Son of a Liche

by J. Zachary Pike

  “I think it has to do with how you whip the oxen,” said Kaitha.

  “And if ye ain’t got an ox?”

  The Elf shrugged. “Close your eyes and pray?”

  “I figured as much,” Gorm said. “A plan old Niln’d be proud of, eh?”

  Kaitha found a smile for the priest, small and bittersweet. “Seems like the only plan we’ve ever had.”

  “All right, I’m ready!” Laruna had firmly wedged the shaft of the Wyrmwood Staff between two of the boards in the center of the wagon’s floor, positioning the gem at the rear of the cart.

  “Then go!” shouted Gorm, watching as the time bubble jerked and contracted. “Everybody hang on!”

  “Here goes.” Laruna wove thick, amber cords of fire into the staff’s gem.

  The crystal thrummed to life, emitting a red glow and, shortly thereafter, a massive gout of flame. A roar of fire immolated the empty case formerly occupied by the staff in the blink of an eye. The wagon lurched into motion, propelled by the massive blaze roaring from its rear.

  Kaitha cleared her throat.

  “Well, this was oversold,” said Heraldin, watching the museum’s exhibits crawl by as they inched forward.

  “We’re improvising new spells with a staff that hasn’t been used for over a century!” snapped Laruna. “This isn’t easy!”

  “Well, I’ll tell that to any bannermen that happen to stroll by,” said the bard.

  “It’s fast enough,” said Gorm as they creaked along.

  “How? It’d be faster if we hooked it up to a pair of dead oxen,” said Heraldin.

  “It’s like the mirror Kaitha threw,” said Gorm. “We’re really movin’ faster than the speed of time or some such nonsense. So, when we come outta the chronobomb’s bubble, we’ll keep enough momentum to be movin’ at… uh… Jynn, how fast will we be goin’?”

  The noctomancer gave a slight shake of his head, lost in some mental calculations. The wizard must have reached a dire conclusion, as all of the color drained from his face. “Oh gods. Everybody hang—”

  The wagon pitched forward, the chronobomb’s radius contracted, and the heroes slipped through the glowing blue membrane.

  Chapter 12

  Sergeant Joklo Perkin’s thoughts drifted to Nove’s second principle of universal irony.

  Nove’s second principle was a straightforward equation, using Nove’s Constant to show that the likelihood of an unfortunate event is directly proportional to the anticipation for whatever the misfortune would disrupt. In layman’s terms, the more people looked forward to something, the more likely that tragic circumstances will prevent it. This principle was famously reinforced when Nove’s experiments designed to demonstrate it failed on stage at the Academy of Essenpi, simultaneously proving and failing to prove the philosopher’s point.

  The second principle of universal irony was the reason that professional heroes didn’t undertake quests while they were engaged to be married, or that Andarun’s kings never rode out in the last days before their queen bore a child.

  It was also, notably to Joklo Perkins, the reason bannermen became cautious in the last few weeks before retiring. It was a well-known fact, or at least it was well-known, that too much excitement before a bannerman’s retirement was a sure way to be struck by a crossbow bolt meant for a younger, more rebellious partner; or get attacked by a horrible new villain.

  Sergeant Perkins tried not to look forward to retiring, and did his best to dampen Mrs. Perkins’ excitement. But Perkins’ joints and wits weren’t what they used to be, while his girth was significantly more than it had once been. He kept catching himself dreaming of taking the old raft down the Tarapin with a fishing pole in his hand—a hobby he’d have more time for once he finished working.

  Despite his best intentions, Sgt. Perkins found himself very much anticipating the date of his retirement.

  So when the old sergeant heard an explosion from the museum’s dragon-kin exhibit and the younger guards sprinted toward the billowing smoke, Perkins trotted toward the site of the trouble at an unhurried pace. The other bannermen assigned to the Museum of Andarun could afford to run headlong into danger. Especially his headstrong young partner.

  Then Perkins noticed a group of suspicious characters in the omnimancy exhibit, standing around the Wyrmwood Staff. The sergeant took it as a welcome excuse to remove himself from harm’s way and called out to the adventurers, hoping to escort them outside for a safe and time-consuming interview. Unfortunately, that was when he noticed the strange device in the noctomancer’s hands.

  “What are you doing there?” Perkins demanded, as his guardsman’s instincts overrode his survival ones. He took a couple of steps forward, and then the world went mad.

  One moment the suspicious adventurers were looking at him in guilty surprise. The next Perkins heard a faint hiss and a small pop like a lemon passing through a wine bottle. The noctomancer and his device, the adventurers, and even the Dusk Cart of Archmage Ibson winked out of existence amid a sudden cacophony, replaced by a horrible conflagration that roared past the sergeant in a blur of fire and profanity. Perkins was thrown from his feet, and a red wheel passed within inches of providing a supporting argument for the second principle of universal irony.

  When the old bannerman righted himself a moment later, the omnimancy exhibit was still, save for a trail of thick smoke in the air and several shards of Lord Cestil’s ceremonial armor rattling on the floor.

  “All right, maybe not career-ending. But close,” said Burt. “The sixth tier is just about as destitute as an Elf with standing can tolerate, so it’s not the sort of neighborhood I’d go looking for work in if I was you. Really, you want to work for an Elf on the ninth tier.”

  Thane gazed at the rooftops of the second tier down from the Pinnacle. “The ninth tier.”

  “Oh, yeah. Well, the Elves don’t call it the ninth. They’ve got the place divided up into dozens of little mini-tiers. If their foundation’s an inch or two higher than their neighbors’, they call it a new tier and act like they’re better than the folks next door. But everyone else just calls it the ninth tier.”

  “That sounds a little silly,” said the Troll.

  “Hey, if I had a silver shilling for every ridiculous thing the Elves did, well, I suppose I’d basically have my old job again. But you get used to it, and it’s a good living. Provided you work for an Elf of means, of course. Which is why you don’t look for jobs on the sixth tier. Otherwise you’ll wind up sleeping in a cardboard box at the foot of some bed.”

  “I don’t think that would happen to me,” said Thane carefully.

  “Well, not exactly, obviously,” said the Kobold. “You don’t have what it takes to be a handbag performer. No offense.”

  “None taken,” said the Troll, in a way that implied some given.

  Burt ignored the slight. “But the principle’s the same. You want to work somewhere that gives you social status. That’s how you get status yourself. And more money, of course.”

  “I’m not sure I want a job,” said Thane.

  “Well, you need one, technically, if you want those NPC papers to stay valid. But don’t worry. You’re not going to have any problems finding work. Anybody who wants some extra protection would pay top dollar to have a Troll for a guard.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know it,” said Burt. “I talked to a couple of security firms back in the day. Technically, they’re goons, but that’s not a bad thing. You could start as a goon and work your way up to thug in no time.”

  Thane nodded and took another sip of his tea. “You know a lot about this city,” he said, staring out over the rooftops.

  “Yeah, you hear a lot of things sitting in a diplomat’s purse,” said Burt.

  “Did you hear a strange noise?” asked Thane.

  “No, I meant like gossip and politics and stuff.”

  “Just now. I heard an explosion.”

  Thin plumes of smoke rose from a building
down on the seventh tier.

  “Isn’t that where you said the museum is?” Thane stood and shielded his eyes to better see the commotion.

  “Maybe,” said Burt slowly. He heard screams from the tiers below, but he was hoping that Thane didn’t. “I mean, we don’t know—”

  He was cut off by a distant shriek, a whining roar like that of something prehistoric and scaly. An amber glow flared along the Wall near the Broad Steps.

  “It’s them,” said the Troll. “They might need us.”

  “It could be anybody,” Burt tried.

  “Then somebody’s in trouble,” said Thane. “Let’s go.”

  “But the jam tarts are almost ready,” protested Burt. “Look, you can see the cook setting them to cool in the window.”

  “Come on,” rumbled the Troll.

  The Kobold grabbed a few coins and a rolled note from his purse and threw them onto the table. “That’ll teach me to look forward to anything too much,” he snarled, scampering up Thane’s arm.

  “What does that have to do with it?” Thane was already running for the stairs down to the tenth tier, scattering panicked citizens as he did so.

  “Ain’t you ever heard of Nove’s second principle of universal irony?”

  “Whose principle of what?”

  “Yeah, I should have figured,” sighed the Kobold. He shot one last longing glance at the jam tarts as the Troll lumbered down the street, leaving a line of dazed citizens in their wake.

  “It is unfair, but it is the way of things,” said Dulo of the Melon, fanning himself with a large banana leaf.

  Jaya stared across Andarun’s Broad Steps with yearning and envy in equal measure. “Look at the lines at their carts,” she grumbled. “Look how many brokers and merchants are standing there for basted meats. It’s not even time for dinner.”

  The old man patted the round melons on his cart, one of several fruit stands clustered across the steps opposite the Wall on the eighth tier. “And perhaps, when they are full, they will come by for a slice of sugared melon. But we must be patient.”

  Jaya shook her head. “But if I took my cart across the steps—”

  “It is not our way,” said Dulo. “Remember the teachings.”

  “All the meat carts have crossed!”

  “They are different,” said the old merchant sagely.

  “Yes, but only because they’ve crossed the street and now they’re making giltin hand over fist,” Jaya growled through her teeth.

  “They would not have if they sold our wares.” Dulo scratched at his thin beard before trying a different approach. “Consider Thulb the Wise. She has been here since your mother was a girl and never changed her spot. Thulb does not seek more sales, nor does she strive for new products. She has faith that prosperity grows from stability, and that there will always be gold in her banana stand.”

  An ancient Tinderkin nodded at the pair from an old shack near the steps down to the seventh tier.

  “I don’t care!” said Jaya. “Why should I sit waiting for traders to cross the street while my spiced oranges rot in the sun? I’m going to get in the shadow of the Wall and sell delicious fruits to those lazy bankers.”

  “It is not our way,” Dulo repeated. “Remember the teachings of the philosopher-scientist—”

  “No, this is silly,” Jaya interrupted. “I’m doing it.” The young woman leapt to her feet and pushed her cart forward, careful to balance the piles of oranges and spice jars atop it. Her determination faded a little as she approached the bustle of the steps. By the time she reached their edge, she had slowed to a stop.

  Jaya looked up toward the Pinnacle. The odd businessperson trotted up and down the steps, but most were working in their offices at this hour. The young fruit seller turned and looked down toward the Base. A few tourists milled around the steps outside the Museum of Andarun, but the steps were otherwise clear.

  With a deep breath, Jaya pushed her cart forward.

  The stones of the Broad Steps were smooth, worn by the stamping of innumerable feet moving up and down the tiers. Her cart rolled easily across the way, and the pedestrians were mindful enough to keep out of her path. Halfway across the steps, Jaya allowed herself a small smile. “This is going to work,” she said.

  Back on the Ridgeward side of the steps, Dulo shook his head sadly.

  A sudden explosion rang from the lower tiers. Jaya looked down the steps in horror as people began to pour out of the Museum of Andarun, spilling onto the Broad Steps. Her desperation swelling, she tried to pull her wares back to safety, but it was too late. A fruit cart was in the middle of the road, and universal forces were in motion.

  A flaming contraption burst from the doors of Andarun’s museum with a gaggle of armed heroes hanging from its shaking rails. Sparks sprayed from the screaming juggernaut’s wheels as it careened onto the steps and launched itself up the stairs at an impossible velocity. Jaya barely had time to dive for cover before the burning wagon drove through her cart, sending a fountain of oranges and spices into the air. The nightmare vehicle didn’t slow at all. It roared up toward the ninth tier, carrying the screaming heroes with it as pulp and chunks of fruit cart rained down on the cobbles.

  Damp Otto’s plate clattered on the floorboards, scattering trout pastries everywhere. It was followed by the assassin’s dagger, and then a moment later by the body of Damp Otto, still convulsing in a death rattle.

  Garold Flinn stared each of the remaining assassins in the eye as the sounds of Otto’s feeble thrashing rang out in the dining chamber. “Now,” he growled as Otto settled. “Does anyone else wish to back out of their contract?”

  The assembled killers shook their heads.

  “Good.” Mr. Flinn holstered his handheld crossbow. “Then in that case—”

  “You didn’t even give him the witnesses speech,” said Barty Ficer, a weathered man surrounded by a trio of war golems.

  “What?” said Flinn, still fiddling with his crossbow holster.

  “You know.” Barty mimicked a sinister, gravelly voice. “‘If you can’t be a part of the team, you’re just a witness. And in this business, we don’t leave witnesses.’ That sort of thing.”

  “You mean the loose ends speech?” said Mortus, who had taken the form of a finely-dressed old Dwerrow today.

  Barty scratched at the stubble on his chin. “I suppose,” he said slowly. “But back in Scoria, we used to call it the witnesses speech.”

  “On the Daellish coast, it’s the ‘dead men tell no tales’ speech,” offered Captain Jones.

  “My people call it the ‘circle of trust speech,’” said Deathbloom, a dark-skinned Imperial woman in violet silks.

  “What?” asked Mortus. “How does that go?”

  “You know. ‘We are all in a circle of trust, and once you’re out of it, you can’t get back in,’” said Deathbloom. “You see where it goes?”

  “Well, I guess,” said Udina the Raven, a dark haired noctomancer in robes more black than purple. “But I hope nobody here thinks we trust each other.”

  “It’s just an expression,” Deathbloom snarled over the other assassins’ laughter.

  Mr. Flinn sighed as he rapped his silver fork against his crystal goblet. “Ladies and gentlemen, please. Whatever the protocol, I think Damp Otto’s fate makes it clear what will happen to anyone who tries to abandon their obligations.” He nodded to the remains of Damp Otto, which were already being rolled into an extravagant carpet by a pair of servants dressed in gray and white.

  Andarun boasted plenty of discreet establishments where an unsavory clientele could eat, meet, and kill each other away from the prying eyes of the bannermen. Most of those businesses, however, had a dim and dank ambiance, the only saving grace of which was that it made it harder to see the food. For a more well-to-do and discerning criminal, the White Hand offered top-tier dining with first-rate secrecy. The food was excellent, the wine cellar featured an enviable collection of vintages, and the staff offered a number of usefu
l services including, happily, body disposal.

  The two servants hefted the rolled-up corpse and hurried from the room.

  “Can we all agree on that point?” asked Mr. Flinn.

  “Yeah, sure,” said Barty over the affirmative muttering of the other assassins.

  “Good. Now, who has information about where Gorm Ingerson might be?”

  The muttering from the collected assassins was distinctly less affirmative.

  “Nobody?” Mr. Flinn felt another surge of rage and panic flushing his face. He stepped over to the window, trying without much success to hide his consternation. “Nobody has any leads on where Ingerson is, despite all the information I provided?”

  “I’ve got clues clogging all my bilges,” said Captain Jones, whose dedication to maintaining pirate branding often wore thin. “It’s four Humans, an Elf, and a Dwarf. That’s pretty much every other party of professional heroes workin’ between Silvershore and Edaelmon. Everybody and their mother has leads for me; it’s sortin’ through ‘em that’s impossible.”

  “They’ve a noctomancer and a solamancer among them,” snapped Mr. Flinn. The window overlooked a small plaza with a fountain and a few benches in between a couple of office buildings. A cluster of fruit stands sat at the far corner of the plaza. Beyond them, Flinn could see the Broad Steps, where traders milled about in the shadow of the Wall. “Surely two mages from opposing Orders make for a distinctive combination.”

  “It’s uncommon, but not so much as you’d think,” said Udina.

  “And it poses another problem,” added Barty. “They’re clearly puttin’ up concealing wards and anti-divination charms on themselves now and again. All my gazers gave up. The bloody search sprites are totally baffled. They just flutter around pointing out interesting shrubs.”

  Barty’s mechanical golems nodded in agreement, as they were enchanted to do.

  Mortus shrugged. “I’ve tips in Edaelmon, I’ve tips in Parald, I’ve tips in Scoria—”