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At least Harrow is right twice a day!
Berosius looks at his clothes, surveying the sorry state of brocaded jacket. "Can't have that," he says. "One doesn't want to look like a ruffian." He sets out to find a tailor, but changes his mind when he hears Glen Fiddich's plans and follows the inquisitor around for a night. By the morning, he's in need of an entirely new wardrobe anyway.
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Casting back a few posts, in the midst of battle...
As the summoned fire lion and its opponent collapse into the pit of acid summoned by Berosius, Mareq feels the lion vanish suddenly... before it hits the acid.
But, that would mean that... thinks Mareq, ominously.
Weeks later, in a Kelishite tea house in Absalom's puddles district...
Mareq quietly sips his tea. The tea house is filled with the soft murmur of merchants gossiping and conducting business. A voice here or there, in Kelish, rises as somebody takes umbrage at an insulting offer or counteroffer.
The tea in Mareq's cup ripples, the Isfahelian porcelain tinkling against the table with each thump from outside on the street.
The door to the teahouse opens and all voices go silent. In steps a LARGE efreeti, followed by a janni. All the Kelishites bow their heads at the Lord of Fire who has graced them with his presence. He walks over to Mareq and kicks a chair from the ifrit's table, sitting his large presence crosslegged upon the floor.
Husarq Bey, lord of Bayt Shamir, is damaged. He seeps blood in a rivulet from his ruinous left eye down his cheek, drip drip dripping from his chin onto his bare chest. The efreeti lord's chest is scarred with ice burns. A single unhealed sword cut on his torso oozes steaming, fiery blood.
"Hello, Thrall," rasps Husarq. "I have returned from Fommok Mahdinat, the City of Brass, to continue your education."
The janni stands behind the massive efreeti and looks at Mareq. He raises a single eyebrow at Husarq's words.
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Mareq: He will return shortly. Tell me now. It didn't go well in Fommok Mahdinat?
Hakim-Sharif: No. As you saw a week ago when we found you. We have been seeking you for a while now.
Mareq: Why didn't you simply cross the Boundary to the Prime here?
Hakim-Sharif: Ah, well, that is a story. My magic can only shift us from plane to plane, not within the Prime.
Mareq: That doesn't answer the question, sharif. Why not directly from the City to here?
Hakim-Sharif: Your father can no longer travel to and from the City. Or from the Plane of Fire. Or really ANY plane. He has been barred. The Boundaries between planes will no longer open for him.
Mareq: Yndri Ysalaa did this?
Hakim-Sharif: Yes, at the command of the Sultan, himself. When he realized your father was more… resilient than he expected, the Sultan didn’t bother cutting his head off again. He simply had the White Mage banish your father using her magics.
Mareq: So, his bid to reclaim his House and standing in the City…
Hakim-Sharif: Did not go well. Let me be harsh as the meltemi wind upon the erg: he isn’t that smart anymore. Your father used to be a sinister player of games, insidious and subtle. A master strategist, insightful and dangerous. His return seems to have… left him deficient in that regard.
Mareq: Yes. Just as cruel. But the tortures are basic beatings. Nothing ingenious, like the mind games when he held me captive in my youth.
Hakim-Sharif: Your father has realized this deficiency. He meditates every day, leeching bolstering sorceries from… somewhere. I cannot deduce from where. His intellect grows sharper. Beware, Mareq al-Bolthune.
Mareq: And his wounds? The eye? Why do they not heal?
Hakim-Sharif: By the order of the sultan. Your father kept marching about the City, shouting, ‘Behold! Behold! I have returned! BEHOLD!’ The Sultan felt it best if there was less… beholding. Your father doesn’t seem to feel the pain of his wounds, when it comes to it. Though, his vision is impaired by the lack of an eye.
Mareq: And you? Why has a sharif of the jann accompanied an exiled, defeated efreeti lord to this corner of the Prime?
Hakim-Sharif: That is for me to know, ifrit. My business is with the White Mage, Yndri Ysalaa herself. Not you. Your father may call upon me. Perhaps I will respond. If it pleases me.
