by Cory Herndon
They followed the head waiter through a crowded dining room filled with people of most every humanoid species in Ravnica huddled about candlelit tables, dining and conversing. Goblins shared a huge roast beetle, babbling on in their nasal accents about some Izzet experiment or other. Ogres sat elbow to elbow with trolls and hulking humans that had to be Rakdos. As they left the dining room and made their way to the tables that ringed the upper floor above the dining pits, Kos sidled up to Feather and whispered, “There’s something you need to know about this place.”
“It appears the second floor looks down upon some kind of entertainment venue,” Feather replied. She was almost physically incapable of the act of whispering, but the noise of Pivlichino’s patrons succeeded in drowning out the more angelic notes in her voice.
“Yeah, you might say that,” Kos said. “You’ve really never been to a restaurant? Where do you eat?”
“I do not eat,” Feather said. “I derive what energy I need to function from the sun.”
“Really?” Kos asked. “You never told me that.”
“You are especially gullible this evening, Lieu—Kos,” Feather said. “Of course I eat.”
“See, Pivlichino’s straddles the canyon, right?” Kos said. “And the owner, being of no small importance in the Orzhov hierarchy, has plenty of reasons—coin, mostly—to feed both the undercity types, and the rest of us. That’s why we came in through the second floor. The living eat up here.”
“What do the undead consume?” Feather said. “Raw flesh?”
“If they can get it,” Kos said. “But they don’t like just any—”
“My friend!” called an oily, familiar voice that was similar to the headwaiter’s but dripping with a thousand times more charm and a hundred times less sincerity. But it wasn’t Pivlic’s tone that kept Kos coming back to the imp proprietor of Pivlichino’s. It was the information, which in all his decades of ’jek work had never proven wrong. That was a track record Kos respected, and what the imp didn’t already know he had an uncanny ability to learn within hours. Pivlic soared over a table full of ogres and landed before them. He stretched himself to his full height—he was tall for an imp, but that wasn’t saying much—and nodded to the headwaiter. “Zekler, you may return to the door. I shall assist these patrons. And mind the ogres. They may be planning an unauthorized brawl. Never trust people who don’t look up when an imp flies overhead, yes?”
“Yes, Mr. Pivlic,” the headwaiter said and shuffled off to return to his station.
“Pivlic, we don’t have a lot of time,” Kos said as they picked their way through the crowd.
“Look at that steak!” Borca’s ghost said. “I think it’s centaur. Can they do that?”
“It is not centaur, I assure you,” Pivlic said. “It is all too rare that one of the teratogens loses a challenge in the dining pit.”
Kos blinked. “Did you just say—”
“He heard me?” Borca exclaimed.
“Who are you all talking to?” Feather said.
“I already tried to tell you,” Kos said, “but the contract won’t let you listen.”
“Contract? What contract?” Feather asked.
“Just—Feather, please trust me,” Kos said. “Pivlic, you can hear him?”
“Your dead partner?” the imp said. “Of course.” The imp looked over one shoulder at the floating phantom. “Looks like—and I’m just guessing based purely on the shade of the spectral aura and ectoplasmic membrane—one of V.O.F. and W’s. That’s their signature blue. Please join us, Sergeant Borca, isn’t it? Terrible, that business yesterday.”
“But—” Kos and Borca both said at once.
“Is there something I should know?” Feather asked.
“Feather,” Kos said, “Borca is a ghost.”
“Yes, he is gone, but we must strive to bring his killer to justice.”
“No, he’s—and try to keep your voice down, all right—one more time. He’s a ghost. He’s invisible and following me around. He’s here right now. Pivlic can see him, and so can I.”
“Do not worry, friend Kos. We will end these troubling visions, together,” Feather said. “We will bring justice to the slain, and—”
“Feather, you don’t want to talk like that in here. Just let’s all forget it, all right?” Kos said.
“But Pivlic can see me!” the ghost objected. “This is great! You’d think an angel would have a better eye for this sort of thing though. Pivlic, can anyone else see me?”
Kos ignored him and cut Pivlic off before he could reply. “The important thing, Pivlic, is whether you got my message and whether you have anything for me.” Kos jangled a bag of zidos.
“Your coin has not been good here for decades, my friend, but as always I appreciate the gesture,” the imp said. “I cannot be seen giving away information for free. Ah, your table. You will have a clear view of the dining pits. There is not much to see at the moment. We are performing the between-meal cleanup. And of course you have the majestic, sweeping view of our noble city on either side. Please sit,” the imp proprietor said and displayed a row of sharp teeth in a smile that Kos recognized as Pivlic’s most serious expression. The owner of Pivlichino’s was an imp of many contradictions. Kos sat, and Feather managed to squeeze in opposite him.
“I received your falcon this afternoon, my friend,” Pivlic said, “and for the entire supper rush, Pivlichino’s has crumbled around my wings as I let my very livelihood descend into ruin, all to find an answer for you. My kitchen is in a shambles, my servers are robbing me blind, the dining pits are still wall-to-wall entrails from the last meal, but this I do for you, yes?”
“I appreciate it,” Kos said and dropped his voice. “I’d also appreciate if you didn’t share it. And?”
“I have learned that the assailant you described was not acting on his own,” Pivlic said. “Surely you already suspected this or you would not have come to me.”
“Good guess. I saw a couple of tattoos that looked like bindings. So who bought the assailant, Pivlic?”
“This I have yet to learn, but I do know one that can tell you. A Rakdos slave dealer named Iv’g’nork.”
“That sounds demonic,” Kos said. “So where is he? Don’t lie to me, Pivlic.”
“He is demonic, on his mother’s side,” Pivlic said. “And it grieves me to think you now doubt me after all Pivlichino’s has done for the wojeks and the community.” It was a little conversational dance the two had played often in the past. Wojeks were not exactly banned from Pivlichino’s—it was a violation of the law to ban wojeks from anyplace within the city—but that didn’t make them common. And no one who ate there, whether at a table or in a pit, wanted to see the imp acting friendly with a lawman. Kos was the only ’jek he knew that Pivlic helped on a regular basis, and that was only because Kos was the last surviving member of a squad that had kept the Rakdos from destroying the place during the rebellion. Kos, even though he was out of uniform, found it hard to break the habit.
“You feed people to zombies,” Kos said. “And demons.”
“Wait a minute, demons?” Borca’s ghost asked.
“I provide a place where two cultures may engage each other as they see fit. If Rakdos or Golgari Guild members in good standing wish to consume humanoids, and said humanoids wish to let them try in exchange for the chance to destroy an undead villain out of some sense of honor, pride, or perceived inadequacy, then—”
“Yeah, you’re a pillar of the community,” Kos said. “Where’s this Iv’g’nork?”
“And therein lies the next complication,” Pivlic said apologetically. “It just so happens you are not the only one who wants to know,” Pivlic said. “I have made this second petitioner the same offer, and he intends to take me up on it. Yet I cannot guarantee the information to both of you, as it is possible Iv’g’nork will not survive if the other petitioner wins.”
“So you want me—”
“Yes.”
“And him—”
“Indeed.”
“To feed ourselves to a half-demon, half-zombie cannibal?” Kos demanded.
“Please, don’t take too long to decide. Our friend Iv’g’nork is hungry.”
“Pivlic, that’s not the way our arrangement works,” Kos said, menace in every syllable. “There’s got to be another way. If I find out you know and you’re not telling me—”
“I assure you I do know,” the imp replied. “But I cannot be the first to tell you. I have never refused to aid you in the past, my friend, but there are some oaths that are, it turns out, oaths. If you were to learn from me first, it would mean my death.”
“You’re serious,” Kos said. It was not a question.
“Oh, yes,” Pivlic said.
“I should perform this task,” Feather said. “I think I understand how this works. I accept the challenge, and this Iv’g’nork can fight me. I will extract the information from him one way or another.”
“No, I’m afraid I can’t allow that,” the imp said. “A wojek is one thing, as long as he insults me, but an unbound angel in the pits would be the ruin of Pivlichino’s, yes?”
“Kos, you were injured,” Feather said. “You cannot do this. Besides, imp, I am bound.” The angel flipped back the corner of her cloak to show Pivlic the silver shackles that kept her wings pinned to her back.
“Even worse,” Pivlic said. “Your situation and presence in the League is relatively well-known. You might as well wear a sign declaring that Pivlic is in league with the wojeks.”
“So to speak,” Borca’s ghost said.
“Well?” Pivlic said.
“How hungry is he?”
“Iv’g’nork? Hungry enough for at least two courses. You two would probably just make it in over the weight requirement,” Pivlic said. “Whether both of you leave the pit with that information is up to you.”
“And Iv’g’nork, I’d say.”
“The Rakdos is inebriated in the extreme,” Pivlic said. “A special house brew I made myself. If you two have your wits and don’t kill each other, the two of you might be able to extract the information you seek.”
“What’s in this for you, Pivlic?” Kos asked. “Why so cagey?”
“Simple. If Iv’g’nork wins, I lose two customers. If Iv’g’nork enters a bloody rage, as those types are wont to do, I probably lose some of Pivlichino’s in the bargain. If you win, all three of my customers survive, and so does my furniture.”
“Wait,” he said. “Before I agree to this …”
“You wish an appetizer?” Pivlic said. “I could call a server over with a tray, but I would not recommend entering the pits for at least an hour after eating. And time is of the essence, my friend.”
“No, not that,” Kos said. “I asked about something else in the message.”
“The missing ledev, yes,” Pivlic said. “I am, as yet, uncertain. I may be able to tell you more later, once I hear back from one of my eyes.”
“If I live,” Kos said.
“If you live,” the imp confirmed.
“Half my pension, Kos,” Borca’s ghost said. “Don’t even think about getting killed.”
“Shut up, Borca,” Kos said, then took a good look at the ghost. “No, hold on—Don’t shut up. You’re going with me. You have to, right?”
“Kos, you’re doing it again,” Feather said.
“Yeah, I suppose I have to,” the ghost replied.
“Good,” Kos said. “Then do me a favor—keep your eyes out for the ‘second petitioner,’ would you?” He pushed out from the table and stood. He turned to the imp. “All right,” Kos said, “time to fight my demons.”
“Half-demons,” the imp corrected. “Or in this case, half-demon. But one should be plenty.”
* * * * *
A half hour later, Pivlichino’s had gone from a crowded and busy eatery to something more along the lines of a gladiatorial arena—at least it sounded like one from the antechamber that led to the dining pit. The dull roar of conversation had grown louder, and outside the iron portcullis that led to the pit the noise echoed like crashing waves in a reservoir zone.
Kos allowed a goblin, one of Pivlic’s employees, to cinch up his borrowed armor. “Now this isn’t much,” the goblin said. “You got breastplate, you got bracers, you got helm. Should give you time to pray before you die. Big convocation coming, though, huh? Look on the bright side, you won’t have long to wait.”
“Wait?” Kos said. His mind was racing. Who was this “second petitioner?” Who else could want to know who bought the goblin enough to do this? Kos could hardly believe he was doing it.
“Convocation, all them ghosts,” the goblin said. “Get to go back to nature. So when Iv’g’nork eat you, not have long to wait, huh?”
“Sure,” Kos said, barely listening. The Decamillennial and the Selesnyan convocation were the last things on his mind, except as steady reminders that he’d already lost three days that he could have been using to search for Fonn, or Fonn Zunich, or whatever she went by. He could have talked to all the witnesses, searched the scene, and done real ’jek work. Now he’d been forced to go to Pivlic, which was never his first choice. In any normal investigation, Pivlic was where you went when a trail went cold, simply because the imp could never testify to anything. Couldn’t and wouldn’t. It was true Pivlic had never steered him wrong, but there was also a first time for everything.
“You need to lighten up,” the goblin said. “Everybody hasta die some time. Don’t know how you got so lucky. You lose a bet?”
“Just hurry up and finish.”
Iv’g’nork was visible in the opposite antechamber, not far from Kos on the other side of the circular pit. Kos couldn’t see the top of the pit wall that ringed the small arena from his vantage point, but the blackened stone—a color chosen, Pivlic had once confided, because it made it much easier to hide leftover blood—easily rose as tall as a city building. Kos had never seen them from this angle, though. And this was one of the smaller dining pits.
The slave trader may have been a half-demon, but the other half might as well have been, too. The hulking creature was hunched, waiting for Pivlic to ring the dinner bell, but Kos estimated he was nearly twice as tall as a human. Four ramlike horns framed his hideous countenance that was more death’s head than face. Twin rows of bony spikes ran from his eyebrows and back over his bare, scar-laced skull. Except for a few exposed areas at the joints, almost all of Iv’g’nork’s body was covered in overlapping calcified plates with what looked like extremely sharp edges.
The second petitioner was out of sight but not for long, Kos hoped. He’d sent a spy to investigate the competition.
“Borca,” Kos said as the ghost of his second dead partner floated back through the antechamber wall. “Any luck?”
“Who you talking to, huh?” the goblin asked.
“Nobody,” Kos said but waved a hand for Borca to continue.
“Well, I learned how far I can get from you,” the ghost said. “That’s it. I can’t find him. This is frustrating. Maybe there’s something the ectomancer can do to extend my range. Want to go to the Orzhov quarter?”
“Now?” Kos said.
“Not yet,” the goblin replied, misunderstanding. “Wait for the bell.”
“Yeah, now,” the ghost said. “You’re going to get yourself killed. Maybe I can’t find the other man, but I can see the monster from here. What are you trying to prove?”
“No way,” Kos said. “I’m doing this.”
“No way you’re doing this?” the goblin said. “Buddy, it’s way to late to back out now, huh?”
“No, I’m—Look, my armor’s on. Go cinch someone else. Buddy.”
The goblin raised both hands and backed away with exaggerated caution. “Fine, try to make conversation with dead humans. See where it gets Gruto, huh? If you can, try to unbuckle some of that armor before he eats you. Hope Iv’g’nork chokes on you.” Gruto shot Kos a wave and hauled open the heavy, wooden do
or just far enough to allow his diminutive body to squeeze through. It closed with a thud that echoed in the roaring arena atmosphere.
“Come on, Kos,” Borca’s ghost said. “You know, maybe my murder just doesn’t need to be solved. There’s got to be another way to do this.”
“I wish there was,” Kos said. “You going to help me or not?”
“Like I have a choice,” Borca said. A second later, a large brass bell suspended in the tower atop Pivlichino’s rang three clear, ominous notes that brought a hush over the noisy crowd. Then, with a scrape of metal on stone, the portcullis before Kos rose in tandem with the one blocking the half-demon’s entrance. Kos took a couple of cautious steps onto the grated floor.
“Pivlichino’s patrons, the first evening challenge in the dining pits is underway,” Pivlic’s voice, augmented by magic, boomed throughout the restaurant. “If you would, please turn your attention to the south enclosure! Will the mighty Iv’g’nork will be dining upon two challengers? Or will he end up making the final sacrifice in search of that ever-elusive perfect feast? Let’s find out!”
Two or more enter, but only one feeds.
—Sign over the entrance gate to Pivlichino’s Dining Pit #1
27 ZUUN 9999 Z.C., LATE EVENING
Fonn watched Pivlic soar into the air above the dining pits, hammer in hand, and strike the dinner bell that hung overhead three times in quick succession. He alit upon the edge of what must have been his private viewing box since it was the only one Fonn could see that was empty. The imp pulled an object—some kind of stick or wand, maybe—from his waist and put it to his mouth before launching into his master of ceremonies routine.
Fonn pushed back from her chair to get a better view, but the arrival of a tall, curiously humpbacked woman in an ill-fitting oversized cloak stopped her cold.