Philip Athans - Realms of Mystery

At this point, I can hear the reader saying to him- or herself, “Aha! some fell tome of magic, wrested from some elder crypt.” Actually the book I was reading had been penned the previous spring by an aspiring young author, Allison Rodigar-Glenn, published by Tyme-Waterdeep, and sold by the august offices of Aurora’s mail-order catalog. It was a historical mystery book, or “mysthricals” as they were called, and I must confess I could not get enough of them.

“I say, this Miss Rodigar-Glenn pens an excellent tome,” I commented to Ampratines, my djinni and personal manservant.

“If you say so, sir,” responded the djinni, replacing my expired drink with a fresh one. “I wouldn’t know.”

For a creature as large as Ampratines was he moved with a silence and a grace that were almost as valuable as his drink serving abilities. He was, of course, the tallest being in the room, tipping the yardstick at ten feet and change. However, he was dressed not in the flowing desert robes so common to his kind, but rather a respectable and immaculate servant’s jacket and trousers, with an unfilled shirt beneath. The most remarkable thing about him-other than being a powerful native of the plane of elemental air, which is remarkable enough-is his head. I swear its larger than most others of his breed, if for no other reason than to contain the masterful brains within. There are greater treasures beneath his broad forehead than beneath all the domes in Calimshan, and his visage is more sage than any vizier’s.

However, while Ampratines remains one of the most puissant of the air elementals I have ever met, he has an unfortunate tendency to under appreciate much of the culture of this plane of existence. This marked disdain for the more interesting things in life often creates rifts in our otherwise illustrious relationship.

“No, I’m not jesting,” I said, perhaps a little too loudly, for a few heads in the drawing room turned our way. “These mystoricals are filled with derring-do and secrets revealed and all manner of goodly material. The stuff of adventures and heroes, with a fine eye to the details. This current mystorical centers around ‘Who Put the Galoshes in Madame Milani’s Stew?’”

“Riveting,” said Ampratines, who set the remains of my early-afternoon cocktail down on the tray, “I can understand why they are so popular, with such deep subject material.”

“Joke not,” said I, “This is classic stuff. Miss RodigarGlenn is a master at her craft.”

“It is my understanding,” said Ampi, “that Miss Rodigar-Glenn is really an entire family of halflings living in the basement of the Tyrne-Waterdeep building, churning these books out at a clip of one a week.”

“Churning? Churning?” I said indignantly. “These books are obviously not churned. They are lovingly crafted and carefully scribed. They speak to the heart of the matter, as it were.”

“If you say so, sir,” responded Ampi, with that resigned sigh that never fails to infuriate me. It bothers me greatly that such a big-brained djinni as Ampratines would be so small-minded at times. “These books do have one advantage, sir,” he said.

“And that is?”

“Why you are reading about them,” said the djinni, “You have less of a tendency to go out and do anything dangerous.”

I scowled up at the djinni, looking for some sign of humor. As usual, that response was missing from Ampi’s stony features. Instead I said, again a trifle too loudly, “I believe another shipment of books is coming in today at Aurora’s. You will check this out and retrieve them. Else I might just go out and do something. And don’t think I’m not capable of something adventurous.”

If it were possible for a djinni to deflate in defeat, Ampi would be leaking air at that moment, “As you wish, sir.” And with that he wafted out, as silent as a church patriarch leaving a festhall past midnight.

I don’t remember muttering aloud to myself about Ampi’s lack of good taste, good sense, and a goodly amount of other attributes, but I probably did so. I tried to fling myself back into the book, but was interrupted by another voice, this one soft and sweet and gentle. A sudden ray of light in the darkened drawing room of the Wyvern.

“Did you mean that?” said the voice, in a tone that was halfway between a crystal bell and a silver dinner chime.

I looked up from Madame Milani’s Stew and into wide, open eyes of the purest sky blue. It took a few seconds to recognize that the eyes were set into a heart-shaped face, marked by a button nose hovering above a trembling set of bee-stung lips. The entire assemblage of facial features was framed by curled locks of honey blond hair.

I must have gurgled something along the lines of “excuse me?” though I could not be sure. She repeated, “Did you mean what you said about being a capable adventurer?”

The components of my brain, shattered by her beauty, quickly scrambled to re-combine into a generally operating form. Fortunately, Waterdhavian manners do not require an operating brain, and I was already on my feet, taking the young lady’s offered hand and bowing deeply while I re-gathered my wits. My brain was just catching up with my mouth as I said, “Tertius Wands of Water-deep, capable adventurer and world traveler, at your service.

Actually my brain wanted to say “I said I was capable and adventurous, but not necessarily a capable adventurer.” But brains are like that, coming up with the right thing to say right after you’ve said something completely different.

“Drusilla. Drusilla Vermeer,” she said simply, replying with a perfunctory curtsey and almost stumbling in the process. At once I leaned forward to steady her, and caught the scent of honeysuckle in bloom. She seemed faint and I walked her to the chair facing mine. The ultimate gentleman, I offered her my untouched drink. She sniffed at the mixture (one of Ampi’s specialties), then waved it aside with a delicate hand.

“Sorry, so sorry,” she said, even the wrinkle of concern that lined her eyes making her all the more beautiful. “I shouldn’t bother you, really, but I need a capable adventurer for a matter of some delicacy.”

I returned to my seat and nodded, then half-turned to order Ampi for some hot tea or some other suitable nostrum. But of course the djinni had already left for my new shipment of books, so I turned back to the young and beautiful Drusilla.

“I fear I’ve done a terrible, terrible thing,” she said, “And I need someone to help me.”

“There, there,” said I, unsure of what the terrible thing was, but confident that it would be no more than a lost pet or a misplaced locket.

“My family is one of the investing households that provides capital for the various traders. I was entrusted with a family keepsake, an amber box containing an heirloom belonging to my great, great grandmother.” She pulled out a lace handkerchief at this point and held it to her lips. I wondered if she was going to go to pieces entirely. In a small voice she said, “Its about three inches on a side, like a cube. I’m afraid I’ve lost it.”

I nodded, and realized I was nodding altogether too much, “How did you Jose-”

“I was such a fool!” she sobbed, “I was careless. I shouldn’t have trusted…“ She snuffled again, and even her snuffling was musical and sweet. “The fact remains that I lost it, and it is my responsibility to get the box back. It is very important!” She buried her lovely face in the handkerchief.

“So,” I said, reprising the situation so far. “You’ve lost the family thingummy, an amber box. You need to find the box, and need a capable adventurer to retrieve it.” This was the sort of thing the heroes of Miss RodigarGlenn would say. Repeating exactly what someone has just told you in hopes of gaining more information.