Birds of a Feather

Looking at The River Pearl, Martel thought about his last visit to the tavern. He and Regnar, two wizards, standing on one side with Lady Pearl and her armed brigands on the other, a small boy's life caught in between. The encounter had ended without bloodshed, but plenty of bad blood. Martel suddenly remembered the supposed curse cast by Regnar on the place; while the hedge mage himself had dismissed it as a bit of theatrics, Martel still felt uncomfortable at the thought of such magic. Moreso as he was about to enter the location. Adjusting his mask, he followed the Keeper of the Pact across the road.

Dressed in his expensive doublet, shirt, and trousers, Martel looked like any celebrant. A mask shaped and dyed to look like a racoon covered half his face. As for his companion, the Keeper wore the kind of brightly coloured clothing that Martel originally associated with him, along with a mask resembling some kind of bird, feathers included.

"Just follow my lead once we're inside," the Keeper declared.

Not really sure what he meant by that, Martel refrained from replying. He had his own task to focus on, trying to pick up any trace of the relic. Though as they passed through the doors with its armed guards, Martel could not help but consider what to do in case of trouble. Blinding sphere of light and scarper as fast as empowered legs could take him away? Or raise walls of fire and make them regret tangling with a battlemage? His decision might depend on the exact circumstances. For now, he accepted that either outcome might happen and tried not to let it flood his mind. He needed to concentrate on his magic now.

Standing in the middle of the Pearl's common room, surrounded by sounds, smells, and above all, the sight of masked patrons and waitstaff alike, the memory of the last masquerade filled Martel's mind. Above all, the music from the Tyrian skáld that filled the space and his thoughts with wondrous music that evoked distant lands and yet the warmth of the hearth. Dancing with Ruby. One hand holding hers, the other on her hip. Her lips smiling and laughing underneath the edge of her mask.

Martel pushed the past away to focus on the present. Masked or not, being recognised remained a risk. The faster they were in and out, the better.

The Keeper did not seem to agree; he grabbed two mugs of ale, handing one over to Martel.

Accepting the tankard, the mage stared through the holes in his mask at his companion. "You really feel we got time for this?"

"My good friend, it's a party!" The Keeper lowered his voice. "Two men, no drinks in hand, but with a determined stride towards the backrooms might draw attention." He resumed speaking loudly. "Relax those shoulders, let the tension out, and enjoy yourself!"

Glancing around, Martel doubted anyone noticed them or cared. Everyone seemed occupied with their own celebration, helped along by the good mood, copious amounts of drink, and the strange little powder that like last time, many of them sprinkled over their tongue.

"Do you partake?" the Keeper asked, noticing Martel staring at someone performing this little ritual.

"No idea what it is."

"A specialty of Sindhu. You'll find the festivities more enjoyable, though I don't recommend it if you have a need to focus on something." His voice remained casual, but Martel understood the warning; it would interfere with their task tonight.

"I'm not interested regardless," the wizard replied. Observing these people, they seemed much less in control of themselves; Martel had no wish for that, on this or any other night. Stars only knew what it might do to his magical abilities, or what spells he would unleash if under such influence.

"Entirely up to you." Even with only the lower half of his face visible, the Keeper managed to convey his sly expression regardless before he took a hefty draught of his flagon.

***

When they had finished their drinks and the Keeper reached for seconds, Martel's patience had worn thin. "Enough," he spoke quietly. Staying this long seemed a bigger risk than people noticing them leave for the upper floors. Plenty of other people retired in that direction, usually couples. "Let's get on with it."

Without a spoken reply, the Keeper simply smiled and began making his way across the crowded space. Martel followed, mindful of the many hazards that might stain his clothes; people either drunk or dancing, sometimes both, flailed about, often spilling the contents of cups. He had not been bothered by this last time, but now, he found the careless, even inconsiderate behaviour of the celebrants to be an annoyance. Festivities were only fun, it seemed, when in a festive mood.

They reached the staircase that led up and into the complex with its many rooms; some available to the guests, others only for Lady Pearl. Her study, where she conducted her business, lay close by; her private chambers lay elsewhere, though Martel had no knowledge of them.

"I'll cause a distraction. You get into her study and sniff about," the Keeper suggested. Plenty of people in the hallway, some who might notice Martel entering a room where he should not be.

"Go ahead."

Separating from Martel, the jester began a loud and rowdy song. He raised his hands, beckoning for others to join in, even as he walked down the hallway, attracting eyes and pulling others along with him.

Martel waited until the distraction had done its work. One hand against the keyhole of the door to the study, and a tinge of magic pushed all the pins up to unlock it. Quickly, he stepped inside.

The study lay in complete darkness, so Martel conjured a flame. It looked like he remembered from his previous visits. Regardless, he did not need his sense of sight for this. Letting his magic extend in every direction, he took everything in. Here and there, dead pockets reached him; small caches of gold hidden around the room. Other than that, nothing. Certainly no indication of a powerful relic.

Perhaps its presence was masked or suppressed, but if so, Martel had no idea how, nor what to look for. Searching the place seemed pointless for that reason; besides, he felt uncomfortable at the risk of discovery for every moment he lingered. Quickly, he stepped outside again.

Their eyes meeting, the Keeper finished his song. People cheered and applauded before resuming their march towards the empty, available rooms of the Pearl. Some did not even make it that far, exchanging saliva right in the corridor. With a throw of his head, the Keeper gestured for Martel to follow.

"You know where to go?" the mage whispered.

"I've been there before," the Keeper replied with his smile, leading his companion further in.

Eventually, they took a turn away further up to the third floor. The noises of the feast faded away, and they met no others. The surroundings changed as well; paintings of landscapes on the walls of the hallway, and a rug underneath their feet. Finally, the Keeper stopped outside a door.

"Feel free to do what you did before."

Martel stepped forward and placed his hand against the keyhole. Extending his magic through his fingers, nothing happened. He let out a frustrated sound. The lock had to be fortified with gold. Lady Pearl was particular about who entered her chamber, it seemed. "I can't. Not unless you want me to smash the door open."

The Keeper's frivolous smile turned almost condescending, or at least Martel thought so, as the jester pushed the wizard away and took out his lockpicks. Soon after, a click could be heard, and the door creaked open. "I'll keep watch out here. If you hear an owl hoot, get away."

Martel stepped inside. A window allowed some light, so he did not bother with his own flame, even if he could see little. As before, he needed no sense other than that of magic. He let it reach out. Dead areas around the opulent bed with four posters; Martel could not recall seeing such an extravagant place to rest one's head before, and decorated with gold, even.

Small dead pocket at the front of the chest nearby; another lock reinforced, he guessed. Similarly, something inside the wardrobe seemed to have little lines to kill magic; clothes with golden threads, probably.

There. A touch of magic. Like the scent of a rose, sharp and attracting his attention. But not the kind he had expected. This felt nothing like the relic. Lady Pearl had some artefact, apparently, but not his quarry.

For a moment, Martel was tempted. Whatever it was, it had to be valuable and powerful. Given how some of her coin had to be earned through illicit means, Martel did not feel guilty about relieving her of something like a magical artefact.

But he was no thief, even if she was. And he had not come for this purpose. Besides, this was the last place he wanted to linger. Turning around, Martel left the chamber.

He had barely stepped across the threshold before he thought that he heard the sound of some sick fowl. What kind of bird sang in the middle of the night anyway?

Oh. The feigned hoot of an owl. Martel only remembered once it was too late; as he entered the hallway, closing the door to Lady Pearl's chamber behind him, his eyes met Ruby's.