by Domino Finn
"Okay," I said, returning the dragonspear to my inventory. "Let's talk."
Hadrian approached and looked me up and down, completely ignoring the crusaders still holding their swords. Vagram was an intimidating presence, but without me and Izzy willing to fight he was severely outnumbered. He snarled silently as Hadrian worked some kind of skill over me.
"My, but the goblins must despise you," he said.
In seconds, my countenance changed. My clothes appeared less flashy. I still wore the same blue soldier coat, but it turned dull and unremarkable. Forgettable. When Hadrian did the same thing to Izzy, her name changed to the anonymous [Drifter] in NPC gray. It seemed to be a similar trick to the one the bandits had pulled on the road.
Satisfied, Hadrian turned to the crusaders and cast a disparaging glare at their weapons. "If you don't mind?"
The cleric grumbled but his swords vanished. The crusader sheathed his, and within moments they were similarly disguised. Vagram's yellow locks weren't so magnificent anymore. It was good to see him brought down a peg.
Somewhere during the whole process, the rest of the Brothers in Black had taken up position inside and outside the door. Hadrian dropped a couple of silvers on the bed and nodded once to the goblins. "Courtesy of the Papa." He began to usher us outside.
"Adventurer," called a light voice behind me. I turned to see the goblin mother clutching her son tight. "Thank you," she said, offering a curtsy.
Pagan Reputation +50
I watched her strangely, not sure what to say and only managing a nod before being guided out the front door. Despite our cooperation, the Brothers in Black kept their curved blades at hand. They marched in two rows on either side of us, an intimidating troupe. The men and women we passed in the street did their best to keep their eyes down. This was the Papa's business, they knew, and we were too anonymous to provoke curiosity.
Along the way, what we saw confused me. Groups of goblins openly roamed the streets followed by imps. An ogre hefted a broken wagon filled with construction supplies. Shorehome was more diverse than Stronghold by a wide margin, but it wasn't the blacks and browns and whites that concerned me, it was the greens and grays. As the day opened up, the pagans were making their regular presence known.
Instead of heading to the center of town, like I would've presumed, we marched to the outskirts, a flat shorefront devoid of shops and other buildings. The sand was low and wet. Rows of tunnels carved into the ground were lined with brick and clay, a less extravagant version of Stronghold's river, except that these were empty. We descended into them and walked the low ground, away from prying eyes. At first I thought we were in a simple canal system—and maybe we were—but branching passages headed to higher ground where doors and storage lockers were fixed into the brick walls.
"The Narrows," announced Errol, chumming up beside us like he hadn't just sold us out. "They keep the town from flooding, as well as the old mines below."
Mines this close to sea level had to be dangerous. Then again, this was a simulation of a fantasy world. As with the plausibility of the Salt Sea, I figured the world builders cheated once in a while.
"Underkeep now," said Hadrian, leading us to a well-guarded entryway. "This underground maze is the sole property of Papa Brugo. He can get almost anywhere in the city from here. Remember that, wherever you go, the Brothers in Black can reach you."
Creepy. That was how to describe this guy. He'd never properly introduced himself, but I suspected he was the criminal gang's spymaster.
The black-clad brothers led us into their home. The environs were damp and stark, lit by the same green-yellow bulbs of glass that adorned the docks. They cast an unnaturally still glow over us and nearly ate up all shadows.
"Are we your prisoners?" Vagram asked bitterly.
"I rather prefer the term esteemed guests," answered Hadrian.
We twisted down several passages, descending lower underground, eventually coming upon several more guards at a door ornamented with precious metals and gems. Hadrian stopped and appraised us.
"If I might make a suggestion, I would consider the size and power of the army you are now surrounded by, and I would color my words with respect."
Vagram worked his jaw as the door opened.
"Ah!" boomed a man inside. He sat on a gaudy throne cast from solid silver. "My prisoners have arrived!"
I flashed Hadrian a scowl and entered the chamber of Papa Brugo.
0770 Kingpin
The crime boss was a big man. Not especially tall, although it was difficult to tell on his throne, but large. His stout frame was powerfully built but also ringed with the fat of a man who'd enjoyed excess. He was bald, olive-skinned, and wore no shirt, which accented his pot belly and hairy body. Links of silver and gold hung around his neck and his smile was unnaturally wide. It took me a moment to place why—the left side of his mouth had been slashed open and had improperly healed into a large scar that stretched his lips to the side. Despite this terrifying trait, he seemed a man of good humor.
Two bodyguards stood behind him. Shadowy, incorporeal figures without definition or features, not even eyes. They had no name tags to identify them.
"It is a glorious day indeed," boomed Papa Brugo. Hadrian stood to one side of us, Errol on the other, with a spattering of guards behind. "You surprise me, Captain Oates. Excellent work."
The pirate was afraid to make eye contact with us. The Papa continued.
"The Brothers in Black have always hid in the shadows of the ground, but the saints have never thus lowered themselves to our depths!" He studied our group. "They still don't show themselves personally, of course, but they send their emissaries. A glorious day!"
I surveyed my companions inquisitively. Papa Brugo was being a bit dramatic, but perhaps that was his style. A showman.
Cleric Vagram cleared his throat and stepped forward. "We will reward the pirate and yourself handsomely for any help you can provide."
"You will not speak unless spoken to," instructed Hadrian.
"Or what?" muttered the cleric.
Brugo burst into laughter and slapped his knees. Despite not wearing a shirt, his thick legs were wrapped in tight leather breeches and knee-high boots. He appeared a capable enough man, but I'd seen Cleric Vagram in action enough to put my chips on the holy man.
"Hadrian," laughed Brugo, "it appears you did not properly introduce me, so I shall have to do it." He flashed a sideways smile that sagged his scar open. "This is good, because I like talking about myself."
He pushed to his feet and stepped off the dais to our level. I was right. He wasn't especially tall. I mean, everyone was taller than me besides the five-foot pixie, but the crime boss had to look up to meet Vagram's eyes.
"Do you know how many papas have done business in Shorehome this past year?" asked Brugo casually. "Thirty-seven. Thirty-seven petty criminals running twenty-four petty gangs." He caught my confused expression and added, "There was a lot of turnover."
We nodded in comprehension. The job description for gang leader didn't come with a lot of upward mobility. Brugo continued.
"Fishmongers, harbormasters, sailors, pirates, pickpockets, cutthroats, smugglers of all stripes—it was a thriving capitalistic market. But not all papas are created equal."
His head snapped to Hadrian. "Who's the greatest papa that has ever lived?"
"Papa Brugo," replied the advisor.
He turned to the pirate. "Who is the Papa of all Papas?"
"Papa Brugo," answered Errol smoothly.
The smug crime boss paced before us, gauging Vagram's reaction but ours as well. "There, you see? That is enough for most people to know. But you are not most people, so I will continue. Thirty-seven papas. Twenty-four gangs. Do you know what I did with that?"
We watched him uncertainly.
"Eight," he said. "Eight papas. Eight gangs." He paused and mused a moment, before concluding, "I cleaned up this city. I am not the papa of fishmongers, or the papa of commerce. I'
m not the papa of cutthroats. I am the Papa." He turned to Vagram. "So when you address me, you will address me as Papa Brugo, the ruler of the city, the Protector of Shorehome."
My eyes widened. The mantle of Protector. Papa Brugo wore it, just as I did with Stronghold. Another NPC with a mantle. But how was that possible?
Vagram brushed a hand through his yellow hair. "Understood, Papa Brugo, and a relief to my ears. If you are indeed Protector of this town, then you and I fight for the same side."
"Do we?" The Papa chuckled, turned his back to us, and returned to his throne with a comforting sigh. "You can see, with your newfound knowledge, how coming to me and asking for my help is quite backwards. Rather, you are before me so I can decide how best to make use of you."
Vagram's proud face twisted in anger, so I cut in before he misspoke.
"Papa Brugo, we're here to save you from the pagan menace."
His eyes lasered onto me. "Save me? Is that any less insulting?"
"Less insulting than letting pride get in the way of business," quipped Izzy.
Brugo's eyes flashed. A genuine smile, albeit a predatory one. "Business," he said with a nod. "Now we get to the heart of all matters. What can the four of you do for me?"
His question was hypothetical, and no one answered for fear of triggering another self-righteous diatribe.
"I hear many things," said Brugo. "Hadrian is my Whisperer. He speaks to me of deeds far and wide. If these whispers can be believed, the two of you killed a god."
Even the Papa's ever-confident voice wavered a bit on that note. For all his bluster and bravado, I'd done something he hadn't yet. It meant he had to tread carefully around us.
"You also wear the mantle of Protector," he noted.
"That makes us brothers, in a sense," I said hopefully.
He canted his head. "The Brothers in Black take brotherhood seriously. And perhaps we are brothers, inasmuch as Stronghold and Shorehome are sisters. Which is to say, not much."
Izzy saw an opening. "The pagans detest all of the nine great cities, fishing port and fortress alike. Our common enemy is what unifies us."
The Papa nodded and turned to the knight and cleric. "Is that why the crusaders have left the sanctity of Oakengard?"
"It is," stated the knight.
Brugo's misshapen lips curled. "And what's this cloak of white and cross of gold?" he asked, somehow seeing through Hadrian's disguise. "Those aren't crusader colors."
Vagram spoke. "We are catechists, Papa Brugo. A devout sect of crusader leadership."
"Sect is an interesting word," is all he said in reply.
The cleric clenched his jaw. "We are committed to destroying the pagan menace by any means necessary. The crusaders mean to rescue the city."
The Papa leaned forward. "And where were the crusaders when Shorehome was surrounded by the goblin horde?"
Vagram took a long breath. "We're here now."
Brugo shook his head and chuckled, eyeing his Whisperer. "I have heard much of the crusaders. Not so much of the catechists. Today is the first day I can claim to have actually seen them with my own eyes, yet I only see two." The crime boss ducked his head and peered into the recesses of the room. "Is the rest of the army hiding out of sight?"
"We are a small group," asserted the cleric. "Rather than conduct a full-scale invasion of a town that's already been conquered, we're here to root out the problem from the inside."
"Ah!" Papa Brugo leaned back on his throne and closed his eyes. He paused like that a good ten seconds before continuing. "My father didn't live into his later years," he said introspectively. "But when I was a young boy, I had an older brother. Older, yes, but weaker. Girly. You can imagine my father was a hard man, and that he didn't take to my brother well. So he brought him to the physicker, who gave him a paste of tea and ash.
" 'Papa, Papa,' he said, 'I feel ill.' My father cared not, and in time my brother learned to ignore the nausea. Yet he was still weak. So my father took him to the priest, who blessed him with numerous atonements.
" 'Papa, Papa,' my brother cried, 'I feel backwards.' My father cared not, and in time my brother learned to ignore the teachings. But he was still not the man my father wished him to be." Papa Brugo sighed loud and long. "So, as a last resort my father took him to the chain yard, where several violent men showed him the meaning of tough.
" 'Papa, Papa,' my brother sobbed, 'Why do you hate me?' " Brugo's eyes were fixed on some distant point in time. "My brother took his own life that night."
The throne room was silent. Hadrian waited with arms clasped behind his back, doubtless having heard the heart-wrenching story many times. His ease contrasted with Brugo's emotion. Despite having rehearsed and relived this scene often, it still affected the powerful man.
"A tragic story," said Vagram softly.
"It is. Thank you," returned the Papa. "As soon as I was of age, I cut down my old man like the coward he was. But retribution is not the lesson of this story." His eyes met the cleric's. "The lesson is that when men like you say they wish to root out a problem from the inside, they had better make damn well sure that there's a problem in the first place."
Vagram's brow furrowed.
Brugo was talking about the pagans. The groups in the streets. The families in the homes. I recalled the ogre working with the bandits. Something was off about it all.
"Let me tell you another story," said Papa Brugo, seeing the confusion plain on all of us. "Do not worry, I won't bore you with another family parable. This one is a tale of two cities. A tale of two Protectors."
He had everyone's attention.
"The pagan army, as you call them, retreated from Stronghold en masse after the city's successful defense, but they were not unscathed. Whispers report they were a critically wounded mass. The one-eyed god was dead. Their all-out onslaught, cut short. It had cost many lives. In the end, the gate held. The angel Decimus wiped out a tenth of the army with a single gesture. Three thousand soldiers shrank to half over the course of thirty minutes."
I wasn't sure where Brugo was going with this. He wasn't likely to garner sympathy from me or Izzy. We'd been at that battle, fighting for our lives.
"After that raid," he continued, "some pagans retreated west. Others east. Groups splintered and returned to the wild, errant once again. The force that arrived at Shorehome was the bulk of the leadership that had not fractured, but it was nothing like the war-ready juggernaut at Stronghold. Little more than five hundred pagans approached the city.
"That said, Shorehome is far from the defensive bastion Stronghold is. Our residents are hearty. Resourceful, even. But we have no standing army. Five hundred battle-hardened goblins, imps, boggarts, and ogres versus five hundred sailors. Residents panicked. Being a coastal city with no shortage of ships, many fled by sea. Those who retreated south over land were mostly unharried. The saints cut their losses and flooded the Great Well that ties Shorehome to the central codebase. In their haste to ensure the security of Haven, they abandoned a whole city of people."
Vagram's eyes tightened. I studied Errol, who gritted his teeth and nodded along. He already knew this story. His presence in Stronghold—on this entire mission—had been a pretense. A lie. All to get us right here right now.
Papa Brugo leaned forward and snickered. "Now, one man's white is another man's black. As is often the case, where the proper authorities saw nothing but fire and flames, Papa Brugo saw opportunity. Papa Brugo gathered all the remaining gangs of Shorehome together and marched from the city in a unified front to greet the goblin stragglers. He didn't attack them. He didn't draw battle lines. He welcomed them."
Footsteps pattered into the room. Not a big group, just a few more Brothers in Black who joined the ranks of the guards surrounding us. Except these few were pagans. Goblins wearing the dark leather garb of the Brothers. Goblins standing side by side with the humans of Shorehome. Goblins who sneered at every single one of us, especially the pagan killers.
"We were
fools to walk in here," muttered Vagram under his breath.
"So what do you think happened?" asked Papa Brugo, the answer already evident. "The pagans moved into Shorehome. They settled into the houses abandoned by those who were afraid to protect their city. Into the buildings planned for the incoming player population. The Brothers in Black unified their power with the influx of war-weary goblin soldiers. We don't need the saints. We filled the vacuum they left behind. Already the dominant force of the underworld, we have now cemented ourselves as the resolute backbone of the city."
Papa Brugo stood once again. "The so-called sacking of Shorehome was little more than a change of demographics. The saints who sent you—they don't wish to save the people of the city, they wish to assess Shorehome's prospects. Secure the Squid's Tooth. Figure out how to take back control. And if it's one thing I'm a very bad sport about, it's giving up control."
The unison of rogues in the throne room laughed heartily. Twenty of them, completely surrounding us. They converged, each one twiddling a curved dagger.
0780 Life of Crime
I equipped the dragonspear, twirled it high above my head, and slammed it down to the floor. The brick shattered and the ground shook dramatically. Behind me, Izzy waved the winter staff. The entire room paused at the sight of the legendary weapons.
Papa Brugo, still on his feet, stifled a chuckle. "You mean to insult me in my throne room?"
I flashed my most serious scowl. "There are too many sharp things in here pointed at me."
He raised his head. "Yes. Twenty sharp things, to be precise."
"Then it's an even fight."
He showed his teeth, half amused.
In truth, we were in a horrible position for battle. Surrounded. Twenty cutthroats against the four of us, and they weren't even my main concern. Brugo himself must be a capable warrior, and those shadowy bodyguards would engage before he did.