Post by Sire Halfblack on Aug 5, 2014 16:42:22 GMT
Deeber IM 1005: Birth of the Murder and Crafting of the Forge
The death of the year had an especial meaning in Deci. Death had always been the currency of Deci and over recent years it had become the very air itself. In the wake of the Day of the Dead bodies were gathered by the huddled filth of the city, mostly then carted towards the River Spittle but with more than a few going to the eerie little fellows of the former Dissectors Guild. The parade had elevated many of the old Hundred to at least meeting one another again and in some cases to doing more than that. Those whose former Masters had survived Amora’s purge had even begun to practise once more the old observances and traditions. Quietly, not always secretly and with an eye to drawing to them those amongst the citizenry perhaps gifted in their diverse arts.
The night of the Final Dawn fell early and the sky above burned with only a single star. Dull and red at first it grew steadily as the hours began to pass…
For long nights Fade preached to the people. He spoke eloquently and at length, sometimes whispering, sometimes shouting. He informed everyone that the faith of Murder for no purpose has never been apart of the city’s favourite faith. Murder was to be considered a means to an end, to gain profit whether it be treasure or power. “Murder for no end is not seemly, it throws away useful souls that could be put to better use.” He spoke mostly to the Guilded and other better class citizens the Guilds themselves, letting it be known that he expected them to govern their own members in such matters.
Elsewhere and Governor Majius had arranged to speak with the Silversmith’s. Due to join with his fellows amongst the Nobility for the now-traditional end to the year in the Poison Quarter he had business of his own to attend to first. Concerns for his city and for his House. He only paused in his steady wandering when his ears heard a sound that was at odds to the otherwise curious silence that had come to his city.
He turned, knife in hand. He sensed rather than saw shapes moving above his head and then another in the lee of an alley to his right. He smelled nothing. Indeed, not even the stench of the city crossed his nostrils. He was outnumbered and being surrounded but he knew the city as well and took himself into the deeper shadows.
Cheapside
Cheapside was considerably less quiet than the rest of the city of which it was its greater part. Those that lived there were all associated with one gang or another, even if for the most part these gangs were simple collectives based upon a single street, lane or lopsided square. Traditionally the Final Dawn was a time of truce. There was nothing benign about this, it was simply that with everyone celebrating the year’s death everyone was awake, together in the groups and with weapons to hand. Attacking another turf just left your own weakened and people noticed…
Not that everyone being in a gang meant that everyone was youthful, armed with their hereditary shank and looking for trouble. Far from it for Cheapside was the poorest quarter and most gangs got on with their lives as best they could. Children were typically gone from the family hovel by the time they were old enough to answer back and the best of them moved out and into the better, or at least more prosperous, areas.
Down in Blackjack Alley fires burned openly on what passed for level streets. The accumulated detritus of so many people in so many places soon compacted into an iron hard surface even weeks after any civic road-building plan had passed by. Plenty of people were hardly perceived by the scribes at all and there were even lanes and scraps of houses that were unseen by the city at all. Logically the compacted dung and rubbish from so many people should have acted as a fine wick for the rest of the city but Deci simply did not burn very well. It had in fact burned down in patches several times through the proceedings centuries and anything that might have caught now had long since gone or been absorbed into the solid mass that made up the lanes and hovels. Perhaps more importantly it was snowing so thickly that a man could have drowned in the stuff before it hit the ground. Had not Deci’s foundries, Guilds and industry ensured that any falling snow had to pass through the cloud of semi-sentient smog. The snow then was brittle, sooty stuff and the fires about Blackjack’s made the area glow with a dull, crimson hue that reflected off the ashen fall.
Barrels of proper food had been left at strategic places about Blackjack’s. People here didn’t trust meat that was not made up of proper tubes and gristle. It took a wise man five minutes to get through a mouthful. Long enough coincidently for any poison present to burn the tongue. The barrels of jubbly bits, eyeballs, lights tubes and lips were dipped into by the locals and even a few smaller gangs. Blackjack didn’t mind this, Marmalade had assured him that they were bad lads and that suited the dreaded Foul Orc of Cheapside Town. The hundred centuries he’d given Marmalade for food and drink had gone a long way, but then it was pretty poor stuff elsewhere. Here though? Just right. The orc sucked on his bucket of raw chicken lips atop a wide throne made from a few walls they’d nicked for the purpose. On his head had been placed a dented, slightly too small crown of rusted iron.
People were being very well behaved. They were noisy but the only people fighting were the tired brawlers, two of the best of whom had been smacking each other around the face for more than an hour. Cheapsiders did like a bit of blood being spilled and if it was someone else’s then that was just so much the better. They were respectful of the dreaded Foul Orc of Cheapside Town, and of his guest of honour. For standing nearby, two foot of snow resting on his already impressive hat, was the almost legendary Master Berry. A creature whom foul, raddled old hags wanted to be with and whom every snipe, gutter lad and bad boy just wanted to be. Master Berry owned the Stab In The Back. People robbed up for weeks just to go in for an afternoon of knife hanging and a clasp shiv. It helped that the goblin was both a nasty piece of work and seemed to have just about the meanest, most evil pack of rats at his command. These now sat in the shadows and watched for trouble, letting Blackjack’s gutterpack drink horrible, but stupidly intoxicating, brews Marmalade had gotten from a band of tar brewers over in Dank Lane.
“Dis is what it’s all abaht.” The dreaded Foul Orc of Cheapside Town announced. He was a name in Cheapside now. Not one of the five great gangs but he was getting there. Most of the big gangs relied on personal power of a few key members. Most didn’t even live in Cheapside any more. “Chicken lips, mister?” He offered the snack to Trundleberry. Although in his time the goblin had eaten such delicacies he had moved on. It was not as if he had to pay for food any more. People around the Stab In The Back just liked to drop him off choice cuts and thick, hearty pies on a daily basis. He also knew that chickens had beaks. They did have lips but that was where the eggs came out.
“Nah yer alright, son.”
The dreaded Foul Orc of Cheapside Town chortled and licked his fingers for that added bloody taste to the meal. Anyone else calling him ‘son’ would have found out the reason why they shouldn’t but there was something paternal, almost respectable about Master Berry. In that big hat, finely cut clothes and immense boots he cut such a dash that Blackjack had been forced to restrain himself tugging a dirty forelock when the goblin had first arrived. Something deep in the dreaded Foul Orc of Cheapside Town soul told him that orcs did not respect goblins. Which just went to show how much souls knew.
A juggler performed badly for the crowds. Two fire breathers caught alight and a pig kicker entertained the still growing masses with a demonstration of his ancient art.
“Marmalade!”
“Boss?” The sly man answered from over the orc’s left shoulder.
“Good lad dat Marmalade. Why in’t ther boys out takin’ a few streets?”
“They have, boss. The rival gangs are the bad boys I pointed out. We just took the Glossop Row and all of Feather Crack Alley.”
The orc growled. He wasn’t sure if he approved of conquest without violence. The idea that Marmalade and the gutterpack had just walked in, told those there that they were part of the dreaded Foul Orc of Cheapside Town’s turf, and that there was a party going on seemed a bit wrong somehow. But it was the Final Dawn and he was feeling generous so Blackjack just let it go for once.
He scratched his arse and wondered why Master Berry had sunk to one knee. The goblin hadn’t so much as answered a nifty bow from anyone all evening. Mostly he’d lurked and accepted people’s kind words. He’d even picked through the bodies nearby, the losers and in some cases the winners of the clubbing contest, the knife contest and the half-goat battering contest. Some would do for Blackjack’s gang. Many were dead. Or as good as. “Wot’choo doin’, Master Berry?”
The goblin though trembled. “A god comes.” He whispered sharply.
“When you says ‘God’ does you mean Bhaal?”
“No.”
“But a god, yer know, big, scary, pissin’ fire and turnin’ toes to tadpoles?”
“Yes!”
“Righty-ho.” The dreaded Foul Orc of Cheapside Town clambered down and made ready to fight or beg. The thing about being a bully, a thief and a murderer was that the really good ones were like card players. They knew when to raise, when to bluff and when to fold. It was no good sticking a coddling knife in a god’s tackle if he then turned you into a replacement.
*
It had been a long time since the drow had been to the city of its birth. In his memory Deci had been a proud, shining sort of settlement where the drow ruled. Of course it was dark, of course it was evil but the drow had remembered that as meaning a place where his kind were celebrated. The ‘city of evil and the drow’ was not as he remembered at all.
Twice he had nearly been mugged, once with the aid of a sudden and very cloying net. His noble race cut less ice than he had thought with the mostly mannish population and he was only just beginning to realise that a city of evil and stark criminality meant somewhere in which people were not very nice and tended to nick stuff. Thinking to arrive in a gilt carriage he had been disappointed to discover that neither giant riding spiders or, indeed, a carriage were to be had.
Worse, having gone to the Citadel, the place from which the city was ruled, he had discovered that the city’s Nobility were to be found in the tall, evil looking spire that rose high above the city. This was not in itself a bad thing but he had not even been allowed in. None of the guards or servants there knew of any Noble House by the name the Drow insisted he was called and they had actually laughed when he suggested that the city was ruled by a secret host of Drow Nobility. They had admitted that it might be true if such were really very secret. So secret as to be, in fact, not actually true at all.
High Town
The new Guildhall was a fine example of its kind. None of the materials used in its construction were actually new and if one were to stare hard then ancient, lop-sided desecrations, curious stains and even indented fragments of streets names could be seen amongst the wood and the stone. The only indication of its purpose was a black glass bowl hung from chains above the main doorway.
Anath and Fade pushed open the doors and step inside a large central hall that was all abustle with people from every part of the city. Traders brought odd herbs and stranger ingredients, dreadfully normal looking men quietly discussed the wares and more obvious adventurers garbed in black and split-toed boots, all talked and bartered and bought and just plain hung about. Most of the Guild was made up of the hall, the observances and traditions of the Guild taking place in several smaller chambers. Few if any of the Guildsmen lodged in the Guildhall, each Guild varied in this way. Unlike more secretive Guilds the Poisoner’s did not object to visitors. They were after all both a business and a scholarly meeting hall in many ways.
It was Anath that noticed the most important fellow there. His hands were permanently blackened by long exposure to all manner of toxic materials and he seemed to be speaking with the sort of quiet authority that denoted authority. Clearly neither of the visitors needed to make introductions so they announced the thrust of their concerns, Anath asked to whom they spoke.
“I am Master Twineheap. I have no idea what you are talking about gentlemen?”
“The city’s alchemists have all suffered accidents.” Anath pointed out.
“That is what to do with us? You have evidence of such? In any case, even taking for one moment what you are saying as true, which it is not, am I to assume that the Council of Deci does not condone assassination for the purpose of gaining power, influence and one’s goals? The question is moot. We did not do it.”
Fade hissed, stepped forward and placed a knife at the man’s throat. “You will be the first to die by my hand upon the last stroke of the Final Dawn.” The Guildsman’s smugness irritated the High Priest beyond simple reason. Anath stepped quickly forward and patted Fade’s hand gently until the bigger man released his hold and stepped back. Brushing the poisoner’s coat down with a little brush that he carried specifically for this sort of task.
“YOU and your Guild have cost me a great deal of treasure.” Said Fade in a suddenly more reasonable voice. “I control all potion and poison manufacture in Deci and I will see ill towards any that stand in my way. I seek reparations.”
“It would be reasonable,” Anath added in a persuasive, oily voice.
Coughing, Master Twineheap frowned. “I do not understand..?”
“Reparations. You should pay for the problems you have caused to the High Priest of Bhaal. I think five thousand one hundred centuries would cover it..? Yes?”
The Master Poisoner still seemed to be having trouble with the concept. “I am trying to understand,” he flinched when is eye caught Fade and thereafter he avoided his gaze, “what you mean? Are you saying that here, in Deci, those whom someone thinks hired an assassin has to pay for what he does?”
“No, no, no. Just you do.”
“We do not have that sort of treasure. We are a new Guild…” He then shrugged. “But we will not see ourselves destroyed over this. We shall borrow if we must from the Merchant’s. Very well.” He gave in.
“You should also induct Count Diablo into the Guild.”
At that Master Twineheap rallied. “No. Never. You have won what you wish. But to have that? No.”
Fade sighed. “I’m sure your successor will feel differently.” He pointed out. “The treasure. You have a month to arrange it.”
The Count left leaving Anath to weigh up the situation. “I think perhaps we should talk further.” And so saying led the man out of the Guild to where they might speak more privately. Doubtless they have rooms for such but he felt he wanted to be on his own territory for further discussions. Head bowed the Guild Master followed.
Cheapside
Through the filthy snow the red light of the fires seemed to wreath the tall figure in a saturnine glow. Shadowed against the light he came closer until he stopped before Master Berry. Perhaps twice the height of the goblin had he been hatless, the newcomer lowered a gloved hand towards Master Berry’s. It twitched and the dreaded Foul Orc of Cheapside Town saw that it was in fact some sort of glove puppet in the shape of a rat. The ‘god’ too was of the same species, its whiskers short and trimmed into a neat little moustache.
The god spoke, the voice squeaky and issuing from the glove puppet. “Where Claggy Bottom?”
There seemed to rise then a cloud of whispering. “Blessed Kaharn! A tale to tell! To his foes a power most fell! For him we work bright and loyal! Making joyful the hardest toil!”
Master Berry shuddered and a thick, wet tear flowed down a scared cheek. “Oh, bestest beloved! Oh, great one! Claggy Bottom? Yes, yes ‘course! Yes! Come with me! Yes!”
Blackjack coughed and the glove puppet rose The taller rat held it out at arms length so that the orc and the puppet stood nose-to-nose, inches apart. “’Ullo yer godliness. Um, wanna fight?”
The puppet seemed to think about it before offering a shrug. “Why?” The whisper hissed into everyone’s ear. The turf was as silent now as the rest of the city. Everyone had stopped what they were doing.
“’Cause I’ll ‘ave yer!”
The puppet just stared at Blackjack who held its gaze stiffly. It was beginning to occur to him that out-staring a puppet was going to be hard so he nodded instead and just added. “Right den. Just so’s yer knows. No one messes with Blackjack!”
Master Berry had already started to walk away and the tall figure followed in the goblin’s wake. Hands on shoulders, the rat left its puppet looking stiffly backwards, rag nose on rat’s shoulder. Blackjack nodded to everyone once they were gone. “Bottle job.” He announced, breaking the atmosphere and laughter rippled with gathering volume about the turf, led by Marmalade.
A Stab In The Back
There was much of the Majius in Deci. The Noble Houses of the city were not like those to be found in the rest of the Empire, though they came of the same stock that emerged from the misty First Age to take upon themselves the mantles of rulers and Princes. Common House history had it that they married a daughter of a distant Emperor centuries ago but there had been no Empire more than a few decades ago and most of everything that Dalron had made known was little more than his own devious misdirection.
The Night of Levity had seen nigh on every scrap of text, scroll and even tally stick burned on the first Emperor’s orders. He and Madrak had sought to rewrite history, such as it existed at all upon Primus, a world that changed every Final Dawn, including what had occurred in the past. They had of course succeeded for a long years. It had been especially true in Deci, the new Baron of Throttle Talath Majus saw.
Amora had hit the city like an axe to spun sugar. So long the place of his exile during the Magiarchal Wars he had known it well and so when he took it as part of his Empire he took it with the utmost ruthlessness. The Houses that lived today had been those to follow Amora on the Long Ride or that had bowed immediately to his rule, even made it possible. Talath had sought out a library or a place of records. For the former there was not one thing like that in pen hands within the whole of the Empire. For the latter there were the scribes but their own information went accurately only back to the time of Jander and then but fragments before that.
No single House in Deci had enjoyed a long rule. The city had been so long the provenance of Robber Barons, Mocker Kings, Thief Council’s and dozens of other rulers. Whomsoever could rule, had. With their ritual power the Nobles had often been part of this, or bred with those who had. Deci was the muddiest pond in the Empire regarding what had happened in the past.
Oh, there were stories of course. And of course on Primus these were better than perhaps anything else. The routes of the Majius went in many different directions. They had been hale and hearty when one, the Thief of Glass Lady Berelen Majius, had ruled Deci for twenty years of the sickly Republic.
More recently Talath had heard tell that not a hundred years before, the city had been hoarded by three figures. A triumvirate made up of Mad Lord Twitch, Agony Majius and The Claugh. He suspected that Troy knew what the House had done to gain status and power through Amora but such was often the preserve of the Lord of House to know.
The newly made Baron had entered the Stab In The Back. Here had been told that information of a crisp variety could be found. But such cost, or rather the fine hanging of knives cost and Talath was presently short on the old centuries so had been forced to leave again his appetite un-sated.
Of all the people who knew might have known something, it was Buggers who had been the most forthcoming. Not too much, he was ultimately loyal to the Lord of House and would say nothing against the line. He had suggested a certain place to go to however, and so it was that Talath picked his way through the quiet, layered streets that skirted the edge of the crack that pushed the city downwards. Here in Hightown the best of the city lived high above the settlement and the worst of scum, drow for the most part, dwelled far below and out of sight in the depths.
The door was set far back and amongst dwellings mostly occupied by those that served the Sires and Masters of Deci. Good compared to most everywhere else but below the level occupied by the Nobility, and the Spire that rose even above the uppermost point of Hightown. With little other option he knocked and was forced to wait until it was eventually opened by a pale, thin woman. Her hair hung in thick braids to her waist and was deathly white. Otherwise she dressed all in sombre brown and slightly washed-out black.
“What do you want?” She demanded to know.
“I am Talath Majius, Baron Throttle of Deci.”
The woman looked shocked but stepped aside to allow him to enter anyway. The home sloped towards one end, both low ceiling and old floor at a decided angle to the true. Lamps burned brightly, throwing thick shadows across an untidy clutter of empty cages, metal tubes, rods, half-full sacks, broken blades and a small heap of silver plate, goblets and candlesticks. Against every wall a line of calcified chalk and salt made a curious rim. The woman, about in age equal to Troy Talath judged, picked up a sleeping homunculi and carefully put the tiny winged creature into the nearest cage. A chair thus revealed she insisted that her visitor himself.
“So Baron of Throttle, what do you want with me?”
“Your name would be fine place to start!”
Crossing her arms the woman looked at her guest for some time before replying. “I was called ‘Agony’ by the Guilds.”
“A curious name.”
“Indeed, Agony Majius.”
The Slurries
Amongst the quiet city Jander worked. He hammered a bar of iron from the forge and held it up to inspect the quality of the glow. Perhaps unsatisfied with one small part of the overall colour, he plunged it back into the coals whilst others worked the bellows to heat the charcoal fire. Even as the hours passed still Jander worked, aware that others were doing so also. His own Held were scattered about the city doing similar and just as Jander’s work came to fruition so too did theirs. Each had made a piece of smooth, curved metal. Jander’s own was more complicated and at last satisfied he cooled it, polished it and then set it aside. He had no particular idea what it was that he had wrought. It had just seemed to him that it was something that had had to be done.
Taking his apron off and hanging it on a peg by the open door Jander fetched up his sword and cloak from where they had been left on a nearby stool. He looked out at the dirty snow as if seeing it for the first time. Certainly none had settled within three paces of the warm forge. It had been a long days work. Night’s work even. Spears who had served him once had returned and only waited his call. Near all had come from Eartholme, those that had not been found locally and as the year drew towards it death it was within the great horseshoe shape of the Forgotten Hills that the Forge felt most aware. He had a presence in Bildteve and Alguz but these were little points of bright light in the spread of the Forge’s domain. He was present there but it was within the Forgotten Hills he felt at… home?
“You have time to shoe a horse, smith?” A voice asked from the door. The Forge took off his sword belt and cloak once more and fetched back his apron. It did not do to deny someone who needed the craft. Besides, he now realised, how many horses were there in Deci?
“Bring it in, traveler.” He opened the doors wider and looked at his visitor in quiet curiosity.
Dressed in a cloak of green, a tunic of brown and britches of orange the young man who came within at the invitation had the sort of open, honest face that was at odds with everyone else’s within as many leagues distance as it could ever matter. A light beard curled about his chin and upper lip, brown hair fell to the collar of his cloak. He carried no weapon. The horse in turn was a fine beast, reddish in colour and clearly fed and cared for. The Forge inspected went directly to the offside left hoof and lifted it to inspect the lose shoe. Fetching a hasp he set to work.
“Cold night.”
“Aye,” The Forge fetched a bar of iron and set to fashioning a shoe to fit. “Though it seems not to bother you? Your cloak is dry for a man caught in the snow.”
“I have a long way to travel and there is much to be seen tonight.”
“Of course.” He noted that his question had not been answered.
“You do fine work? It would be good if you remember that a smith does not turn down work. You seem to be goodly fellow but you do a neutral craft. It is good to have things grounded a little. You know the Brandins?”
“Of course. There is work to be done there?”
“There is. There is a cave where once people of power sat down to discuss matters of the greatest import. Its door was shattered a few years ago, or damaged in any case. It would be seemly for it to have a new one. A good, iron doorway. It lies upon the Mountain where the griffons once could be found. Can you do that?” The young man asked and the Forge agreed that he could. “That would be seemly. You have finished? Excellent! I must be off. Ah, but first you must be paid.”
“Not at all.”
“I insist. It is far from your place of influence but on the isle beyond Ahlbert’s city there lies a place called Curn’s Grasp. That is where your forebear died. He that was as you are, before you. In case you wondered. Another has yet to discover that. But I must be going! Farwell, Forge.”
Farewell, Primus. The Forge hung up his tools once again, taking off his apron when he felt himself once more alone.
The Poison Quarter
In the heart of the Poison Quarter there lay a chamber that had once been a Club. It seemed impossible now to see the vaulted chamber as something so simple as that for now it was a living thing, a creature of darkness and a room without doors. There were few there who were not in their own way powerful men and women, all fresh from the worship led by the Count Diablo who himself was still streaked with the blood from the symbolic sacrifice that had seen to the death of the year. Beyond the quarter it seemed as if nothing else was to be seen. A jewel adrift in the richest of dark oil, the Quarter was perhaps the last living thing on Primus.
In its heart Guild Masters, Merchant Sires, Nobles and even a clutter of Kallah stood and waited. The sacrifice done, they waited for the year to pass. The temple to Bhaal as with all of the Quarter was where the force that composed it to be and at this time all places of power were here.
Fade held up the heart of the sacrifice and it still beat, slowly, with the last gasps of the year. “You have heard my words, you have heard the manner of our power. Let all here know the power of our Lord and I his High Priest.”
Ulis Tamary came to stand beside Fade and held out a hand for the dripping organ. The Count Diablo was the last man ever to deny the City Spirit and he bowed to his long time friend, offering up the heart to the city.
“I am glad to see you all here today,” Argoth stepped up to the blooded altar. This is a time when things change and die, when new things are born, out with the old and in with the new and all that. ” His words elicited a gentle laugh from the Lords and Masters of the city.
Then Ulis gasped.
From his chest there appeared the point long bladed knife. It was in cross-section a spike and then two more identical blades flashed into the sides of the already frozen City Spirit. Seemingly pinned in the empty air, Ulis screamed.
Centuries came to him then. His vessel calcified and cracked and within the City Spirit itself sought to escape. But the knives held it to the vessel and the vessel was dead. There was a moment when Ulis seemed to rally turning in the air but then the flesh fell to ashes and the Spirit with it. It sought hastily for the barest moment a new vessel…
…and the year died.
Primus saw only what the Spirit saw and the Spirit could only see through the Kallah who saw only the City Spirit of Deci slain by Argoth.
There was the barest touch of time then, a breath and a shudder and outside the Quarter the year turned and was born anew.
Well, Argoth snorted, that was out with the old. Then he too roared, screamed as if torn but there was no wound to see. Fade looked at Anath but for once the slight man was lost for words. His mouth opened and closed but nothing came. Troy was already kneeling with the other Nobles of the Blood of Deci. The Guilds did likewise, then the Merchants until only Fade and Anath remained.
I am the new The Murder breathed the words. I am Murder and you will call ME LORD!
Those kneeling did so loudly and vociferously. Argoth turned to each of them, dark delight and victory burning from his every pore. Deep in the core of the Poison Quarter where none could transgress or bring harm to he, save perhaps for one and she had her own concerns at such a time. Seemingly satisfied with what he saw, what he felt and what he knew The Murder kicked at the flakes of ask that had once been Ulis.
Someone clean this mess up… He said.
By Alan Morgan (CI8V2)