8 August 1062 P.E.
Gladiator Row, Darnan
Brand woke up the next morning slumped in his chair, heavy tome splayed out on his lap. He groaned. Mornings weren’t kind to him on a good day, but after a night spent on Stamina and sleeping in a chair, he figured he’d be lucky to stand up straight by the end of the week.
He limped down to breakfast.
Mrs. James was waiting for him, newspaper arrayed in front of her as she ate porridge with fruit. She smiled, but said nothing, only pointing to Brand’s meal and turning back to her paper.
For the millionth time, Brand was grateful to her for understanding and not speaking before he’d eaten. He downed the tall glass of cold water set beside his plate first, then half of the glass of red juice. Then he attacked the eggs, toast, and fruit.
Mrs. James waited until after Brand had polished off his second glass of juice and piled his plate high with more eggs and fruit before launching into her morning chatter.
“You’re all over the front page,” she remarked, turning the newspaper so he could see. “I had to go all the way to page four to find my gossip column.”
“I’ll be sure to figure out who to speak to about that eventually,” Brand mumbled through his food.
“I’ll be out doing my errands for most of this morning. Will you be able to manage for a few hours?”
“Somehow I’ve never managed to burn down the house yet. Though I do try.”
“Don’t be smart. It’s unbecoming.”
“I thought you loved my intelligence.”
“Enough! I’ll be back by noon. Stay out of trouble until then.”
“Yes, mother.”
Mrs. James rolled her eyes and stood, rolled up the newspaper, and whacked Brand across the head with it.
“One of these days, you might find a girl to marry, and you’ll have to find some way not to be so waspish in the morning.”
“I doubt that will be an issue. By the time I find her, she’ll be an old wasp in the morning right along with me.”
Mrs. James left in an exasperated huff.
Brand spent the better part of the next two days in his lab, mixing, distilling, cooking, and fermenting until at last, he had ten crystal vials, each the size of his forefinger, filled with ten separate elixirs.
He reached over to a tiny chest of drawers no bigger than a jewelry box. From one of the drawers, he pulled out a set of incredibly small vials, only as long as his fingernail and barely thicker. He also pulled out an invention of his that looked like a very thick pen, with space to load a regular-sized vial and an impossibly thin glass pipette where the tip of the pen ought to be. The apothecary had helped him with the glass parts.
Brand loaded the contraption with the first vial, Adrenaline, and placed the spout into the mouth of the first tiny vial. He pressed a button on its side. Orange decoction oozed out and dripped into the smaller vial. When it was nearly full, Brand took his thumb off the button, stopping the flow. Then he gingerly set the mechanical pipette down on the bench and picked up a jar of clear fluid, and with a clean, simple glass pipette, squeezed a few droplets of the clear liquid into the vial. Finally, he capped the vial with a smudge of paraffin wax and turned it end over end a few times to mix the two liquids. Then he pulled out another tiny vial and repeated the process, continuing until there was no more Adrenaline elixir remaining in the larger vial.
He continued to the next elixir, Armor, a dark blue liquid that would need to remain hot for the next twelve hours. He worked his way through each elixir until he had an organized array of diminutive vials and an empty pile of larger ones.
“Mr. Brand?” Mrs. James’s tinny voice came from the brass horn. “You asked for a reminder when it was half past four.”
“Yes, thank you, Mrs. James,” he replied in a muffled voice.
The timing was perfect. He could finish up here, eat dinner, wash up, and be out the door with plenty of time to get over to the bar to meet his kashmari master.
Brand carefully wiped the residue from each empty vial and the mortar, then with a new cloth wiped down the bench. He lit the rags with a piece of wood from the brazier, then pulled off his protective clothing and hung them on their pegs. He glanced over at the miniature vials, wiped the sweat off his brow, and smiled in satisfaction. Tomorrow’s fight was already won.
