by Hugo Huesca
Had the Light been tarnished by their fight against the Dark, or were both imperfect ideals to begin with? For that matter, had the Dark always been as almost cartoonishly evil as Ed’s forays into the Netherworld suggested? All he knew was, for time immemorial, two gods had been slugging it out in their realms beyond human comprehension, manipulating their followers into doing the fighting in the mortal realm, telling them whatever they needed to hear to do their godly bidding. Alita, goddess of the Light, loved order and hierarchy, justice and unflinching devotion to the rules. Murmur, the silence between heartbeats, was obsessed with power and the corruption it brought, and his dealings with mortals were little more than him proving a point while he used them like pawns against his mortal enemy.
Perhaps his only real goal is to prove Alita is as corruptible as us mortals, Ed thought. He suppressed a shiver. For some reason, he found that idea more terrifying than any other possibility.
“Lord, if you may pardon my boldness,” an abnatir said, huffing with concern. “Your words about the Inquisition may give those among your minions with ties to the Netherworld the wrong idea.”
Ed shook his head, breaking his gaze away from the undead Mantle. “To defeat our enemy is to understand him,” he said, quoting the advice Kes had given him during his training. “The Heroes are the Inquisition’s answer to the Mantle, and the Mantle is the Dark’s answer to the Light. If we want the Haunt to grow beyond our enemies, we must understand the Hero and the Mantle alike and develop an answer to both.” He tapped the glass with one charred finger, like a kid at a zoo trying to get a caged lion’s attention. “Then we can beat them over the head with it until they finally leave us the hell alone.”
4
Chapter Four
Diplomacy
The dancing purple light from the braziers lining the walls of the Seat Hall made the thick whiskers of the merchants’ representative itch like a living being stuck to his long, bony face.
“Lord Wraith, you’re asking us for gold we do not have,” the man said, spreading his arms and opening his hands as if to show they were empty. “With the blockade stopping most sea-trade and the Inquisition holding control over Raventa and the rest of Starevos, we of the Merchant Guilds have no way of moving our stock.”
The Seat Hall was empty today, except for the representative, Ed, and the Monster Hunter guards by the doors and between Ed and the merchant. The guards were mostly for show. Everyone who set foot inside the Hall was carefully checked for arms, their character sheet was thoroughly inspected, and they had to accept a temporary pact with the Dungeon Lord. This audience, then, was nothing out of the ordinary, and that was the problem.
Ed did his best not to fiddle on the Seat, despite how uncomfortable the damn carved stone was, with all those bones and skulls everywhere and screaming busts as armrests. It seemed to change into even more annoying shapes with every passing day as well, although he rarely caught the drones working on it.
“Trust me, Master Tawni, I don’t want to bleed the Guilds dry,” he told the man. “But the Scrambling Towers that keep everyone safe from the Inquisition require gold to function, and the Haunt cannot handle the expense on its own.”
Master Tawni looked nervous. Jarlen had protested vehemently against making a new, more comfortable hall to receive visitors, and to Ed’s surprise, Lavy had taken her side as well. Dungeon Lords held audience in the Seat Hall, the two had told him. That was why the core of the Dungeon, the anchor that connected it to the ley line that gave it life, had that shape; so he could place his Lordly ass over it. It was symbolic, one of the ancient traditions that went way back.
Ed wished that whoever had been the first damn Dungeon Lord to create a Seat to imitate a Heiligian throne, had also thought to add some cushions before the bare rock tradition stuck.
Master Tawni fiddled with his hands and kept looking at the ceiling where the occasional spider warrior and its rider passed by as they went about their business deeper in the Haunt. “Whatever the Haunt doesn’t buy rots or languishes in the port warehouses, gathering dust until the promised relief arrives. My Lord, it’s been half a year now since the promise you made the Starevosi to free our kingdom, yet we’re still living life as little more than common outlaws.”
The issue with audiences was, Ed wasn’t any good at them. He solved his problems either as a programmer, step by step as a logical problem, or as a Dungeon Lord, by hitting them with something sharp. Politics required an entirely different kind of thinking. People said one thing, but thought another, and hoped to get something entirely different. There were lies and half-truths enough to give him a headache. But even worse than that were the kind of situations that had only two choices—both of them suboptimal.
The merchants claimed they couldn’t pay this month’s taxes. Without their gold, Ed would have to shut down a couple Scrambling Towers or empty the Haunt’s coffers, which would shut down the dungeon’s production.
It was the kind of problem that Governor Brett excelled at, not Ed. But it wasn’t Brett that the people like Tawni wanted to see. They wanted to speak to the Dungeon Lord of the Haunt himself, which was basically the Ivalian equivalent of an angry lady demanding to see the manager.
Thankfully, Ed never liked playing by the rules much anyway.
The Dungeon Message appeared in front of his eyes in eldritch green letters dancing through the air. Only those that Ed approved could tell it was there, and Master Tawni was not one of them. The message said:
Your Villainousness would do well to recall the basic three steps of bureaucracy. First, ask him to solve the problem for you, then make vague promises, then stall for time.
Ed dismissed the message with a thought. “Tell me, Master Tawni, how can the Haunt help the Guilds? The answer better not be to waive the payment. You already know we cannot.”
“Well, Lord…” Tawni licked his dry lips. “I was hoping you’d tell me.” His gaze flicked up at the carved Seat and Ed thought he saw a glint of greed in his expression. “But if I must make an educated guess… well, you could allow us to trade with the Netherworld ourselves.” Despite acting as if the idea had just come to him right then, Tawni spoke fast and smoothly, as if the lines had been rehearsed. “A Portal in Undercity, under Guild control, may just buy us enough time to survive until you undoubtedly free Starevos. We’ll handle the cost per trip to that unholy place, of course.”
This was clearly what Tawni—and thus the merchants—had wanted all along. Brett’s stratagems had once again proved their worth. Ed’s first impulse was to deny the petition. The Netherworld was dangerous and filled with treacherous beings that might take the chance to use their merchants for their own schemes, which could go against the Haunt’s best interests.
Ed rubbed his forehead. If this had been a strategy videogame presenting him with two choices, the trouble would’ve ended after he found a third option. Sadly, life was hardly that simple, and often a new path down a road came with its own set of bandits hiding inside a bush.
“Interesting idea, Master Tawni. Promising, but I’ll have to think it over carefully. A Portal inside a city has its own set of risks, and risk is often a synonym for more expenses. You shall have my final answer at the next Tower meeting. Until then, you are free to return to your masters and tell them their petition has been heard.”
At a gesture of Ed’s fingers, the doors behind Tawni opened. “As you command, Lord Wright.”
That went well, Ed thought tiredly. He gave the tapestry behind the Seat a thumbs up. In a small room behind a wall, Governor Brett kept a close eye on the audiences through a spyhole, and whenever Ed needed some help, the governor sent his advice through a dungeon message rune.
Through his dungeon vision, he could see that Kaga had managed to sneak away from his own responsibilities as the Haga’Anashi clan leader to train a bit under the tutelage of Monk Fastolf. Ed still wasn’t sure when the halfling had become one of his minions, but at this point it’d be awkward to ask. F
astolf had turned out to be an excellent teacher, although his martial arts were certainly unconventional.
Ed itched to join Kaga and attempt one of the monk’s acrobatic maneuvers. Then again—
“Next, Priest Mortimer of the Temple of Xethron the Many-Tentacled,” said one of the Haga’Anashi guards, “bringing forth an appeal of Lord Edward Wright’s decision regarding the hot springs incident.”
—he was probably going to be here a while.
The glyphs carved on the huge stone disk glowed an urgent red. At the other end of the room, a nervous naga wearing a vest with the Haunt technician colors, manipulated the floating runes of the control panel and turned to Ed.
“Portal activation is imminent, Lord Wraith!” the technician exclaimed. An alarm spell triggered and its shrill sound and flashing light echoed against the walls.
Portal Hall security poured into the room from several entrances and surrounded the stone disk, which had begun to spin—slowly at first, and then faster as the glyphs shifted with mechanical precision. Spider warriors were at the front, with spider riders armed with blowpipes at the flanks and out of direct line-of-sight of the Portal. Kaftar spellcasters took position at the rear, already readying flame arrow runes at the disk’s center.
“Delay it. Have they identified themselves?” Ed asked. Through dungeon vision, he confirmed that Jarlen, Alder, and Lavy were about to arrive; Jarlen would be the first, using her mist form to travel through the pipes in the walls, and Alder would arrive the last—his hair still slick from the shower he had been taking moments ago. He was wearing only a tunic.
Portals connected two points between the Netherworld and Ivalis. The Ivalian point was fixed, but the Netherworld one could change if one knew the right coordinates. And just as Ed and his minions could travel into the Netherworld from the Portal, the Netherworld could travel into the Haunt as well. If the visitor’s intentions were hostile, the only option was to shut down the Portal before they arrived. An emergency shutdown damaged the Portal, which required time and resources to reactivate, so Dungeon Lords preferred to use one only if absolutely necessary.
Lavy and the rest of the spellcasters had added a layer of safety to the Portal to delay the arrival of any non-minion arriving from the other side. The delay was short—a few minutes—but Ed knew that even a single second could mark the difference between life or death.
“Yes, they sent a message along,” said the technician as his hands rushed through the runes of the control panel. “A single visitor, identifying himself as minion Dorrez of Vandran, here for a diplomatic mission. He brings gifts and requests safe passage.” As the technician finished speaking, Jarlen manifested into the room from the vents in the ceiling, with Lavy arriving seconds later through the door, and Alder trailing after her and dripping water all over.
“What’s going on?” the Bard asked.
“Another Dungeon Lord is trying their luck,” Ed said. “Sanguine Vandran, supposedly. Lavy, scrying check. Is he who he says he is? Jarlen, any info on who the hell Vandran is?”
“Already got Pholk running checks,” Lavy said calmly. She waved her hand and focused her eyes in the way all Ivalians did when reading stats or character sheets through Objectivity. “His report just came through. There’s a single creature on the other side of the Portal. His character sheet says Dorrez, a miragefiend with about three hundred and fifty experience points. His talents and skills are focused mostly on diplomacy but he seems to have a splash of stealth in there. He is unarmed and has a cart filled with objects, most of them non-magical. Pholk does not think there are any hostile spells in there.”
“What’s a miragefiend?” Alder asked.
“Four-armed illusionists,” Jarlen said. “Low in the demonic hierarchy and aligned with Regent Vorgothas, Lord of Flesh. I do not know Sanguine, but House Vandran is influential nobility with several Dungeon Lords in the family. Vorgothas grants them Mantles in exchange for decadent tributes and vulgar sacrifices. They are whore-masters and slave-mongers.”
Ed nodded, taking it all in. The message seemed to be telling the truth. Other Dungeon Lords had already attempted “diplomacy” with the Haunt in the recent past, and going from those experiences Ed preferred that this one would just leave them alone. Still, Dorrez was an emissary of what was technically another independent faction. In the tiny chance that Sanguine wasn’t an asshole like the rest of his House and truly wanted to help, Ed couldn’t just refuse him. But mostly it was the cost of fixing the Portal after a forced shutdown that made the decision for him:
“Let him through.”
“On it, Lord Wraith,” said the technician, inputting the appropriate commands. The glyphs stopped spinning. Energy flowed into the disk from the ley lines of the Haunt, and the smell of sulfur and static filled the air. The empty space between the disk ebbed and flowed, and a red flash like a rippling pool spawned into existence. Everyone tensed and readied themselves for a fight, in the small chance Pholk’s scrying had been tampered with somehow.
The Portal shone bright scarlet, and a figure stepped through into the raised dais.
“I have to admit,” said Dorrez, followed by a cart full of expensive-looking gifts, “I expected a somewhat warmer welcome.” He was a short, bulky humanoid with four arms, longer than any human’s. His skin was smooth and gray, black veins pulsing underneath. Ed had no idea how the creature Dorrez could tell his arrival wasn’t well received—he had no eyes, or nose, or ears. His face resembled an egg with a long, veiny stalk about a forearm’s length protruding out of its skull, snaking through the air as if tasting it.
“We are not concerned with your expectations, miragefiend,” hissed Jarlen, her face hidden by a white silk Lotian mortuary mask.
Alder inched closer to Ed. “How in the Wetlands is he speaking? He has no mouth.”
He was certainly dressed as richly as his gifts, though, with enough gold and jade hanging around his wrists and neck to nearly draw Ed’s attention away from the stalk atop his head.
The miragefiend made a curt bow at Ed’s direction. “The gifts are for you, Dungeon Lord Edward Wright of the Haunt. They come from my master as a show of his good will to you and yours. He is Dungeon Lord Sanguine of the House of Vandran, master of all the dungeons west of the Adrial Depths, renowned in all of Lotia for the rich and exotic pleasures a friend of House Vandran may find there.” Dorrez waved at the cart. It inched ahead seemingly of its own volition, until stopped by the threatening spears of a group of spider riders. Ed saw smoky jewels inside the cart, heavy golden collars, and a painting of a regal-looking Lotian woman wearing a crown. “I hope they are to your liking, Lord Wright.”
“Look,” Ed said. “Dorrez, we are not trying to be rude here, but we are very busy. And we’ve already seen this play out… a couple times in the last few months, actually. It would save everyone here a lot of time if you simply went back with your cart to your master and explained to him that we are not interested in his offer.”
It was impossible to tell what the miragefiend was feeling without any features or facial expressions. His voice, though, seemed to come from the spot where his mouth would’ve been. It was calm and confident, and human-sounding. “Friendship between the House of Wright and House Vandran greatly interests my Lord. If the gifts are not to your liking, Lord Wright, Lord Vandran would be happy to arrange a visit from the Priestesses of Vorgothas themselves. They are succubi unlike any you may find in the Netherworld, or anywhere else, for that matter. A gift such as that, I assure your Lordship, is worth more than a king’s ransom.”
“And the design for the Scrambling Towers is worth more than a hundred ransoms,” said Lavy proudly. She and Diviner Pholk had created the tower design almost from scratch, so she had a right to be proud. “Isn’t that what your master is after?”
“You must be the famed Witch Lavina,” Dorrez said. “Lord Vandran is very interested in your expertise as well. Some of these gifts are meant for you.”
Alder si
ghed theatrically. “No one ever thinks to bribe the Bard,” he said. “People these days just don’t care for the artists.”
“I’m not looking for any new employment,” Lavy told the miragefiend, “but at least you and Vandran can recognize true talent when you see it.”
“Not even an hour in your visit and you’ve already tried to steal my Head Researcher away and offended my Chronicler,” Ed said, amused. “If that’s the kind of friendship Lord Vandran offers, I’m sure you can see why I’m not jumping with excitement at the prospect.”
He tried to use the carrot and went nowhere, Ed thought, any time now he’s going to drop the stick.
The hands of Dorrez’ second set of arms curled in what Ed interpreted to be anger. “Lord Wright, you do not have a reputation for being unreasonable, yet your refusal to take allies among your noble kind is starting to make our people wonder,” he said, using his upper set of arms in the way a master orator would in making wide, smooth gestures. “How do you plan to survive the incoming Endeavor with no friends to watch your back? The Standard Factory has dangers that have claimed the lives of famed Dungeon Lords with experience points in the tens of thousands. Furthermore, without the favor of Lord Vandran, some other Dungeon Lords of lesser nobility may simply decide to knife you in the back during the confusion and claim your dungeons—and your designs—after the Endeavor is over.”
For a faceless, onion-headed thing, he makes good points. However, it was nothing Ed and his friends hadn’t considered before. He noted that the miragefiend packed 16 ranks in Charm, and a couple of diplomacy-related talents. That was probably the reason Lord Vandran had picked him as his spokesman. Judging from the rest of Dorrez’ character build, he was an illusionist of some kind. Ed’s veil-piercing Evil Eye gave him an advantage over illusions, but just to be safe, he switched to dungeon vision, a third-person view of the room.