Post by Sire Halfblack on Aug 4, 2014 20:47:13 GMT
Deeber IM 1003
It was as if the city had been placed deep under the ground within some impossible cavern so heavy were the clouds that stretched from horizon to hilltop. So dense were they that the light that came from the otherwise darkened city was caught and coveted by the heavens such that it was intensified so that Deci seemed only lit by a dull purplish light. That there were other sources of light seemed to matter little for these were either burning refuse or dirty torches and they held little sway amongst the hundreds of blurred red and smog blue paper lanterns that had been hung from every post, pillar and outcropping in the city. And in Deci there were many such things.
It was the Day of the Dead.
The festival meant many things to many people. To most of the citizens it was a time when they put out precious Winter food and wine for the feared dead and dearly lost both that they might seek other entertainment at this time. It was a time when children spoke to spectres and idiots spoke with the voices of shadowed gods. It was a time when the Craft Guilds sealed their halls and took part in the rites that made them both of the city and of the craft itself. It was a time when a dozen different city faiths emerged to walk the streets in solemn procession or to dance in the sickly light about the rooftops.
It was also a time when killing took place and of course many, many people died.
Despite the season it was not as cold as a traveller might expect it to be. Truly, the air was chill but it was thick and seemed to hang in expectation about the streets and alleyways of the city. Smoke gathered and was loathe to depart from the chimneys, holes and cracked streets, spirits roamed at will and in turn feasted and were feasted upon by their spectral peers and the soul beholden alike.
And yet the citizens remained year after year. It was not that the Deci folk were tougher than others or even, despite the city’s reputation, in any great way darker of soul, it was that they had a great sense of heritage. The city was an old one and there were stories that it was older indeed than the name that it now bore. Story aside the city had spent long decades, and more, as a den of wolfsheads and brigands and yet it had managed to function. It was not a city to be tamed but it could be coerced, perhaps herded.
Even the city’s Nobility had little in common with their fellows elsewhere. Most of them descended from the old Robber Barons and Brittle Lords that had held sway here at different times. That so many of them had unknowingly carried the Blood of the Sallow only proved the power of such stuff through the ages. Yet the Nobles of the City little cared to govern now, they had barely an interest in either running or dominating the city, they were far closer to the people and the Spirit than the Nobles of elsewhere and of late many of the old ways had returned.
Picking up her skirts, Eliss ran down Falling Alley. The ground had once been slab covered but some years ago an explosion beneath the earth had left the ground broken and tilted at an angle that matched the careless lean of the tall houses along one side. It was only with an effort that she stopped herself leaning likewise and she thought for a moment of where she might get some decent water for her mouth was scraped by fear and the running.
Why was it so easy to follow and so yet so hard to flee? Eliss knew that she could run the whole length of the city, without touching ground more than twice if she dared the sloping dome of the Citadel and still have breath enough to chuckle as she did so. Yet she had only been running for ten minutes at most and the wind only came to her in great racking gasps. She wanted to stop, to cough. She felt like she wanted to die!
No, she thought, that simply was not the case at all. If that was her desire then all she had to do was stop running. Normally, Eliss would have caught the iron-aged beam of a falling house and climbed up the side as fast as she could trot along the alley. Deci was a climber’s dream, old and hardly ever organised it was a leaning, tumbling mass of styles, materials and architectural fashion or exigency.
In that it reflected the Inner City of Halgar but where there the Guilds had struggled long and hard to demonstrate both their art and loyalty here Deci was less than the reflection cast within an oil slick and dirty puddle. But it was good to climb…
But not here. Eliss knew that here the Rooftails ruled and if she thought she had a chance against the Hunt then she knew that she’d have none at all above the streets in this scrap of the settlement. She had not meant to come here, indeed, she should have stayed in Delkin’s where most of his patrons continued their normal, nightly drinking but with the added security of heavily barred and shuttered doors and windows. She should have ignored the jibes, she should have laughed at the insults but she had never been able to resist a chance to prove herself.
Stupid.
“Is this as far as you’ve gone?” The voice caused her to stop, to search for the shadows with an instinct born of the city. ”No, no, no… this really isn’t good enough.”
Eliss could not think how she had failed to see the thin figure as she had come down the alley. He was wearing a black cloak for a start and black did not blend as well as assassins would believe. Greys were better, like she herself wore. Like most of the women in the city her skirts were many and ragged hemmed, each a different shade of the more concealing tone. She had good boots on and her tunic was large enough for a labourer to have worn with little effort.
She knew that because it was from just such a person that she had taken it. Hats were always worn in the city, people liked brims as no one in Deci looked anyone else in the eye. Her own was a pinned at the sides and her sharp little face showed only briefly a ripple of shock before it settled into an angry scowl at her own foolishness.
So Eliss put a hand on the hilt of her short bladed sword and drew it smoothly from the half scabbard she wore under the knapsack that hung down one side of her skits.
“Yes, we thought it was you.” The cloaked figure declared in a happier voice. He was, of course, masked. Only his chin and mouth showing below the lip of the smooth leather that was white as bone and shone faintly in much the same way. ”You killed the wrong person. You did not have to do that, was it the crowd? Did you need an audience?”
But Eliss had already pushed the tip of the sword to within three inches of the man’s throat. He in turn stepped backwards and smiled when three ropes sung through the air and plucked the woman from the ground as they wrapped themselves about her neck and arms. With a sharp tug she was hung quickly and painfully in the perfect centre of the lopsided space that formed the alleyway. She struggled of course but that stopped when the plumper man that had been driving her towards the main Hunt took the kill. Her spine parted to his knife and a quick chorus of cheers rose from various windows and each end of the alleyway.
It was all such sport.
*
There was only the smallest displacement of shadow as the Don took himself happily from his concealment to a place that was just right for the playful slap of blade to temple. Dimly aware of the knocking that was taking place at the front door Gill was only momentarily distracted but it was enough for Argoth to hit him hard with the pommel of his dagger.
The larger man knocked the Don’s arm away and flickered a wreath of spiritual fire from his other hand that passed cleanly through the Don without either of them really being aware of the ritual coronets lack of impact.
“See?” Argoth sighed. ”This is precisely why I always deride plans that involve taking anyone alive. I mean, I’m a killer, right?”
Gill snapped a thin sword free from under the patchwork leather coat he wore and flicked its point towards the Don. Argoth let himself trickle into another shadow, hardly aware of the movement. He was trying to get a point across here.
“Well I am, a killer that is.” The Don continued. ”So I go along with this plan and no doubt someone didn’t tell me that you were of some small power. Am I right? Of course I’m right! So anyways…”
There was a crash as the door was booted from his hinges and Andre half fell across the falling wood, reaching out with both hands as he did so. Even as he sprawled at Gill’s feet his fingertips caught his shin and he attempted to smother his enemy’s spirit. Instead he got a boot in the face and was forced to roll quickly to one side as the narrow blade thrust downwards with enough force to have pinned him to the floor.
“…there I was, already and willing to do the stabbing. I mean, hey, you’re no stranger to death yourself, am I right? Of course I’m right. Death good, prisoner’s bad. I mean, sure, I could do it but really it’s not the day is it? Day of the Dead?”
Gill kicked Andre again before turning the point of his sword in the direction of the Don’s voice.
“See? Now, taking you alive, that isn’t going to happen.” Argoth’s voice seemed to sigh. ”And anyway, what was I going to do with you then? Kill you, am I right? Of course I’m right.”
Quickly, Gill heaved Andre up with one hand and placed the tip of his sword in one of the man’s ears. The Don stepped from the second to last place an observer would have thought him to be and put Gill down before he had a chance to do anything else.
“You.” He pointed at the choking Andre. ”Get this place looking more shrine with got a soul to send onwards here! Am I right?”
“Of course you are, Don!”
“Hey, hey!” Argoth leant down and pinched his companion’s cheek with finger and thumb. ”Whadda you know, the kid’s got spirit. Let’s get this doings on the do.”
*
Hands tucked behind his back, Fade looked down his nose at the body whose status in life he had so recently changed. He had formerly been a live person, but that was not the nature of the day and so the Councillor had ensured that the dirty-fingered violator took a more themed approach to the whole event. He had spent the previous week distributing funds to the taverns to ensure that there would be beer for all, free and from the Council. A number of the cities dirty drinking holes had even gone along with the idea but probably only when anyone official came in sight.
Oh, they took the money. But this was Deci and payment should always come after the job. But then, since this was Deci no one would believe that the City would reimburse them for the beer they had given away. And of course, it would have been a literal river of ale that would be claimed for. More than the city could have possibly held. For the most part then Fade used about half the money he had taken from the bags, sacks and stuffed chests that held the cities scattered treasury to simply hand it out to revellers. He had helped himself to more than half the cities saved funds but it had ensured that the Festival had gone well.
No doubt Bhaal would be happy with all the death. The city was littered with bodies. No doubt hundreds of people had been murdered but then it was all for the glory of Fade’s deity.
Walking down a series of cracked lanes and lopsided streets, Fade crossed one of the few roads wide enough for wagons behind the Guild procession. He had intended for the Carter’s to provide their wagons for a procession but they were all being used in caravans, on the orders of Anath. Fade shrugged at the thought and stepped over another butchered citizen, paused as he smelt burning, and increased his pace for several minutes until the stronger smell of burning lengthened his stride into a full run.
It was a short while before he tumbled about a corner to see a once sturdily built house become consumed with flame. Flakes of burning tinder drifted on the air and settled on the roofs of the nearby buildings where they smouldered and began to spread. If it hadn’t been for the stillness of the air then the whole street would have been completely ablaze now.
A few members of the Watch stared at the sight open mouthed whilst a few of their companions tried to rouse the locals to fetch water from the immense bins by the tarred bucket poles. Two of the watch were stabbed and the first local to snatch at one of the buckets was grabbed by the next two and hurried forward until he was tossed into the blaze. In, it seemed, the name of Murder.
The building at the centre of the blaze was rapidly becoming the centre of a pillar of fire and Fade pushed his way through the thin crowd until he saw a man in the sash of a Watch Sergeant.
“Report!” He commanded.
“Arsonists, sir.” Mojo smiled. Fade couldn’t help but notice that the Sergeant’s latest body had a certain ‘flamey’ quality to it. Tracked them down. Me and the lads made sure they couldn’t get out then I torched the place. That’ll teach them, eh?”
“Punishment fits the crime?” Fade asked.
“Exactly!” Mojo tittered and rubbed his red tinted hands together gleefully.
“I’m impressed that you did this in the sure knowledge that the lack of wind would make sure that the fire did not spread.”
Mojo blinked. ”…ah yes…” He managed to nod. ”…quite. Yes, first thing we, ah, considered.”
The Councillor calmly observed the Watch clamber up on the nearby rooftops where they were able to combat the smouldering embers with ready success. ”Seems like you have it in hand.” Fade admitted. ”The house,” he pointed to the blaze, “must have gone up like dragon breath when the fire caught the oil and pitch that they no doubt had stashed in their headquarters.”
Mojo shrugged. ”Not really.” He admitted.
“I see…” Councillor Fade thought for a moment before being plucked from his feet by the suddenly expanding ball of fire that took them all by surprise as it thundered from the centre of the blaze.
*
In folds of shadow the shapes before the thin man seemed to move in air made dense as gravy. He wondered why the light was so dim when he knew that he always made sure there was enough to work by. After all, the city did little business in daylight and Anath had always prided himself of working within the system such that the meeting he had held had started only when darkness had fallen.
He still remembered the meeting. Freshly returned from Halgar, Anath had gone to the Merchants and apologised for not having provided them with the means to establish their Guild status. The plans he had gained were not right for the city and only cold glances had greeted his question as to whether they might have any notes themselves on the matter. But he was nothing if not smooth and he had swiftly turned the conversation towards their grievances, which mostly revolved around the need for some sort of attempt at improving the carter’s operations. There had been a quiet suggestion that perhaps all the stabby people in power in Deci could be put to good use ‘removing’ the Merchants in other cities. But that had been said quietly enough that even Anath could not have said for sure who it was that had actually suggested it.
Of course, Anath had then asked their opinions on a matter of more determined association and they had let him know that the best way to get goods directly from them was through their Guildhouse. Which, presently, they did not have.
When they tackled the matter of the pelt trade it soon became clear that this was something that, by the time it reached the city itself, there was little that could be done. The closer to source that things were arranged the better such trees would bear their financial fruit. Catch the pelt traders out in the rural areas or even push further north. The Sire’s had been rather quieter about that and Anath was skilled enough to know when the line had been crossed between Merchant and Trader.
Toasting their continued association, Anath had allowed himself a thin smile at all he had achieved in the last few weeks when finally he was alone once again.
Then some bastard had stabbed him in the chest and the evening had taken a definite nosedive.
*
Despite the dirty light from the lanterns hung up about the ever-changing lanes of Cheapside, the interior of the alchemists shop was as warm and cosy as ever. The flicker of the neat fireplace was only shielded by a selection of muffins as they toasted slowly upon a series of forks and stands that more normally were employed in the shops more conventional work.
Seated in his usual chair, Ulis Tamary sipped occasionally from a glass upon which had once been mounted a crest but which time had seen fit to blur till it was unrecognisable. The sound of tumbling stone and old brick broke the silence but with but the raising of one eyebrow the Spirit silenced the disturbance, tested two of the muffins and then buttered them with the sort of precision inherent to a successful experimenter in the alchemical arts.
Placing the muffins upon a pair of silver edged plates, Ulis handed one to his guest and for a several moments they munched happily; order within chaos.
“I hope that I’m not keeping you in?” Jander asked.
“Not at all, Governor. I tend to shut myself off somewhat at this time of year. My citizens dying and so forth. Not exactly how I would prefer the year to come to a close. Still, we must allow the children their toys.”
“Quite so.” Chuckled the Sunstar and then went on to explain to the Spirit what he had been up to of late, following up on what had started so many months ago. Ulis listened with interest for the hour it took before offering his opinion.
“I cannot perceive much about this statue and I believe now that it is the precise reason for the village being denied to my sight in the first place. I have a suspicion though… but it will be for you to decide how much of threat it is?”
Jander took his turn on muffin-buttering duty for the third round on the evening. ”Clearly.” He agreed.
“It is my belief, based upon certain things that I knew in my more elevated times, that the statue is old. I believe there were certain forms that were taken by certain gods at the time before the Weaving was learnt. Then, of course, Gods walked Primus if they wished to be within its fold at all. That all changed with the weaving of the first Final Dawn of course but it is my belief that this statue was one such form. It belonged, from your description, to a Goddess. There was something about dancing but I forget her name if ever I knew it at all. It’s an east coast thing you see.”
“The statue is a Goddess?”
“I think,” Ulis answered thoughtfully, “that it might well be whichever faith knows what to do with it. Presently, it seems, that is Geldenvol. So Governor, do you wish a God of trade to walk upon this world?”
“Geldenvol is not Primal?”
“I think,” Ulis said again, equally thoughtfully, “that he is Deific. I also think that whilst he might be Primal in origin of worship, that it is not Primal as my own master would understand it. Do you see? On other matters though, Mr. Barkle and his kind seem like fine additions to the city. They are used to the worship of Spirits, perhaps one of your people should work on making sure that they pay their homage to one in particular. . ?”
“You?”
“Why, Governor, what a splendid idea!”
*
“This is what they do?” The warrior was tall, his Drowe skin tight over his domed head and in truth it would have been hard for the two men to have looked more different. His mask put aside now, Majius looked at the figure that had been brought to him by Lord Claugh. He knew Jaraxle was a fellow member of the City Council but was surprised that the cities Commisent had decided that his attentions lay with the Nobility.
Picking up one of the worn, bone like masks Jaraxle held it up so that the cities Mennihaft couldn’t fail to miss the point. ”What is all this?”
“It’s the Hunt.” Troy answered a little gruffly. ”It keeps the crime in this city to something like an acceptable level. The people expect it off us, why? Do you find it disagreeable in some way?”
“Not at all.” Jaraxle grinned back suddenly. ”It is just that I had thought to speak with the cities Nobles and…” He shrugged.”…it seems that they did not wish to see me.”
“Well no.” Troy admitted. ”That makes sense. It’s sort of understood that they support us and we support them. They aren’t at our beck and call you see, if the Council wants to speak to the Nobility then really it’s done through me. I have,” he picked his words carefully, “a successful relationship with them. I am, after all, one of them.”
Troy had asked the Nobility for funds against the coming Winter and had managed to secure a goodly amount. Only half was in the form of a granted sum however, the remainder being in the manner of a loan that they expected to be returned within six months and with a tenth gain. This was the same rate as the Merchant Houses would have made and so Troy had not quibbled.
Most importantly, Troy had learnt about the scions of the Noble Houses elsewhere in the Empire and the word that was being spread.
Clapping a hand on Jaraxle’s shoulder he lead the drowe to the streets and the lanes that lead inexorably towards the Poison Club.
*
The explosion had been of such force that it had demolished most of the buildings about it in an area of fifty or so paces in every direction. So sudden had it been though that the force of the fireball had quashed the fire that framed it such that although flames flickered feebly on cloth and the charred wood and blackened stone of the area it was dark once again. The lanterns had of course vanished in the detonation and to dazed eyes the only light came from the smouldering flames that were left like a thousand crawling glow-worms on every surface.
Wide eyed, Mojo had landed painfully but strangely upright such that his bruised bum was set amongst the black confetti of the explosion but his back was straight and upright. He grinned. A message had certainly been sent out to those who would set fire to his city and all in all it had been a fantastic evening. Curiously, it had begin slowly when after arranging to meet the Rooftails in the old ritual chamber they had failed to show at the agreed time.
“That was great!” The Watch Sergeant laughed.
“----?” Mouthed the soot-faced man that picked himself free from where he had landed. Even the faint stubble upon his head had been burnt away and the fine garments he had chosen were scorched at the edges. For some reason Fade’s voice, like all other sounds in the city, came only in fits and starts to Mojo’s ears.
“Y—s-up—m—th-r –u-ker!”
Mojo smiled back, both thumbs raised in agreement.
*
That there was no pain was the thing that bothered Anath the most. He was having trouble seeing at all now and his ears seemed to be full of the sound of a wind that he couldn’t feel upon his face. He felt himself cough violently but no such sound came to his ears. He wondered why he wasn’t dead yet?
Time trickled past and with fingers feeling damp to the touch the Craftenguilder wondered for a moment if it was chill death at last or, more gruesomely, simply the pooling of his own blood about his prostrate form. Curiously his sense of smell was as keen as ever and though for an age he could sense nothing other than the normal smells of scroll rot, Deci ink and tallow there eventually came the subtle scent of his beloved to his nostrils.
Grulls!
He knew that much of what Fade had actually left was stuffed into a variety of chests and sacks, some of it close to hand.
“Please…” The Craftenguilder managed to gasp, “…if you must take, ugh, someone – take me. Not, ahhhh, the grulls. Ugh, they’re innocent of all this. Please..?”
A shadow passed across his vision but then was gone and though now mostly blind and insensitive to his own flesh, Anath knew a last tear was trickling down his cheek. He wept for the money. Oh the centuries, why does no one think of the centuries?
*
Cross-legged on the floor of the house whose owner had so recently departed, Andre smiled about his swollen face and held up the contents of one hand to the Don. Argoth had been content to stand, seemingly disinterested, whilst the more earthly man had picked through the building. There were a lot of clothes, sets of armour both odd and familiar and a collection of wax seals that bore the crests of what might be Noble Houses. Andre had not even begun to pry apart the walls and floor yet but was content with the haul so far, for now.
The Don accepted the wad of notes with good grace and raised an eyebrow at what else sat on the floor before Andre. Bad Gill’s sword had been replaced in its sheath and it sat now atop a pouch that the Don had broken his silence for long enough to point out its supernatural nature. Other than that there was a small pile of chains and gilt buttons, good things for barter in Deci for those with select skills.
“I dunno who he was or what he was up to but he had some good stuff.”
Argoth smiled and waved a finger at his sidekick, then pointed to the wall and vanished. Andre quickly gathered up their winnings and hurried to join the Don in the street beyond. They had, it seemed, a party to attend.
*
The Poison Club was not much to look at from the outside, old stone and scorched wood formed a boxy building with a single door that lead along a narrow passageway to the large taproom within. Larger in fact than the building had seemed to be from without and with still many doors leading off to the more private places that the Club could boast.
The room was crowded enough with well-dressed leaders of the City: Nobles; Merchants; Guildsmen and the like. Jaraxle accepted a black glass goblet from a passing, drowish serving girl who looked at him briefly in some disdain before moving off to give similar looks to anyone who helped themselves from the tray she carried. Troy had dumped his cloak along the way and had accepted a heavy, well-brocaded coat from one of the Hunts servants before they had entered. With its dark furred edges matching the fringe of the cap he pulled from an inside pocket the Majius nobleman now looked to be as prosperous and important as anyone there.
A tall man with severely trimmed hair and far too many small, pointed teeth greeted them both formerly and by name.
Jaraxle stared back at the man quizzically. ”Do I know you?” He asked.
“I am Mr. Wyvern. I am the Don’s Factor here, if you will follow me most everyone is waiting in one of the private rooms to celebrate the end of the year, as the Council should. Gentlemen?”
*
Whilst the others celebrated with the darker delights available within the Cub a solitary figure lay on the cold flags that made up the lower floor of the Citadel. A great many hands lifted up the bleeding body and shouts went out for apothecaries and healers. It took an hour for someone to be found and the knife to be removed.
Though damp and stained with Anath’s blood, the parchment that had been pinned in place by the plain knife could still be read.
“’One Warning’” A scribe read aloud. ”Is that it? What does it mean?”
No one present knew and the scribes all watched as Anath groaned loudly in his potion-induced slumber.
By Alan Morgan (CI6V1)