Post by Sire Halfblack on Aug 5, 2014 15:31:43 GMT
Maii IM 1005
It was pestilence season and whilst it was too early to judge how great or small the disease might be amongst the people it would unarguably have been worse had not Fade acted in the previous month. Bodies were still being found in thawing cellars, in the gutters and the lanes but there weren’t the thousands there might, indeed would have been. Even now the clogging of the Spittle was being dealt with to some degree and doubtless the rotten bounty would be coming to Eartholme, round, about, now…
But the city was used to disease. Even more so than the rest of the Empire it was made up of small lanes, crammed old buildings from a variety of ages, and which had been used for a variety of purposes, and a lack of anything resembling a straight line on the streets. At night it was darker than the rural lands, for there the moon was not blocked by overhanging buildings, and it stank; cities really, really stank. There was always disease to be found if one looked just that it was especially prevalent in a season that in the surrounding territories was more known for new life.
The territories of Deci were marked clearly by mountains and steep hills. Forest to the west and Eartholme to the south. Of course the latter city did not form a boundary as it had it’s own lands, some quite choice mines indeed. All of which most citizens considered to be on loan. And loans incurred interest.
With the melt from the north, and of course the mountains themselves, the Spittle was swelling with icy water.
In the city other matters took up the interest of the people. They’d been murdering in the name of Bhaal for so long now that in any other city it might feel less crowded. Deci folk weren’t ones for crowds when in their right mind of course, you lost things in crowds: sometimes your purse, occasionally your life. The city bustled more at night in any case and with the city having almost no wide streets only the thin faced and local scribes noticed the more stretched population at all.
But it was not that which cause such interest, for in the Slurries a carnival had arrived. Clearly suited to the city it was a busy, odd sort of gathering. Perhaps twenty wagons, of all shapes and many sizes, formed up across as many squares and narrow plazas throughout the Quarter. Two even set up shop before the darkened immensity of the Poison Club. Whilst everyone knew that the Club had been big, the odd travellers was surprised at just how much it had spread. Locals disagreed and travellers with any wit did not mention it again.
Wherever one turned in the Quarter there seemed to be a door, a wall or a turret from the Poison. In many ways it had touched and become the Quarter itself and somehow everything built therein was somehow linked, even part of it.
The carnival therefore was either being very brave, very foolish, or really knew its audience. For it did not feature jugglers, acrobats or painted clowns. Rather it displayed a variety of freaks and wonders. In the bare opening before the Poison’s surprisingly simple main doorway it had caged an angel and bound a bloated female demon. It claimed to have two headed orcs and fish-tailed hounds. Without cages were an Ishmaic fortune teller and a winner-takes-all knife fighting boot featuring ‘Nilbog the Magnificent’. And of course there was food. Nasty though it was it was the food that was most popular. A trader from Gothiel scoffed that it looked like fried mouse. His counterpart from Deci disagreed, they’d not had good mouse for a long time in the city.
It was pestilence season but withdrawn from the shadow of the deathly season people were happier, more inclined to venture forth. There might be disease on the streets but there had been in the previous few months. At least the gloom had been lifted from the settlement, or at last that sapping, seasonal gloom that reduced the spirit and withered the will.
The shaman had not been long in town and already he felt dirty. He had been in Deci before of course but it had never been like this. Death hung in the air and there was a spiteful, murderous look in the eyes of nearly everyone. Those not so afflicted were instead suspicious, desperately so. The city was as oddly shaped as ever with the Heights rising above everything else and plunging to the depths below. Cheapside might have grown somewhat and the area around the Poison was… well, there didn’t seem to be much about it. Those tribesmen that had settled in Deci, as refugees from both Ikhala and the Hordehost, had little if anything about them of the wild now. They had gone-citizen to an alarming extent. Even changing their names and worshipping various gods as totems, or not even bothering with the pretence. They were lost now, become sly eyed and dark hearted men and women. They served the city that had adopted them.
But Owl was not here to speak with them. Instead he was sat deep within the narrow shop that he had been directed to by one of his friends. Above his head a tall glass dome let in the light of the stars, for it was above the surrounding garrets. It was dark in that shop, lit well enough from some unseen source to allow people to browse and inspect but not to really notice one another as anything more distinct that occasional shadows.
Already Owl had turned up a number of ancient scrolls. They crackled beneath his own worn fingers, the excitement of it all making the old parchment shake slightly. There was a lot of junk in the shop, the shaman knew this as he’d already bought a lot of it. He was not sure why, only that the quiet little man behind the nearest counter had proved to be a better trader than he. It didn’t matter because amongst the rubbish there was some genuine gold and amongst the gold there was something of actual worth. In Deci bread cost more than precious metal.
Perhaps because Owl was so absorbed in a treatise on Spinner’s Darkened Pool that he did not notice the approach of the diminutive figure until it was able to whisper up at the shaman.
“What?” Owl jumped slightly. He looked about and then down, focussing at last on a ball of fur possessed of little black claws and a vaguely shrewish face. It was still within an iron cage that it had dragged across the floor by dint of snatching at the floor thereabouts.
“Help me!”
“I… what?”
“I’ve been here for a year now! My master had to exchange me, He had debts. Get my out of the city!”
“Yes, I see. Yes, look, I have to find… I’ll help you. You don’t like cities?”
“I’m dying,” The shrewish bundle said. “You’re a shaman?”
Owl agreed that this was so.
“Then I can help you.”
The shaman picked the cage up and put it on the pile with the rest of the stuff he’d selected. And the paraphernalia he’d already bought. He was vaguely aware of a change in the stars above his head and assured himself he’d investigate it once he’d had a proper look at the Burnt Tree of Ragravagh.
*
The nights were still chill but the traveller did not mind. He liked the territories about Deci not so much despite the fact that they were made up of infertile, rocky soil given over to mining, charcoal burning and other industry resultant from metals but because of it. He was away from the charcoal now, much of that was to the west of the city and near to the forests there of course. Out in the wilds and the hills he could smell the metal about him and that made for a comforting companion.
The land was still rich in ores. Once there had been so many more people in what was now the Empire and though not part of any body before Deci had always had its metals. Traders had come to supply the rest of the Empire and the routes to Alguz had long been established. Indeed, Jander suspected that part of the sighting for Alguz came from the old trade routes that joined it to Deci and the ores therein. There were few, if any, untapped sources, plugs or seams of metals in the hills. Hardly any new mines were made anywhere in the Empire. There was no need as so many old mines could be found that had not been exhausted. Either they’d been taken by orcs and goblins, then often cleared by adventurers and subsequently forgotten about or the people had died in the Magiarchal wars. Or just left. Or even died huddling deep within.
It was the same with Eartholme of course but then the two cities shared the same territory in effect. Jander was beginning to suspect that contrary to popular belief there had been something in the place where Eartholme had grown. Not a city perhaps but a town of note. There were trails older than perhaps there ought and the shape of the hills was too precise, too ordered in many ways for Primus not to have seen something there in the past. Logically it might have been some trade post for Deci, or even a fortified town used to plug the easiest entrance to the otherwise surrounded territories.
But it was good to be out and walking. Naturally Jander had been made welcome by the Warsmiths but in contrast the Silvermsiths had been more aloof. They had spoken to him, and not actually been rude, but it was clear they had become extremely insular. The latter Guild did not believe Jander to be part of them, they did not even think of themselves as a Craft Guild at all. Apprentices worked with silver to pay for the Guilds independence. Jander suspected there was something alchemical about the Silversmiths but if they wanted to keep their secrets then he could not doubt their loyalty to the city. They saw themselves as being the Guild most preserved in nature from the times before. Nonetheless they had offered their help to the former Governor.
So Jander had found both the quarries, or at least what had once been such. Both had been so reclaimed by nature that he might have climbed up the rising steps in the side of one hill without noticing had he not been forewarned.
Mines were perhaps more problematical. Conventional examples were relative simple for a person of his talents but Jander was also on the look out for something a bit special. It was not a good place for dragon ore as Deci had scarce been touched by the Magiarch’s at all during the wars and the ritualists within had been typically careful with their own rites. Historically, people who had lived in Deci because there was nowhere else.
If there was any such calling then it was over the other side of the hills and further towards Alguz. There the city had suffered greatly at the hands of centuries of ritual attack and ill thought out influence.
It was enough for now. By day Jander travelled and by night he came to on small settling or other and there worked on tools of one kind or another. The rural folk had no more access to decent manufactured goods than anyone else in the city. Deci could drown in raw materials but it was suffering from the ability to actually do anything with it. The city had few toolmakers it needed smiths of course. Blacksmiths didn’t formerly Guild well, but it could be done if enough gathers were already in place. Naturally Deci was not so much given to artisans and even the Guilded form of Blacksmith did not figure in their Hundred Guilds, not that anyone had a list, it was a symbolic number after all. It was a place of industry it had its workhouses and that was where manufacture might possibly be drawn. Workshops perhaps?
Jander hammered the bottom of the pot, working for his supper. It was the work of a tinker, but then even the lowly tinker was a smith, if only a lowly one.
The Forge moved through the north.
*
For three days the finely dressed goblin had followed every story that had come his way in the Stab In The Back. The shop purported to sell knives and though this was undoubtedly the case its main function seemed to be for older people to gather. They sat in the iron framed chair whilst rats and a goblin buffed up their knives, argued about everything and stared at anyone who came in that they did not recognise. They knew a fair bit about the city though and so it was that Trundleberry had come to hit the streets.
Upon Trundelberry’s head sat a hat of such size and grandeur that most people who saw him remembered only the headgear and not the person that conveyed it. Even when the goblin was forced to talk to people he found that they directed their answers to the hat. In many ways this suited him just fine as people seemed more inclined to help that hat than the goblin.
It was after all a very grand, very Merchanty hat and a very small, very dirty goblin. Days afterwards and people would still talk of the visit of the Sire and his filthy servant.
It was during just one such conversation that Trundelberry actually heard something that might prove to be of use to him. Within the immense sleeves of his artisan’s tunic, thick for catching hot metal and pocked with tiny burns, he held the curious knife that had come his way. It was not much for holding an edge but it looked fantastic. In Deci that often sold better. People liked to have a ‘dress’ knife. Sometimes even thieves had to dress up.
“It was once here.”
Trundelberry nodded, setting the hat to bobbing. The woman could not have been a day younger than seventy and in the Empire that was practically lichlike. Life was typically short, dirty and grim in Deci and here was an old lady. Such demanded a certain amount of respect and thee goblin was never one to treat the elderly with ill manners. “Really?”
“Oh yes,” she nodded back. Now that Trundelberry had a good look about the house he knew what it was that had been bothering him. It was not that it was larger than perhaps one person might need, it was the altar at one end, the low benches along each wall and the skulls piled up about an old wooden chair at the far end. Candle wax on the floor only confirmed what he thought. This was a shrine.
Of course he had been looking for such a thing. The regulars at his shop had finally agreed that the Temple of the Third Night was the place to go since that had been established by Kesselharn and dealt with the dead. It had taken some tracking down but her he was. If however there was the presence of any god here then Trundelberry did not feel it. “What happened?” he asked.
The woman sighed. “We came from Bildteve ever such a long time ago. Never were very widely spread but a decent gathering. Ten years ago a band of mercenaries came in, killed the ghouls, crawled through the tunnel to the warehouse where we lived and butchered all my friends. I was out at the market. Still, such is the will of the gods. ” She listened as the visitor explained once more what he was looking for. “Yes, yes. We used it to worship at. Not seen it since it was taken with the key.”
The goblin produced the knife.
“That key, yes,” the woman nodded. “I wasn’t here so I don’t know who they were. I do know who hired them though, old Canter of Bildteve. Bit of a rogue, had a few offspring from different lasses. Rich of course, had all that wealth from his master, the one that went to Halgar. Dead thing. Kesselharn see.”
“Box is probably gone then.”
“Oh. It can’t be destroyed. Least, not easily. If it were the key’d be destroyed too. Canter lives up on the Heights there. Cliffs there, not like Hightown here. Same slang though. Here,” the old lady dug about in her worn out dress, “you’ll need this. ” And closed Trundelberry’s fingers about something cold that she pushed into his palm.
*
They walked along the rooftops as easily as others toured the streets below. They were not of course the only ones for the slated paths were easier to stroll than the streets and lanes themselves if one knew the way. Across blackened planks, up and down pointed roofs and up the side of old stone balustrades, walls and chimneys. The roofs were not flat, certainly never even and hardly settled on a level but many used them.
In the wake of the murderous conclusion to the previous year the roofs had perhaps become a little safer. Of the gangs that had made claim to them the Rooftails had won out resoundingly and then vanished! Now gang claimed them, or rather the highways as a whole for in Cheapside every roof was part of someone’s turf. Elsewhere though the rooftops were almost an undeveloped Quarter of their own and it was across these that Governor Troy and Lady Berina walked, climbed and sat. They hardly noticed others passing by, though many did. Both were dressed in sensible dark leather and studded padding, both wore enough weapons to show they meant business.
“It’s about time they stopped,” Troy sighed. He had personally been cracking down on all the murder in the city, though the Watch had done nothing to help. Indeed, he hadn’t actually seen a Watchman in several weeks. It was hardly fair to say that the murder was because of religion alone but much of the religion might have been because of the murder. It was awkward perhaps that if murder were worshipped then its execution resulted in dead people. But enough was enough and the city’s new Governor had made no bones about where he stood on the matter. Tax payers were getting killed and the city had lost a lot of treasure. The Guilds were demanding their fees for maintaining the city and if Deci was unable to pay them soon then they’d end up withdrawing their skills until the city was once more flush. But the deathly season was always bad for funds, Troy hoped the pestilence would be better.
He looked again at the rooftops.
He’d made his speeches and told the people to stop it and other than getting the Watch to catch people and the Magistrate to actually sentence people for committing crime he wasn’t too sure what else could be done. Well, take a personal hand but he’d done that and it had felt damn lonely. Anath was still gone, having fled the moment the city’s finances had gone wrong and stayed away ever since.
Funny that.
“We should speak of marriage. ” Troy pointed out. He spent a few minutes describing his concerns to which Berina nodded attentively.
*
The Molly House was a sturdy enough building. It had once been a coaching Inn, when there had been horses, and then the home of a retired adventurer. That man had not been seen for a year or more and in that time the old Inn had become a Molly House. Run by the redoubtably Molly Bride the House was a private sort of place, one where the parties ran every night and to where various Guildsmen and the yet richer, might come to indulge their tastes.
Not everyone liked the Molly House, and in recent months Bride had made sure that it wouldn’t be burnt to the ground by making sure he had a little help. A strong arm would hardly go amiss in the establishment anyway.
Standing opposite the building, well within the cities plentiful shadows, Blackjack stared at the building. It was a bit posh for his tastes, though if he was honest his dislike towards decent brothels came from his experiences. There weren’t many people who got turned down by sleepers and it was the sort of thing an orc remembered.
“What’s the plan?” One of Elvy’s brother asked.
“I’ll show yer.” The orc nodded at the door, crossed the lane in three quick strides and hammered on the door. When it opened he prodded the fellow beyond in the guts with his cudgel and then twice about the head. “This ‘im?”
“Who? What?” The brother asked, aghast.
“Elvy’s ‘usband. This ‘im?”
“No. Look, if there yer plan? Run in, ‘it everyone and then bugger off?”
Blackjack thought that overcomplicated it somewhat but nodded anyway. “Best of yoo dat does dis gets ter be me general.” So saying Blackjack clubbed the groaning doorman once more, pushed aside the door and another beyond and entered with his club once more raised for action.
The taproom within was of a good size and clearly popular. Apart from a few youths the clientele seemed to be entirely female. Most of them were bloody ugly women, but Blackjack was not one to judge. No one paid him much attention for in the centre of the room one such lady seemed to be giving birth. Her skirts still over he knees, bright red spots painted on each cheek she oohed and aahed her way through quite the easiest birth that Backjack had heard. And he had heard a few, tribes and Cheapside were like that.
By the time Elvy’s brothers arrived the pouting midwifes, strapping six footers the pair of them, held up the ‘baby’ for all to see. It looked for all the world like a brush to Blackjack. He blinked and tried to think it through. Something wasn’t right to his mind. The bar wench, for a start, had a dirty great red beard. Also, it was becoming obvious to Blackjack that those ladies with their skirts in disarray seemed to have the same sort of tackle as lay between his own thighs.
“Ahhhhhhhhh. ” The orc tried to figure it out.
“That’s Gath!” One of the brothers, Tec, pointed to a woman who until a minute before had been leaning on the bar. Now she was coming towards them with a club of her own. A handbell was being rung and now the room was a screaming mess of running bodies, scrambling towards the stairwell and doors.
Blackjack nodded and threw himself at the… man. He wasn’t sure now. It didn’t matter though both and the brothers Elvy first clubbed then stabbed at the big fellow. Happy that Gath would not walk again, because he was dead, Blackjack looked up at the clearing taproom.
One large woman was not trying to escape. Above her heavy moustache she glared at the intruders.
“Miss Bride? Yer heavies suck. We only wanted ‘im.”
“Who are you?” Molly Bride asked.
“Blackjack!” Tec snapped back. “We’re taking over!”
Molly looked at Blackjack, looked at Gath and seemed to come to a decision. “I see.” She nodded. He nodded. Blackjack still wasn’t sure.
“Nah just give us ther loot and we’ll be orf. Call it fer our trouble. I ain’t got nuffink against yer, just dis filth. Nah cough up, treasure fer our trouble. Yer wants proper protection, yer let’s me know!”
Molly Bride made a show of thinking about it. “Where could I find you?”
“You knar Elvy – ‘is wife?”
“I can find her,” Bride assured Blackjack.
They hurried away a short time later with cash in their pockets and cheer in their hearts.
*
To some degree the clogging of the River Spittle had been alleviated. Fade had convinced most of the cities lowly black wizards to help him out with the bodies but those few of real power had wanted paying. He had gathered a number of worshippers with a few tricks up their sleeves but most, being evil folk, had not been inclined to help longer than it took fade’s gaze to pass away elsewhere. But Fade did clear much of the corpse jam, even if it left a chunk of cities apprentice musicians desperately weak. In truth they’d done more good by shoving, heaving and pushing the bloated bodies. Lots now coated the banks of the Spittle and it was safe to say that Eartholme wouldn’t be getting much fresh drinking water for the foreseeable future.
It would have to do.
Fade’s next port of call was the Silversmith’s. The Guild did not allow him access to anywhere other than a small antechamber whose purpose was clearly for this very purpose. Given Fade’s importance in the city he ranked attendance by the Guild’s Master. Or one of them. The Guild disliked given anything away.
By Alan Morgan (CI7V4)