by Mike Truk
Birds circled overhead, vendors bawled and shouted, six-legged rats darted between legs, children laughed and shouted, old ladies tugged at my elbow, urging me to come see their fish or roots or rugs or spices - until finally I laughed, giving up my attempt to understand how it all worked and simply allowed the crowd to sweep me along, one hand clamped tightly to my meager coin purse, the other fending off urchins and anyone else who sought to get too close.
Looming over all this was a stately building that glowed a luminous white under its fresh coat of paint. Four stories tall, each of which was fronted by broad balconies set before double doors, it seemed the best preserved of all the ancient constructions I’d seen thus far.
“The magistrate’s office,” said Iris, her quiet voice cutting through the hubbub. “At least, the first floor is given to that purpose. The rest of the building serves as offices for private interests.”
“Then let’s get to it,” I said, cutting through the crowd to reach the base of the broad steps. Here, despite someone’s best efforts, the white paint was scuffed away to reveal the black stone, so that it seemed a dark path led up the center to the white building.
“You know, if I was into metaphors, I’m sure you could make something of this,” I said, walking up the steps and peering before and behind me. “Something about corruption, or how an innocent veneer can’t fool the people forever…”
“Then I’m glad you’re not,” said Cerys briskly.
“I’ll await you here,” said Iris, stepping aside as we reached the main doors. There was a covered verandah that ran the front of the whole building, an incongruous crimson-and-white-striped awning extending along its length to provide shade during the midday hours. A dozen rocking chairs had been sent out, none of which were currently occupied. “Best I keep away from those who might recognize me.”
“Would you like me to keep you company?” asked Tamara, reaching out to touch Iris’ arm.
“No, that’s quite all right. My thoughts and memories are company enough, thank you.” Iris gave a polite smile then moved down the length of chairs to take the last on the left, and there she sat, crossing one leg over the other, and rested her pale chin on the base of her palm as she forgot about us entirely and gazed out over the square.
“Very well,” I said, not sure if I had any control over the situation. “We’ll see you soon.”
No response.
I led the way into an echoing chamber. The floor was a checkerboard of black-and-white marble, the ceiling impressively high above us, and even the giant pots of palms couldn’t soften the harsh angles and oppressive feeling of the black walls. Light streamed in from the front windows, but failed to penetrate to the rear of the room; it was as if the black glass walls drank it in, so that the gloom could never be lifted by natural means. Instead, a large chandelier of black iron hung above the center of the room, a score of candles casting their own soft radiance, while unlit candelabras were affixed to the walls.
Most of the room was dominated by crude benches; a dozen individuals already sat waiting upon them, gazing with different measures of impatience at the elderly man who sat behind a magnificent desk and ignored them completely as he wrote with brusque efficiency in a ledger.
I made my way down the center of the chamber, footsteps echoing and drawing everyone’s attention, and stopped before the desk.
The clerk exuded all the gravitas of a cleric of the Hanged God, his face cadaverous and long and as dark as oiled walnut. Gray hair hung around his ears like clouds at the base of a bald mountain, and a pair of half-moon glasses were perched upon his button nose. His eyebrows appeared permanently raised, as if he were perennially disappointed by the world, and he ignored my presence with sublime indifference as he continued to write in an elegant, slanted cursive.
I decided to start with the basics. “Good morning.”
The man glanced up at me, peering over his glasses, took my measure and resumed writing. “Take a ticket from the bowl by the front door. Approach only when your number is called.”
“Fair enough. How long is the wait?”
It took him almost five entire seconds to respond, though he didn’t look up. “How long is a piece of string?”
I bit back my natural retort. “It’s just a quick question. You can probably answer it in less time than we’ve already spent talking.”
The man stopped writing and looked up at me with the barely concealed disdain of someone who has had to suffer idiots for most of his adult life. “Did I call your ticket number?”
I hit him with my most insincere smile. “Why yes, you did. Don’t you recall? Ah, the perils of senility. Now, if you’d like to get rid of me, perhaps -”
“If I’d like to get rid of you,” said the man, and to my surprise his tone didn’t change in the least, “I’d ring for the guards. I’m about to do so now. This is your last chance to take a ticket and be seated.”
“Kellik,” whispered Tamara. “Come on.”
I gave the man a pained smile which might have been more a grimace and allowed Tamara to pull me back.
“That is not how you deal with petty bureaucrats,” she said.
“I just about figured that out. I was going to try my second alternative, which was ramming his glasses down his throat.”
Tamara gave me a disapproving look and then marched down the length of the room to a small dispenser from which she drew a slip of paper. Cerys and I met her nearly by the front door.
“What number are we?” I asked.
“Seventy two,” she said.
“Hmm. Excuse me.” I stepped up to a hunched-over man who sat on the closest bench. He startled as if caught fondling himself, nearly dropped his ledger, and then turned to stare up at me with panicked eyes.
“Yes? What? I mean - yes?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, speaking with deliberate slowness in an attempt to calm him down. “I just want to ask you a simple question. What’s the number on your ticket?”
His shoulders sank even further. “Fifty-two.”
“And what was the last number the clerk called?”
The man lowered his chin to his palm, a position in which it looked like he could outlast the end of the world. “Thirty-one. That was this morning.”
“Oh,” said Tamara.
Cerys glanced around the sparse crowd. “There aren’t forty people waiting before us,” she said. “Perhaps ten or so. Do people just give up on their spots?”
“Oh no, no, no, no,” said the man, giving us a pitying smile. “You can pay a runner to hold your ticket and fetch you when your number is called. Since this can take days, or even a week depending on how slowly it’s going, many opt into that system. Of course, the clerk takes a cut from ever runner’s proceeds. It’s… it’s a flawed, nefarious system of dark intent. I refuse to bow to it. But alas… alas… I’ve been waiting here six days now. And if anything, my number seems even further away from being called than when I first began…”
I stepped back, drawing Tamara and Cerys with me. “I’m not going to wait a week for that clerk to call our number. After our exchange, I bet he’ll make me wait even longer.”
“Then?” asked Cerys. “Approach Beauhammer directly for information on the licenses? Ask around town?”
“No,” I said, biting the edge of my thumbnail. “I don’t want to betray our interest to Beauhammer until we’ve gained more information and can figure out our best approach. As for asking around - what if we get bad information?”
“I’d offer to flirt with him,” said Cerys, “but I think his cock probably only rises when he comes across errors in other people’s accounting.”
I cracked my neck. “We’ve fought off monsters from the Dead Man’s Trench. Killed Uncles. Assassinated murderous barons. We can handle one recalcitrant clerk. I’m going to try again.”
“Don’t get us kicked out,” said Tamara, hurrying behind me. “The last thing we need is to be blacklisted -”
“Hello
,” I said. “I know you haven’t called my number. I’m seventy-two, incidentally. I wanted instead to ask you to make an exception, something I know you’d never countenance, but which, perhaps, you could be induced to do with the right amount of persuasion.”
The clerk continued to scritch in his ledger.
I placed both hands on the desk and leaned in, seeking to summon that fiery sense of dominance, that boundless confidence that was my king troll heritage. “Honestly, my concern is but a trifling one and would take two minutes to answer. Perhaps we can reach an agreement? Wouldn’t it be better to simply lubricate the wheels of government so as to get rid of me, rather than stick to procedure and deal with my scowling mug each and every livelong day?”
The clerk turned the page and resumed writing across the top without pause.
I bit my lower lip. My king troll power wasn’t manifesting. Perhaps I needed to be in mortal danger to summon it? Perhaps it was offended at being used on a bureaucrat? Would a gold coin do instead? Ten? I had but seven crowns in my purse, borrowed by Cerys from Havatier so that we wouldn’t have to walk the city destitute. Seven crowns was a notable sum, but hardly enough with which to shift the White Sun from its orbit. Worse, what if he pocketed the amount and still did nothing? That was a favorite ploy of assholes back home. The more desperate the petitioner, the more you could abuse them.
The weight of my stare must have finally made an impression. He ceased writing again, raised his gaze, and narrowed his eyes.
“You, young man, are the perfect example of all that ails our society. You think yourself special, deserving of unique consideration, thinking nothing of the others who are patiently awaiting their turn, but rather leaping to the head of the line because you believe your own needs to be of more importance than theirs. Let me tell you something. Your needs are not more important. You are not more important. You are nothing but number seventy-two, and if you do not remove your hands from my desk and your face from my presence, I shall summon the guards and note here that from henceforth you are verboten and shall be refused admittance onto any government property. Am I making myself perfectly clear?”
He spoke loudly, with perfect diction, his voice ringing throughout the hall, and in his eyes flashed a righteous anger. But oh, I could tell he was savoring this moment, his opportunity to dress me down in public, and would no doubt enjoy the memory with a wry, small smile later tonight over a thimbleful of cheap wine.
Enough was enough.
I was about to reach for his neck when a hand touched my shoulder.
“Hadric, does there seem to be a problem?”
I knew that voice, knew its caramel confidence and husky undertones, that lilt of amusement even when there was no reason to think she was being anything but serious. The blonde woman from Jessie’s warehouse stepped up beside me, the side of her scalp freshly shaved, her blonde hair raked over to fall down the far side to her shoulder. Her expression was expectant, impersonal, and her hand left me so that she could cross her arms.
I knew I should turn to consider the clerk, but her dress was so changed from the night before that I couldn’t help but take it in; a cerulean-blue skirt flowed down to her ankles, while her breasts were thrust up by what had to be a corset worn beneath her matching gown; the whole ensemble was elegant, no doubt stifling in the hot, swampy weather of Port Lusander, and immediately marked her as a member of the upper nobility, for who else would be insane enough to spend that much money on something so impractical?
“Mistress Beauhammer,” said the clerk, rising immediately to his feet and taking off his glasses. “An honor to have you visit the hall, an honor, I do aver.” He bowed quite elegantly over his desk, and held the position till Mistress Beauhammer inclined her head.
Mistress Beauhammer?
“You are too kind, Hadric. Now. is there a problem?”
“No problem, Mistress. I was educating this fellow here on our protocols and the importance of patience. I apologize if this incident has in any way alarmed or troubled you -”
“I am not troubled. This is Master Kellik of Port Gloom. I’m sure there has been some misunderstanding.”
Hadric’s face stiffened. “Master Kellik, I… of course, now I understand and can only apologize for the mistake.” His words came out slowly, mechanically, as he desperately shifted me from one category of being into a far more exalted other. More quickly now, more naturally, he continued. “Please excuse me, Master Kellik. I apologize for not recognizing your quality earlier. Of course, I would be delighted to expedite your request.”
Mistress Beauhammer turned to consider me, the corner of her wide lips quirked, and I could sense that she was barely restraining the urge to sit on the edge of Hadric’s desk, despite her elaborate gown. “Something tells me I can answer his questions and save everyone more time and bother. Master Kellik? Perhaps I can be of assistance?”
I bowed low, doing my best to make it courtly. “I would be honored, Mistress Beauhammer.”
“Then please. If you and your friends would follow me?” She inclined her head to Hadric, who bowed deeply once more, and led us past the desk. Hadric, catching himself almost too late, leaped with surprising alacrity to open the door just before the lady reached it, and bowed for a third or fourth time as she swept past.
Mistress Beauhammer strode down a broad hall, her skirts whispering across the stone, and opened one of the many doors to lead into what proved to be a small library. The black walls were painted cream, and a single, tall window provided natural light that played over the dark wooden bookcases, the leather-bound tomes, and the scattering of armchairs arranged around a circular table decorated with a carved wooden map of Khansalon.
She walked to the far side of the room and there turned so that her blue gown swung about her, then leaned against a bookcase, arms crossed beneath her upraised breasts, to gaze at us three from beneath her blonde lashes.
“Master Kellik of Port Gloom. What a coincidence to run into you again so soon.”
Cerys walked slowly along a shelf, running a fingertip across the spines. “One might almost think you planned this encounter.”
“Ah, the lady who was crouching up in the rafters,” said Mistress Beauhammer. “So you do come down and walk amongst us mortals.”
This gave Cerys pause; clearly she’d not anticipated being spotted last night.
“Mistress Beauhammer,” I said. “Would that make you the magistrate’s wife or daughter?”
Her lip curled in amusement again. “Daughter, though I don’t blame you for wondering. Father is rather… unabashed when it comes to the age of his partners.”
“Fair enough. Let me introduce my friends.”
“You’re feeling more civil than last night.”
“I was feeling plenty civil last night. Now, I’m facilitating conversation. This is Tamara, and this is Cerys.”
“Elsa Beauhammer,” she said, and gave a mocking curtsy, her gown rustling anew. “So, what brings you to the magistrates court, Master Kellik?”
I leaned one elbow on the high-winged back of an armchair and crossed my ankles. “Oh, I think you know.”
“Indeed. It wasn’t hard to guess. With the ruins about to open, and your… shall we say, eclectic team appearing for no apparent reason on our good docks, it was a simple matter to put two and two together.”
“The question,” said Cerys, turning away from the book cases as if her interest in them were finally exhausted, “is why you care.”
“I’ll get to that in good time, Cerys. That accent. You’re not from Port Gloom.”
“Carneheim,” said Cerys, her smile perfunctory.
“Carneheim, yes. Perhaps we can cover the formalities first, and then, if you prove amenable, move to the particulars. You came here to inquire as to father’s licenses.”
“That’s right,” I allowed.
“Three have already been purchased. One remains for sale, another for my father to bestow at his discretion. The current b
idding price is three thousand gold coins, either Port Gloom crowns or Carneheim suns.”
“Three… thousand.” I tried to say this casually and failed. I did manage to resist glancing at my companions. “Quite the sum. Hard to believe anybody would pay that much.”
“It’s a gamble. Some have emerged from the ruins with enchanted items easily worth more than that. Others spend their time below chiseling precious marble and gems from the walls and… whatever else they find. Not all recover their investment, but enough make sufficiently large sums that it draws the next season’s hopefuls to our shore.”
“Three teams,” said Cerys. “Can you tell us anything about them?”
“Interested in your competitors?” Elsa arched an eyebrow. “It’s strictly forbidden for teams to fight each other once within the ruins.”
“But not in the streets of Port Lusander,” said Cerys. “What do you know of them?”
“A perfunctory amount. The most impressive comes from Olandipolis. They’re led by a barrow-sorcerer called Lady Haverwort. She has two barrow golems at her command, along with four crypt apostles. The second is composed of four questing knights from Ellosaint; I believe they’re entering the ruins in search of glory instead of gold. The last team is quite enigmatic: a contingent of elves from Celendruin, led by two sisters who claim they seek not gold but to uncover the tomb of their mother, a queen from ages past.” She shrugged one shoulder. “Each year the speculators grow more eclectic.”
“A barrow-sorcerer, four Ellosaint knights, and a contingent of elves,” I said. “Good to know. Thank you. Now, what’s your game, Elsa Beauhammer?”
Her expression remained poised, but a flicker of life flashed through her dark-blue eyes. “One that could potentially put me in great danger if I casually revealed it to a band of strangers. We’re going to hit an impasse soon, as I can’t make my offer without knowing more about you and your friends, Kellik, and you have no reason to trust me and answer my questions. However.”