Raedren smiled wistfully, and even Mazik nodded.
“Hmm,” said the Tyrant. She examined them like a scientist studying an especially interesting culture of bacteria. “Adventurers who actually care?” She shook her head. “I don’t believe it. Ceara, is this true?”
“No idea,” said Major Rur. “All I know is that they’re good at blowing things up and aren’t very good at negotiating.”
The Tyrant chuckled and turned back to Gavi, her face becoming soft yet serious. “And do you still think you’re not good enough?”
Gavi thought about it, aware that all eyes were on her. Finally, she shrugged.
“Probably not? I don’t know. I’m not as good of a caster as I want to be, but I’ll work on that. These two already said they’d help me,” she said, nodding to her friends. Mazik gave the Tyrant a thumbs-up. “Until then, I’ll just do the best I can,” said Gavi. “That’s all anyone can really do, I guess.”
The Tyrant smiled warmly. For a moment she no longer looked like the ruler of one of the most powerful cities on Aegis, but a kindly grandmother who was proud of how her granddaughter was growing up. “Very true. Very true my good girl,” said the Tyrant. “Remember that and you’ll go far. Or at least, farther than you might have otherwise.
“Now you, tall lad,” said the Tyrant, pointing at Raedren. “I’ve got a question for you as well. You’re the one who used to be a nurse, correct?”
“Actually, I still am,” said Raedren. “I decided not to quit until we got into a guild.”
“Probably wise,” said the Tyrant. “Beware of too much caution, though. Sometimes you need to throw caution to the wind like an enemy spy out of a third-story window if you want to get anywhere.”
“I’ll, uh, keep that in mind,” said Raedren as he wondered how exactly she knew about spies vis-à-vis third-story windows. He guessed close, personal experience.
“Anyway, you seem like a kind man to me,” said the Tyrant.
“Thank you,” said Raedren.
“None of that, boy,” snapped the Tyrant. “I never said I liked kind men. Now be quiet and listen.”
Raedren shut his mouth, all of his attention on her.
“Obedient too, I see.” The Tyrant was cold, and stared down at him like a disapproving schoolteacher. “Here’s my question: how do you, a man who spends his days healing people and giving them back lost limbs, feel about being party to the taking of lives?”
Raedren was quiet for a time. “Conflicted,” he said finally. “I’m still conflicted. I agreed to help because I thought Mazik might try to do it without me, and I didn’t want him to get killed, but—”
“Told you,” said Mazik.
“Not the time for that,” said Gavi. “But yes, well done.”
“—I’m still not sure how I feel about the whole thing,” Raedren continued. “I’m pretty sure I didn’t personally kill anyone, but I know that doesn’t count. If I hadn’t been there then people who died may have lived, so part of that responsibility is mine.
“But the people we killed were bad guys, or at least they were doing bad things. We also tried not to kill whenever we had a choice, though unfortunately we didn’t always have that option, or the time,” Raedren added with a frown. “So I don’t know. I think we did the right thing, and I think the situation turned out better for us having been involved, but I’m not sure how I feel. I really don’t know.”
“…a couple of starry-eyed idealists you’ve got here,” said the Tyrant, still looking at Raedren, though the comment wasn’t directed at him.
“Oh, there’s idealism there,” said Mazik. “I’m not sure about starry-eyed though.”
The Tyrant nodded, slowly. “Perhaps true.” She clapped her hands on her thighs. “All right. Fair enough young man, fair enough.”
The Tyrant turned to Mazik. “And you.”
“Ruh roh,” said Mazik.
The Tyrant smiled unpleasantly. “I’m glad you’re getting a handle on the situation.” Then her humor fell away.
“You are responsible for the deaths of innocent civilians.” The Tyrant stared down at Mazik like a judge condemning a criminal. “You, sir, are a killer.”
Mazik said nothing.
The Tyrant smiled tightly, like a fox to her cornered prey. “Not rising to it until I explain, eh? Good.” She plucked a file off her desk and opened it.
“From what I understand, you’re the one who came up with the idea of breaking the knife in half, and then decided to bring the broken half with you into The Pit,” said the Tyrant. “Because of your decision, which I can only assume was made because you wanted to taunt your adversary, their leader was able to get a hold of both halves of the knife, put it back together, and go on a nice little killing spree from which you were unable to stop him. Not before it was too late for many.”
Still Mazik said nothing.
The Tyrant picked up a brass letter opener shaped like an assassin’s dagger. She turned it around in her hand. A finger slid along the blade, and she gently set it down.
“As I said, my dear man, you are a killer. Not only did you take lives, and a lot of them at that, but your mistakes led to the deaths of those you were ostensibly trying to protect, not to mention the slain soldiers and guards who willingly fought alongside you.” The Tyrant refolded her legs and leaned forward, her voice dropping lower. “Well? What do you have to say in your defense?”
Mazik rubbed his neck and grimaced, but stood tall.
“I truly regret my decision,” said Mazik, his voice clear and strong. “If I hadn’t brought the other half of the knife, then some of the people who died might still be alive. It was stupid and petty and unnecessary, and for that I am sorry.
“That said, what use is there in beating myself up about it?” asked Mazik. “Say we left it behind. Just the top half—breaking the knife was a sound strategy, and I stand by it. So say we left it behind. Probably the cultists would have run off. What reason would there be for them to stick around and fight if what they wanted was somewhere else? And if they couldn’t find it, they could have just scattered and started killing people until we gave it to them. Maybe then we would still be dealing with them today, instead of mopping them up all at once.
“What I’m trying to say is, who can say what might have happened?” said Mazik. He shrugged. “Those people died. It could have easily been worse, but it also could have been better. Even so, I’m damn proud of what we did. We aren’t perfect, but we never claimed to be. I will learn from my mistakes, but I think we did pretty well all things considered. If you or anybody else disagrees with me, that’s fine, but I’m still going to be proud of what we accomplished, and to hell with everybody else!”
Silence.
No. One. Said. A. Thing.
It was the most intense silence Mazik, Gavi, or Raedren had experienced in their lives. A small clock on the wall ticked away, each stroke suddenly louder than the largest of clock towers, its hands snapping into place with the finality of a falling axe.
The Tyrant tossed her head back and laughed. “Ohohoho! You were certainly right, Ceara! I do like these three!”
Major Rur smirked, and gave the three a wink. “Congratulations. She’s fond of you.”
“Yes,” said Captain Ankt. He lowered his head. “My condolences.”
“Oh, none of that, Storr!” said the Tyrant, waggling a finger at Captain Ankt. “Don’t go making people think I’m some evil witch.” She grinned, her eyes twinkling. “I prefer to do that myself.”
Mazik slumped forward, physically drained. “Can we stop with the questions now?” He grabbed his own cheek and shook it. “I’d rather fight a hundred cultists than endure this.”
The Tyrant rocked back in another bout of laughter, sending more paper sliding off the desk. Dnorn scrambled to catch everything. “I’m sure you would, you murderous lout!”
“That’s starting to hurt,” said Mazik.
“It’s true though,” said Raedren.
> “Please, have mercy,” said Mazik, holding up his hands. “I can’t take much more of this abuse.”
Gavi smiled and ruffled Mazik’s hair.
“Oh my,” said the Tyrant, bringing herself under control. “Thank you, I needed that. Stap, please bring out their gifts.”
“Gifts?” said Mazik.
“Yes, gifts,” said the Tyrant as Dnorn tapped the wall behind the desk in three different places and then danced his fingers across the blank panels like a drunken spider doing a jig. A drawer slid open. “I wanted to give you a little something extra for your services, especially considering how woefully underqualified you were to do any of the things you did.”
“Seriously, can’t take much more…” said Mazik.
The Tyrant snorted. “Come now. Didn’t you wonder why I wanted to see you personally?”
Gavi laughed nervously. “Yes, we did. We just imagined worse reasons.” She was feeling talkative now that the interrogation was over.
“Wise,” said the Tyrant. “Always expect the worst. You’ll either be pleasantly surprised, or right. Just don’t let it stop you from doing what needs to be done. Ah, here we go,” she said as Dnorn walked over holding a box. He opened it, and she peered inside.
“Leeeet’s … yes, let’s start with this one,” said the Tyrant, selecting something small and glittering. She slid off her desk and stood up. “All right, smartass, you first.”
Mazik walked over until he was standing in front of her.
“Come on, kneel down,” said the Tyrant. “Don’t make an old woman look up at you, you marginally attractive young man.”
Mazik kneeled. The Tyrant opened her hand and a necklace dropped in front of his face, swinging like a glittering pendulum on the end of its silver chain.
“Do you know what this is?” asked the Tyrant.
Mazik cupped the pendant in his hand. It consisted of a pale gem the color of blue topaz, cut into an oval and set in five claws of silver flame. Mazik peered into the gem. Inside were flecks of red, silver, and gold which danced in the soft light like a flame encased in ice. “I’d say it’s a necklace, but I don’t think that’s the answer you’re looking for.”
“Quite right, smartass,” said the Tyrant. “Lean forward.”
Mazik lowered his head. As the Tyrant fastened the necklace around his neck, she explained.
“I understand that most adventurers wear some kind of identification so their hideously mangled corpses can be identified when a quest inevitably goes horribly wrong. Do I have that right?”
“I’m not sure I like how you described it, but yes, something like that,” said Mazik.
“Well, I thought it would be just too sad for you to go around without one of your own, so I went ahead and made one for you,” said the Tyrant, “Even put your name on it already, see?”
Mazik squinted. “The words are pretty small. It’s kind of hard to read.”
The Tyrant smacked him upside the head. “Well then don’t die a horrible, bloody death! Now shush, and stop moving. My fingers aren’t as good as they used to be.” The Tyrant squinted as she fumbled with the tiny clasp. “Ah, there we go. You can rise now, boy.”
Once Mazik was standing, the Tyrant patted his chest where the pendant lay. “Let this be your symbol, Mas Mazik I. Kil’Raeus—five fingers of silver flame grasping a gem of clear, sky blue. I chose this because you’re the instigator, the mastermind, and the ringleader of this merry little band.” She shook her head. “Woe be it to these two for falling in with you.”
“Really? Even when you’re giving me a gift?” said Mazik. He craned his neck to look behind him. “Do I have a sign on my back or something…?”
The Tyrant flicked him on the hand. “What I’m trying to say is, you’re the one who started this little fire. Don’t get burned by it. Grab onto it with both hands and do as your friend said—the best you can, every single day.” She patted him on the chest again. “This is here to remind you of that.”
Mazik stared at the necklace, and then gently grasped it. “Grab the fire with both hands, eh?”
“Yes, I admit it’s not my most meaningful gift,” said the Tyrant. Mazik’s shoulders sagged. “Really I just liked the design. If all else fails, you can try to use it to buy your life when you’re inevitably captured by someone especially nasty. The gem is also a focus crystal, so that might be helpful.”
Mazik rolled the pendant around in his palm, considering. “Thank you, ser. I appreciate it.”
“The first bit of honesty from you today!” said the Tyrant, cackling. “Well, not quite, but the first time you’ve been earnest at least.” She patted him on the shoulder. “Good. Now back in line with you.
“Mas Raedren Ian’Moro, you’re next,” said the Tyrant as she pulled another necklace out of the box, this one made of gold. Raedren stepped forward and kneeled.
“This is for you, my dear healer,” said the Tyrant, letting the necklace hang where Raedren could see it. Compared to Mazik’s gift, it was very plain. It looked like a simple coin, just a plain golden disk with a hole in the center, almost entirely unmarked save for the flower petals etched around the edges. The disk spun, revealing Raedren’s name engraved around the hole on the back.
“This is a chakra, one of eight holy symbols from our neighbors in Serti,” said the Tyrant as she tied the necklace behind Raedren’s neck. “This one is supposed to signify life, or heart, or some other crap like that. I’m not really sure, though I’m told it’s terribly fitting.”
Raedren looked down at the necklace. He wasn’t sure which kind of terribly she meant.
“What I do know,” said the Tyrant, “is that it is very heavy. It’s made of a gold alloy designed for greater durability. The extra weight is a side effect. I’m told it’s like wearing a wall clock.”
“Not quite that bad, but close,” said Raedren as he rubbed where the chain was slightly digging into his neck. The Tyrant motioned for him to rise.
“This symbolizes the burdens you now bear,” said the Tyrant, placing a hand on his chest. “The burdens of a healer and a protector. The burdens of responsibility, of loyalty, and of trust. The burden of your teammate’s lives, your enemies’ lives, and the lives of those you don’t even know, and probably never will. The burden of saving some while allowing others to die, of difficult choices, and of the guilt you will feel over every death that didn’t need to happen, but did anyway—because you were not quick enough, not powerful enough, not wise enough. This weight symbolizes the burdens of a kind man, of caring about others even as death surrounds you.”
The Tyrant stepped back and leaned against her desk. “Heavy, isn’t it?”
Slowly at first, Raedren nodded.
“Then wear it every day,” said the Tyrant, “and be reminded that though your burdens will sometimes feel too great to bear, you can walk with them as you have before.”
Raedren bowed, solemnly but gratefully. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, boy,” said the Tyrant, shooing him away.
“Mis Sarissa Gavin Ven’Kalil, front and center.”
Gavi walked over and kneeled.
“No, no kneeling for you, love,” said the Tyrant. Gavi cocked her head as she rose. The Tyrant tapped Gavi between her collarbones, where her arrowhead pendant rested. “Seems to me you’ve already got a suitable symbol, so there’s no need for me to give you another one.”
“This?” said Gavi. “This is just something my parents gave me.”
“Just? Young lady, that’s a fantastic reason for it to be your symbol! Far better than getting it from some crazy old bat just because she can order you dragged off in the middle of the night and beaten to within an inch of your life for as many days as your continually and forcibly regenerated body can handle it,” said the Tyrant, with worrying specificity. “Just get your name engraved on it sometime and you’re set. And maybe get a stronger chain, just to be safe.”
The Tyrant turned to the major and captain. “
Now Ceara, if you would be so kind.”
“Of course,” said Major Rur, pushing off from the wall. She brought a sheathed sword out from behind her and handed it to the Tyrant.
“Thank you dear,” said the Tyrant. She turned back to Gavi. “Now, I understand you were using weapons his company,” she said, nodding at Mazik, “the … which one was it again?”
“The Association of Independent Weaponsmiths,” said Mazik.
“Ah, yes. Them,” said the Tyrant. “A pack of duplicitous criminals pedaling fourth-rate crap, if you ask me.”
“Hah! Agreed!” said Mazik.
“I’m sure you fit in well,” said the Tyrant. Mazik whimpered. The Tyrant smirked and turned her attention back to Gavi. “Hold out your hands.”
Gavi did so, and the Tyrant handed her the weapon.
“This, as I’m sure you’ve realized,” said the Tyrant, patting the sheath, “is a sword. Please draw it.”
Gavi grasped the hilt and tugged the weapon free. As with its scabbard, the blade was plain and unadorned. There were no intricate scripts, no sprawling flower petals, and no roaring lions worked into the metal. It did not gleam with wild magick, nor did it vibrate with a destiny as yet unfulfilled. It was just a hunk of steel with good rawhide around the grip and sharp edges on the blade, nothing more.
“I could have given you fancy ornamental weapon, as is customary, with gems worked into the guard, the pommel studded with pearls, and intricate, pretentious nonsense scrawled over every millimeter of the blade.” The Tyrant motioned to the sword. “As you can see, I did not.
“This is a working sword,” said the Tyrant. “It is not pretty and it is not fancy. It will win no beauty prizes, nor turn the eyes of any nobles with impeccable taste and too much free time with which to indulge it. What it will do is cut. It will cut very, very well. It might not be elegant, but it’s made from the best metal our blacksmiths could smelt, and probably quite a lot of their tears once they learned they couldn’t doll it up with fancy curlicues and whatnot. It’s durable, it’s lightweight, and it will hold an edge with minimal upkeep.”
Firesign 1 - Wage Slave Rebellion Page 36