Ficlets

“My money?” it said.

“Let us see these plans.”

It laughed, and produced a large scroll. I saw Qillion’s face betray surprise; I surely had the same expression when I first learned the Akindra have an approximation of writing. They write but it says nothing, I’ve learned—lacking the wit to write about the Prophetess or The Maker, they scribble vulgar inventions. Sometimes they even write of their dead and their alleged deeds, not knowing this will chain two of the decedent’s souls to this world, leaving the third soul alone when it arrives in Muahr. The price, I suppose, of a short lifespan and poor memory.

I reached for the scroll. It whipped it back, that unpleasant excuse for a smile on its face. “Money?”

“These are the plans?”

“Of course.”

“Why should we pay for what we already have?”

I expected its face to change, but the dolt was too stupid to know it was being betrayed. I was disappointed: the look I expected was the sole reason I’d accepted this distasteful mission, and now I was being cheated.