ARTIFACTS

by Raven Jennifer Demers

    A sour wind swirled around his elongated ears, sweeping up a few strands of his dark brown locks.  His eyes flashed down the length of the building on which he perched, shining with the reflected lights of the city below.  Pulling the hood over his face, he alighted from balcony to brick, to any surface on which his foot could find purchase.
    Lomilith stopped on a fire escape landing, his feet positioned gingerly upon the cold, rusty metal.  Arched against the stone wall, his ears flicked and turned to pick up the sounds within the room behind him.  Voices formed into intelligible words. He recognized the language as Assyrian.  Judging by sound alone, he estimated there were three men in the room: two humans conducting business, and a troll bodyguard overseeing the transaction.
    The first man spoke clearly, “With knowledge comes pride, with pride confidence.”
    The voice of the other human replied, “And so with God we meet.  This package contains all you have requested, and is securely sealed for the long journey. I assure you . . .“
    “Assure me by showing me you have delivered what we agreed upon.”
    Papers rustled as the trader opened the package.  There was a moment of silence, followed quickly by a rumbling growl resembling the congestion of an old tiger, the ominous sound of an unhappy troll.  
    Lomil kept his breath steady and shifted his foot in preparation for any action the troll might take, such as flinging the trader’s body through the stone wall against which Lomil stood.
    No carcass was thrown.  Instead, the disappointed human issued a threat to the trader, followed by the crisp sound of paper being wrapped.  Apologies were given, mingled with a quick cacophony of displeasure.  
    The trader said, “Sir, I promise you the other half will be retrieved immediately and those involved in its temporary loss will be swiftly punished for their misdeeds.”
Lomil risked looking through the window in time to see the gentleman placing his hat on his head, curling his arm around the package, and walking out, his sneering bodyguard in tow.
     Lomilith sniffed at the edge of the window. The rancid smell of sweat hit him. He studied the features of the trader—-the rapid rise and fall of his chest revealing his fright.  Memorizing every detail of the man’s face, Lomil knew he could find him in one of the local taverns later.  His choice of action was already made for him: follow the man and his troll.
In the street, he saw two shuffling figures leaving the building and heading discreetly to a sleek new car, hidden partially in an alleyway.   Lomil sped downward, gracefully alighting momentarily on whichever landing would hold him, until he reached the sidewalk.  Gliding smoothly on the balls of his feet, over the wet and gleaming street, he hid within the shadows of a building.  Obfuscated, he studied the vehicle and the features of its occupants.  His trained mind memorized make, model, and vehicle number, before the engine roared to life.  
    Slipping easily through the shadows, Lomil ran to his car, and tore the concealing hood off his face.  The ignition flared and headlights flashed on.  He sped off; one half of his attention focused on driving, while the other poured over outfits in a bag on the passenger seat.  He peeled the uniform from his torso like a second skin. His hair tickled the tops of his exposed shoulders; he passed the wheel from one hand to the other as he wriggled out of his clothes.  The tabi boots on his feet were kicked off one at a time, his feet alternating on the accelerator.  
    Lomil sat back and breathed a moment, naked and open to the air-conditioning hitting him with icy force, as he raced after his goal through the late night streets of downtown Seattle.  Inside his bag, he found a black turtle neck and pushed himself into it as he continued his pursuit.  Matching black slacks made their way up his legs, and he fastened them at his waist.  With one hand, he slipped on brown leather boots, followed by a dark brown duster, and the finishing touch—-an obscure silver amulet—-to add to his mystical appearance.  His weaving pace along the road caused more than a few drivers to swerve to avoid him.
    Laughing to himself, he considered how drab he would appear to the club goers-—the flashy society that had sprung up in recent years.  Even now, he could see them as he drove—-the lithe women with tiger stripes along their bodies, expertly tattooed to create the ultimate illusion which kept others guessing whether they were truly the were-creatures they marked themselves to be.  Then there were the neon kids: illuminated by glowing nails, vibrant contact lenses, and luminescent tattoos that were only seen in the darkness of alleyways and dance halls.  
    He returned his focus to the two men he pursued. Their destination was a small and exclusive retreat for wealthy men, too old or proud to entertain at the bouncing nightclubs the teenagers frequented.  
    Lomil pulled his hair back tightly, and tied it with a few strips of leather.  He muttered a short incantation, causing his features to shiver and change.  Feathers streamed down past his hair. As he stepped out from his car, they fluttered lightly in the breeze.  
    Lomil, ready to play his part, stepped up to the door of the establishment with a striking command of his surroundings.  The doorman recognized his persona and bowed as he welcomed him in, “Good evening, Sir Tylith, your usual table is available tonight.”  Lomil slipped him a credit note and the doorman smiled gratefully, knowing without looking his tip was more than a usual night’s earnings.  
    Taking his seat as Sir Caland Tylith, Lomil ordered a drink and a small appetizer.  No one noticed his keen observation of a gentleman sitting at a corner table—-his troll standing at attention behind him.  As Lomil studied their actions, his enhanced hearing picked up small parts of their conversation.  He knew their names.  The man was Galemir, and the troll, Mebring.  Their whispers confirmed what he already knew; the object they had apprehended was the Assyrian artifact the elves had lost track of six centuries before.  
    Only half of it was in this man’s possession, which made its magik useless.  Lomil smiled to himself at how easy this retrieval would be. The artifact posed no threat to his claiming it, when it was in two separate pieces. He let his thoughts trail off, settling back and appearing unaware, when Mebring walked up to him, frowning. (Did trolls never smile?)  Lomilith looked up at him, and raised an eyebrow to question the troll’s interruption.  
    Lomil waited for a statement, staring down the giant and deformed man. Mebring growled at him, and a stench hit Lomilith’s keen nose. He wrinkled it for condescending emphasis.  At last, the troll announced, “Mastuh sez you gotta come have talk.”
    Keeping his calm, aloof nature about him, Lomil looked up and asked, “Who is your Master, beast?”
    Mebring, ignoring the insult, pointed with a fat finger, and a long outstretched appendage, to the gentleman Lomil had been following.  “Him.”
    “Then tell your Master, that if he wishes to speak with me, he will come here himself and sit at my table.”
    The troll could only grumble at this, as he knew it was useless to try and out-stubborn an elf.  Mebring returned to Galemir who, upon hearing the news, scowled briefly at Lomil, yet walked to his table nonetheless.  
    Lomil sat back, his eyes never faltering from the human who waited for his oaf of a servant to adjust the seat to his liking before sitting down.
Galemir smiled sharply and became serious in his mannerisms.  He began to speak, “Sir Tylith, I have brought the item you requested, but there were some issues . . .“
Lomil cut him off, “What issues?”
    The aged human did his best to hide any tremors of fear, and responded, “It seems half of the artifact was . . . misplaced.”  He cleared his throat with delicacy, but could not prevent beads of perspiration from forming along his brow.  
    Under the guise of Caland Tylith, the young elf scrutinized the face of the dealer, holding his gaze steadily.  His voice almost a growl, he reminded the human, “You know very well it has no use in only half its form.  Find the other piece. Until then, you will not receive full payment.”
    Galemir nodded in obeisance, and slid a small package wrapped securely in a cream-colored cloth toward Lomil.  With simple grace, Lomil picked it up and pocketed it.  He stood, with sweeping elegance, and dropped a card onto the table. Galemir snatched it up greedily, swiftly pressing his thumb to the pad to find how many credits were stored on the note.  
    A smirk played on Lomil's lips as he drove from the downtown area.  He took out the package, unwrapping it with the fingers of one hand.  Holding the artifact securely to the wheel, he brought a small silver case from the floor of the passenger seat.  Unlocking it with a quick voice command, he placed the newly-acquired artifact in the open space beside its matching half.  He sped through the dark streets, laughing.

 2003-05-04, copyright Raven Jennifer Demers