Guard to help them if they were robbed or beaten. Such was the cost of a life sunk beneath the black.

Passage fought the urge to cross his arms, remembering what Torvin had told him. You need to stand tall in a place like the Night Garden. Keep your eyes open, show no doubt, no fear, and no anger. Mind your pockets and keep your judgements to yourself. Passage was only there to backup Sable in case things went wrong. She would deal with the Apothecary; he just had to stand there and let his size speak for him. A silent warning that no one should try to swindle or steal from his raven-haired friend.

It should've been Torvin instead helping with this part, but the fool owed money to the proprietor and it was best he not show his face until he could pay it. Bracken had offered but he was even smaller than Sable, not exactly the tacit threat of physical security that they needed in a place like this. That left Passage, and so, there he was. Sable moved with more certainty than he'd have expected, never pausing, scarcely glancing into the alcoves.

She brushed past staff carrying charcoal burners, pipes, lidded platters and ash trays from room to room, following in the wake of their guide. A ferrety young man led them towards the Apothecary deep below, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds with a nervous sort of twitch, like he was worried he'd lose them along the way. Half his teeth were missing; the rest were as black as the waters outside. The hallmark sign of a noctar addict.

Sometimes called dream pitch, it was a resin people rubbed on their gums to lose themselves in a few hours of blissful languor. Passage had never tried it, but Torvin sighed when he spoke about the stuff the same way he did when he was talking about whichever girl he was pining after at the time. A hungry sort of longing that always set Passage on edge.

Seeing the way their guide slowed to stare at each passing worker ferrying narcotics to customers in their dens, Passage resolved to keep a closer eye on his most wayward friend in future. Finally, they arrived at a heavy wooden door set into a wall of reinforced stone. Their guide knocked in a careful pattern, signalling whoever was on the other side. A slot was thrown open, a barred window appearing at eye level.

The person on the other side stepped into view, a rough looking man in his thirties with a scruffy black beard that started just below his eyes. Every muscle in Passage's back tensed and he felt himself go wide-eyed at the man, despite Torvin's advice to keep a neutral expression on his face. The man had two curling horns growing from his forehead, his eyes yellow, the pupils square like a goat's. A Braethur-Stained.

He looked from their guide to Sable to Passage, strange eyes betraying nothing of his thoughts but the flat disinterest of a predator – not in the mood to hunt but assured of its position as the apex threat.

"What do you want, Pitchlick?" The Stained's voice rumbled.

"Someone overdose?" He looked past them and tasted the air with a forked tongue. Passage almost forgot how to breathe. He looked frantically at Sable, but she stood with her back firmly to him, leaning casually against the wall. She would've looked perfectly at ease if it weren't for the way she was tensing and untensing the muscles in her calves, silently venting her own tension.

"Customers," Pitchlick's voice wavered a little, whistling through the gaps in his black teeth.

"So, find them an alcove and bring them some vice," the Stained made to close the window.

"Special customers, sir," Pitchlick swallowed, seeming torn between fear and hunger, like he wasn't sure if he wanted to run out to the street or kick down the door and get to whatever supplies the Stained was guarding. They'd had to bribe him a handful of silver just to bring them to the Apothecary's door. Passage had thought they'd overpaid for such a simple task but was now second-guessing that view.

"They want something different. Top shelf." The Stained's eyes narrowed and he tasted the air again, assessing them both carefully. He looked them each from head to toe, as if looking for weapons or Stains of their own. They had neither – a fact Passage was having mixed feelings about. Whatever the Stained saw in them, he wasn't threatened by it. With a smile that might have been welcoming if it weren't so fucking unsettling, he unlocked the door.

Three loud thuds or different locks disengaging sounded through the hall before the door swept soundlessly open. Almost half a foot thick, the door dragged the air with it, pulling smoke into the room beyond. Even if there weren't an advanced Stained behind it, the thing probably could've withstood a minor siege. Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. Pitchlick vibrated at the threshold like a dog outside a butcher's stop, waiting for scraps to be tossed.

The Stained quelled any hopes the man might've had with a look, jerking his chin for him to leave. Pitchlick did, stumbling backwards, nearly falling as he bumped into the wall and rounded the corner, only turning when he could scarcely see the door anymore. Passage watched him leave without a word.

"Well?" Their host waited beside the door, expectant. Sable went in first, and Passage followed slowly, his feet mired in a thick mud of doubts. It was only when he drew even with the door and saw the rest of the man's body hidden behind it that he truly regretted following Sable into that nightmare. Scarcely still a man at all, the Apothecary's legs had been transfigured into the thick scaled body of a great serpent, coiled beneath his torso.

Deep red light glowed in the cracks beneath his scales as if containing the smouldering coals of a forge. Twice-Stained and at least a Forged. Maybe even a Drifter. Passage couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so small. It was only when the creature cleared his throat that Passage realised that he had stopped to stare. He looked to Sable in a panic and saw her watching him with a silent and wide-eyed plea to keep his head on straight. Maybe he should've sent Bracken after all.

Aldaryn above, if Torvin owed money to this creature, Passage would need to start mourning him as soon as they got out. The room itself explained the establishment's name. Potted plants hung from cables strung between the rafters. Jars dangled between strange flowers, containing glowing moss and mushrooms of a dozen different colours. Trellises decorated the walls with vines growing like verdant mosaics, weeds and fruits and flowers hanging fat and heavy upon them.

Planter boxes stood in rows like the pews of a church, waxy black leaves nestled into them like worshipers at the altar of intoxication. No flame, nor Implement of Caleth lit the space, the plants providing more than enough luminescence on their own. The air shivered with a heat haze despite the pervasive chill, the veil between mortal lands and the Planes so fragile that even Passage could feel the magic seeping into the room. This was the Night Garden in truth.

"Did you have something specific in mind?" The Apothecary asked.

"We wanted to ask," Sable swallowed, her voice steady but her nerves undeniable, nonetheless. Passage was glad she was doing the talking; his mouth painfully dry.

"We wanted to ask your advice on that. We need something Wodfyr aligned and potent. Something that could knock out a Caller."

"And just why would a pair like yourselves, souls as pure as the driven snow, need something like that?" The Apothecary slithered deeper into the room, checking his many plants. He inspected a wilting fern, coaxing it back to standing and gently watered it. It visibly strengthened at his touch.

"Noctar not quite scratching the itch? No, you've both got teeth as clean as your souls. Trying to Stain yourselves with Caldr's power then?"

"That's our business," Passage coughed, throat catching on the words. His heart thundered, the small act of speaking feeling braver and more foolish than standing his ground against Cinder.

"Drugging someone then. That's fine. Precious few of the things I have growing here would help Stain you anyway, and you'd be addicted long before the Stain took hold. Not that I wouldn't commend the ambition, by all means buy what you'd like, but I so hate to destroy beautiful things." He tasted the air again, goat-eyes fixed squarely on Sable.

"If you are poisoning someone, just be sure not to get caught. If you are caught, be sure to forget where you bought it. Clear?"

"We're not poisoning anyone," Sable lied.

"But we are the forgetful sort." The Apothecary smiled, the glowing coals of his serpentine body flaring a deeper orange.

"Mmm, but if you were, would you rather they have a pleasant dream, or never wake? Big decision, think carefully about it."

"Never wake," Sable said without hesitation.

"A pleasant dream," Passage stepped forward despite himself, shooting Sable a reproachful look. She bit her lip in frustration but didn't argue. They weren't killers. That would be taking things too far, staining their souls in an entirely different way. He wouldn't allow it.

"A long, deep sleep. But one someone would wake from."

"Are you sure?" The Apothecary slithered over to his workbench, loading a fistful of crimson leaves into an apparatus and crushing them until a blood red sap leaked out, dripping into a dish below.

"Far easier to kill than to quiet. Restraint takes precision. Excess, merely indulgence."

"We're sure," Passage answered for them. Sable looked like she wanted to argue, tongue poised against one of her canines and doubt in her eyes. Passage just shook his head and the argument was done. She shrugged and looked away. The Apothecary snorted. Without looking away from the pair of them, he raised a hand and unhooked a glowing jar from the cable above him. Within, the base was lined with damp black earth, wormed through by narrow, web-like strands of deep orange.

Thin mushrooms sprouted from the soil like a dozen crooked and spindly fingers reaching for freedom. They were each tipped with a bulb glowing purple-red, their stems saturated so dark as to seem black.

"Graspers. These will burn slowly, like incense. Grown in soil harvested from Thulmor and warmed by the heat of Wodfyr." He held the jar to his chest, appraising the two of them.

"Be careful not to inhale the smoke yourselves unless you want your spirits to wander the hungry places where those Planes overlap. Or do. I love loyal customers."

"We'll be careful," Passage said firmly.

"That's a shame," the Apothecary winked.

"We'll take some noctar as well," said Sable. Passage nodded at the foresight. Cinder wasn't likely to share his spoils. She stepped forward to take the jar from the Apothecary. Passage was quietly glad that she did. He wasn't sure he could force himself any closer.

"Excellent, and how will you be paying?" Passage fished the coin purse from inside his vest, the silver jingling heavily within. Drugs were expensive, Planetouched ones doubly so. They'd pooled a good chunk of their money, mostly Bracken's, to make this possible. He only hoped the whole foolish enterprise could be funded so cheaply as with coin. Yet, as he poured money out on the counter, part of him feared that they were already paying for their ambitions with something far more precious.