A Discourse in Steel Read Free

to explain what Egil meant. “Milady, some men were put on Ellerth to write poetry, or discover lost lands, or start new religions, or do whatever it is that their gift impels. Egil and me, we were made more simply than that. We were put here to get in and out of places and situations people say can’t be gotten in and out of.”
    Egil nodded again as the two friends tapped mugs, put back a slug.
    “And that’s your gift? Your purpose?” She smiled. “I admit I like that.”
    “Gift, purpose, both seem a bit much, don’t they? All I know is that we’ve managed to keeps things lively.”
    “I should think,” she said. “May I have one of those ales, also?”
    While Nix called for an ale, Egil cleared his throat nervously and eyed Enora. “May I ask after your relationship with Drugal? You said a dear friend and I wondered…?”
    “And speaking of getting into interesting places,” Nix murmured, but the priest and professor ignored him.
    Enora smiled at Egil without shyness. “Just a friend and a colleague. Nothing more.”
    Egil exhaled and leaned back in his chair, the wood groaning under his bulk. His eyes never left Enora’s face.
    “In that case, I’d be pleased to have your company for the evening.”
    “Listen to
you,
” Nix said. “So polite.”
    “That sounds delightful, Egil,” Enora answered.
    Nix had slammed back his ale, excused himself, and left them to it.
    —
    The rain fell so hard it felt as if it would drive Nix into the mud. He crouched down, shielded his satchel with his body, and riffled through it. The sky rumbled, a hungry thunder.
    “For souls once lost, ne’er come back,” he said.
    “What’s that, now?” Egil asked.
    “Just saying I hope we don’t get lost,” Nix answered.
    “Aye.”
    “Take a look around, would you? Just make sure things are clear. I don’t want anyone else getting caught up in this by accident.”
    “All know your spells never go awry,” Egil teased.
    “Fak you,” Nix answered, smiling.
    While Nix took the few things he needed from his satchel and ran through the steps of his plan, Egil stalked around the intersection, poking into alleys to ensure there were no drunks passed out nearby.
    “No one about,” Egil said when he returned.
    The rain, having spent itself, abated to a stubborn drizzle. The wind, too, died, and sudden calm felt ominous. A thin mist rose from the muddy earth. The stink, of course, remained. Minnear had risen.
    Nix took six of the finger-length sticks of magically treated tallow and pitch from the satchel and handed three to Egil.
    “Candles?” the priest asked.
    “Not candles. And don’t smell them.”
    Of course the priest sniffed one and immediately recoiled. “Gods! What’s in these?”
    “Didn’t I say not to sniff them? They’re made from something awful. You don’t want to know.”
    “If I didn’t want to know, I wouldn’t have asked.”
    “Fine, then. They’re made from pitch, a binding agent, and the rendered fat from the corpse of a man who died in regret.”
    Egil stared at Nix for a long moment, his eyes heavy, his expression unreadable. “Regret?”
    Nix nodded and said nothing, knowing “regret” cut close to the bone for Egil.
    The priest spit into the mud. “Fakkin’ gewgaws.”
    “Aye, and speaking of,” Nix said, and pulled from the satchel an ivory wand and a fist-sized egg of polished black volcanic glass etched with a single closed eye. The latent magic in both caused the hairs on his arms to tingle. He rummaged for the special matchsticks he’d need, and soon found them.
    “Dying with regrets seems a bad way to go out of the world,” Egil said, his tone thoughtful.
    “They’re all bad,” Nix said. He closed his satchel, looped it over his shoulder as he stood. “So let’s avoid it for a while yet, yeah?”
    Egil’s gaze fell on the items Nix had in hand: the shining eye, the matchsticks, the shafts of tallow, the wand, which had a bestial mouth meticulously carved