A rival most vial, p.8
A Rival Most Vial, page 8
He frowned at it and turned it over. The envelope had only his name, no seal. Was he supposed to know what the color of the paper meant? None of his Guild mail or bills were red.
Then to his surprise, the dragon swerved across the street, where Eli was sweeping his doorway. Eli stopped, reached inside the bag, and pulled out an identical scarlet envelope.
As the dragon buzzed away, Ambrose ripped open the envelope and scanned the letter inside.
Mr. Beake:
You are requested to visit the office of Mayor Rune at your earliest convenience.
Ambrose smiled, no longer feeling the bruise on his face. It was the mayor’s birthday commission, it had to be. A saving grace, and at the perfect time, too—
But he wasn’t the only one with a letter. He looked up at Eli.
Eli looked up at him.
Ambrose started running.
STEP 11:
BIND THE COMPOUNDS
Eli
Eli swore as Ambrose took off toward the mayor’s office. If that son of a wood-eating dragon wanted to turn it into a race, fine. Eli wasn’t going to lose this time—not to that man and his weak punches.
He sprinted forward, ducking around wagons and donkeys, until he was mere steps behind Ambrose. If he slipped left around this signpost, he’d catch up, then pass him, then…
Ambrose weaved up a ramp to the upper platforms. Good, Eli thought. Let him waste his time up there. Eli would take a more direct route, along the ground floor and through the—
Traffic.
He skidded to a dusty halt. A long line of café customers snaked across the street, forming a bleary-eyed blockade. When he tried to push through, their tired gazes went sharp.
“Hey!”
“What do you think you’re—”
“Get to the back of the line!”
“Sorry, sorry!” Eli ducked around the last of them, scanning the horizon for a sign of blue hair. Up ahead, a flash of gold-embroidered robes flew down a ramp and disappeared around the bend.
“Oh, no you don’t!” Eli reassessed his path and picked up his pace. The road straightened out soon, and that stick figure of a man couldn’t beat him in a dead sprint.
Ambrose didn’t see him until it was too late. Eli caught up and shoved his shoulder into Ambrose’s, sending the man flying. The potioneer landed on his arm with a crunch.
“Ow!”
“You punched first!” Eli shouted and kept running.
A boot lashed out and caught him in the ankle, and he toppled into a line of barrels.
“You punched back!” Ambrose yelled, stumbling forward. Eli shoved the barrels away and pounded into a sprint. The government square was ahead of them now, Ambrose veering left around the fountain, Eli veering right. Then it was just a few steps to the wide staircase, the stone entrance, and the mayor inside—
They both reached for the doors, but the doors pushed out for them instead. Eli staggered back as they swung open with a groan, revealing a stout elven woman with a clipboard and a tired expression. Despite the bags under her eyes, her stance was resolute, as solid as the bas-relief carvings that swirled across the building’s facade.
“Sorry, ma’am.” Eli tried to move past the clerk. She pushed him back, her expression unchanged.
“Birthday business?” She nodded to the red envelopes in their hands. “Come with me.”
Ambrose held up his letter, wheezing through heavy breaths. “Ma’am, I really need to see the mayor first—”
The clerk turned on her heel, green skirt spinning around her boots. “Both of you,” she said, then flicked her gaze over her shoulder. “And no running.”
Eli sighed and followed her, keeping to the right side of the tunnel. Ambrose did the same on the left, trying very hard not to look like he was gasping for air.
In his rush, Eli had barely glanced at the carvings on the government building—but as the woman ambled down the hall, he reluctantly took the time to admire the artwork. Like outside, the rounded bas-reliefs here portrayed farmers, merchants, and adventurers, all coming together to build the Scar. Fighting dragons, digging tunnels, growing crops. Their swords and sickles reached for the stone ceiling above, where crystal lights grew in gently pulsing clusters.
But when the clerk led them through more utilitarian offices, the stately carvings gave way to blank walls and piles of party decorations. Crates of pink candles, lavender ribbons, and deep purple streamers formed a haphazard maze, while harried assistants popped through doorways, all bearing stacks of paper and cups of coffee. Eli forced himself to slow down further—he couldn’t risk getting an assistant’s drink on his shirt before meeting the mayor.
Up ahead, the clerk nodded to a gilded door. “Wait here. The mayor will be with you shortly.”
She disappeared back down the hall, leaving the potioneers standing as far away from each other as possible. After a minute, Eli dared one glance over at Ambrose. He was still catching his breath, his bruised face was flushed, and he cradled his arm awkwardly against his chest. He was in no state to meet a mayor.
And yet he was still here, standing between Eli and the most lucrative commission of his short career.
“What are you doing here?” Eli whispered sharply. Ambrose glared at him.
“What are you talking about? I’m here for the commission.”
“Dawn said you didn’t even want that commission.”
Ambrose shuffled. “I didn’t.”
Eli’s anger flared, and he gestured to the office door. “So, what, you’re doing this just to spite me or something?”
“Oh, now who’s being self-centered?” Ambrose snapped. “I didn’t even know you had applied.”
“Then why did you apply?”
Ambrose didn’t answer; he merely set his shoulders back and glared at the door. But the omission was a confession in itself, and it filled Eli with a cruel sort of giddiness.
Ambrose Beake of The Griffin’s Claw needed the money.
But the giddiness faded quickly. It was likely Ambrose would get the money, too. With his Guild membership, and published papers, and years of living in a cauldron.
Eli folded his arms. He’d have to find some way around Ambrose, then. Undercut his bid, throw in something extra, charm the mayor. He bit back a smile at the last thought. Ambrose certainly couldn’t do that.
The door swung open, revealing a human secretary with thick square glasses, green hair, and ink stains on their fingers.
“Mr. Beake and Mr. Valenz?” they read from a scrap of paper. “Mayor Rune would like to speak with you both.”
“At the same time?” Ambrose stiffened. “As the more qualified potioneer here, I can assure you that Mayor Rune will want to speak to me first.”
“Actually”—Eli thought fast—“I’ve got an urgent appointment later today, so if the mayor could fit me in first, I can—”
“You have no such thing,” Ambrose retorted. Eli shot him a glare.
“Oh, like you know my schedule.”
Two unexpected sounds beyond the door cut them off—the clopping of hooves and the wailing of a small child.
“Listen, if the little lady still wants llamas,” a woman tried to shout over the wailing, “I can get you a dozen in time for the parade. But not twenty, and that’s final.”
A small herd of beings came around the corner behind the secretary. An elf leading a llama, and an orc in stately evergreen robes, bearing a screaming ball of thunder in his arms. As the screaming increased in pitch, the orc rubbed his forehead, his voice gravelly in its exhaustion.
“A dozen will do. If you could take your llama—”
“Miriam, sir.”
“If you could take Miriam and speak with the parade officer…” He gestured wearily to the door. The elf gave a short bow.
“Thank you, Mayor.”
The elf and the llama clopped off, leaving only the wailing left.
“Beatrice,” the orc groaned, bouncing the squalling little girl in his arms. “We’ll find Little Rabbit, I promise—”
“Little Rabbit! Little Rabbit!” Beatrice shrieked. She had the same springtime green skin as her father, but her fluffy purple dress stood out against his dark robes. As she kicked against his ribs in frustration, purple jewels on her shoes winked in the lantern light.
The mayor slouched, dug into his pocket, and pulled out a lollipop. Beatrice reached out with her sharp little teeth and chomped down on the candy. The last of her shrieks faded down the hall, and the mayor let out a breath.
“Beake, Valenz?” He nodded to them, then ran his free hand through his thinning purple hair. “Argus Rune. Thank you for coming.”
Eli grinned. Rune. Rune, he knew that had sounded familiar. This man used to be a Fireball player.
Oh, he was going to nail this.
“Eli Valenz.” He strode past the secretary and stuck out his hand. “Owner of Eli’s Elixirs. Sir, I saw your final match against the Bonekeepers back in Kolkea. One of the best games I’ve ever seen.”
As he had hoped, the orc lit up, suddenly ten years younger. Once a Fireball player, always a Fireball player.
“Thank you.” He shook Eli’s hand enthusiastically. “Still can’t believe we played through that sandstorm.”
“I still can’t believe how you led that offense,” Eli gushed. He didn’t have to fake any of this—it had been an excellent game. “I mean, the Bonekeepers had the ball, they were up five to nothing, and yet you—”
Ambrose cleared his throat behind them. Eli fought the urge to shove him into the hallway and close the door.
“Right.” Rune’s enthusiasm dissipated, and he resumed his tired, fatherly slouch. “Apologies, you’re both here to discuss the commission. Here, walk with me.”
He led them down a hall crowded with boxes of pink silk flowers. “As I’m sure you know, my daughter’s sixth birthday is coming up,” he said. Beatrice peered over his shoulder at them with round emerald eyes. She reminded Eli of several of his nieces back home, and he pushed aside a small pang.
“Yes, very exciting,” Eli cooed, waving at her. She drooled on her father’s robes in response.
“Indeed,” Rune said flatly. “Well, I’m in need of a specific gift, and my committee says you might be able to help me.”
Ambrose stepped ahead of Eli. “Certainly. What sort of potion do you need?”
The mayor turned into a side office, a tiny room filled with nothing but scrolls, boxes, and used candles. As he rummaged through stacks of parchment with his free hand, he fell silent.
After a moment, Ambrose cleared his throat again. “Sir?”
“Oh, right.” Rune straightened. “Beatrice wants to be a dragon.”
Eli’s polite smile faltered. “A, um…” That was impossible. Wasn’t it?
“Sir”—Ambrose kept his words firm—“unfortunately, animal shape-shifting brews are far too risky. The Guild strongly recommends against any such experimentation—”
“No, no, I mean…” Rune sighed and shifted Beatrice to his other hip. “She wants to fly and have wings. Like a dragon.”
Beatrice pulled the lollipop out of her mouth with a pop. “Dragon! I wanna be a dragon!”
Eli vastly preferred the job three seconds ago, back when it was impossible.
“Dragons are great.” He threw the little girl a nervous grin. “But sir, you don’t mean actual flight, do you?”
“Of course not.” Rune dug deeper into a stack of scrolls and uncovered a stuffed rabbit. Its fur had been reduced to patches, and half its ear was missing—but Beatrice didn’t seem to care. She shrieked in delight and grabbed the doll with sticky fingers. The mayor’s brow smoothed out in relief.
“Just some levitation,” he said. “You know, floating, or something like that.”
Eli tried to reflect his nonchalance while panic bubbled inside him. This wasn’t just a potion. This was two potions in one—three, if he counted the flavoring needed to make it palatable. And for such a tiny subject? The amount of experimentation it would take, the sheer knowledge, was beyond anything Eli had ever done before.
“I can do it,” Ambrose said immediately.
Eli clenched his jaw. Of course, he could.
“When do you need it by?” Ambrose continued as if Eli wasn’t in the room. Rune stroked his daughter’s hair.
“Well, in time for her birthday, so…four months.”
The words shattered the last of Eli’s hopes. Charm alone wasn’t going to get him through that. Back in college, this would have been a year-long thesis, at least.
But he wasn’t alone in his panic—next to him, a hairline crack ran through Ambrose’s composure.
“Sir,” he said, his voice wavering slightly, “I’m afraid that doesn’t allow enough time to safely experiment with the components.”
“Hm.” Rune swung out of the office, forcing them to follow again. “What are your solutions, then?”
Eli’s thoughts tumbled over each other. He had no solutions, unless he learned how to clone himself. But if Rune was willing to accept a compromise…
He stepped in front of Ambrose.
“How about just the wings?” he asked, then glanced at Beatrice’s shoes. “I could do purple ones. With sparkles.”
“Purple wings!” Beatrice agreed loudly, then went back to her lollipop. The mayor grunted.
“I suppose we could…”
“If you wanted only the levitation”—Ambrose took one long stride and eclipsed Eli—“I can certainly do that in four months’ time.” He glanced at Eli. “Two months, even. It would be perfectly calibrated for someone of her size and weight.”
Eli glared at him, then turned to Rune. “I could do wings and a tail in two months.”
“One month,” Ambrose cut in. “I can do the levitation in one month.”
The mayor stopped and frowned at the air. Eli held his breath. Pick the wings, he thought, pick the wings—
Rune looked at them. “What if you brewed it together?”
The words hit Eli harder than a Fireball to the face.
“A joint commission,” Rune said, brightening at his own idea. “Brew together, split the work. How does that sound?” He directed the last question at Beatrice, bouncing her up and down. As the girl giggled, Eli’s stomach flipped. With another potioneer, it could be possible…but did it have to be with Ambrose Beake?
His queasiness must have shown on his face, for Rune waved a reassuring hand. “You both would be paid the same, of course.”
“Ah. Of course.” Eli nodded; internally, he scoffed. The pay would have to be wildly, no, stupidly high for him to agree—but he played along. “What is the pay, sir?”
“Five thousand talons each. A third of the pay upfront, another third in two months.”
Oh.
Oh, that was wildly, stupidly high.
That amount would make up for all the red in his ledger. The crystal displays, the workroom equipment, the networking night, the launch party, the wine and the cheese rolls and the ads… Gods, he could even afford to buy more than lentils for the pantry.
Eli swallowed back a dozen curses burning his throat.
“Yes.” He met Rune’s gaze. “I’ll do it.”
Next to him, Ambrose stiffened, leaving Eli painfully suspended between hope and dread. If the pompous half-elf didn’t say yes—if he squandered the offer just to sabotage him—
“I accept,” Ambrose said. Eli froze.
Oh, gods. They were actually going to do this.
“Excellent.” Rune gestured back to the secretary. “Tiegan will get the papers drawn up. I’ll see you in four months.”
He retreated into his office, both his shoulders and Little Rabbit covered in lollipop drool. As the door closed, Beatrice waved to Eli with shiny fingers.
“A joint commission, then?” Tiegan the secretary scribbled addendums on a long sheet of parchment, their hand a blur. Once the paper was covered in notes, they waved a wand, and the writing shifted to accommodate the changes. Another wand wave, and the same text appeared on a second, blank sheet of paper. Lighter, slightly blotchy, but a decent duplicate. “Here you go. Sign at the bottom.”
Eli scanned the spindly writing. Temporary simulation of wings. Low-level levitation. Fernberry flavoring.
And all in four months.
He shook his head, signed at the bottom of the paper, and handed it back. Beside him, Ambrose did the same.
“Thank you.” Tiegan maintained their perky tone as they took the papers and handed over another splotched copy. “The first payment will be sent to you tomorrow. Have a nice day.”
A few minutes later, Eli stood on the sunbaked steps of the government building, watching the bubbling fountain and passing wagons. A shadow fell over him; Ambrose stood at his shoulder, glaring at the same view.
For a moment, they said nothing. They merely let the morning traffic go by until Eli couldn’t handle the silence anymore.
“It was five thousand talons,” he said. “I had to do it—”
“You think I would have agreed to it for anything less?” Ambrose snapped. “Five thousand is the least he could have offered for that timeframe. Four months indeed…”
As he straightened his pretentious robes, Eli pressed his lips into a line. Yeah. Four months with this man, indeed.
“So, what do we do now?” He scuffed his shoe on the step. Any plan he could think of sounded ridiculous. What, were they going to have lunch and brainstorm? Compare notes, share ideas? Stir a blasted cauldron together?
Ambrose rubbed his temple. “Give me a day,” he muttered, avoiding Eli’s gaze. “I’ll…I’ll meet you after closing tomorrow night.”
The words came through gritted teeth, and Eli couldn’t blame him. Just that morning, they had agreed never to talk to each other again.
If only that were still the case.
