Gorm could feel the blood rising in his cheeks. “How does more bloody paperwork make things go faster?”
The guardsman shrugged.
“Vetchell is in dire peril!” Jynn leaned over the desk. “If you cannot take this threat seriously, then we must speak with the commanding officer at this station.”
The guard finally glanced up from his book, meeting Jynn’s stare with his own heavy-lidded eyes. “Go right ahead, sir.”
“You’re the commander of the city guard,” said Jynn dryly.
“Knight-commander of the city guard, yes. Lord Tyren Ur’Thos to you.”
“And you spend your days taking in the paperwork.” Gorm couldn’t have concealed his skepticism even if he’d tried.
“I’ve always believed it’s important to delegate. Staying off the streets and ramparts gives me more to time to…” Tyren’s hand grasped idly at nothing, as though he could pull the right words from the air. “You know… set the direction of my department. Do the big picture thinking.”
“I see.” Gorm glanced at the guard’s magazine cover. It promised in bold, block letters that everything was bigger with Ogresses. “A man of vision, then.”
“Indeed,” said Knight-Commander Ur’Thos, flipping the page.
Gorm snorted, and as he did so, his nose caught a biting scent. “And you’re drunk!”
“I’m hiding it well,” countered the knight-commander.
“Hiding it?” said Jynn. “Who cares what you look like if you’re too sauced to help us?”
“Oh no!” Tyren held up a finger with the deliberate steadiness of a man just on the edge of inebriation. “I’m not that drunk. I’m not helping you yet because you haven’t done the paperwork.”
“But this is a matter of life and death,” said Gorm.
“All the more reason to do it properly,” said Tyren with a tight-lipped smile. “It won’t do you much good to moan about how critical this threat is if you can’t be bothered to fill out a few simple forms.”
“All of Arth could be in danger!” Jynn protested.
“Well then, be sure to include form 78MCA when you file your report.” The knight-commander turned back to his magazine. “That’s the blue one.”
“Fine, thrice curse your bones!” Gorm snapped, already on his way to the shelves of papers. He located all three forms as well as a few quills and a pot of ink. On his way back to the lobby, he nodded at Heraldin and Gaist. “You two! Come help with the bloody paperwork.”
They huddled around a small table in the lobby, working furiously. There were questions about the date and location that the threat was witnessed, the quantity and relative power of the foes, the immediate and long-term risks posed by the incursion, and, naturally, several pages of detailed questions about the weapons, armor, and other valuables that the enemy might have been carrying. Gorm and his companions scrawled their best guesses in most of the blanks, and progress was fast until they reached the questions about their identities.
“They want names, license numbers, addresses,” muttered Jynn. “If we gave any of these to the guild, they’d be as likely to arrest us as ride out against the undead.”
“And if I had to choose who to fight, it’d be us,” said Heraldin. “Just use fake information.”
“Can’t. They cross-check the answers, and if something doesn’t match up the guild will throw out the forms as fraud.” Gorm shook his head.
“Do we know anyone else who can submit it?” asked Jynn.
A thought struck Gorm, and he turned back to the knight-commander. “Hey! Can we turn in these reports anonymously?”
Tyren’s expression turned puzzled. “I don’t think so. But I don’t know why you would want to anyway. You’d forfeit any claim to the loot.”
“Claim?” Gorm feigned innocence.
“To the loot, yes.” Tyren spoke as though explaining wooden toys to a dull-witted child. “You submit a threat report, and if you’re the first to accurately report it, you and the city get to issue a quest together. Then you get some of the gold when the Heroes’ Guild comes and kills the monsters. Why else would every bit of riffraff on the street be in here trying to convince me they saw scargs in their barn or big rats in the sewer?” The last sentiment was muttered as the knight-commander returned to his lecherous periodical.
“But, we don’t care about the gold,” said Gorm.
Tyren put his magazine down with forceful impatience. “Don’t care about gold? Why would you even—” he began, but then revelation washed over his face. “This is a real threat. You’re coming to warn us because there’s a real F.O.E. marching on the city.”
“Finally!” said Jynn, looking relieved.
“And it’s not just that you’re not here for the loot. You don’t want to claim the loot. So you must have some sort of problem with the law,” said the knight-commander.
Jynn’ s enthusiasm faded. “Uh.”
“Wait for it,” said Gorm. He had been around long enough to know the difference between making threats and establishing leverage.
An avaricious gleam was in the knight-commander’s eye. “And that means that, perhaps, you wouldn’t care if someone else put his name on the forms.”
“And there it is,” Gorm said, stepping forward. “And if it happened to be your name on the form?”
“Now that’s a thought.” Tyren put on the pretense of pondering. “The idea had never crossed my mind, of course, but since you’ve put it out there, I suppose I would have to personally ensure that the report was seen by the highest offices of our fine city. If my name were on the report, of course.”
“And if not?” Gorm prompted.
“Why, I’d treat it with all the respect and care that I give to every other request.” The knight-commander jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at a tray brimming with colorful bundles of paper. “The rank and file process forms and send them over to the Heroes’ Guild on a bi-weekly basis.”
“Of course,” said Gorm. “A man of vision and an entrepreneur as well.”
Jynn sighed. “Why is nothing ever simple?”
It was surprisingly difficult to find a venue for not having a meeting.
An enterprising individual had many options when searching for a place to meet in Andarun. There were business complexes with offices for rent, taverns with spacious back rooms, and even a few temples that would rent out their sanctuaries for a generous donation to the appropriate god or goddess.
Yet all of those options were in public spaces, and kept payment records, and were full of prying eyes, all of which were unacceptable to a person planning a meeting that would explicitly never happen. Guests who would most definitely be elsewhere demanded much more discretion from a venue that they weren’t visiting.
The Moonless Night had been established for just such a lack of an occasion. The Night was never in the same place twice; officially, it was never anywhere, and why were you asking, anyway? Its clientele expected amenities such as unique and discreet locations to not hold meetings in, well-crafted fake receipts for the expenses they didn’t incur, and a stylish invitation sent to everyone who would not be attending, complete with custom alibis written out on the back.
On the evening of the thirteenth of Fulgen, 7.375, somewhere in the ninth tier of Andarun, there was not a meeting at The Moonless Night. There were no servants in the alleged room; any wine and cheese would have been served by conjured sprites that dissipated as soon as they were no longer needed. Only scurrilous and totally unverifiable accounts might have implied that the most dangerous men on Arth gathered to discuss business. And that there were also some assassins present.
Fenrir Goldson and Bolbi Baggs could easily prove that they weren’t anywhere near the ninth tier that night. However, anyone who might have been at the Moonless Night that evening may have recalled two similar businessmen opening the meeting by asking several pointed questions.
How hard could it really be to kill a party of six heroes? Especially if said hero
es were led by a rank one warrior and the highest ranked among them was a known drunk, for Tandos’ sake? Hadn’t the solamancer in question spent over a decade as an apprentice? Weren’t there ballads about their noctomancer’s cowardice and incompetence? Why were two anonymous businessmen spending so much of their personal fortune on a gaggle of assassins who had yet to eliminate one target? How was it that the wanted posters plastered all over the Freedlands had been just as effective, when they had cost a fraction of just one assassin’s fee?
On the last question, one of the two unidentifiable executives may have thrown a bundle of papers on the table for effect. Each flyer had a poorly-rendered woodcut depicting one member of Gorm Ingerson’s party or another alongside the promise of a hefty reward from the Heroes’ Guild.
A couple of the assassins likely protested. Someone might have pointed out that Gorm Ingerson had been rank ten at one point, and regardless of guild paperwork he remained as crafty and dangerous as ever. And had not Throden the Raven’s remains been found in a mangled state, his wounds consistent with victims of either a Troll attack or an avalanche? Coupled with the final report of the Silver Talons mercenaries—
Yet if any executives were present, they wouldn’t have tolerated such whining. They would remind everyone that assassins are typically paid for results, not excuses. And they would likely have added that there were only two types of assassins: successful professionals, and loose ends.
The meeting that never happened ended on that veiled threat. The anonymous businessmen pulled up the hoods of their fine capes and made for the doors. Upon their exit, fresh sprites drifted in and began packing up The Moonless Night’s tableware. The assassins would have grumbled about getting the loose ends speech from civilians, but soon enough they would make for the windows and leap out onto the rooftops, their dark cloaks trailing after them in a suitably dramatic fashion.
One assassin, however, lingered. He picked up a wanted poster bearing a horrible woodcut of Gorm Ingerson in a hand that wasn’t a hand at all. Rather, his appendage was an intricate amalgam of Scribkin engineering and noctomancy, fashioned to look like shining talons. The claws were so sharp that Gorm Ingerson’s fish-eyed portrait was shredded when his mechanical hand balled into a shaking fist around it.
The tatters of Gorm’s malformed image hadn’t yet settled on the floor before Garold Flinn left a meeting that never happened.
Chapter 5
“It’s just that your appointment isn’t on the schedule, you see.” The clerk pointed a damning finger at a blank spot on his parchment. “And if it’s not on the schedule, it doesn’t happen.”
“Perhaps under normal circumstances, but this is of the utmost importance,” said Knight-Commander Ur’Thos, stepping up to the podium. “I’m sure you understand.”
The young clerk wore an expression that suggested otherwise, along with the dull robes of an apprentice of the Order of the Moon. “You have to have an appointment,” he repeated with dim certainty.
Gorm grit his teeth, but he held his tongue. The party waited in the main chamber of Vetchell’s Tower of Magi, which was far too public a place for a group of outlaws to make a scene.
There were few things that could unite the Order of the Sun and the Order of the Moon; over the ages the two great factions of mages had refined their philosophical differences into the purest contrarianism. Solamancers and noctomancers went to great lengths to be on the opposite sides of every debate, be it political, social, religious, or inane. Even amid such cultivated animosity, however, there were still forces that could push the two orders of mages to the brink of cooperation. One common example was real estate prices.
To fulfill their sacred duty of safely identifying and training Arth’s magically gifted, the two great Orders needed to have bases of operations in all of Arth’s major cities. Yet proper mage towers were incredibly expensive, especially those built to withstand the punishment of apprentices inexpertly fiddling with the primal energies of the universe. As such, most of Arth’s small- to mid-sized cities had a single Tower of Magi shared by both the Order of the Sun and the Order of the Moon.
Within the walls, however, the orders didn’t share much as far as Gorm could see. The floor was neatly bisected by an inlaid silver line, and the mages on either side of it were sorted by the colors of their robes. Unfortunately, the two Orders had come together in appointing the world’s most useless apprentice to man the front desk.
“I am the knight-commander of the city guard,” hissed Tyren.
“Everybody needs an appointment,” repeated the apprentice. “Perhaps tomorrow morning.”
As satisfying as it was to watch the knight-commander wrestle with a fellow gatekeeper to bureaucracy, Gorm was in a hurry to be away from the crowds. “Maybe we could try somewhere else, lad?” he offered.
Tyren tapped the packet of paperwork. “These forms are no good without secondary witnesses or proof. This was your wizard’s idea of the fastest way to get that. So perhaps he could help,” the knight-commander added pointedly.
Jynn looked at Gorm with reluctance, but they had few options and less time. The Dwarf nodded.
“Very well,” said Jynn. The noctomancer stepped forward and threw back his long cloak, revealing the ornate purple robes he wore beneath them. “I know the hour is late, apprentice, but I must insist that you make an exception and take us to the Chamber of Owls.”
Recognition flashed in the apprentice’s eyes, burning away the disinterested patina and leaving something akin to fear in its wake. “Y-yes, high councilor. Just one moment.”
“Well, I didn’t expect it to go that well.” Gorm watched the young mage scurry away.
“I am still a high councilor, and most noctomancers will defer to me,” said Jynn softly, nodding to the young mage. “At least, when I can sneak onto the Order’s premises.”
“I’m surprised they let ye keep your title after… ye know,” said Gorm.
“Oh, I’ve lost all responsibilities and much of the privilege,” said Jynn. “And I’m sure that some ambitious wretch has taken my seat at the head of the Circle of the Red Hawk by now. But I still command the same spells, have the same mastery of magic, and know the same Academy secrets, and so I remain a high councilor.”
“It’s just that now your title is more about sizin’ ye up as a threat,” Gorm observed.
“It always was,” said Jynn with a shrug. “Unskilled apprentices are a threat to society. Fully recognized mages are a threat to the Academy’s enemies. And high councilors and archmages are a threat to each other.”
“Sounds like bein’ a professional hero. I just never realized ye were so high up.” Gorm watched another mage give the noctomancer a low bow.
“I must admit I’ve missed this,” conceded Jynn as the apprentice came rushing back.
The young man guided them upstairs to the Chamber of Owls, a perfect circular room at the center of the tower. The walls were black and shining near the door that Gorm stepped through, decorated with silver stars and comets. Across the room he could see a plain door marked with a golden sun surrounded by an alabaster wall. The walls on either side were a mosaic of gray stones arranged so that the room shifted seamlessly from day into night.
The floor of the room was almost entirely occupied by a wide basin as high as Gorm’s waist and filled with a shimmering, silver liquid. Several noctomancers and solamancers stood around the pool, brought together by some indeterminate task and united in shock at seeing an apprentice lead a party of adventurers into the chamber.
“What is the meaning of this?” demanded the noctomancer with the fanciest robes. Her face was sharp, pale to the point of ghastliness, and framed by long locks of ebony hair, frosted white at the tips.
“We’ve come to use the scrying pool, Councilor of Owls,” said Jynn. A collective gasp rose from the mages and a couple of the heroes at the mention of the pool. The noctomancers and solamancers from the tower erupted in immediate protest, but Jynn countered with
shouted procedures. “I am declaring an emergency, with the authority of a high councilor, set forth in…”
Gorm leaned close to Laruna. “What’s a scrying pool?” he muttered.
“It’s an omnimancer relic. A powerful tool for divination,” said the solamancer.
“Ah, thank ye.” Gorm recalled that omnimancers had once worked with the Sten to build artifacts of incredible power, unreproducible with modern magic. He wasn’t sure what these relics actually did, save that they usually required both halves of magic to operate properly.
Another question came to Gorm’s mind. “And what’s divination?”
Laruna seemed surprised at the question. “Do you know anything about magic?”
“I try not to,” said Gorm. “The only thing I learned about wizards is how to beat the tar out of ‘em.”
“Ha,” Laruna said without amusement as she rubbed her jaw. “Divination lets us see things from across space and time. A scrying pool lets you see anything within a hundred miles as clearly as if you were in the room. The omnimancers made hundreds or thousands of them, but they were all supposed to have been destroyed or sealed away years ago.”
“So, why do these mages have one, then?” said Gorm.
“I don’t know,” Laruna admitted. “I’ve never been in a Chamber of Owls before.”
“It may work out for us,” interjected Kaitha. “Listen.”
Knight-Commander Ur’Thos sauntered forward to examine the pool, eyed warily by Vetchell’s mages. “I’m fairly certain this is an illegal artifact,” he said, hiking up his breeches for emphasis in the manner of guardsmen everywhere.
“We have full authorization to run a scrying pool, and we take our citizens’ privacy seriously.” The Councilor of Owls looked like a cornered rat.
“Does that mean you aren’t scrying on people in the city?” asked Tyren.
“Only when necessary,” offered one of the solamancers working the chamber.
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