[Lords of the Edge] One Cool Cat

In the darkened alleyway between two towering edifices, rain drifting through and dripping off the overhangs, two figures gathered, shoulders hunched, cloak collars turned up high.

“So,” the first figure asked. “I understand you have some… goods for me.”

“Come off it Jericho, and take your damn cats in,” the second figure replied, levitating a large box which whined softly. “It’s pissing it down.”

Jericho sighed. “Oh well. I suppose a little drama is too much to ask for a Lord of the Edge. Come on in.”

He turned his rain cloak with a touch too much flair, revealing a carmine lining that momentarily brightened the grey scene, and opened a door beside him. The two half-elfs headed down the flight of stairs within, crate floating behind. Another door - this one marked Staff Only - and Jericho turned again and patted a countertop.

“Just here, Zorthon. Let’s get these poor creatures settled into their new home.”

Zorthon flicked a hand and the crate smoothly came to rest on the table. A second flick split open the front and a flock of small ravens waddled slowly out, moving cautiously and more than a little oddly.

As Jericho raised an eyebrow the rain-soaked mage raised a hand to stop the next remark. “A bunch of raven familiars is a great cover, all right?” With a third and final flick, Zorthon dispelled his transmutation, and the crows suddenly shifted into a pile of confused kittens of different shades and patterns.

“There you all are!” Jericho exclaimed delightedly. “I’ve got some people who are just desperate to meet you, but first - maybe some acclimatisation.” He opened another door and after a moment a couple of full grown cats entered the room, one grey, one calico. Following the mewing of the almost dozen kittens, they leapt up onto the table and began inspecting them all, tiny cats gathering around them.

As Jericho watched the cats, enraptured, Zorthon coughed awkwardly. “Lovely. Do we have any other business, or can I leave you to tend to Gadenthor’s depraved?”

Shaken out of his feline reverie, the older man snapped his attention to his junior colleague, smile broadening further on his face. “Actually yes, dear Zorthon. I was hoping to pick your brains before you go. Can I treat you to a pastry?”

“Sure,” came the slow reply, eyes narrowing as he followed Jericho up to his office.

It was too opulent. Gems encrusted the wrong things - a sturdy brass candlestick next to a heavily bejewelled match box. The desk had a burnt orange fringe around its top edge, and there was a solid gold wind chime hanging in the corner of the room, despite being deep underground. A full-length mirror framed in gold stood in another corner, apparently to ensure Jericho never left the office without looking his best.

A teapot and two cups filled with a bright red liquid were already sitting on a small table next to the sofa with about six cushions more than was appropriate. Zorthon sat, cautiously. He had never been into the Joy Magician’s office before, but it screamed of madness and worse, poor taste. He went to pick up a cup and did a small double-take. The cup and the teapot were made of a delicate choux pastry - the contents of the cup apparently some kind of fruit filling.

“Is it… cake?” Zorthon asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Close enough,” his host assured. “Jones down in the kitchen just does wonders with pastry and this is one of her latest triumphs. It’s quite remarkable.”

Zorthon nodded and gently picked up a cup, afraid it was about to collapse, though it proved quite sturdy.

“We never get to talk, you and I,” Jericho complained, sitting down next to his nervous guest, and pouring more jam into his cup. “Why do you think that is?”

“Different lives? Different circles I suppose,” Zorthon ventured - aiming for non-committal but barely hiding his dislike of the other half-elf.

“Too true,” he nodded. If he detected the bile, he didn’t show it. “Nicholas keeps you so busy down there, tucked away in his corner of the Edge. Do you get to step out much, to make deliveries like this?”

“Mainly for larger or… complicated packages.” And then, trying to move the conversation away from himself. “How’s business at the cafe?”

“Oh beautiful, beautiful,” Jericho beamed a proud smile, openly, guilelessly. His cape had changed Zorthon noticed - immediately dried out and now a baby blue rather than black. It was simple glamour work, but he hadn’t even noticed when it happened, which surprised him. It was only brought to his attention now as it twitched, and the Joy Magician grinned as he pulled out one of the kittens, holding it up in one hand and fussing over it as he continued.

“Everyone wants to spend afternoons in cafes, it’s what the afternoon is for! Add a little sugar,” he raised the kitten again. “Add a little spice,” he indicated towards the ceiling this time, at how deep underground they were. “And Toe Beans has to turn customers away every day!”

“The worst kept secret in Gadenthor,” Zorthon quoted.

“Exactly! Besides which,” Jericho continued animatedly, taking a large drink of his jam-filled cup mid-sentence. “Give people the pretence of anonymity and put a kitten on their table, and they’ll talk about anything. It’s very profitable I must say.”

“People really say that much in there?” Zorthon asked, shaking his head while biting into his own snack.

“Oh, give people the illusion of safety and well, I’m sure Nicholas could tell you all about that.”

The younger mage nodded his acknowledgement reluctantly. “Heard anything good lately?”

“Tons! Everyday! The Matriarchs of Outbinders are arguing over the nature of gemstones in rituals. Personally, I think if something makes the ritual look better, why ever opt for drab?” Jericho started listing things out on fingers as he talked.

“The terrestrial Kingdom of Cormyr is rallying troops against some great threat from the Hells, but frankly I’m not sure that’s news.

Yonnul Curlfoot and Quinth the Studious are trying to outdo each other in summoning the grandest Elemental. I expect the Eastern Park to be either flooded or burnt by the new moon.

And one particularly proud young lady was delighted to share how she’d recently come into possession of the Iron Statuette of Violent Death.”

Zorthon froze. Jericho’s sunny expression did not change.

“It’s funny,” the Joy Magician continued in that same bright tone. “Because I understood that the statuette was delivered to the Metir Syndicate in Calimport, no? Perhaps they sold it back here.”

Zorthon gaped. “Jericho, I – it’s not what it looks like.”

“It isn’t? Well that’s a relief, because it looks like you stole from the Lords of the Edge and missed a payment to one of our allies, though I assume you covered that with some trickery or other. To do what? To get a better price to line your own pockets? Or those of your allies?”

“I truly hope I have misunderstood, Zorthon,” Jericho continued, sighing as he pulled a vial out from his pocket. “So I can give you this antidote to the poison in your system.”

Zorthon’s eyes, already wide with fear, now nearly burst from his head, and he looked down at the table. His cup was entirely gone, it had been incredible pastry - while Jericho’s cup was still there. He’d drunk the jam, but not taken a bite out of the cup at all.

He lunged, flashing blinding light out of one hand causing Jericho to flinch and cover his eyes. Zorthon grabbed the vial and downed it in a smooth motion, then stood up triumphant, hand crackling with his next spell.

He began backing up towards the door. “Now I’m going to walk out of here, Joy Magician, or I’ll bring your whole café down around your head.”

“You’re welcome to, my dear, though you’re being awfully rude,” Jericho pouted. “You’ll want to clear your schedule for mourning though. Most of your confederates are already dead.”

For the second time, Zorthon froze. Jericho laughed richly. “You all really thought that you could knock the Lords of our perch with a few shadowy moves? Oh I’m afraid you’ll have to do much better than that. Much better. You have no subtlety, no style. You can’t even outwit a simple game of Poison or Antidote. The answer of course was neither, what you just drank was much more potent.

The treacherous young half-elf tried to move and when he couldn’t, looked down. His legs were petrifying from the feet up. The spell died on his fingers as they too began to turn to stone. “You wouldn’t - you couldn’t - you run a cat café!”

Jericho gently placed down the kitten onto the table and patted its head one more time before standing, taking his time. “Then let me tell you, Zorthon, the very last lesson you’ll ever learn: Never underestimate the caterers. Now,” he stood before his petrifying prey, and grinned, eyes twinkling with a mixture of mirth and malice. “I’ve picked out a nice spot in the Eastern Park for you. So… strike a pose!”

And for a third and very final time, Zorthon froze.