by Hugo Huesca
The scorpion appeared, covered in shadows, a tin patina of rust visible on the hard edges of its brass shell. It was an older model, ravaged by time and several skirmishes. Half its face was melted, and its tail creaked as it bumbled stiffly side to side. Columns of vapor shot up from several exhaust ports along its body.
Ed’s group fanned around him, brandishing whatever weapons they had left, trying to look menacing. The Dungeon Lord gestured at Rolim to stand down. “No one move a muscle,” Ed ordered, while desperately hoping he wasn’t about to get a stinger through the heart.
Instead of attacking, like all the other security scorpions before, the construct stopped a few feet away from Ed and then was still, as if waiting for something.
“I see,” Lady Vaines said. Her voice was a dry rasp, as if she had crushed glass in her throat. “When did you realize it?”
“My suspicions started when the platforms shifted,” Ed said. “Although I only put two and two together a little while ago.” He nodded at the scorpion, as if acknowledging the opponent of a game. “Back in the Armory, Jarlen thought she had been the one that caused the platforms to rearrange themselves. I wasn’t really in the frame of mind to contest that. But thinking about it, that sort of reaction had nothing to do with the rest of the times we triggered a trap. It didn’t even get rid of us. If the objective was to get us out of the Armory, there are better ways to do that.” He shook his head. “I believe the rearranging had a different objective, and we were just caught in the crossfire. My hypothesis is that the Standard Factory was trying to keep Sephar away from Tillman’s office. Which means…”
Vaines laughed, or tried to, and the sound that made was much worse than her speech. “Ah. So all this time the Lordship and the Regents were being played for fools. It seems Sephar wasn’t the only one willing to surprise us.” Then she raised her only remaining eyebrow. “I wonder which of the two is behind this.”
Still the scorpion made no move, content just to watch for the moment.
Ryan’s gaze went from Ed to Vaines and over again. “I don’t get it,” he said, finally.
“You’re not the only one, Planeshifter,” Xorander told him.
“It means two things,” Ed went on. “First.” He raised one finger. “Sephar had to be closer to Tillman’s office than we were. Malikar hadn’t summoned him when we dealt with Lord Vandran in the Museum, meaning he had to be behind us at the time.” He paused to let that sink in. Every single contestant in the Endeavor had passed by an entrance to the office and had missed it. “The Factory, seeing his intentions and realizing he was too close for comfort, rearranged itself to keep him away. It put him close to us, either by chance or hoping we all would kill each other. Evidently, it failed, and since it hasn’t rearranged again, I suspect it’s running out of juice.” He raised a second finger. “The other thing. Most of us have knowledge of artificial constructs. We know what they can do and what they can’t. At first, I thought the Factory’s security system was just that: a series of interconnected traps and security measures. All the alarms and warnings certainly helped sell that illusion. However, actively keeping Sephar away from the office goes beyond the programming of a construct like a skeleton or a golem. That requires discernment. So does building a Museum that reflects the Factory’s previous layout despite the fact it changes constantly from Endeavor to Endeavor.” He strolled toward the scorpion, trying to appear confident, and hoping to all the gods he hadn’t made a huge, faulty leap of logic somewhere and was about to eat a deadly portion of brass. “In short, there’s no automated security system keeping Dungeon Lords away from the office. There is a mind. A human one, and I would be willing to bet we know who that is.”
It was as if all the Dungeon Lord’s words had been directed at the scorpion, as if Ed dared the construct to prove him wrong. Instead, the dreaded stinger never came. The creature just kept staring at them in silence.
Well, Ed thought. Here goes nothing. “Madame Tillman,” he said. “I believe it is time we have a talk. Face to face.”
Nothing happened. He could feel the stillness of his companions behind him, no one daring to move a muscle in fear they would set off the tension in the room and goad the scorpion to attack.
Then the construct slowly lifted one of its heavy brass pincers. Ed tensed and had to resist the urge to jump away and go on the offensive. But instead of attacking, the creature opened the pincer a fraction and dropped something, a piece of paper, that fluttered down toward the floor and landed a few feet away from Ed. The scorpion then turned stiffly and went back from where it had come.
No one said anything until Ed picked up the slip of paper and examined it.
“What is it?” Gallio asked.
Ed grinned.
Saint Claire & Tillman’s proudly presents:
An invitation to the Grand Opening of the Standard Factory’s Museum, to be held in the wing:
A Prophecy of the Future
Pack your bags and get ready for the fun to start!
Kind regards,
Lord Saint Claire & Evangeline Tillman.
30
Chapter Thirty
Eulogy
The Museum’s vast main hall had gained a threatening quality since the last time Ed had been there. While the others were exiting Ryan’s Portal, the Dungeon Lord looked up at the crimson zeppelin replica hanging from the ceiling and noted it would be a perfect place for a couple of mindbroods to hide.
Shadows seemed to come to life as the group advanced past the main wing, up a series of stairs, and through a corridor with a faded red carpet, brass railings, and furnishings. The ticket seemed to burn in Ed’s pocket, calling for his attention as his armored steps made muffled sounds on the carpet that broke the looming silence enveloping him and his companions.
“Nice paintings,” Ryan noted as way of nervous conversation. Framed paintings hung from the walls, showing scenes of vast brass cities with white vapor trails rising to the skies. “I did not know Ivalis Online had a hidden steampunk vibe.” Other paintings had Dungeon Lords with eldritch green eyes standing on spider-like vehicles, overseeing industrial operations with archaic flying machines circling overhead like a flock of brass birds.
Xorander gave Ryan a worried look. “What is steampunk?” she asked Ed. “And what the hell is he talking about?”
“Don’t mind him,” Ed told her, although he wondered about Ryan’s condition. It seemed to be getting worse.
The paintings showed a possible future; the way Evangeline Tillman, Ivalian proto-industrialist, had envisioned it. Ryan had compared it to steampunk because he came from a world that had advanced past that stage of development—and also had no magic as far as Ed knew. To people like Vaines or Xorander, who had no concept of science fiction, these images had to look utterly alien, just as unbelievable as a Bard’s craziest fantastical romp.
Lisa would’ve been all over the aesthetic, though, Ed thought. It was a shame she wasn’t here to see it.
The corridor brought them to a pair of elegant doors guarded by a—somewhat familiar-looking—golem. It cheerfully waited for the rest of Ed’s group, bobbling in place like an excited worker bee.
“Didn’t Xorander blow you up a while ago?” Ed asked, more to himself than anyone else.
“Welcome to the ‘Prophecy of the Future’ by Saint Claire & Tillman’s entertainment division! We regret to inform you this wing is yet under construction and is not open to the public just yet,” the golem announced, impossibly happy. “If you wish to attend the inauguration, please provide sufficient authorization or face immediate destruction!”
“Should I fireball him?” Xorander wondered aloud.
“Last time that didn’t go so well, my Lady,” Spymaster Macer told her, just a tiny hint of reproach in his tone.
Ed showed the ticket to the golem, who took it in its clunky appendages and examined it closely. “Ah, a VIP invitation. Haven’t seen one of these in a while. Or ever, for that matter. Everything look
s to be in order.” Then, it bit the edge of the slip and handed it back to Ed, a pair of round holes apparently marking it as redeemed. “As esteemed VIP guests of Saint Claire & Tillman, you are entitled to a guide, Fast Track access to all our attractions, an interview with our esteemed Directors, and complimentary drinks at the end of the tour. Please, follow me.”
The golem threw open the doors and stepped into the darkness, whistling a cheerful tune. The group faced a second of indecision, painfully aware that they could be stepping into an ambush with little they could do about it.
In the end, Ed shrugged. “I would kill for a complimentary drink,” he said, and went after the golem.
The rest followed. Steros and Xorander were right behind him, followed by Ryan and Macer, then Vaines’ cot dragged by the rescue drones, and finally Rolim guarding the rear. As soon as they all went through, the doors closed behind them and magical light was activated. Where the Factory’s forges had Saint Claire’s handprint all over them—hard lines, naked metal, and function over form—the Prophecy wing spoke of Tillman’s influence. Checkered furniture and floorboards, brass and silver furnishings, marble and obsidian as far as the eye could see. There was an expensive bar at one end of the wing, with elegant glassware and bottles so old most of their contents were probably undrinkable. Even the air was permeated with the sort of scent one might expect from an elegant opera theater.
“It’s like a Bard’s tale in here,” Xorander pointed out.
Ed had a sensation of having stepped into a version of an Ivalian “World of Tomorrow” sort of deal. Mosquito-like constructs the size of dogs hung from the ceiling, built out of brass, iron, and wood. Displays showed models of impossible machines that mixed magical theorems with vapor engines and slim, impractical technology taken straight out of Jules Verne’s imagination. Mannequins showed Tillman’s prediction of the Lotian fashion of the future. Ed doubted she would’ve worn any of her own designs. The wing was vast, and had many rides and attractions that looked promising. On a whim, Ed examined the floors and walls, looking for the telltale signs of the platforms that allowed for the Factory’s expedited reconstruction. He didn’t find any. This part of the Factory appeared to be fixed. It probably meant nothing… or it was a small bit of evidence that Tillman favored her own creations over those of her business partner, because no such concern had been spared to Lord Saint Claire’s Armory.
“Should we begin the tour?” the golem asked. Its tone was eager.
Ed wanted very much to say yes. He would’ve loved to spend a day exploring the wing, hopefully without anything trying to kill him. Maybe Klek would’ve enjoyed tagging along.
“Another time,” he said, hoping that was true. “We are in a hurry. You said something about us having an interview with the Factory’s Directors. Is there a way to reach them from here?”
Despite its facial features being chiseled in brass, the golem managed a dejected slump. “No one ever wants to take the tour,” it said. Then, it regained its composure and pointed its arm appendage toward the opposite end of the wing. “Please, follow me. Your ticket includes access to Director Tillman’s personal elevator.”
“Finally, some good news,” Xorander said as the golem went off ahead.
Since he was at the front of the committee, no one saw Ed’s grimace. Farther through the wing, the showcases gradually switched their focus from predicting technological advances toward the changes with the Lotian society.
Ed noticed he was starting to get slightly dizzy and popped his ears. It seemed that the Factory’s undead dragon was flying steadily higher by the minute. He wondered if the mindbrood could survive without oxygen. He certainly couldn’t. He sped his stride.
It wasn’t hard to divine Tillman’s ideology through her concept of a perfect society. Ed had an increasingly bad taste in his mouth as he saw paintings of people that looked like Alder with arms and legs locked in chains being herded by Tillman’s mechanical constructs toward art deco pyramids with mechanical-assisted sacrificial altars at the top, manned by High Clerics wearing the latest fashion. A Lotian couple walked right at the front of the painting, each holding the hand of an eight-year-old boy, who stared in awe at the line of Heiligian slaves.
Ed saw life-sized wax statues of a cadre of attractive Dungeon Lords standing around a map of a united Lotia. A fake window behind them showed a painted-on background with one massive Standard Factory blotting out the sun, pumping out brass automatons in a never-ending stream of industry. The Lotian map was divided in provinces and each of them held a miniature model of one such Factory.
Ed realized, almost as an afterthought, that Ivalis had enough space for more than one great Villain to go around, and that underneath Saint Claire & Tillman’s cheerful facade had lurked something way darker. Hadn’t the two Directors been Sephar’s contemporaries? It was probably for the best that most great, world-spanning, civilization-toppling schemes had a tendency to run in the way of each other.
Not for the first time the Lord of the Haunt wondered what future generations would think of his own schemes, if they were to run into the Haunt’s own Museum in some nebulous future.
Next to the wax statues was a brass lift elevator of the sort Ed would’ve expected in a very old hotel. The elevator was huge and would’ve easily fit all of them, but it was ruined, bent, and trashed as if it had fallen from a huge distance; debris was strewn in a circle in front of Ed’s feet. Steros cursed loudly behind him. The elevator doors had been pried open. Although he already knew the answer, Ed turned toward the golem and asked, “Did any visitors arrive before us?”
The golem wriggled its arm appendages nervously. “They came through a different entrance not long before you arrived,” it explained. “They did not have tickets, but reports from security suggest that we were unable to stop them.”
“And you didn’t tell us this before because?” Gallio asked, leaving the question open.
“You didn’t ask. I am merely an automaton,” the golem replied. “I have no way to discern which information is relevant to our guests’ interests.”
“Of course,” Ed said, though he was doubtful. “Well, I didn’t come all this way to be stopped so easily.” He crawled inside the ruined elevator. There was a maintenance hatch at the top. The fall had bent it out of shape and it wouldn’t budge. Ed called Rolim over and the undead man hunched over, half-crawled into the elevator, then turned on his back and pressed against the hatch with both hands. There was a sharp noise of metal changing shape, and then the hatch popped upward and disappeared. A strong gust of wind poured from the opening. After Rolim crawled out the elevator, Ed went in and took a look.
“Well, that makes sense,” he said to himself. He looked toward the others. “Guess where Tillman put her office.”
A slash of open red sky shone down the hatch. A vast stretch of yellowed, ridged, vertebrae like those of a dinosaur’s spine extended for a couple hundred meters—from Ed’s perspective it may as well have been ten miles—toward the undead dragon’s naked skull. The creature’s spine swayed like a tree under a storm as the creature adjusted its flight path.
Perhaps it was the altitude and the ever-increasing lack of oxygen, but looking up toward the skull had made the world around Ed spin as if he was on an out-of-control carousel, and his heart pounded in his chest. He closed his hand into a fist and realized his palms were damp.
Steros and Xorander had very similar reactions, followed by a lot of cursing and arguing. Dungeon Lords hated heights and going underwater. Having a water-breathing ring had allowed Ed to face one of those fears, but no one on the team had anything resembling wings.
And yet. “There are iron steps nailed to the vertebrae,” Ed pointed out. “I believe they reach all the way to the skull.” He guessed they were there for maintenance, or in case of an emergency.
Steros and Xorander stopped arguing. Everyone looked at Ed.
“Wright,” Gallio said. “Just to be clear. You are suggesting we, in our c
urrent condition, climb that neck.”
“The wind is very strong,” Macer pointed out. “No offense, my Lords, but it would be suicide for most of us. And in Lady Vaines’ case, plain impossible.”
Steros and Macer could make the climb, Ed decided, but that would mean leaving the others behind. Splitting the party often presaged its violent end, but he just simply couldn’t see any other option.
“Leave the wounded behind,” Vaines said, weakly, but still managing to sound like an annoyed teacher. “Get to that damned office. It’s the only thing that matters.”
Ed was not a betting man, but he was absolutely sure that Sephar had left a few mindbroods to take care of any stragglers. To leave the wounded here, including Vaines, was tantamount to letting them die. “Not an option,” he said.
Although… He narrowed his eyes. “There is a way we can all get in,” he said. And gave a pointed look.
One by one, the entire group followed his gaze and focused on Ryan, who had until then been trying to make himself invisible through sheer force of will.
Ed fastened the straps of his backpack before the climb and made sure the rest of his equipment was tightly secured on his body. In doing so, he found the necklace the Haunt’s Diviners had used to keep track of his location. He mulled it over for a moment, then took it off.
“Here.” He handed it to Steros. “If I don’t make it, my minions may be able to get you out of here with this.”
He turned toward the elevator, where Ryan was already waiting.
“Wright. Wait,” Vaines called raspingly. The crystals around her face and body were not only growing, but coalescing into one single lump. It was as if Vaines was growing a coffin that would entrap her forever inside. Ed shivered.
The Dungeon Lady gestured at the empty sheath hanging from his belt. “You lost your sword,” she said.