Seeker of Secrets

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Seeker of Secrets Page 18

by Deck Davis


  As for Joshua, well, his pickings had been slimmer than a goblin on a diet. The upstairs rooms had been looted completely, and all he’d found was a pile of adventure books under one of the beds in the dorm room.

  Kordude paced around the oak table and looked at what they’d found. He didn’t look happy.

  “Perhaps we should keep looking for a while longer,” he said.

  Benjen shook his head. “There’s nothing else. We’ve checked everywhere. I think you better face it, crowsie. I won the wager.”

  “Let’s not be too hasty…”

  “Come on! I found weapons. Those are useful. If we’re short on cash, I can smelt them down and sell the metal to a smithy. Of course, I’d need to get a forge of my own. Even so, a smithy would pay for the swords themselves. I think it’s safe to say I won.”

  Kordrude tapped his beak with his long fingers. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but the wager was not about winning, but more about not losing. The person who collected the least valuables has to go down into the well, yes?”

  “And I think that’s still you. You only found an old banner.”

  “An old tapestry,” corrected Kordrude. “The material is cloth and silk and would fetch a few golds if we sold it to a seamstress. I would say, and I don’t think I’m being unfair, that it is worth more than young Joshua’s haul of books.”

  Joshua looked at his pathetic gatherings on the table, and he had to admit that the old crowsie was right.

  “Damn it,” he said. “Guess it’s me, then.”

  That night, they moved all of their belongings into the dorm room upstairs. This was on the opposite side of the top floor, across from the guildmaster’s bedroom. In it were eight wooden bedframes where the heroes would have slept back when this was a functioning guild.

  There were no bed covers, but it beat sleeping outside on the hill. Joshua decided he’d sleep in there with Benjen and Kordrude, at least until his guildmaster bedroom was a little nicer. Besides, he didn’t want to admit it to them, but sleeping under the stern eye of Jandafar the Red on his portrait gave him the chills.

  I’ll move in when I earn the guildmaster class, he told himself.

  He’d told them about what he found in the guildmaster’s bedroom, about the tunnel behind the painting, and the five mysterious doors that he couldn’t enter. The puzzle of what lay behind them nagged at Joshua’s skull, almost like a headache that wouldn’t go away, except without the accompanying pain.

  When it was time to sleep, Kordrude carefully arranged his own books around his dorm bed. These were of all manner of subjects, ranging from books on various Fortuna languages, to instruction manuals on how a person could keep their mind organized and structure it into something called a ‘mind palace.’

  Benjen, on the other hand, had just a few tattered fiction novels about heroes and adventurers, with his favorites being about Huruth the Cowardly Barbarian.

  With the guildhouse inventoried, they spent the next day together, going from room to room and marking everything that needed work. There were walls ridden with woodlice, floorboards that squeaked in a precarious way when trodden on, and parts of the ceilings that looked ready to crumble down.

  He’d need to go to Ardglass the next day, Joshua decided. He needed to get two books from the library; one to instruct him on how to earn the guildmaster class, and the other for the builder class. Then they’d sell a few of the guildhouse items, find a place for Gobber the goblin baby to stay, and then buy whatever materials they needed to get the guildhouse into shape.

  It was night time again, and the three of them shared a few cups of wine around the oak table in the grand hall. Joshua liked sitting at the table. When he looked at it, he imagined what would have happened around the table years ago, when the guild was up and running.

  A map would be spread across it, he decided, and the guildmaster and his heroes would stand around it and discuss strategies on how to deal with whatever quests they’d taken. Some of the heroes would sit on chairs in the corner, perhaps checking the rivulets of their metal armor for weaknesses, or maybe sharpening their blades using whetstones.

  The swordsmen would sit at one side of the room and the mages at the other, united by being heroes but separated into cliques by their powers. The mages would entertain themselves by casting little spells; perhaps an illusionist would make them all laugh by conjuring a drunken imp and making him dance over the floorboards.

  There would be nights like that again. He didn’t know how long it would take, but he and Benjen would fix everything up and they’d recruit heroes from across Fortuna, and the grand hall would be filled with the chatter and jokes of heroes.

  The guild’s glory days would return under their leadership, bigger and better than before, and all across Fortuna people would talk about the guildhouse with reverence and respect.

  Kordrude had just finished telling them a story about how his witch grandmother had once cured a man of frog-blight, when there were three loud thumps on the guildhouse door.

  The sound boomed through the old halls, and Benjen and Joshua exchanged looks.

  “Who the hell is that?” said Benjen.

  Joshua stood up. “I’ll go and see.”

  Three more thumps resounded through the halls.

  “I’m coming!” said Joshua.

  He crossed out of the grand hall and walked to the front door. He opened it to find a terrified man standing at the doorway.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was the night of Goblin Fest in the city of Trock. The city was only fifteen miles away from Ardglass, but it may as well have been on another planet.

  Where the houses and shops in Ardglass were made from decidedly-human materials such as wood and brick, Trock’s buildings were made from san-smelt, a material shipped in from the quarries in the southeast. It was a material designed to be completely fire proof, and the buildings had been made from it a century ago after a dragon named Grelzru the Mammoth had whooshed overhead and burned the old dwellings to cinders.

  While the citizens of Trock were distrustful of lizards of any kind now, they didn’t mind goblins. In fact, they loved them, and that was the reason for Goblin Fest.

  Miana was standing on the street. She was a few paces back from the crowd in front of her who were gathered around a giant goblin puppet, twenty-feet tall and made from wood and cloth, with strings attached at the top.

  Reben and Terry of Yarn had gone into a tavern, keen to discuss certain business about a certain couple of young lads who were, right now, probably sleeping in a certain heroes’ guildhouse.

  Miana hadn’t joined them. They never wanted her input when it came to their schemes, and they only kept her around so that she could do what she was doing now; surveying crowds of people and looking for the fullest, and most unprotected, money bags.

  Her level 3 thief perception cast fresh energy into her tired mind. When she used this skill, she felt the scene around her spark into new life. Colors were brighter, and sounds were louder. It fed information to her eyes and ears; a flash of a gold bracelet – with a simple clasp mechanism – here, a hushed conversation about a business deal there.

  Perception was useful for many things, be it spotting easy thief pickings, or eavesdropping on a conversation to get information she could later use in a robbery or maybe in a blackmail scheme.

  There was no time for anything elaborate tonight; Terry told her he needed gold to ‘pay someone off’, and it was Miana’s job to get it.

  Now…who was her target?

  The crowd was a mixed one. Human families and goblin families mingled with each other, laughing and joking together with an air of easy acceptance that you rarely found in other parts of Fortuna.

  Of course, the decree of the three kings meant that human towns had to let goblins settle there, but it didn’t mean they had to like them. Most of the time, they suffered their green-skinned visitors begrudgingly. Here in Trock, the goblins weren’t just welcomed, they were loved
.

  It made Miana feel at ease. She smiled as her perception carried smatterings of a conversation toward her, where a drunken man spoke to his goblin friend and tried to use a little of the goblin-tongue he seemed to have learned.

  Miana had considered learning the linguist class herself, once, and she’d even gotten a book from the library to try and learn her first language. She’d chosen G’yordish, which was supposed to be a simple language to pick up. It was then that Miana had discovered that she just didn’t have the kind of mental focus a person needed to learn a new tongue.

  The happiness present everywhere in such a warm town as Trock made her job difficult. A thief had to be cold-hearted and completely free from remorse, but more and more, Miana was feeling swellings of guilt after each snipping of a money bag’s strings.

  It was really getting to be quite a problem, having a conscience.

  Come on, she told herself. Terry will glare at you if you go back with nothing, and Reben will sulk all night.

  So, she cast her webs of perception out and waited for them to snare over the crowd. She saw three drunken young men raising their beer mugs in the air and cheering at the goblin puppet, not caring that the beer was spilling out over their heads. They were so drunk that a level 1 thief could have snagged their belongings without fear.

  No…they’re too young. They’re probably apprentices, and I bet they saved up their pathetic earnings for a month just to be able to afford beer at the Goblin fest.

  Next, she saw a goblin brood - a father, two mothers, and their five little goblin scamps. They were eating hot pies, and the two mothers were fussing over their children. The father didn’t have a money bag but he wore a belt over his trousers, and there was a crimson broach fastened to it. Miana could use sneak, unclasp the broach, and then find a member of the thieves’ guild who would gladly buy it from her.

  But they’re such a nice little family, and they’re having a great time. This night will create memories for them, and if I sour it by stealing their father’s broach…

  Damn it! For a thief, developing a conscience was rather like a swordsman developing an allergy to metal. It just wasn’t going to work, and without being able to steal, there was no reason for Terry of Yarn and Reben to keep her around.

  Course, she didn’t want to be around them. But she couldn’t leave, not until she had learned what the old sorcerer was up to. The problem was, he would only speak about it with Reben.

  Knowing that Miana was a thief, the crafty old sorcerer was wise to her eavesdropping skill. He carried a little ruby around with him, and when he held it in his hand and uttered strange words into it, the ruby glowed red and cast an auditory fog over his words.

  She wondered what he and Reben were discussing right now. The sorcerer had a plan to get back into the guildhouse, but that begged two questions; what was the plan, and what exactly did he need to get? She knew that something was buried in the guildhouse basement, but Terry wouldn’t tell her what. It seemed that Reben was the only person he trusted in the world.

  She needed to get back to them. First, she needed to lance that damn boil of a conscience that was growing inside her.

  So, she eyed the crowd again. There was a young couple, clearly in love, watching the goblin puppet dance. There was a dwarf family, standing a little apart from the humans and goblins, enjoying the scene.

  Then there was a man who looked a little different to the rest of the crowd. When Miana saw him, she smiled, because she knew what he was.

  A level 1 thief. He had to be. He had a bald head and wore dull clothes that wouldn’t attract too much attention. He was threading through the crowd, looking at people but staring at their waists instead of their eyes. A thief always knew a fellow thief, and Miana read thoughts of robbery and deception in the man’s eyes.

  She had her target. It didn’t matter that he was in her class. Honor among thieves? Ha. That was a saying for romantic adventure books, not for the grim reality of life.

  Time to get to work.

  Being two full levels above the thief made it an easy task to take the money bag that he’d hidden in his inside coat pocket. She edged toward him, her level-3 thievery casting a harmless aura around her, and she prepared to steal from him.

  It was easy. Almost boringly easy.

  It took just a few seconds, and with the money bag in her hand – and the thief oblivious to his loss – Miana left the crowd of Goblin Fest and crossed the streets of Trock, before entering the tavern.

  She found Terry of Yarn and Reben sitting around a table in the corner of the room. They’d become regulars in the tavern in their short stay in Trock, and they always chose this table because it was the most remote.

  The old sorcerer and his portly friend were leaning close to each other and whispering. Reben was the first to spot her, and he broke from their conspiratorial whispers and beamed at her.

  “Lass!” he said. “Park your rump here and give us some good news.”

  Joining them, Miana gave a stealthy flash of the money bag she’d stolen. Reben winked at her, while Terry of Yarn scowled. His face was always like that, always grumpy. Miana imagined that as a child, a mage had set a face-cast spell on him, freezing the stern expression into his features for the rest of his life.

  “Don’t bother getting her a drink,” Terry said. “We’re going.”

  “So soon?” asked Miana.

  He nodded. “I think we have the steps laid in place.”

  “For the guildhouse?”

  “We need the boys out of the guildhouse for a few days. That should be enough time. We leave in the morning.”

  ~

  Looking at the man standing on the doorstep of the guildhouse, Joshua stepped back, shocked.

  At first, he thought that the man was a little rotund, that his chubby cheeks and round belly were just symptoms of the blight that affected almost every man, given enough time; a love for beer and pork pies, and a distaste for exercise.

  In just a few seconds, it became apparent that this wasn’t the case. His shirt was ripped along the hem, and similarly, the waist of his trousers looked like it had split, and every so often he had to grab the waistline and heave his trousers up to stop them falling.

  The man’s face was swollen red, like a balloon. Similarly, his arms looked like someone had pumped a gallon of water into them. It wasn’t just excess fat; his arms were bulging like too much sausage meat wrapped in skin.

  “Gods, what the hell happened to you?”

  “Goghs argh ihm ma feehd.”

  “What?”

  The man’s forehead creased as much as the swelling would allow, and he repeated the same non-sensical phrase.

  Joshua heard footsteps behind him, and Kordude and Benjen joined him at the doorway.

  “Holy Hells!” said Benjen. “He looks like he’s been stung by a rort-wasp.”

  “You better come in,” said Joshua.

  They all stepped aside to let the man hurry past them. As he entered the guildhouse his trousers slipped down to reveal his underwear, which was also perilously close to tearing apart. He grabbed his trousers and pulled them up, then walked in a lumbering way further into the guildhouse.

  “Through here,” said Joshua, leading the man into the grand hall. Watching him struggle with his trousers, and obviously in pain with the swelling of his entire body, Joshua felt a wave of pity. He pulled out a chair.

  “Sit down.”

  The man slumped into the chair. Benjen and Kordrude entered and took their seats. Kordrude leaned forward, his bird eyes narrowing, and he studied the man as if he was a specimen in a jar.

  “An allergy of some sort, I suspect.”

  “I saw a man get stung by a rort-wasp,” said Benjen. “It was only a little sting, but his hand swelled like pumpkin.”

  Joshua shook his head. Through his zoology class, he knew about rort-wasps. “They die after they sting someone, and this man would have to have been stung a hundred times to look like
that. And if he had been stung so many times, the venom would have killed him.”

  “Perhaps he ate something,” said Kordrude. “A fish allergy, maybe.”

  “Rort-wasp,” said Benjen, stubbornly.

  The man looked at each of them in turn. “Ahm seeyin, mah feeh ehs enfegh,” he began, before falling silent. He slammed the table top with his fist, angered by his inability to speak.

  Joshua looked at Kordrude. “Is this a language you studied?”

  “This is no language. Look at the man’s tongue; it’s like a bloated slug.”

  “Ah knagh telligh…” said the man, before slamming the table again.

  “Hang on a second,” said Joshua.

  He left the room and went to the dorm upstairs, where he rummaged through his leather bag beside his bed. He returned to them a minute later and set a few sheets of paper and a pencil in front of the man.

  “Oh, wait,” he said, and quickly removed the sheet where he’d started his guild ‘to do’ list and put it in his pocket. “Okay. Can you hold the pencil?”

  The man picked it up awkwardly in his bloated hand. He nodded.

  “Write what you wanted to say.”

  He, Benjen, and Kordrude exchanged puzzled glances as the man hurriedly scrawled on the paper. He stopped a few times when the pencil slipped out of his grip, before finally pushing the paper away from him, now full of pencil markings.

  Benjen grabbed it. “You need to work on your calligraphy,” he said. “Sorry to be picky, but it’s one of my classes.”

  “Benjen…” said Joshua.

  Benjen read the paper, and his eyes widened. “You better read this.”

  Joshua took it from him. Benjen was right; the man’s handwriting was appalling. Of course, he could forgive sloppy handwriting from a man whose hand was swollen like a melon. He read the paper, deciphering the man’s panicked writings as best he could.

  “Well?” said Kordrude.

 

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