Writing and Stuff by Anthony Chatfield

He had an amulet in his hands when he came into the room – one the color of blood – the kind that always comes from a mine in the dirtied badlands of the barbarians or some such exotic locale. It was the kind of thing I had only seen a couple of times in my life, even in the city and though I originally had the niggling thought that it might be a counterfeit, I quickly dispatched my concerns when I saw how it shimmered in the candle light. It was magnificent. 

He, however was not. Riddled with scars and a tuft of greasy, disheveled hair that barely covered the left side of his face, he looked as though he had rolled out of a rubbish heap and not bothered to clean out his teeth, or much of anything else, yet. Of course, he was a liar and a thief but the beauty of the amulet had my attention and I didn’t care.

And when he told me that it was the property of my family – that it had been stolen from the tomb of a Royal Prince and his family by my father in his youth, when he was still making his own fortune – I was mortified. I never stopped to think that his story might be false. My attendants worried their hands and tried to get my attention, but the feverish chill of inherited shame took hold of me and I agreed to whatever the man wanted. He promised me the amulet for the money he needed to fund his next excursion – to a dig site in the southwestern mines of Williance – the ones the royal family had abandoned more than a century ago. I gave him everything and was told I would see him again in two months time. 

Three months passed and nothing happened. My concerns over the amulet had long since been waylaid by the reassertion of my friends and family that I had been the victim of a scam artist – the kind that would spend a fortune to trick a noble in the hopes of doubling that fortune. I was not pleased, but I had learned my lesson and had long since stopped inviting the men and women of the world into my chambers to show me their treasures. 

I took the advice of my parents and left the city for a fortnight – spending the time in a country cottage owned by my grandparents on an island south of here. I relaxed, listened to the nimble fingers of a bard chosen for me by a dear friend, and read. It was a relaxing holiday, but it did not last nearly long enough. I returned to the city just a few days ago and I learned just how dangerous that man had been…or at least how dangerous someone assumed him to be. 

chatfielda My Fiction blog novel, Brutus weaver, online fiction