Swords & Heroes Story #22

The Black Mongoose by Jasiah Witkofsky

May 06, 2025

Jasiah’s storytelling style is extravagant and descriptive! His first person narrator and MageThief - Adajahl - can weave creative spells as well as gripping tales. And the realm’s bravest risk-taker does it with such style and aplomb! This is actually the fourth such adventure I’ve published, the first of which, “The Brazier of Bustazi” appeared in the special Sword & Sorcery edition of my other project, ResAliens (Double Issue 8&9). Subsequent stories (the first being part of a trilogy of standalone tales) appeared in Issue 10 and Issue 11. Jasiah’s fantasy artwork graces the cover of Issue 12 which includes his essay on the history of fantasy. As you can see, I’m a fan. I hope you become one too. + Ed.

‘The Black Mongoose’ by Jasiah Witkofsky

The night’s mission I have been sent to fulfil is one that shall test all my skills and resources, for I have been hired to extract the Orb of Olimazan from the halls of the Violet Vizier.

The Purple Priestess, Valouria Thal of the WoodReef Coast is one of seven aristocrats, the last and only foreign-born oligarch that rules under Grand Royal Khaliphah, Jho’el the Fierce, the Lion. Only once before have I breached one of the Minarets housing the Overlords, and that was with the magical assistance of one of the Grand Mages.

Tonight, I am on my own.

Elongating my enchanted sash to a sizable length, I twirl the cloth into a tight wrap and snake the cord to the nearest ledge. Whipping the makeshift rope to grapple the jutting masonry, I jerk the fabric taut and wave the weave allowing it to reel me up to the opening. Balancing precariously upon the sill, I fish out a pick and dagger to pry and wedge loose the lattice grate shielding the portal. On my toes to allow the crossbars room to swivel out silently, I trust my weight on the hinges and pivot about the ironworks to enter the interior of the tower.

Escalating the stairwell, I take in the exotic murals that curve around the stonewalls – colorful abstracts of lush landscapes dotted with wild animals peeking through the foliage of lands south of the Sapphire Sea. Nearing the top of the conical structure, I peek my eyes above floor level to view a single door guarded on both sides by twin statues of crudely carved BogLions of Bloodsap wood with amethyst eyes.

Fanning out my sash to a width I find suitable, I raise my upper body through the opening and fling my waistband over the heads of both sculptures. With the jeweled gazes of the sculptures covered, I ascend the final steps and duck my ramshackle drapery to interact with the barred doorway. Rifling through my lockpicks yet again, I delicately probe into the bull’s head knob, careful not to make a sound.

An inability to disengage the barrier draws another tiny metallic barb into my offhand. When this gesture provides additional failure, I resort to a greater chicanery. Shaping the arcane mudra upon my lefthand for the appropriate spell, I transmorph a simple metallic implement into an all-cleaving tool able to melt through the densest of materials. Burning through the elaborate contraption, I shoulder softly into the inner realms of Valouria Thal, the Violet Vizier.

Toe to heel, toe to heel, I slink my way into the private chambers of the Purple Priestess by the scant light of night. Crouching low, I give my eyes time to adjust to the darkness of the unlit room appearing far larger than the scope the pinnacle of the tower could truly allow for. Taking in the maze of pedestals dotting the circumference haphazardly strewn about the confines, I spot a four-post bed on the far side, swathed in gossamer silks.

Creeping forth, I fan my gaze across the plethora of trophies upon staggered stands arising from the ground like a grove of tree stumps. Spotting a milky globe upon one such pillar, pastel smears swirling upon its surface, I dance light steps towards my goal, ever wary of the resting place of a Magi with far greater magical capacities than myself.

My ginger strides are broken by the darting form of some dark, zigzagging rodent streaking alongst the floor. Freezing on spot, sensitive to any stimuli large or small, I halt to swiftly calculate the variables of the situation. Is this some familiar rushing forth to warn its master of my intrusion? Is this a feral beast seeking flesh for a meal? Is this another thief out to snatch purchase of my prize? All I know is time runs short as each moment grows ever more precious.

After several breaths lasting a lifetime, I break from my self-imposed paralysis to finalize my assignment, paying no further heed to the pest that raced across my path vanishing in the darkness. Shifting from pedestal to pedestal, I sneak my way to the orb hovering a finger’s width above its post where I am now close enough to perceive the outline of the sleeping Priestess. With a quick swipe, I scoop the pearlescent bauble into my satchel, completely ignorant of the object’s true power.

Glancing over my shoulder, I nearly blurt out in astonishment as I behold a shadowy silhouette straddling the comatose Vizier with a dagger gripped in both hands above the prone Priestess. Instinct takes over, forgetting the task at hand as I lunge through the filmy gauze, tackling the intruder with murderous intent. Wrestling with the lithe figure upon the wooden floor, I manage to disarm my opponent before they squirm free from my clutches like a viper greased in oil.

Lights flash on throughout the room, and I find myself facing a being dressed in black pantaloons and tight wraps that swathe the upper body and covering their mouth. Over their head, a mammalian mask of fur trailing down the back ends in a broad, grey-ringed tail. This is how I know I stand against the fabled Black Mongoose, greatest assassin of the land. Drawing blades from concealed sheaths in backhanded grips, the darksome figure circles in combative steps seeking a gap in my defenses.

From the corner of my eye, I glimpse a female’s willowy shape through the veils of her bed watching our standoff in a dispassionate and unmoved manner. Taking advantage of my lapse in focus, the hired killer dives at my abdomen to rend the guts free from my torso. Springing back from the vicious attack, I unleash my scimitar to fend off the assassin’s black-steel blades. My opponent is fast, faster than myself and by their low, intricate stances I can see they have undergone intense training in the arts martial whereas I learned to fight on the mean streets of Mezzarahain. Despite their superiority in speed and skill, my longer weapon manages to stave off any damage meant upon my person.

When our wild and deadly dance reaches the peak of reckless abandon and my sword topples one of the treasure-bearing stands, the Overlord rises to put an end to the desecration of her bedchambers.

“Enough! I shall not have ye ruining my household!”

The authority in her voice turns both our heads, but my combatant recovers first. Throwing one dagger at me and one at the Purple Priestess, the Black Mongoose dons their mask, transforming into its namesake in the blink of an eye before spilling out the closest window with blurring celerity. The Vizier manages to halt the knife’s momentum aimed at her breast with a tug of the shawls draped about her place of rest while I am barbed near the shoulder by my foe’s cruel dart. Looking up from the blade protruding numbly from my flesh, my eyes lock onto Valouria’s, her regal hand pointing ominously in my direction.

Wrenching the assassin’s blade from my arm, I turn tail and dodge past the oaken posts to barge through the breached doorway. Tearing my pavonine sash from the heads of the sculpted lions, I lunge off the stairwell with the billowing fabric trailing my descent. Catching air, the enchanted cloth balloons out to ease the momentum of my plummet. Drifting down like a palm leaf on a lazy wind, my slow, lackadaisical fall is hastened once more when a heavy weight lands square upon my back like a load of tiles, driving me to the tower’s floor in a thundering crash.

Unable to rise with the pressing bulk pinning me to the ground, I raise my addled head to view the Purple Priestess standing before me, enchanted BogLion by her side. A wave of her hand and the other lion rolls off my backside to take its place beside its mistress and twin. Retaining what dignity I can salvage, I pick myself off the slates, swiping dust from my chest as I face the chatelaine.

If my skin is burnt ochre, hers is the color of the fertile river soil that nourishes our luscious gardens. Dressed in a sheer gown of mauve doing little to conceal her tall and curvaceous outline, the Vizier looks much the part of a jungle Queen, and maybe she is one. Her beaded braids rattle gently as she glances between me and the Mongoose’s dagger in her hand, stained black and tipped with blood from sinking into the hinge of my arm.

“I believe ye have something of mine, Mage-a-Thief.”

Her accent is thick and commanding in its lack of emotion. Reluctantly, I fish out the orb from my bag, glowering sourly that I must relinquish my prize – a damning mar upon my standing as greatest thief in the realm. Hiding my shame, I lower my head, taking a knee before the Priestess to offer back her pilfered possession in some semblance of humility.

“I have been caught. You have bested me in this game of cat and mouse, and I am now forced to return that which I have been sent to retrieve from your trove of wonders. Do with me as you wish, but if I am to be dispatched, may it be swift and in a manner befitting the crime.”

Staring hard and cold at me, Valouria Thal bursts into a peal of deep, booming laughter reverberating throughout her cylindrical abode. “Oh now, please retain yer feet, ye melodramatic scamp.” She takes the Orb of Olimazan from my clutches and motions for me to rise, her guardian pets glowering with hard jeweled eyes. “Ye may have repaid yer transgression by thwarting the aims of the vermin seeking to end my life…”

I stand before the Oligarch with no choice but hear out her interrogations. “So, tell me Thief, who sent ye to enter my home for the sake of burglary?” Keeping tight-lipped, my inquisitor shrugs and relents to my stubbornness. “Very well, honor amongst thieves and all, I understand. In fact, yer noble stance to protect ye contractor I find most admirable, the very quality I appreciate most in a thrall. Therefore, let me propose an undertaking we may both find beneficial… But first let me take care of that cut, for ye have been poisoned. No healer am I, so me magic might burn a bit. Brace yerself.”

Dressed in the uniform of the Violet Vanguard, I direct the Minaret’s soldiers and hired craftsmen to reinforce the barricades of the tower, for who better than an expert larcenist to hamper the infiltrations of likeminded ne’er-do-wells, staying one step ahead of the burglars and scoundrels seeking entry into the chambers of one of Mezzarahain’s highest officials. Replacing the locking mechanism to the master bedroom I disengaged upon entry and redoubling the watch, I scour my mind to dissuade ones such as myself, the greatest thief, and the Black Mongoose, the greatest assassin, from entering the confines of the Purple Priestess. Forgoing any extraneous or personal duties that may run contrary to my current assignment, regardless of previous engagements and prior agreements, I fling myself full bore into my newfound endeavors. Legitimate work for the first time in my life.

While the Viziers gather in the Grand Palace of the Khaliphah to deliberate machinations over the realm, I mull over the encounter with our nameless nemesis and the tales spread far and wide about the legendary death dealer. The first time I heard of the Black Mongoose was during the Purge of the Potentiates. The death of the previous ruler of the final Minaret was an open secret, with the other six Overlords doing their best to conceal the cause of the Vizier’s sudden demise, but the truth quickly leaked onto the streets of the Jeweled City of the Oligarch’s murder.

The elusive assassin then sent a bolt through the forerunner for the seventh seat nullifying the favored choice for succession. Since then, all unlikely deaths of any officials or wealthy merchants have been attributed to the deadly wiles of the Mongoose.

When the exotic Valouria Thal claimed her role as Purple Priestess, over-crafty and intelligent Zasha Banall, shrewd and ambitious Malachara, and the ever-calculating wiles of Tyrakabi il Aleon were all suspected of hiring the silent killer vying for the venerated position, but with what just occurred in her own chambers, that theory now seems most unlikely in the case of the current ruler.

The influx of warriors and workers into the employ of the Violet Vizier brought additional specialists from all over the realm, especially since this was the year Valouria was to host the Dance of the Desert Rose – the festival heralding the onset of Springtime. Malla the décor coordinator, Tavi the cook, Ne’hil the builder, and a horde of servants bowed to assist in both reinforcements and preparations. This did not make my job any easier, but I have a good eye for faces and a sharp ear for names, so I stifle any complaints.

Directing any lost servitors and frisking down those allowed entry into the private rooms, I has to chuckle at the reversal in roles where not so long ago it was I evading the authorities and sneaking illicit goods past guards. But who bests a thief to spot another rogue, especially with my vast connections throughout the underworld. Now, please don’t misunderstand me. I shall never betray my brethren in crime, but I will not permit them to take advantage of the Violet Vizier while she is under my watch. Not after she could have made a tasty feast of me for her hand-carved felines.

So, I stand vigil, arms crossed and stance broad, doing my utmost to keep a stern expression from cracking into a smile over the preposterous situation I find myself embroiled in.

The first day of Spring blossoms and the gates of the inner courtyard are thrown open for all, be they pauper or cripple, foreigner or criminal – no weapons allowed save for the guards. With the aid of the Emerald Enchantress, Valouria managed to line the walls and edge the grounds with an array of blooming shrubs and flowering trees, some from the distant land the Purple Priestess once called home. The festival is a celebration of new growth and innocence, hence, everyone’s past transgressions are overlooked for a single day in the spirit of rebirth and fresh starts.

With the Viziers all present, my services are no longer required at the Minaret. Leaving a bevy of the Violet Vanguard behind to guard the tower, I join the other half to attend the Dance, not as a celebrant but as comitatus to protect Valouria Thal from exposure to the entire populace of the overcrowded city.

Hand on the pommel of my curved sword, I stand behind my mistress’s dais with falcon’s eyes upon the proceedings darting between nearby windows, rooftops, and the bustling crowd. The Priestess on the other hand appears poised and aloof, above it all whilst firmly planted amid the center of the jubilee. She sits and converses with Alamayhan, the Emerald Enchantress of the Verdure Minaret, so I loosen the end of my lavender turban to bind the strip about the lower half of my face. The Floral Vizier and myself have had sour dealings in the past, so I find it best to keep my profile low while in her presence.

All heads turn as music rolls into the parklike enclosure weaving before, betwixt, and behind the dancers, young women in frilled skirts gyrating bare abdomens like the lapping of gently swelling waves. Upon their trail, lines of male performers high kicking from low crouches, tailing their female counterparts with flashy feats of acrobatics. Small children with baskets of flowers throw petals in the wake of the procession. Tambourins rattle off alongside the thrumming bass of the broader goatskin djembes setting the drive for the flutes and strings providing the melody. With a sudden change in rhythm, the choreographed performers break from their routine to pull random partygoers from the audience to join in the revelry.

Fresh food is set upon every table surface; piping-hot curries and skewered meats, hollowed out camel humps loaded with rice and spices, chilled delights coated in fruit syrup and date sugars. Dancing and delicious morsels washed down with fermented drinks, the distractions too numerous to count, but I work best in the hustle.

Feats of illusory magic flit above the heads of the attendees cascading impossible ribbons of colors alongside translucent replicas of rare birds and tiny dragons blinking in and out of existence. Despite optical tricks of glamour and chicanery, I keep my eyes on what is real. This allows me to spot the bolt that penetrates the throat of a fellow guardsman standing by my side. As the hapless warrior spirals down to his death, I glance back in the direction of the projectile’s point of origin.

Behind the gaily garbed citizenry, a dark clad figure drops one spent crossbow, bringing another to bear. My nerves, strung as tight as the bolt-launcher, are just swift enough to dive upon the seated form of my ward, both of us narrowly evading the long dart. The steel arrow, coated with a sticky resin, sinks solidly into a wooden dowel upholding our pavilion. Looking back through a crowd frantic with panic, I catch a banded-tailed mammal darting up the sunbaked side of a lofty building, so, I take to my heels in wild pursuit of the shapeshifter.

“Adajahl! Keep running and don’t stop!”

The Priestess follows her command with a string of arcane murmurs and gesticulations and my feet no longer hit grass as I ascend, sprinting upon air, rising to the rooftops at full speed. When the upper half of my body crests the flat plane of the structure’s peak, I barely have time to duck a spinning blade flying straight towards my head. Rolling upon the clay surface that tops the building, I draw my scimitar taking a light-footed stance allowing for an easy withdrawal or a savage lunge.

In the full light of day, I get a better lookover of the Black Mongoose. The dual blades wielded, one curved and one straight reflect upon the wide, almond eyes staring above a black mask and below the fangs of the sable pelt hanging like a cape down the back. The lashes circling those dagger eyes are so dark and large they leave no doubt in my mind I am facing off with a woman.

Taking advantage of my delay, the Mongoose unleashes a blurring salvo of darts and blades towards me from secret sheaths about her body. Tumbling beyond the volley of sharpened steel in a flurry of dives and somersaults, I spin from my crouched position to find an empty battlefield. Pivoting about, I find no trace of my combatant. Cursing the greater speed of the assassin, I scurry about for the quickest route back to the Violet Vizier.

Trudging to the heights of the Mauve Minaret after the cessation of the day’s festivities, I greet Valouria Thal with a bow, taking a knee before her. Shorn of her robes of office, the dark-skinned Priestess is draped in the filmy, gossamer gowns she prefers during her lounging hours.

“The assassin has evaded capture yet again, Vizier.”

Rising from her seat, the Priestess produces twin rods from an arm of her chair, offering me the dual shafts. Clutching the two bolts fired upon us earlier in the day – one tipped red with the life’s blood of the unfortunate Vanguard whose soul departed this world and the other coated with some sticky, sweet-smelling substance.

“One thing is certain, Adajahl. The hired killer has not completed their assignment as long as I stand, so this is far from over.” The dusky Vizier glides between her maze of pedestals, toying with her collection of talismans. “I shall be requiring yer services until this matter has seen a proper closure, Adajahl.”

Valouria’s thick accent hammers home the severity of my predicament. Although I have enjoyed my brief tenure as personal bodyguard for one of the seven Oligarchs reigning over the Jeweled City, I know my true calling as the finest MageThief in all of Mezzarahain is where my true destiny lies. Besides, indentured servitude into the ranks of the Priestess’s protectorate leaves me with all the freedom of a eunuch slave-warrior, a fate most unappealing to say the least.

In a rare moment of humility, I bow once more to the Priestess, confessing my inadequacies. “O great Vizier, even with the assistance of all your honed warriors, I am at a loss how to outsmart and outmaneuver the wiles of the Black Mongoose. She is far superior in celerity, more so than any man I have yet to meet, not to mention her mastery in manipulative magics and the martial arts. To be succinct, I find my talents lacking when dealing with such an expert of subterfuge and skullduggery.”

“She… Ah, most interesting.” The Purple Priestess mulls over the implications of my words as I stretch my own mind for any possibilities out of this conundrum. Gazing at the steel projectiles in my hand, I risk a taste of the syrupy adhesive that congeals at the point of one of the barbs. Licking the distinct flavor of honey from my fingertips I raise my eyes to the purple irises of my hostess.

“I may have a plan, but it shall require that I remain a constant presence by your side.”

“Very well.” Valouria concurs, motioning me to join her on the cushions littering the edge of her mattress. “And I shall impart upon ye the Stonefist Mudra. Let this minor cantrip be a benefit to both youse and me alike.”

Many nights pass and the moon fades dark when the Black Mongoose strikes a third offensive upon the seventh Vizier. Opening a glass-paned portal, the shapeshifting sneak slinks into the uppermost chambers in mammalian form. Skirting through the grove of rectangular pillars, the assassin morphs into her true two-legged shape whilst on the prowl.

“Hello Tavi. I knew you would be back. You have evaded me twice before, it will not happen thrice.”

The guilty stall in the Mongoose’s step is all I need to confirm my suspicions. Taking advantage of the assassin’s pause, I approach the lithe figure, blade in hand.

“It all makes perfect sense now. Who else but a chef could sneak such weaponry into a crowded and well-policed event.” I continue the small talk to jibe the silent infiltrator, relying on quick words to outpace an opponent far swifter than me physically. “Hiding the tools of your trade within the cakes and pastries was a clever tactic. But you made a fatal flaw leaving traces of sugar and spice upon your cruel little bolts.”

Caught in the act, identity, and ploy, the Mongoose cuts a mad dash for Valouria’s bed, unsheathing a dagger, but mine is already drawn. Skipping forth, I pitch my jambiya, not the best throwing implement, but it manages to make purchase into the thin leather straps binding her forearm causing the woman to drop her own knife. Snarling in pain and hatred, the hired murderess spins towards my direction to hurl one of many darts with her offhand.

Intoning the proper syllables while clenching the mystical hand gesture, I cast the untested spell the Priestess just imparted unto me and watch, unfazed, as the killer’s weapon ricochets off my body as though I were forged of steel. A brace of blades follows, but each falls equally impotent like hollow juggler balls upon my chest.

Arising from her place of rest, the Purple Priestess raises both arms in a domineering manner muttering guttural chants of esoteric potency. Wrenched from the ground by unseen forces, the Black Mongoose levitates before me in vulnerable exposure, arms akimbo like some tortured victim strapped to an invisible rack or a marionette dangling by its strings. Walking behind Tavi with sheer fabrics fluttering upon the gales of sorcery, Valouria Thal clutches her prey about the ears, broad lips peeling back like a carnivore bearing its fangs.

“Ye shall tell me, girl…who seeks my demise? Who is it that sent ye to cull me in my sleep?”

A silent battle of wills twists apparent on the Mongoose’s clenched features, sweat cascading beneath her skinned cowl and tears welling at the edges of her dark eyes. Several breaths and a handful of heartbeats transpire before the Vizier releases hold of her captive, the small figure crumpling amidst the treasure stands like a dry and wilted leaf.

“I have pried what relevant knowledge I desire from this detestable dealer of death. Therefore, yer job here be done, my Adajahl. Ye may now take the Orb of Olimazan. Do wit this wretch as ye see fit.” With a flare of her mauve eyes, the Priestess disappears, leaving no trace of her presence save the writhing husk of a failed killer trembling at my feet in mental anguish.

Tearing loose the furry pelt that allows her the power of metamorphism from the cropped hair of the would-be butcher, I fling the hide out the window from which she entered. Spitting at the fore of my defeated foe reaching feebly for her discarded skinsuit, I curse out my final words for the defanged assassin.

“I may be a stealer of riches, but you are a stealer of souls. Follow your mangy rags out from whence you came, vile backstabber! And never let me see head nor tail of you again!”

A ripple opens the veneer of reality and Valouria Thal appears within the vainglorious loft of Malachara, shocked from her many schemes and intrigues by the sudden and uninvited arrival of her premiere rival. Glaring down at the woman who sent the Black Mongoose to end her existence, the Violet Vizier levels an arm sheathed in wispy translucent cloth directly at the lady seated before her in the act of penning secret missives to her assortment of spies and compromised officiaries. Searing her purple gaze at the onetime competitor, the Priestess barks the esoteric command freezing her nemesis’s blood, not giving the power-hungry Witch any opportunity to rebuke her magics. Valouria raises her palms in tandem with another string of mysterious verbal cues and Malachara is born aloft like a puppet on display.

“Yer past transgressions I could suffer, for ye were no more than a whining mosquito to me. But when ye send a weasel to kill a lioness, understand that with a single swipe of the paw both pests can be annihilated.”

Valouria’s language changes once again as her eyes radiate otherworldly power. Her hands stay on high, but the long fingers dance like only a Wizard’s can. The frozen woman before the Priestess, under magical coercion to mimic her master’s gesticulations, but in a manner so grotesque all her digits twist and snap by forces most preternatural. Unable to cry out in pain with tongue locked firmly in place, Malachara weeps silent tears to the cruel delight of her tormentor.

“So petty and jealous are ye that my position ya still crave to acquire in the most craven and deceitful of fashions.” The Purple Priestess releases her aetheric hold upon Malachara, allowing her hateful antagonist the freedom to writhe in agony upon gold leaf carpets. “All this should have been clear ta me long before. It be ye who ordered the execution of the previous ruler of the Mauve Minaret wishing possession of the tower and its influence for yer own. It be ye who murdered her successor. And it be ye who tried to rob my life on many an occasion. Thank the Divinities ye did not succeed for ye are too weak to rule as Vizier, so woefully inadequate ye would have weakened the realm. Now ye shall never cast a spell again…never be capable to hold the seat of Overlord. May ye ever be cursed by the Gods!”

Turning from the broken woman cradling her ruined hands in a pathetic heap upon the floor, the Purple Priestess slips through the rend between worlds to return home.

Inside the tent of Ibeniah the curios dealer, I extract the Orb of Olimazan with the tenderness of a mother’s first touch to her newborn. Rubbing his hands and beaming a yellowed smile greedily at his new acquisition, the tradesman hands over a small sack of copper, silver, and a few bits of gold. Shuffling the pouch to my side, I pry into the streetwise merchant like a pick to a well-oiled lock. All the while his eyes do not peel from the ever-shifting ball.

“So, tell me, Iben…what be the significance of the orb of the one named Olimazan?”

“Oh, Adajahl! If you could only comprehend the cast of characters that frequent my personal corner of the bazaar.” The portly salesman slaps the ground hooting out a hearty belly laugh. Halting his guffaw so swiftly I doubt my ears ever heard the outburst, Ibeniah leans in with a serious countenance.

“A man named Tay’lyk with skin as dark as the trunk of the CocoPalm came to me one day with purpose in his long strides. Setting coin in my lap and promising more for the procurement of this orb, he made bold proclamations that this mystical sphere was housed in one of the Minarets after being stolen generations ago from his birthland across the Sea by the fabled sailor, Olimazan. He further claimed this wondrous globe be the HeartStone of the GraveGrove of his home country, and since its removal the dead have been a restless plague upon his people. The rest of the story is yours to tell…”

Feeling no need to embellish my part in the orb’s journey, I relay the course of events and confess my failure to steal the bauble initially, but had it gifted to me for services well-performed for the Violet Vizier. Tugging upon his greying beard, Ibeniah spouts his sly conspiracies in the jaded manner of an elder tempering the naïve convictions of the youth.

“So, Adajahl…is it possible that your new friend, Valouria, has been planted into her position to allow you to assist in the delivery of the orb back to its place of origin? She once called the southern lands beyond the Sapphire Sea her home, did she not? Many rumors abound of our dear lady in purple… So what say you, MageThief? Be she traitor or savior?”

Deliberating over the trader’s theorizing, I shrug my shoulders at a loss to provide a suitable response for his inquiries. Sipping off a cup of JavaTea, I mull over my stance now that my escapade has come to a finale – no matter how sweet on the eyes or how accommodating the Vizier was when she could have ended my life in a myriad of cruel and unthinkable ways, I try to maintain my neutrality. Despite the generosity and trust she directed towards me, I figure it best to keep any contact with the Priestess to an absolute minimum for the time being. Let her remember me as a valued ally while I continue to skirt the reins of power, forging my own path through the twisted streets of the City of Jewels.

The Black Mongoose © 2025 by Jasiah Witkofsky (5200 words). All rights reserved. You may restack this story via Substack but please do not republish elsewhere. Banner and clipart by Gilead, used by permission.

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