The Canary Trap

The Elfstone stood at the heart of Loftwick’s most fashionable quarter, where the streets were swept twice daily and even the beggars knew better than to trouble a passing noble without first complimenting his clothes. Calling it a public house was rather like calling a coronation a gathering. Its high, silver-veined walls had been grown from living whitewood by elven artisans, their branches arching overhead to form a vaulted canopy. Pale witchlights drifted among crystal leaves, casting neither smoke nor heat. Musicians played behind a veil of falling water, and every glass upon every table had been shaped to flatter the vintage poured into it. The Elfstone served wines older than human kingdoms, dishes named for forgotten princes, and delicacies whose prices were never printed. Those compelled to ask could not afford them. Lysanthir occupied his customary table beneath the boughs of an ornamental moonwillow. He was a grey elf of impeccable taste and character, though some insisted that his taste was the more impeccable of the two. His coat was midnight black, cut in the celestial fashion and fastened with buttons of polished pearl. A silver chain crossed his waistcoat, bearing a dozen tiny keys; what they unlocked was anyones guess. His pale hair had been drawn back with a black velvet ribbon, and a single moonstone gleamed upon one slender finger. Before him rested a glass of frostwine and a plate containing three slices of pear arranged around a curl of white cheese. He had eaten precisely one slice. Lysanthir believed appetite, like wealth, ought never to be displayed too eagerly. At the eighth chime, the chair opposite him moved. The woman who sat there had not crossed the room. One moment the chair had been empty; the next it held a figure wrapped in a cloak so dark that the Elfstone’s witchlights seemed reluctant to touch it; the curve of a pale cheek and the faint gleam of her eyes could seduce a man to perform all manner of dastardly deeds. Lysanthir raised his glass. “Danye,” he said. “You remain committed to entrances that distress the staff.” “I entered through the door.” “Then the door has learned discretion.” A server approached, hesitated when she saw the cloaked woman, and recovered with admirable professionalism. “May I bring your guest something, Master Lysanthir?” Danye’s eyes remained fixed upon the elf. “Hot water.” The server waited for further instruction. “Only hot water,” Danye added. Lysanthir winced. “Bring her the night-bloom tea. Place the leaves beside the cup. If she chooses not to use them, at least the table will retain some dignity.” When they were alone, Danye reached beneath her cloak. Lysanthir’s hand did not move toward a weapon, but his gaze sharpened. She placed a package upon the table. It had been wrapped in grey silk and tied with blue cord. Lysanthir loosened the knot, peeled back the cloth, and discovered a single aged and well-worn tome. Upon it was an ink impression of a book’s title page. The lettering was angular and ancient, illuminated with powdered lapis. Around the title coiled the image of a winged serpent devouring its own tail. LAPIS PHILOSOPHORUM. For the first time that evening, Lysanthir forgot his frostwine. “That,” he said softly, “is an interesting name to carry into a crowded room.” “No one can hear us.” “Everyone can hear us. Whether they understand what they hear is another matter.” He studied the impression without touching it. His expression remained composed, but Danye noticed the slight tightening around his eyes. “You believe it exists and this is the original copy?” he asked. “I know it does, and yes.” “The Lapis Philosophorum has been listed among the lost works of Suel for nearly four centuries. Half the scholars who mention it claim it was an alchemical treatise. The other half call it a theological allegory.” “And what do you call it?” “A profitable argument.” Danye almost smiled. Lysanthir leaned nearer. “There are also stories that the tome contains practical instructions.” “There are always stories.” “Formulas for transmutation. Methods for binding a spirit into stone. A rite by which the memories of the dead may be distilled and consumed.” “Would any of those stories increase its price?” “All of them.” “Then repeat them.” The elf sat back. His long fingers came together beneath his chin. “At last,” he said, “we arrive at your true purpose.” Danye removed her gloves. Her hands were unadorned, save for a thin white scar crossing her left palm. “I want you to announce that the Lapis Philosophorum has been found and is available for purchase.” “Announce it where?” “Everywhere.” Lysanthir’s eyebrow rose. “In the white market,” Danye continued, “you will inform collectors, universities, noble libraries, respectable antiquarians, and the agents of wealthy patrons. Let the offer appear legitimate. Exclusive, but not secret.” “And in the black market?” “Whisper the same name to relic smugglers, forbidden archivists, temple thieves, and those who buy objects whose owners are still alive. Tell them proof of authenticity can be provided.” “You wish me to advertise the same treasure in salons and thieves’ dens.” “I wish every interested ear to hear a different version of the same truth.” The server returned with the tea. Lysanthir waited until she had poured the water and departed. Danye did not touch the leaves. “And the book?” he asked. “Am I to sell it?” “Not yet.” “Do you know if it is the real deal, its authenticity?” Danye looked at him from within the shadow of her hood. Lysanthir sighed. “A vulgar question, I admit. Nevertheless, brokers traditionally prefer to know whether the object they represent is real.” “It is real.” “That was not my question.” “It is the answer you require.” He considered this, then nodded once. “Who are we inviting to bid?” “Darius.” The music behind the falling water continued without pause, but something in Lysanthir’s manner became still. “I suspect Darius to try to be in official chambers and frequently spoken of in locked ones. To merchants, he is an adviser who could arrange favorable introductions. To minor nobles, I suspect he is a solver of embarrassing problems. To ministers, he is a source of information that arrived too quickly and cost too much.” Danye explains. To those who understood the hidden machinery of power, he was a spy and broker of influence—a man who trafficked in secrets as readily as Lysanthir trafficked in antiquities. “I had heard,” Lysanthir said, “that Darius was presently occupied with affairs beyond the Yeomanry.” “He is occupied with the Scarlet Brotherhood.” The elf’s gaze lifted from the parchment. “An alliance?” “Service, alliance, convenience—the word matters less than the result. He has placed his knowledge and his network at the Brotherhood’s disposal. They mean to use both against the Yeomanry.” “And the Lapis Philosophorum interests them?” “It interests Darius. Whether for its history, its alleged powers, or the people who might compete to possess it, I cannot yet say.” “Yet you expect him to reveal himself for it.” “Not openly. Darius may send an intermediary. Perhaps two. He will conceal the coin, disguise the questions, and pretend indifference. But he will reach for it.” Lysanthir glanced around the Elfstone. At nearby tables, jeweled nobles spoke of poetry and war. A pair of elven merchants compared emeralds beneath a magnifying lens. No one seemed to notice the shadowed woman or the dangerous name lying between them. “You said you hoped to draw one to three specific people,” he murmured. “Darius is one.” “The others are names I will give you when the board changes.” “I dislike conducting business with invisible clients.” “They are not clients. They are pieces.” “And what, precisely, am I?” Danye finally reached for the tea. She lifted the cup but did not drink. “The hand that places the first piece.” Lysanthir smiled faintly. “Better.” She lowered the cup. “This is not a scheme to catch a single spy,” she said. “Darius is part of something larger. Foreign coin has entered Loftwick. Certain voices have grown suddenly louder in council. Old grievances are being sharpened and returned to circulation. Men who once spoke for the Yeomanry now repeat arguments that began in Scarlet Brotherhood chambers.” “You suspect political influence.” “I suspect preparation. The Brotherhood need not conquer the Yeomanry if they can persuade it to wound itself. They will purchase officials, cultivate factions, encourage fear, and turn every local dispute into proof that the state is failing. When Loftwick weakens, they will offer allies, advisers, and solutions.” “For suitable consideration.” “For obedience.” The witchlights above them dimmed as the moonwillow’s branches stirred, though no wind passed through the room. Danye leaned forward. “The tome is bait, but Darius is not the only quarry. We watch who carries the rumor. Who suppresses it. Who bids, who steals, who threatens, and who warns another party away. We follow the money and the messages. Every reaction reveals a relationship.” “A web drawn by a book.” “A chessboard uncovered by one move.” Lysanthir traced the edge of the grey silk. “And when Darius reaches for your prize?” “We let him believe he has advanced.” “For how long?” “Long enough to expose the conspirators around him. Long enough to identify which officials in Loftwick are compromised and which merely foolish. When the network is visible, we separate its members from their allies. We place evidence in the proper hands. We force the Brotherhood’s agents to deny one another publicly.” “And Darius?” “We expose him at the moment when denying him causes the greatest harm to his patrons.” Lysanthir’s expression was thoughtful rather than shocked. In his trade, the age of a dagger mattered less than the identity of the hand bidding for it. “You intend to discredit the Brotherhood’s influence,” he said, “not simply prove it exists.” “Proof can be buried. Ridicule travels. If their allies are seen as traitors, they may become martyrs. If they are exposed as vain, greedy, and easily manipulated, they become liabilities. Loftwick must reject them before any court passes judgment.” “So the Yeomanry appears to cleanse its own house.” “The Yeomanry must cleanse its own house.” Lysanthir lifted the book and tilted it toward the witchlight. Fine marks appeared within the blue pigment—tiny sigils worked into the illuminated letters. His eyes narrowed appreciatively. The appeared to be a collections of treaties, letters and notes from a collection of authors, scientists, poets, philosophers, and so on; all on the same topic, spanning decades if not centuries, or even millennia. The grey elf looked across the table at the woman beneath the hood. Whatever he sought in her hidden face, he seemed to find it. “Publicly,” he said, “I shall describe the Lapis Philosophorum as the recovered jewel of the Suel Imperium, offered by a private owner through a broker of unimpeachable reputation.” “Naturally.” “Privately, I shall suggest that the owner does not understand the tome’s full significance.” “Good.” “To reputable collectors, I will emphasize its history. To sorcerers, its alleged formulas. To criminals, the possibility that legitimate buyers may be outbid before they know what they have lost.” “And to Darius?” “I will tell no one anything intended for Darius.” Lysanthir’s smile was as thin as a knife’s edge. “I shall tell three lesser men three different secrets and observe which one he learns.” Danye raised the untouched cup in acknowledgment, an acknowledgement of the trace and the idea. “When?” she asked. “The white market will hear of it within three days. The black market will believe it heard of it yesterday.” “You have earned your commission.” “We have not discussed my commission.” “If this succeeds, you will have first refusal on the antiquities seized from Darius’s possessions. And the full commission of the book sale.” Lysanthir became very still. “You know of his possessions?” “No, but im sure he has items of value.” “My dear Danye, you might have begun with that.” She stood. Once again, no one in the Elfstone appeared to see her move. “One warning,” she said. “Darius is patient. If he suspects a trap, he will sacrifice others to test it.” “Then we must ensure the trap resembles an opportunity.” “One more thing, the book has value to me as well. I fully intend to retrieve it at a later date,” Danye whispered. “and, all meetings shall be in a public place with private rooms if needed, to keep people…in their best behavior.” This time, his smile was genuine, and he nodded “Have you a place in mind”? The witchlights flickered. Her chair was empty, but her whisper lingered and faded with her shadow…”The Mermaid”. Lysanthir remained beneath the moonwillow, alone with his wine, his pears, and the impression of a book lost for hundreds of years. After a moment, he folded the parchment back into its grey silk and slipped it into the inner pocket of his coat. Around him, the Elfstone glittered with wealth and careless laughter. Noble houses traded gossip. Merchants weighed fortunes. Behind the waterfall, the musicians began a stately elven pavane. No one heard the first piece touch the board. But far beyond the Elfstone’s silver-veined walls, the long game for Loftwick had begun.