Hooded Strangers

A Griswald Grimm, Fleet O'Feet Story

By Bob Liddil

Time passes quickly on the street of dreams, as though some thief wanders by and steals moments and hours from the day. A mixture of people come and go along the crooked alleyways and cobblestone mainways, casting an eye into and occasionally visiting the venues they might see. There are no visitors to the street of dreams, only those who live there, those who die there and those who might have business to conduct with the likes of such as Griswald Grimm, who knows more about life and death by chemistry than anyone in The World.

Fleet O’ Feet busily tended to his chores in the Little shop of Poisons and Potions. He alone was in charge of thousands of gold pieces’ worth of materials both toxic and beneficial, as well as an inventory of small and very powerful enchanted items. It made the boy swell with pride at being so trusted by his master as to have that worthy alchemist feel confident to leave the city, as had been announced only this morning.

"Keep regular hours," Professor Doctor Griswald Grimm had instructed him, "I am called away on a mission of importance."

The alchemist was not in the habit leaving the street of dreams, was less happy about being placed in a position where he could not say no, and worried, as any mentor might be, about the safety of his young charge. Nonetheless, the situation was set and the dour alchemist could do little more than put on a confident face and carry on.

Fleet had replied cheerfully, "Don’t worry about me, I will be just fine. I will take care of everything."

And Grimm had smiled inwardly at the youngster’s confidence. The lad grew a little each day. Forthwith, he departed, leaving the lad to his wits and the fates of the day, climbed aboard Renegade, the mule and swiftly (as mules walk) disappeared amongst the crowd on the street of dreams.

***

The customer bell rang on the opening of the door. Fleet, who had been daydreaming, leaped to his feet as if bee stung. Before the counter stood a tall man, cloaked in a garment the color of sand, hooded possibly to hide his face from scrutiny. His voice rumbled like wagon wheels on cobblestones as he spoke a single word, "Grimm?"

"Not presently available, sir," Fleet offered, "How may I be of service?"

The hooded one said nothing for a moment and then said, "Grimm..." emphatically, as though there would be consequences if the alchemist did not show his face immediately.

Undaunted, Fleet smiled patiently and reiterated, "Doctor Grimm is otherwise occupied. I am at your service."

The man seemed to be undecided for a moment or two. Then he said, "Grimm," disgustedly, turned on his heel and left without saying anything else.

Fleet shook his head, then turned and fetched a broom. Better to be occupied, he decided.

At half midday, a heavily muscled fighter entered the shop, wrapped in leather straps and wearing a loosely fitting shade-cloak of the kind sold for five silver pieces in the cloth bazaar. He strode boldly up to the counter and addressed Fleet O’ Feet as if he’d known him ten years.

"I’ll have a tin of Undead Away, " he said, "and a bottle of Detectit!"

These were ready made substances which were on the list of approved wares which Fleet was allowed to purvey to whomever would request them by name and so the youngster fetched both items quickly and enthusiastically. He named a sum which would have been considered a King’s Ransom to some, but which caused no reaction in the fighter, other than a movement of hand to pocket to produce a poke of gold coinage. He counted out the correct amount into equal stacks of fifty on the counter, then exited with a friendly., "Thank you," and a bang of the door.

Fleet placed seven of the coins in the lockbox and dropped the rest into a small chute under the counter, which conducted them elsewhere in the shop, a safer stash than ten feet from a public door. Then he boosted himself up into the scribe chair, took pen in hand and entered the transaction into the ledger.

The early afternoon saw three more customers, a bazaar merchant with a book to be analyzed, was referred to Sri Karnuth, the bookmender, a soldier of the City Wall Guard asked for a hangover cure, which Fleet provided at an expense of three coppers to that suffering unfortunate, and Wasim Sarsour, son of Hiatia Sarsour, the serpent seller, his little sister Sara in tow, seeking an ointment for sand itch for her. After a brief conversation, they also departed, leaving Fleet alone once more.

By the time the day glass reached mid-afternoon, Fleet was bored. He had swept, dusted, recorded, stashed, organized and tidied every square inch of the apothecary and now there was nothing to do but sit and wait for the next customer. He eyed the overstuffed chair which was Grimm’s own and decided. He, Fleet O’ Feet was master of the apothecary today, and as such was entitled to the privileges of that position. He sat himself down and was asleep within a minute and a half.

The bell on the door rang once more, jerking Fleet awake in an instant. The hooded stranger who’d been in previously was returned, this time with a black robed companion, also hooded. He moved around the apothecary as though he knew exactly what he was about and when what he sought was not where he thought it ought to be, he turned to confront Fleet.

"Where’s Grimm?" he demanded in a surly tone.

"My master cannot attend you at this moment," offered the lad, "Perhaps I can. . ."

"Perhaps you can at that," the stranger interrupted, "Quick then boy Fetch me Dream Powder!"

Fleet responded with outrage. "Take your self out into the street, sir, and find any scurvy scum with dead eyes to sell you suicide potions. We don’t offer self destruction in this shop!"

"Hkmmmm," the stranger amended, "just a joke. You don’t have to get huffy. Actually, I’m looking for something called Toadytoxin." His voice had changed to reflect a milder manner.

But Fleet replied, "Only a Guildsman of Assassins, sixth or higher can purchase that, sir. I believe that you cannot."

"What makes you think so?"

"Your hands," replied Fleet, "are the hands of a merchant, carefully cared for and unused to work. A Guildsman of that order will have calluses. Therefore you are not of The Trade."

The light-robed stranger who had not spoken throughout all this said, "What if I just skewer you like a piglet on my sword and hang you from a wall?"

And Fleet just said evenly, "That would not work either, sir, because there are thousands of powder boxes, vials and tins within this shop and you, not knowing which might be which, would have a high probability of becoming Belestria’s most intelligent newt, or perhaps a fireball, scorching the street of dreams with the blackened husk of your body."

"Now, now," soothed the first stranger, and he produced a poke from deep within his cloak. "Toadytoxin is 1000 in gold, right? What if I give you another 500 on top of that for you to keep for yourself. Your master would be none the wiser and you...." He chuckled in a naughty rumble. "Why you would be able to spend a month on the street of joy. What say ye?"

"Sir, I am bound by the rules my master sets forth," Fleet explained patiently. "He expects me to be honorable. And while it is true that 500 in gold is a sizable amount, my honor is not for sale." Then the boy smiled slightly and added, "How else may I help you?"

"You may give this to your master when he becomes available," said the dark one and handed the young apprentice a polished wooden box. "On your honor, you may not open it."

"How do I know that it will not harm him?

"He will know. You serve your master faithfully, boy, I hope the old dragon appreciates your loyalty." He penned a note, folded it and handed both to Fleet. Then the two of them departed.

In the last hour before dark, Grimm returned and his young apprentice replayed the events of the day as they had occurred.

"And this is the box?" Grimm inquired.

Fleet nodded.

Grimm unfolded the note and for the first time since Fleet had known him, cracked a smile.

"Most unusual," Grimm commented, "and certainly deserving of an explanation."

 He sat down in his favorite chair, (Fleet’s occupation of which had been carefully omitted from the narrative). "After all these years," he said half aloud, then to Fleet said, "There was an apprentice of mine before you, Fleet, a boy like yourself but with skin as black as as a thieves’ night, eyes brown like the earth and a dagger sharp tongue such as no youth I’ve ever encountered. He came to me from the Friars’ orphanage in Northlock. Truth be known, I purchased him for one gold round and he watched as I did it. He learned the arts of Cheshidoc (high language for alchemy) as might an adept and was able to buy his freedom at the age of fourteen. He stayed with me two more years, then departed to the east to study Cheshidoc - Do (healing). I never knew what became of him. There was an ocean voyage . . ."

"Was that him today?" Fleet wanted to know.

"It was," said Grimm, and he was on business for The Apothecary, the Alchemists’ Guild."

Grimm read confusion on young Fleet’s face for no such guild had ever been discussed in his presence before. Then he added, "You were that business."

"Huh?" Fleet exclaimed.

"Although I am not active in the Guild, and have not been for some time, it is their custom to examine apprentices for fitness to serve in The Trust. Apparently, lad, you were tested today, and by none other than Tomek Tymon, my former apprentice come back from the shadows."

Grimm handed the box to Fleet. "Open it," he said, "it is yours."

Fleet did so and gasped at what he saw. The inside of the box was purple velvet as might be needed to protect something valuable. Resting on that velvet was a single gold round. But instead of an insignia of a state or a lord as appears on coinage, this round had an emblem, a single staff around which coiled in opposite directions, two snakes. It attached to a chain so as to hang from the neck, as might a medallion. Fleet picked it up and just stared at it in wonder.

"You have been judged fit to be an apprentice within The Appothecary, by Guildsmen. It is an honor, a tradition about which I’ve not thought in thirty years. In testing you, they were also testing me."

Fleet did not know what to say. Life was very black and white to him, no shades of gray. Honor was the carrying out of one’s obligations as instructed. He had no idea that it was more complicated or that there was actually anyone watching.

"Go home to your mother, lad, she’ll be missing you by now." Grimm said, and then added, "Show that medallion to no one. It is yours alone. Wear it with pride."

Knowing instinctively that retreat was appropriate at this moment, Fleet departed, leaving Grimm in the dim light of the Little Shop of Poisons.

Feeling much older than he had earlier in the day, the alchemist fell asleep in the chair as the last grains of sand fell to the bottom of the day glass.