Nudging the Dominoes

     His eyes scanning the roster, the smartly-dressed man nodded, signing a false name at the bottom of the paper with a flourish. The coughing sailor looked at the signature and nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Mark Cavendish. Hope you like your delivery." Tucking the clipboard under one beefy arm, the man waddled away, sniffling loudly. Distainful of the mortal, Ishmael curled one lip and carefully wiped his hand with a silk handkerchief, letting the cloth flutter to the pavement as he approached the first of the three, heavy crates. With a quick glance around the area, reassuring himself that no prying eyes were staring, he easily lifted the first crate, one which had taken three men to bear from the truck to the curb, and bore it into the back of his antiques store. The return trip was shorter, as he simply stacked the smaller crate atop the other and carried it swiftly indoors. Wouldn’t do to leave these out for too long…certainly not.

     Business was good, that much was obvious from the empty display cases. In fact, as Ishmael lifted objects from the crates, dusted them off delicately and placed them with careful precision, he smiled to himself. All of this would be gone within the week, he knew. Each one had been purchased with a particular person in mind, and as he adjusted the light shining on an udjet from the Upper Kingdom, he allowed himelf to grin.

     Oh, things were going so very well. There had been that momentarily unpleasantness with the child, but, unlike the fool, he had listened, and had therefore remained undetected and out of danger. Pity the way things worked these days…Ishmael sighed as he hung a small, carefully framed painting out of view of the front window. So many pathetic children coming in search of power, then scampering off with table scraps and ignoring the whole picture. He had to chuckle as he ran a soft cloth along the shining length of a broadsword. This is why he was still alive, when they were not. Eagerness was one thing, foolishness was another. While the greedy did prosper, it was always best to know when prudence would serve. Laying the sword in a case and clicking the lid shut, he laughed again. Prudence was not cowardly, if one knew how to make it serve.

     Ishmael approached the final crate with a held breath, and released it with a faint, reverent sigh as he cleared away the excess packing material. Blowing a styrofoam peanut from his sleeve, he drew the delicate object out and held it up, noting the way light glimmered on the delicate golden cogs, the smooth curve of the crystal dome. Ah, yes. This would bring him the ultimate prize, he knew, and never had he been so grateful for his particular…connections than when he’d learned of this little trinket. The case he’d prepared long in advance stood ready…in a back corner of the store. Yes, this had to remain unobtrusive, lest the wrong person take note of it, and find it suspicious that he would not part with it…save to one person. Long fingers lingered for a moment on the tiny golden key. It would be so easy to wind it, to wind this little clock and see the story it told…but no. He set his jaw and withdrew his hand, carefully closing the case and locking it, dropping the key into his jacket pocket. A small light was turned, but not switched on, and Ishmael walked away to stand in the darkened window of his store, hands clasped lightly behind his back, intense eyes scanning the deserted street. As he stood there, he allowed himself a small smile when a delicate figure came into view, wandering about as if lost, obviously quite confused. When the slender girl crossed the street, he stepped away from the window and smoothed perfectly combed hair, the lights coming on with the flick of a finger on the flat switch. Smiling, he opened the door even as her hand reached for the latch.

     "Good evening, my dear. May I help you?"

     "Hi…my name’s Iris Foster. My car broke down, could I use your phone to call my father?"