Shadow Rogue Ascendant

by Mike Truk

  I shuddered. “Maybe tomorrow?”

  Netherys threw her head back and laughed. “Precious. Yes. Maybe tomorrow.”

  Cerys’ voice was flinty. “How long till your spider returns?”

  “Who can say? If the weaving is sufficiently advanced even my spider may not find it. If, however, my surmises are correct, then it should return soon.”

  I crossed my arms and leaned against the wall. “Been awhile since I’ve had a good lurk in an alleyway.”

  “You miss it?” asked Cerys.

  “A good lurk? With the right company, sure. You bring snacks, a blanket, set yourself up in a good spot, and then just pass the time while watching your mark. If you’re able to be attentive even for long stretches of time, it’s the best kind of gig. Eddwick and I used to - well, never mind.”

  Remembering my old friend Eddwick sent a small flicker of pain through my chest. Like a tiny spasm. He’d abandoned me. Something I’d have sworn he’d never do. Something I’d never have done to him. But he’d cut and run when that gloom knight had shown itself in the sewers, and put paid to my notions of true loyalty. Where was he now? Working for the Family, to be sure.

  “Sounds domestic,” said Netherys. “I suppose everyone must have their hobbies. You would no doubt judge my own to be as in poor taste as I judge yours. No matter.”

  “Actually,” I said, rolling on one shoulder to face her. “What are your hobbies, Netherys? I mean, you’ve been around a long time, right? What do you do when you’re not sailing forth on some expedition to raid the coast or worshipping Mother Magrathaar?”

  “I’m not sure I want to know,” said Cerys. “I bet it involves torturing puppies.”

  “Torturing puppies?” Netherys actually sounded outraged. “For shame, Cerys! I’m not a demon summoned from the abyss. I’ll have you know I spent many decades selectively breeding a line of hounds to meet my specifications. I remember their sire still with great fondness: Achaxis, I named him. Dark as a moonless night, loyal to a fault, and he gave his life for me one night when my camp was put upon by a bloodbear.”

  “Oh,” said Cerys. “I’m sorry. I was only half joking.”

  Netherys shook her head. “Dark elves are mortal beings like any other. And yes, our humor is twisted, our morals very different from yours, and our faith and goals abhorrent to your kind. But amongst my people you will find bonds that tie us together, a desire to earn the respect and admiration of our fellows, a yearning for wealth that will allow us to build beautiful homes…”

  “So, uh, what is it you do, then? When you’re home and not, um, as Cerys said. Sailing the world raiding innocent people?”

  Netherys crossed her arms and turned away. I thought she might not answer. “I’m a devotee of the saltopassar, a stringed instrument that takes decades to grow and cultivate. I performed before the Arch Vizier. I toured with a number of dedicated musicians, and for awhile thought that might be my life’s calling. I enjoy sculpture, especially that of living trees. The art of poetry, though doubtless you would find my subjects objectionable. As I said, I love breeding hounds. Achaxis’ progeny are now coursed across Aglorond’s western coast. But beyond that, I work at my internal practice. The art of mindfulness.”

  “Mindfulness?” I asked. “How can you tolerate the cruelties and things you do if you do so mindfully? I’d assume the more you thought about them, the less you’d be able to justify them?”

  Netherys’ smile gleamed in the dark. “How mistaken you are, Kellik. Immortality - or at least, very long lifespans - come with their own unique challenge. One’s greatest enemy becomes ennui, boredom, the pain of loss, the rigidity of becoming set in one’s ways, the paling of life’s pleasures. To remain fully engaged, to ensure that you are able to derive pleasure from the world around you, one must always cultivate an immediacy of living, a clarity of view that interrogates endlessly your assumptions and habits. Philosophy is part of it, of course, but more than that, observing one’s own mind, knowing yourself, both physically, mentally, and spiritually, is essential to true longevity. The most successful of us - dark elf matriarchs and patriarchs who have lived for millennia - still act in almost childlike ways; their wonder and delight, their playfulness and curiosity, are remarkable. They approach each dawn and dusk as if it were their first, each new victim with the thrill of a virgin. Such integrity, such immediacy, takes supreme will and discipline. The weak amongst our number grow stiff, predictable, comfortable, and then, one dawn, we find them dead of their own hand, consumed by their own despair, having not derived any joy in the art of living for decades, and finally, at long, long last, choosing to end it all rather than suffer another day.”

  Netherys took a step toward me. Her purple hair fell free of her hood, and I saw her eyes glow within its darkness. “You cannot fathom the strength and dedication it takes to remain engaged with this world when it is filled with such fatuous, foolish, ignorant people. To remain balanced between the urge to destroy and celebrate. To hover poised over the dark flames of the abyss, enjoying exquisite agony as you give birth to your true self again and again over the centuries -”

  She cut off, and I was glad. Such was the intensity of her words that I’d felt something akin to shock; I’d been afforded the briefest glimpse into the dark chasms of her mind, and I had to admit it scared the heck out of me.

  “It’s back,” said Netherys. “And it is quivering with excitement.”

  “That’s… is that good?” I asked.

  “Let’s find out.” Netherys cocked her head as if listening to an invisible interlocutor, and then pursed her lips. “Yes. It’s found something, at any rate, that warrants our interest. Yet from what it tells me, we should bring help.”

  “Help?” I rubbed at the back of my head. “What, like Pony?”

  “No. We should bring our heaviest hitter. I believe we should wake up Iris.”

  That sobered me. That Netherys should consider Iris more powerful than anyone else on the team - even our war troll. Then again, after what I’d seen our necromancer do, who was I to doubt her?

  “Very well. Let’s get to it.”

  We returned to the Bonegwayne - the sentry standing by the gangplank was starting to get used to our comings and goings at all hours of the night - and roused Iris, shaking her awake from her deep slumber. To my surprise she didn’t ask why we needed her, but simply rose, drew out a black dress from a steamer chest she’d had brought back from her manor, pulled on elbow-length gloves, another funeral veil, and declared herself ready to proceed.

  “We’re heading to a brothel,” I told her, as we marched up the docks behind Netherys.

  “All right.”

  I studied her sidelong. “All right?”

  Iris’ face was a pale blur behind her veil. “Yes.”

  “We’re going to find a lampetraman who is working there. At a whore house.”

  Iris glanced at me now, confused, as if unsure as to what reaction I expected. “OK.”

  “He’s going to help us breathe underwater so that we can swim to the bottom of the bay and find a locket.”

  Iris nodded encouragingly. “Very good.”

  I almost threw up my hands. “That doesn’t strike you as odd?”

  “Should it?”

  “Yes, I mean, visiting fish men in brothels to - never mind.”

  Iris reached out, snagged my hand, and gave it a comforting squeeze. “If you think it important, Kellik, then that’s enough for me.”

  I squeezed back and we both let go at the same time. Just how profoundly different was she from everyone else? Was I kidding myself when I thought I understood her?

  Netherys led the way with brisk strides, up the various ramps, into a narrow street, and then along a series of boards laid over the mud. The homes were shuttered, though enough light gleamed from between the cracks to insinuate that Port Lusander didn’t come to a complete stop with sundown. Stalls were set up on street corners around little coffee carts, familiar enough to
those back home in Port Gloom that I actually felt a knot of nostalgia for the old Harbor district I’d grown up in.

  Garishly dressed ladies strolled along poorly lit streets, arm in arm, looking at me with provocative glances. Where were their little bells, however, announcing them as ladies of the night? It seemed strangely and quixotically duplicitous not to wear them.

  And that’s when I realized it: having been born and raised in Port Gloom, I kept expecting Port Lusander to conform to the unspoken rules I had understood and lived by. Everything here felt slightly off as a result; the scampering of six-legged rats in the shadows, the strange tunes that wafted out of tavern windows, the black glass glimmer of walls revealed from behind their coats of paint, the swampy tang to the salty air, even the way the five hills loomed over the rest of the city where I kept expecting there to be just one: Execution Hill.

  On Netherys led us, never hesitating, veering far off to the right, avoiding the Galleon Square and town hall altogether to stride through a middle class neighborhood that was just managing to maintain a veneer of respectability. Buildings were crammed together and rose four stories tall, each packed with life and fairly thrumming with voices, snores, shouts, and laughter. Shadowed figures stood in loose knots on street corners or lounged on the steps that led up to the front doors with just enough vague menace that I was glad of the blade at my hip.

  Through this neighborhood to the base of the right-most hill, where a formerly fancy district had clearly fallen on hard times. Manors were crowded about with new buildings, so that they loomed above their new hardscrabble neighbors like galleons amongst a mass of sloops. The roads here had once been finely cobbled, but now many of the stones were missing, resulting in massive potholes that seemed about to devour the street entire. The occasional lamp was lit, but for the most part we moved through the night without illumination.

  “Close,” said Netherys, coming to a stop. She raised an ashen hand as if sensing an invisible barrier. “Ah, cunningly wrought. See over there, that old manor with the copper dome?”

  I peered in the direction she was indicating, but found my focus sliding away naturally to the right to where a muddle of shacks were pressed closed together. “No?”

  She took my jaw in her cool, strong fingers, and guided my head back to center. “There. Straight ahead.”

  My eyes sought to focus but my vision became bleary; it was disorienting to try and peer forward, and I blinked a number of times before pulling my chin free. “No. I appreciate that there’s magic at work. How do we get through?”

  “I’ve a theory,” said Netherys. “Here.” She reached into her satchel and drew forth a vicious-looking object, a series of interlocking spiked circles vaguely shaped like a key.

  “A gloom key?” I asked. I’d not thought of them since leaving home. “Do you think…?”

  Netherys gave a sensual shrug. “They were designed to open all doors, were they not? They’d prove poor tools for gloom knights if they could be stymied by obfuscating magic. To be safe, I collected the other two keys from your pack while you roused Iris. Here.”

  She handed one to me, the other Cerys. I took mine gingerly, then tried peering ahead once more. It was like sneaking a glimpse through heavy velvet curtains; there was a sense of pressure on both sides of my vision, but suddenly I could make out the manor with its copper dome, a weary, abandoned-looking building that might once have been grand but now looked little more than a dilapidated ruin.

  “There?” I asked. “That doesn’t look… particularly fine.”

  “Oh Kellik,” said Netherys, tracing the line of my jaw with her finger. “Do you still judge things by their appearances? How charming.” And she led the way across the street to the great wrought iron gate that stood ajar.

  “What’s the plan?” asked Cerys as we followed after.

  “There isn’t much of one, I’m afraid,” I said. “We try knocking, and if we’re turned away, use the keys to gain admittance.”

  “I’ve got a bad feeling,” said Cerys. “Jessie’s warnings are starting to feel more apposite.”

  “I’m at my best when improvising,” I said, with what I hoped was a roguish grin. “Don’t worry.”

  “Like when you leaped down the throat of that sea monster?” Cerys’ skepticism could have etched metal.

  “And look how well that turned out.” I turned sideways to slip in after Netherys through the iron gate, and then followed after along the gravel driveway that was more weeds than stone. The bushes and stunted trees were poorly lit by the moon, so that the overgrown garden was more intimidating shadows than anything else. The manor itself looked completely abandoned.

  “They probably know we’re here,” said Netherys, “and are expecting us at the front door. I’ve always found in moments like this that confidence is our best bet.”

  “A plan,” I said, inspiration hitting me like a brick to the back of the head. “Netherys, you are our captive, and I am going to explore the possibility of trading you to the brothel as a possible employee. Alas, nothing they’ll offer will satisfy me, and I’ll demand to explore the premises to get a sense of the place before refusing. We’ll speak with the lampetraman, gain his assistance, and then leave.”

  I readied myself for the dark elf’s angry retort, but she simply nodded instead. “Very well. Your ship intercepted mine as I was being transported to Port Gloom. The owner of a brothel like this might be aware of Elias’ former slave ring. I am kept under your control by a spell, whose secret you will reveal upon my sale. Feel free to give me humiliating commands to demonstrate your authority.”

  “You weren’t kidding about last minute plans,” said Cerys quietly as I stepped up to knock on the main door.

  I rapped hard, then stepped back. “You should know me better by now.”

  “The odds of this working are vanishingly small,” she muttered, most likely to herself.

  “And yet somehow those are the odds that have always worked best for me.”

  A pause, and then the door opened a crack, revealing an elegantly dressed man of middle years in what might have been a butler’s outfit. Somber black with a touch of flair in the purple cuffs and an equally luxurious purple cravat, he gazed at me with rapidly dawning disapproval. “I believe you have the wrong address, sir. Good night.”

  I didn’t hesitate to stick my foot in the doorway. “I think not. This is the Fever Dream? I’ve business with the proprietor.”

  “Unlikely.” He flicked his gaze down at my boot. “Remove your foot or I’ll have it removed.”

  “Tell the owner that I have a captive dark elf I’ve brought to trade for gold coin. If they’re not interested in offering such fare to their clientele, I’ll find someone further north who is.”

  That got the bastard’s supercilious attention. He stared over my shoulder to where Netherys stood, and to my gratification actually looked shocked. “I - you can’t be -” He cut himself off, drew himself up, smoothed down his black velvet coat, and then gave a curt nod of his head. “Your name?”

  “Master Kellik of Port Gloom.”

  “Please wait here, Master Kellik. If you enter while I am gone, I will not be held responsible for your certain and very violent death.” And he disappeared back inside.

  “Charming,” I said, turning to my companions. “What is it about petty bureaucrats that makes them so utterly insufferable?”

  “It’s in the name,” said Netherys softly. “’Petty.’”

  Cerys stepped back and scanned the manor’s facade. “I hate improvised plans. For example: how are we going to get the lampetraman down to the dock if he agrees to help us?”

  “I’m sure he can take an evening off,” I said.

  “That’s not how these kinds of brothels work,” said Cerys.

  I raised an eyebrow at her. “And how do you know that?”

  Before she could reply the great door opened wide, and the butler type bowed low. “Master Kzzgt is willing to meet with you, Master Ke
llik. He bids you welcome to the Fever Dream, though I must warn you he is both short on time and patience.”

  “As am I,” I said, pushing past the butler and into the hall. It was a large, decrepit affair, the floor covered in ratty rugs, cracks running down the walls and across the ceiling as if the entirety of the edifice were settling into its foundations. Most of the furniture was gone, while a chandelier hung crookedly above us.

  “This way, please.” He led us down the hall, past numerous doorways that opened to dark rooms, and I was reminded of the last moldering manor I’d visited. Almost I turned to see if Iris was thinking along the same lines, but at the last I caught myself.

  The butler opened a slender door to a narrow flight of steps that led down to an illuminated cellar. Down this we went, and out into a broad, crate-filled basement room that was choked with dust and the detritus of the manor’s past lives. Across this room without hesitation, to a cunningly disguised door, which opened to a large waiting room, luxuriously appointed in such authentically regal fashion as to put the lie squarely to Jessie’s own poor imitation. Thick carpets were layered underfoot, gold-framed paintings of dark landscapes and portraits of otherworldly women in provocative poses covered the walls along with numerous mirrors, while a maze of chaises and chairs were arranged in intimate circles. The ceiling was low, the air thick with the smoke of some herbal drug that I couldn’t quite identify - dream shit? - and a few figures watched us curiously as we made our way along the wall to a side passage behind a heavy drape.

  And just as quickly we were out of the customer’s area and into a service hall, so narrow my shoulders brushed either side, past a couple of doors to the last at the end of the hall.

  On this the butler rapped a complex code, then cracked the door open and stuck his head in. “Master Kellik and his slave, sir.”

  “Enter,” came a phlegmatic voice from the other side, and the butler stepped in, pushing the door open wide so that I could follow.

  The chamber was large. A pot was boiling over a small, magical flame on the corner of the desk that dominated almost the entire rear of the room, so that the air was thick and fuggy with humidity. Several thick ledgers were set neatly atop each other on the desk’s other corner, with one opened to a column of accounts before the man who leaned back now, setting his quill down to lace his fingers over his stomach and regard us.