"I agree. And the sooner you get your brands removed the sooner I get my hat back," Jolánka adds.
Djehuti nods. "I would also like to see this wizard to get some other scrolls. My spellbook proved... unprepared for the challenges we faced."
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"I agree. And the sooner you get your brands removed the sooner I get my hat back," Jolánka adds.
"No takesies-backsies among thieves," Luke drawled, a wryly humorous glint in the bright eyes avoiding the Dame entirely. "Looks better on me, anyway."
Jolánka was free to retrieve her hat at any time, of course. She'd planted it on his head and could take it back whenever, if she could manage. It wasn't like the Taldan was particularly bothered by anyone seeing the brand beneath. Though no doubt intended to shame tomb robbers, he regularly introduced himself as such. There was no staining a blackened pot.
No, the young man's desire to get rid of the mark was purely a matter of pride. He didn't want it obvious how Akhentepi had gotten one over him. Although on a more practical note, haggling a decent price for the old general's goods would probably be a fair bit easier without very literally carrying a sign reading 'thieves'.
"The wizard it is then," he therefore concluded. "Could you lead us there now, 'sister'?"
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"No takesies-backsies among thieves," Luke drawled, a wryly humorous glint in the bright eyes avoiding the Dame entirely. "Looks better on me, anyway."
"I may need to study up on the marriage ceremony at the Temple of Ra. Assuming I'm asked to officiate of course."
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"Well, he's rather infamous, I suppose, this wizard." Marwanun gives Amal a coy look. "Perhaps the locals among you have heard of him. Hafiz el-Irfan? I'll get you a writ to explain the Church will cover the cost of the scrolls."
When the handler returned, she handed Amal a scroll with the seal of the Grand Mausoleum. "Your father should be amenable to this. He's done arcane scroll work for the church before, I understand." To the party she asks: "Would you like to draw your next location now or wait till tomorrow?"
"No takesies-backsies among thieves," Luke drawled, a wryly humorous glint in the bright eyes avoiding the Dame entirely. "Looks better on me, anyway."
"Then it's a good thing I'M not a thief, at least by Akhentepi's standards," Jolánka replies as she walks right up to Luke and takes the hat back.
At the revelation that the wizard they would be visiting was Amal's father, her eyebrows rise.
"Then we have more in common than I expected," she says to Amal.
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Amal looks like they'd like the ground to swallow them whole. They're so mortified that they physically seem to have shrunk down a size or two.
"Your father is Hafiz el-Irfan? You're certainly a blue blood in Wati! Far more than me."
"Not blue blood," they almost snatch the scroll away from Marwanun, in their hurry to go away. "We're not aristocrats."
They avoid meeting Marwanun's eyes. Damn that woman. Now the secret was out. Amal suddenly finds themselves most ardently wishing that their mother was not at home - that Lidhalla had left for another plane once again. Perhaps out to hang out with her genie friends. As long as she was not around, there was still hope that the explaining they'd have to do wouldn't reach stratospheric level. Pray the Gods - from Ancient Osirion or otherwise - that this wouldn't be like the one time Scholar Faizel came to dinner. If it was possible to die from embarrassment, that was probably one of the closest calls Amal had ever had in their life.
"Let's go," they grumble. The sooner we leave, the sooner it'll be over.
Amal leads the group through the streets of Wati like a lost soul, his usual stride replaced with trudging steps that make it very easy to keep up with him. The further he walks, the more he seems to slow down - perhaps in a vain attempt to delay the inevitable.
Turning their backs on the Necropolis, the party crosses the Midwife District, all the way to Asp. Perhaps surprisingly for someone Djedefre referred to as "blue-blooded", Amal doesn't seem to live in Morning Sun, but instead heads for a street not far from the Hall of Blessed Rebirth. He stops in front of a relatively large brick house, painted white - obviously meant for someone wealthy, but clearly not the most extravagant residence the party has walked past. There is a garden in the front, small but well-kept, with a central fountain, a few date palms, and some flower beds.
Amal retrieves a key from his backpack, and reaches for the door, but he has no time to put it in the lock. A click is heard, and the door opens on its own - getting a frustrated groan out of him. "After you," he says to the party members in a defeated tone. Inside, the room looks bare.
Inside -
It's actually a lot bigger on the inside.
There's no feeling of having actually crossed a portal - perhaps you didn't. All that you know is that you were in the street seconds ago, looking into an empty house, and now you're standing in the middle of a spacious entrance hall with big archways leading to other comfortably furnished rooms. The air is fresh, and high windows let in plenty of sunlight. Colourfish fish swim in a large pool in front of you. Water continuously trickles from a fountain, echoing in the silence of the room.
There is a soft hissing sound coming from the ground. Looking down, you can see that the sand left by your shoes is already being gathered in a small pile by a broom held by invisible hands.
Amal takes off his shoes. "You can wash your hands, face and feet, if you like. The water gets cleaned." He leads by example, stepping into the pool for his ablutions.
The water is a little cold - but it's a welcome relief from the blazing heat outside. The fish swim away at your approach, but your presence does not appear to disturb them. Impurities are removed from the water so diligently, it's doubtful they even have time to sink to the bottom of the pool.
From somewhere within the house comes the distant sound of footsteps going down a stone staircase - and by the way Amal instantly stiffens, you can tell that whoever is about to greet you is almost certainly not a servant.
Soon, a man appears in the archway to your left. The family resemblance is rather striking. Hafiz el-Irfan is slight, unassuming - almost three inches shorter than Amal. He has the dark skin tone of a Garundi, and long black hair in dreadlocks and tied in a high ponytail. However, his lean frame that almost seems to disappear in his large, dark blue robes, his thin face and his small goatee makes it quite clear he has Keleshite blood as well.
He looks middle-aged, and already frail. Gold rimmed glasses are perched on his nose. The only thing legitimately remarkable about his appearance are the eyes - two dark pools that suggest a mind as sharp as a knife. His gaze is piercing enough to make you forget about his looks - and suddenly put you in mind of a bird of prey.
"Welcome," he says softly, and suddenly he seems benign once again. His gaze goes from one face to another - until he spots a faint glimmering coming from underneath a couple of headscarves, and he narrows his eyes. "I suspect that the expedition was successful, then?" There is obvious irony beneath the politeness.
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DJehuti nods at Djedefre. "That does make sense. If we are going shopping we should know our next mission."
The elf doesn't add anything about Amal's father being a scroll merchant. Their own parents are a merchant and a madrassa scholar so they don't see anything strange in going to one for assistance or advice.
"Then we have more in common than I expected," she says to Amal.
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"Not blue blood," they almost snatch the scroll away from Marwanun, in their hurry to go away. "We're not aristocrats."
"Could've fooled me." A fish so colorful it might have escaped a kaleidoscope nibbled at something caught under his toenail, the Taldan watching along dubiously.
Those same wary eyes rose to take in the group's abundant surroundings. The high vaulted ceiling. The coral fish occupied fountain. The sheer space. The sheer magical space, notably. Even having just entered, it was clear how the place was brimming with hocus-pocus, from the endless water to the unseen servants to the seemingly extradimensional hall that housed these. Hells below. Magically illiterate as Luke was, even he knew quarters like these required some serious wizardry.
It was a far cry from what he had imagined for Amal. Wondering what drove someone so young into tomb spelunking, he had speculated whether the job was one of desperation for the teenager. Did he come from a struggling household, perhaps? Was there a home to return to at all? Was the young companion an orphan? Blunt as the foreigner could be, he was not without sympathy. He knew that his own upbringing had been rather privileged by most standards, the Caradocs counted among Taldor's scant upper middle class, a precarious social strata constantly eroded by the nation's established old money.
To which he now felt a fool. For Luke might as well have been raised in a pauper's hovel compared to the arcane manor Amal apparently called home. Sympathy really is for rubes, huh? The blackened nail that was cynicism dug a little deeper into his heart.
Turning to the newly revealed rich kid, Luke was about to ask what was up with the sour expression, he looking like he'd just rinsed his sinuses with vinegar. After all, what could a princeling such as he possibly have to worry about? This inquiry was interrupted by a new arrival, one demanding their attention. The slight man descending the staircase was presumably the master of the house, a fact that set the Taldan's spine rigid. For any master of a home such as this likely wielded not-insignificant power, magical or monetary.
"I suspect that the expedition was successful, then?"
"It was." Direct as a barreling bull, the reply was delivered in native Taldane despite the speaker's apparent understanding of Osiriani. "Though not without some snags." A long finger pointed to the hieroglyph branded into his forehead. "You the elder El-Irfan? We were told by a Marwanun - from the church - that you could help us remove these."
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As the group enters what could reasonably be considered a noble estate by Wati standards Djedefre gives Amal a grin and says, "No certainly not aristocratic at all. Not with such a modest dwelling."
Bowing slightly to their host, "Greetings! I am Djedefre ibn al Qadir, cleric of Ra. Would you be Hafiz el-Irfan by chance? If so it is an honor to meet you."
Grimacing at the likely imagined itching of his brand he sighs, "For the most part yes. Although a magic curse afflicted some of us it could've been much worse. A little embarrassment is a small price to pay for seeing and learning about Wati's history."
Hafiz's lips curled in a slight smirk. "I am indeed. A historian and devotee of Ra? A mismatched pair of northerners? A fellow wizard? A dark whisperer as well? What pleasant surprises that my child keeps."
He sees the scroll in Amal's hands and takes it, reading its contents with but a glance. "Run afoul a trap of some sort meant to dissuade and mark illegitimate thieves. A trivial matter to rid you of."
With a wave of his hand he guides the party to a sitting room, cushions set around a low set table filled with refreshments. Chilled water and wine, fine breads and fresh hummus and fruits that would cost most no small sum of coin.
"Please, friends of Amal are guests of mine. Make yourselves comfortable. Enjoy while I see about removing those unflattering marks." As he left, soft music began to play, though no musicians could be seen. The lights dimmed slightly and shadows on the walls took the form of shapely humanoids dancing. The air itself began to stir, cooling the party from the long walks in the Wati sun.
As they enter the spatially incongruous home, Djehuti continues to not look particularly impressed. The elf had seen the madrassa and the abandoned ruins of Tumen; this is par for the course. "Does your father not have a storefront? I can't imagine this is where customers usually find their scrolls."
On meeting Amal's father, the elf raises their right hand in greeting. "Blessings be upon you," they say in Osiriani. "Thank you for welcoming us into your home." Djehuti reaches into their packpack and pulls out a small bundle of dates. The elf briefly glances at Amal as they offer the meager gift out to the master of the house. "It is a pleasant surprise to find ourselves here but we are grateful for your hospitality."
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"Master Hafiz your skill as a wizard is only matched by your graciousness as a host."
After Djedefre takes a seat on one of the cushions he makes a brief prayer to Ra, "We give honor to you, King of the Heavens, for the many blessings you have given us this day. From our meeting each other to our success in Akhentepi's tomb to this fine meal provided by Amal's father we thank you for your guidance and providence."
After his first taste of the wonderful food and fine drink he observes, "No wonder Amal is so strong with meals this spectacular."
"Peace be with you, Master Hafiz." Senemheb greets the old man. It is rather hard to shake off the look of bewilderment from his face - this is certainly not what he expected when he stepped through the door.
"You are most hospitable, and we are honored to sit in your table."
And like a true native of the region, he is gladly takes the respite from the heat - washing his hands and face on the cool waters. He joins the others by the table and helps himself some refreshments.
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Amal sits on their cushion like a fakir - as if resting their buttocks on top of sharp nails. As soon as music starts to rise, they hide their face in their hands. Of course Lidhalla had to be there. Of course. With some luck, she'll actually stay out of sight.
Even dirty plates floating on their own accord to be washed in a basin - Amal ducks to dodge one - would be easier to explain than the antics of his mother.
"Does your father not have a storefront? I can't imagine this is where customers usually find their scrolls."
"He normally has a, er, teaching position," Amal shifts uncomfortably on their cushion. "The scrolls are usually bought in bulks - especially by the Church of Pharasma. He's one of the only people in town who can make them."
"He used to be an adventurer. My mother too. That's how they got the money. But they're not from a noble background. That's why we don't live in Morning Sun," they shift again, glancing over their shoulder to see if Hafiz is coming back. They've barely touched the food.
"Really? My father is an instructor at the madrassa, as well." Shelad Madrassa is a small but famous spellcasting academy in Djehuti's home city on the coast. "I wonder if they know each other."
"That is a funny coincidence. My mother was the adventurer, before she opened her shop. Interesting how similar different families can be," the elf adds.
Jolánka follows along and her jaw drops when they enter Amal's family home.
"I've...never seen this much magic in one place my entire life," she says. She quickly regains her composure and folows Amal's example, removing her boots and gloves, before washing her feet, hands and face.
At Hafiz's arrival, she does the best curtsy she can not wearing a dress.
"It is an honor and a pleasure, Master Mage. Dame Jolánka Graydon of the House Graydon of the Immortal Principality of Ustalav, at your service. Amal's bravery and skill with a blade has been indispensable on our archaeological survey."
She takes a seat herself, though she's clearly not used to just sitting on cushions in the way Garundi and Keleshite folk do.
"It's certainly better than the crumbling manses and haunted hunting lodges I bounced between growing up, living off the charity of various great-aunts, cousins and family friends. A noble family line may be able to carry you far, but I think it only does so in that it grants you access to power, something adventurers of all stripes tend to accumulate quickly."
To most of the party, they may have been sitting for a few minutes. For others less comfortable, they feel the hours pass. Eventually, Hafiz returns, followed by floating platters of food stuffs more befitting the evening meal. He holds an ornate darkwood scroll case in his hands.
"I apologize for the delay. I had not prepared erase today, nor did I have more than one scroll of it on hand. However, to repay this oversight, I would invite Amal's friends to dinner. I would be delighted to hear about Amal's friends and their misadventures in the Necropolis."
The wizard waves the pitchers of wine and beer, the platters of seared meats and steamed vegetables to place themselves before the party. Hafiz then undoes the scroll case, fishing out one scroll after another. In moments the ugly brands on the faces of those afflicted by Akhentepi's "curse" are relieved of the awkward hieroglyph. When he is done, Hafiz takes a seat at the head of the table, his eyes on Amal, holding the youth in place.
"Your mother tells me she is waiting to leave for Tian Xia till this lottery is concluded. How is that going? I saw three chests in the foyer."
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Djedefre's eyes widen in delight and hunger at the array of choices. He's torn between wanting to dive into the food but remembers his mother's admonitions, "By Ra's beak! You'd swear we never fed you and you were raised by feral cats. We may be simple merchants but we still have our dignity. Behave yourself!"
Usually with a light swat of her hand on his and the beginning of a smile tugging at one end of her lips. She wanted to make sure he knew she was teaching him - not punishing him.
One could swear Djedefre's eyes take after Ra's falcon eyes as he watches and waits before carefully, and slowly, selecting items to sample.
"No need to apologize Master Hafiz. We should apologize to you for showing up without invitation or even suitable notice. Your assistance in cleansing us of our unfortunate marks will hopefully aid us when we try to sell some of the items we retrieved. Would you like to see them? Although we'll definitely keep the still-functioning guardian construct in its cage."
Bare feet trailed water in following the others into the sitting room, Luke having decided to leave his well-worn boots in the pool. Might as well get them cleaned while they were here. What was the point of hospitality if not to abuse it?
The young man gave a little sigh at his own thoughts, always a dire portent. No, of course generosity was not to be abused. And a part of him - the part that spoke with his mother's disappointed voice - worried about seeming rude. But he couldn't help it. Luke had a rebellious streak wider than the Pit of Gormuz, full of ill-tempered beasts much like that infamous crag. And nothing roused their tempers quite like inequity. The fat cats, the moneybags, the lords of the world. People like Akhentepi in his gilded tomb. People like the elder El-Irfan in his magical mansion. It wasn't that he begrudged people their success. Hells below, everyone was entitled to the sweat off their brow and all that. Nor did he resent anyone the circumstances of their birth. No princeling could help being born into wealth.
It was just the abuse of such power. That was what rankled at the Taldan, mayhap precisely because he was Taldan. Once the navel of the globe, today the decadent nation was only the epicenter of degenerate nobility, corrupt politicians. He couldn't help but be suspicious of anyone in a position of power.
No title, Luke thought to himself. Though the others called him 'Master', this was a plain honorific afforded a gracious host. So, he considered in eyeing the older man, this Hafiz probably hadn't inherited whatever riches it took to construct a manor like this. Actually, considering the arcane nature of the place and the guy's vocation, he may even have built it himself. One of these so-called self-made men, perhaps? Wielding this thought like a lion tamer did his whip, the foreigner fought back the snarling somethings of his mind. He wouldn't judge. He would be civil. He'd try to, anyway.
An increasingly difficult task as it turned out. "Abadar's golden balls..." he swore lowly, shaking his head as ephemeral musicians and dancers were conjured out of thin air. Such ostentation! Fearing his own tongue, Luke let the others talk, distracting himself with the nearest food. A stuffed eggplant kept his mouth occupied. A particularly shapely shadow-dancer kept his eyes similarly so. Yet his ears - those couldn't help but catch the uncomfortable tone in Amal's voice.
The heck does the kid have to be worried about?
It seemed a reasonable query. His father playing the perfect host and his family home the lap of luxury, Luke initially didn't understand what Amal should be embarrassed at. The boy was even back with good tidings, their mission a success in part thanks to his own sword arm.
Oh. Oooh. An accomplished wizardly father. An equally impressive mother if the casual mention of a continent spanning trip was anything to go by. And a son who bludgeoned desert bugs with a sharpened stick. One of these was not like the other. The thuggish Taldan thought of his own academic family. The two of them might have more in common than first suspected.
He leaned somewhat towards the younger man before pointedly asking, "Hey, so does the 'black sheep' expression translate into Osiriani?" The usually so cynical eyes were looking less so.
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"Your mother tells me she is waiting to leave for Tian Xia till this lottery is concluded. How is that going? I saw three chests in the foyer."
A look of relief crosses Amal's face - very briefly.
"We cleared the tomb," he clears his throat. "But we left Akhentepi's sarcophagus where we found it." He cautiously avoids bringing up the mortuary mask and the charms they did bring to the Handlers. It was the sort of things Hafiz would not take well. "We triggered a spell, at some point - hence the brands. But we didn't meet anything too dangerous. All is well," they add in their native tongue, in the (probably vain) hope that their father would be reassured enough not to ask too many questions. And if Lidhalla somehow got the message - then all the better.
""Hey, so does the 'black sheep' expression translate into Osiriani?"
"I believe it's غور من وشي," Amal leans in and whispers back to his neighbour in a very low voice.
Luke let out a brisk bark of a laugh at the obscenity. Taldane or Osiriani, now the kid was speaking his language. "Hey now," he replied, voice equally low in volume yet loud with mock-concern. "If you can't watch your language, I'm afraid I'll have to inform your mother."
The young man made made to rise, intent on searching the mansion for the fabled Mrs El-Irfan. A feint, of course, just to get another rise out of poor Amal. He dropped himself back onto a cushion, chuckling around another bite of stuffed eggplant. A fellow black sheep, huh? So he guessed by the response; he hadn't known the kid to be overly sweary in their admittedly brief acquaintance.
Bit of a shame, that. For Luke had been ready to drop all semblance of sympathy towards what he had suspected to be a hapless urchin when said boy was revealed as the little princeling he truly was. Compassion, as all other things, was a finite resource. Why waste it on the privileged? Besides, business relations like these tended to go a lot more smoothly without pesky camaraderie muddying the waters. Yet now a sense of blasted kinship was roused within the Taldan, one problem child to another. Yeah, darn shame.
Though on the topic of swearing and propriety, even the Caradoc scion had learned some common courtesy. "Thank you kindly, Mr El-Irfan," he duly said, rubbing at his now entirely smooth forehead. Submitting to foreign magic was never agreeable, but he held back from checking whether the elder wizard had added a pair of rabbit ears or something to him in the process. Similar restraint saw the foreigner hesitate before adding, "You know, your Amal was a real asset out there today. Handled himself well."
Another attempt at embarrassing the Wati native? Perhaps. But if so, it was delivered with one hell of a straight face. Maybe his intent was to embarrass Amal. Maybe his intent was more benign. After all, Luke knew that one's father could be there one day and be gone the next.
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Though on the topic of swearing and propriety, even the Caradoc scion had learned some common courtesy. "Thank you kindly, Mr El-Irfan," he duly said, rubbing at his now entirely smooth forehead. Submitting to foreign magic was never agreeable, but he held back from checking whether the elder wizard had added a pair of rabbit ears or something to him in the process. Similar restraint saw the foreigner hesitate before adding, "You know, your Amal was a real asset out there today. Handled himself well."
Nodding vigorously in agreement Djedefre patiently waits for the tingle upon his forehead, "Many thanks Master El-Irfan. And I agree with Luke; Amal's strength and courage were great assets in securing Akhentepi's tomb. His efforts bring honor to the house of El-Irfan."
Jolánka politely begins tucking in to her meal, cutting her food into dainty little bites that she pairs with dainty little sips of wine. Her brow furrows a bit as, from her perspective, Luke continues to be a boor.
Hafiz's lips turned upwards in a slight smile as Amal's new friends praised his skill. "I am glad Amal seems to have found himself a place. Thank you for accepting them."
He holds out his hand and utters a spell for a few seconds. "A few magical items? And a construct? Such plunder is no guarantee in the necropolis. As for seeing it myself, I'd rather not. Truth be told, I am not as agreeable as our esteemed Ruby Prince and his cohorts are in regards to digging up this nation's past. Osirion has a long, storied history with many secrets and truths lost to the sands of time. As much as I've profited myself from such adventures, this has informed me how dangerous it can be." Hafiz glances at Amal. "However, I will be more than willing to identify any items you recover if you cannot identify them yourselves. It is the least I can do for my child's friends."
Djehuti shrugs. It was popular with some and unpopular with others. To the elf it seemed like it balanced out. Most things did, in time. Of course, they were likely twice or at least half again as old as Amal's father, and still barely an adolescent by elven standards. What was a few hundred years to them? "Lost knowledge is better found than forgotten, my father says. My mother, as well," the elf says with a chuckle. "Of course, what else would a reliquarian say, eh, Semenheb?"
They nod their head in thanks at Hafiz's offer. "Thank you, that is very generous."
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Amal doesn't react much when Luke pretends to go seek his mother. The mansion was vast, and Lidhalla was certainly not one to tiptoe in her own home. If she had not shown herself yet, he was willing to bet that she was spending time in her hammam - where Luke could not find her even if he wanted.
But of course, if the party was to make an unwise decision - like stay over for the night...
Amal stands up. "Thanks for everything,"he says to his father. "We still have to sell whatever we found. It's part of the deal. And we have booked rooms in town." A not-so-subtle way of getting everybody out before they could get acquainted with his mother - who, as far as he's aware, always found creative ways to be an absolute embarrassment without ever meaning to. It was a natural talent.
Verbally pushing their companions out the doors, Amal was loathe to risk his mother joining them for dinner. Hafiz allowed himself a chuckle as the party left, wishing his child and the others well.
Leaving the magical mansion, the party sees the amber hues of afternoon being replaced by the lavender and violet of night. Most of the open air stalls would be closed now, but specialty shops would still be open for business. Luke would know the locations of these shops .
Jolánka seems a tad put out by leaving so soon, since she's barely half-way through the meal with how daintily she's been eating, but follows as they're ushered out, surreptitiously trying to grab a few fruits on the way out as a snack for later. And maybe a chicken leg.
Djehuti makes sure to properly thank Amal's father and say a proper farewell, though much truncated from the usual Osirian ritual that would take a good half hour or more. While not their place to say anything to Amal, a near stranger, their expression says the elf does not appreciate the young human's attitude toward his parents.
In the market, Djehuti pays close attention to Luke's suggestions so they can remember these places as well.
The party isn't able to sell everything at one place. Items and coins are traded with a withered Garundi man with an eye patch and missing several teeth, a couple of Osiriani nobles from Sothis, a Katapeshi merchant, and even a Chelaxian Osirionologist take the items off the party's hands.
Djehuti is fascinated meeting all of Luke's contacts, especially the Chelaxian Osirionologist, carefully writing down the names and locations in his notebook for future interactions. The entire evening made him fondly remember the types of people who came through his mother's shop back home.