“No no no no nononoooo!”
Trying frantically to keep his load of boxes and bushels more or less balanced, Hanish kicked at the grinning dog that was… well, that was dogging his path through the crowded Grand Bazaar. The big white mutt wagged its tail happily at the game, dodged his foot effortlessly, and darted back in for another try at the sausages spilling from an overstuffed hamper on Hanish’s hip.
Hanish swore, but he couldn’t pause to fix the hamper or shoo the dog away. He was running late, and his customers were never patient. A double-humped camel, bent under its own mountain of chests and caskets, met his gaze with a long-lashed eye, and Hanish felt a profound understanding pass between them. Two beasts of burden, vital to the lifeblood of the city, but forever unappreciated.
All around them, merchants and buyers haggled under a dizzying array of flags, banners, wicker arbors, and sun-bleached, dusty tents. Dried fruits and ribbed purple seedpods from the forests of Kyonin dangled from poles next to tables displaying thick white pelts from the halls of the Linnorm Kings, Qadiran brass pots that shone like gold, and spiked Nidalese shadowglass sculptures. Ink-painted scrolls advertised family businesses that had held the same market stalls for centuries, while a steel-feathered parrot perched on a passing woman’s shoulder screeched “Scales and teeth! Scales and teeth! Metal skymetal scales and teeth! From star-dead wastes of Numeria to you! Two days only! Scales and teeth!”
Off to the right, a troupe of puppeteers was putting on a bedraggled but enthusiastic performance of “Iomedae’s Griffon” for an audience of enraptured youngsters and heckling drunks. Just as Hanish hustled by, the puppet-stage’s curtains blew open around a bellowing, steam-snorting contraption that was probably supposed to be Segruchen the Iron Gargoyle. The troupe’s musician banged her drums, the puppeteers shouted in rehearsed dismay, and a nearby packhorse reared and shrieked in panic, terrified by the clanking menace and its clamor.
Hanish ducked around the animal’s flying hooves, congratulated himself for the quick save, and then promptly tripped over a boy wearing a gaudy sandwich board touting Gerig’s Liquid Courage, the drink of (mostly deceased) champions.
“No no no no nononoooo!”
Scarves and grapes and apples flying in his wake, Hanish windmilled his arms in a panicked jig under the swinging balance of his load. Finally he stumbled to a stop, panting and sweating but basically upright. A nearby street beggar applauded briefly. Hanish sketched a bow, or as much of one as he dared, and hurried onward. That dog was, somehow, still at his heels.
Illustration by Mirco Paganessi from Absalom, City of Lost Omens.
Hanish spotted a break in the crowds and hurried through to a storefront festooned with bits of punched metal hung from silken strings. The chimes sparkled and sang against his load of packages as he knocked on the glass-gemmed door.
“You’re late,” snapped the rotund half-orc who opened the door for him. Her tusks were painted with fanciful Osiriani hieroglyphs, and a jade Tien ornament hung from her earlobe, but her accent was as all Absalom. “I’ll wager you’ve stained and wrinkled my wares, too.”
Hanish tapped the glowing bauble on his wrist. The bobbing crystal still shone blue: he’d made the delivery window. “Not late, and your scarves are pristine, Mistress Verity.” Unlike poor Ghemel’s lunch, he almost added, but then decided not to badmouth his own services. It was hard enough prying tips out of Mistress Verity already.
The half-orc grunted, taking the heavy brown chest from Hanish’s aching arm and unlatching it with two quick flips. She ruffled through the fine embroidered silks and gossamer scarves, holding this one or that up to the light until she was satisfied that, indeed, Hanish had delivered the full load safely.
She hauled the chest inside and tossed Hanish a pair of copper pennies. “Commemorative,” she said, and slammed her door.
Hanish looked at the pitiful coins in his palm. They were commemorative, all right, but one celebrated the elevation of a new trademaster and the other was about some giant fish getting hauled out of the harbor, so neither was worth more than the copper it was stamped on. Mistress Verity’s generosity had struck again.
The bauble on his wrist was starting to pulse violet. Hanish grimaced, rebalanced his remaining packages, and ran.
He dropped the fruit and sausages at Ghemel’s — there was a decent tip, even though half the apples were bruised and the dog had managed to steal two sausages — and went on, faster now that the heaviest packages were gone. At Chivvi’s Apothecary, he dropped off a box of stonestalk eggs; the stiff-armored, distinctively shaped caterpillars had developed a predictable reputation as aphrodisiacs. At the Wandlin steam baths, he delivered frost teas and ice wines harvested from the Crown of the World and prized by heat-bathers in need of quick cooling.
The last stop on his route was the best: Felifer’s Bibliovary, where priceless texts were framed like gems on bronze and silver shelves, and the air carried a deep, calming perfume of ancient wood and yellowing paper. Walking into Felifer’s was like stepping into a timeless, never-hurried world of learning, and it always made Hanish wistful for the life he’d never lead. Maybe if his parents had been richer, if they’d been able to afford more schooling… well, it was no use dreaming about all that.
But for a few precious minutes, whenever he had a delivery at Felifer’s, he could breathe in that sepia-scented tranquility and pretend.
The door was already ajar when Hanish arrived. “Hello?”
There was no answer. Hanish stepped inside and set down his delivery box. The dog came with him, even though he’d already dropped off the sausages. The smell of blood was retch-thick in the shop, and the dog whined softly, lashing its tail.
“Hello?”
Nothing. Gulping, Hanish picked his way through the glowing bookshelves to Felifer’s back office. Shadows bobbed and spun away from him across the gleaming metal, teasing his eyes with premonitions of doom. The dog came with him, and though Hanish couldn’t help worrying that the old bookseller would scold him for bringing an animal into the shop, he was glad for its company. He didn’t want to be alone here.
The back office was empty. Quiet. Nothing out of place except a paper-wrapped parcel on Felifer’s desk, a note written in the bookseller’s crabbed blue pen, and the sigil-stamped luminous tag that meant Hanish was meant to take it for delivery.
Hanish bent closer to read the note. “To Pathfinder Agent Berovic, Skywatch. All speed.” That meant a breakneck run to deliver the parcel at any hour of the day or night, and triple pay if he made it within the hour. Right now, with the lull between Absalom’s daytime commerce and when the nightlife really lit up, the target should be easy to hit. Good money.
But maybe dangerous. The last two words of the message were shaky and dribbled downward, as if Felifer were losing the strength to write. Bloody fingerprints marred the paper wrapping, which bulged and sagged in its strings with uncharacteristic sloppiness.
The dog whined again. Hanish patted its head, then reached for the parcel. It was light and fragile-feeling, as though whatever was in there were dried, or hollow. Something rattled softly inside.
Already the luminous tag was starting to lose its pearly pallor. If Hanish made to Skywatch while the light was still blue, he’d get triple pay.
If he didn’t, he might land in something worse than he’d ever imagined.
Well, it wouldn’t be the first time his job had careened him into trouble, and if Desna smiled on him, it wouldn’t be the last. The City at the Center of the World never slept, never stopped, and held uncountable adventures. Hanish had taken this job because he wanted to grab his share of those adventures, and so far, he’d gotten all that he could handle.
Hanish tucked the parcel into his satchel, snapped its tag onto his bracelet, and ran.
One more delivery today.
About The Author
Liane Merciel is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novels Nightglass, Nightblade, and Hellknight, and a contributor to other books including Nidal: Land of Shadows, Faiths of Golarion, and the Lost Omens World Guide. She has also written for Dungeons & Dragons, Warhammer: Age of Sigmar, and Bioware’s Dragon Age franchise. She lives in Philadelphia with her husband, two dogs, and a small child who is extremely into baking projects.
About Tales of Lost Omens
The Tales of Lost Omens series of web-based flash fiction provides an exciting glimpse into Pathfinder’s Age of Lost Omens setting. Written by some of the most celebrated authors in tie-in gaming fiction and including Paizo’s Pathfinder Tales line of novels and short fiction, the Tales of Lost Omens series promises to explore the characters, deities, history, locations, and organizations of the Pathfinder setting with engaging stories to inspire Game Masters and players alike.
