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“Just to be clear,“ Thilo asked Henrik, who was busy disassembling a chess clock with a precision so unsettling it reminded Thilo of entomologists dissecting specimens, “this won’t work, right?”
He set the little glass bottle down on the oak table very carefully. The contents puzzled him: white crumbs that looked like sea salt, fennel seeds, a nettle leaf, and a red piece of thread tied in a complicated knot. The bottle was corked and sealed with black wax.
Thilo wished he could consult the relevant specialist literature – this wasn’t something he’d seen, or even read about, before. And he had seen a lot. Still, no one had warned him that supervising a tournament might one day require a spell encyclopedia of the illicit kind.
His blood-brother, who had so far steadfastly ignored the screams coming from next door, looked up and pushed his long black hair behind his ears. Something heavy hit the wall, and Thilo cringed.
“That depends,” Henrik answered after squinting at the ingredients, “on what that is and what it is supposed to do. The way you’re handling it, I guess it’s not supposed to be a digestive charm.”
Thilo sighed. “You know what I mean. I found this under the seat of one of the players. Lethal or not?”
“Not unless you’re allergic to fennel or symbolism.” Henrik didn’t even pause in fiddling with the little brass gears and levers. “You want to get this to work, you’ll have to add rusty nails and piss.”
The screams were getting louder, and Thilo wiped sweat from his brow. Something splintered – a table, maybe, or someone’s dignity. His mouth went dry. He gritted his teeth. “Not. What. I. Was. Asking.”
Henrik grinned with the easy charm of a player announcing a mate in fifteen. “It’s probably from that shop on Dösbaddelstraat, the one that sells tinctures, rocks, and fake spells. Not even the crystals are real. Of course, the real deal might… look and smell less pretty. Apparently, some people pay a lot of attention to the aesthetic value of their death curses. No worries, you don’t have to understand it. I don’t understand it, either. Just think of it as abstract art and move on.”
“So.” Thilo said, breathing deeply. “All right. So, I can’t disqualify this guy for attempted murder. Good to know. But what do I do now? Henrik, can you please just once help me deescalate a situation before someone ends up with a rook embedded in their forehead?”
“My bet is on a bishop,” Henrik said, a hard glint in his eyes. “It’s pointier.” He handed over the clock that was now ticking again with smug regularity. Stood, adjusting the cuffs of his coat like someone preparing for battle.
Thilo’s stomach sank as he realized that was exactly what Henrik was doing. He gave Henrik a flat look. “You know perfectly well we can’t afford another incident on file. This is an important tournament. Please, please, don’t treat it like it’s a tavern brawl.”
“I don’t,” Henrik said, head tilted, all humor gone from his features. He laid a hand on Thilo’s shoulder, squeezing briefly. “Tavern brawls have rules. Let’s go.”