“I know, Beron.”
“Okay.” He gives up. “I’ll give him a ring to let him know you want to see him. When do you think you’ll go?”
I get up from the sofa, careful not to crack my head on the ceiling.
“Okay,” he repeats, with a sigh, “okay.”
Screech. At the Academy nobody knew for sure exactly who he was or why he had that name. A kind of urban legend. Once I was in the Federal Guard I found out it was based on truth. Somewhere, amongst the levels precluded from the law, a Lich is nesting in the middle of a vast web of contacts. Although he himself has never been identified, now and again I and other colleagues stumble upon something which is linked to his organisation. As a non-dead creature, Screech is, himself, an outlaw. Nevertheless, he’s a very different type of gangster from ogres or humans.
In short, he’s a priest.
Ecatomb is, according to one of the few opinions shared by the masses, evil, like evil could be in the real world. Real evil. The history of its origins are still largely unknown, but if you want to believe what the necromancers themselves say about the subject, it all started before the apocalypse, when a coven of great wizards secretly founded the first Lich circle. They believed, just as their contemporary descendants reaffirm, that the afterworld vanished along with the Gods, despite the fact that they hide from the world whether it is based on simple philosophical reasoning or if they also have tangible proof. This, and only this world exists, therefore continuing to stay here is the only thing that really counts. Why or how far are meaningless questions. There are two sacraments in their religion, pact and consecration. When someone enters the cult, they sign a pact by means of one of the most powerful magic rituals known and, from that moment, the devotee knows that at the moment of death he will turn into a non-dead. Just like any pact with the devil there’s a catch: you know you’ll come back, but you don’t know what as. Only those who, during their life span, have achieved sufficient temporal power will enter the ranks of necromancers and receive consecration just after death. As a typology the non-dead are varied and strictly pyramidal, the subordinates permanently shackled to the will of the Lich who administered the pact. A similar wager on the shoulders of every devotee naturally transforms Ecatomb society into a nightmare. For instance, murder is viewed as straightforward pecuniary damage, less serious in fact than the potential crime of tax evasion if the murder is hidden from the state. It goes without saying that it is possible to declare a murder without incriminating oneself; it’s up to the injured party to demonstrate who the culprit is. As bizarre as they are, Ecatomb laws are followed to the letter, and the justice system is the best in the world. The Lichs are not directly involved in the economy or local government, those are battle grounds for the living. They are quite simply the state and the church, in a single package.
However, unlike the masses, I don’t think Ecatomb is evil because of cruelty of blasphemy. I’m not religious, but I don’t have pre-conceived ideas. Maybe some strange god does exist, who for some strange reason does not reveal himself, but the Lichs could be right. Of course, they claim that the abyss, where I occasionally cast an eye, is merely the avant-garde of nothing, and the spectres who live there are simply the dying echo of the tuning-fork of existence, frankly speaking I find this hard to believe. The thing is, rather than be a slave for ever I’d prefer to disappear completely and end it all. Do they really want to try and make us believe that they aren’t the same ones who decide who boards their boat and who stays on their knees? I refuse to place my eternity in the hands of a corpse. And that’s final. And then, come on: an eternity with a dried-up dick? It’s worse than nothing even when things are going well.
Once they become a Lich, the lucky deceased has to do one thing only: exist forever. What’s even odder is that destroying a Lich is the most serious crime in the Eburn Code, but only if it’s committed by a peer. A living being who destroys a Lich immediately earns himself his place and all the non-dead shackled to his will. Yet nothing stops a Lich from indirectly helping a living being in this endeavour, or to explicitly get him to eliminate a rival. So, even after the consecration, the only guarantee of survival is the power they manage to hold on to in their wizened hands. What’s more, I suspect that if there really was an ‘after’, once you become a non-dead, they wouldn’t accept you anymore, so you have no choice but to linger.
Dasson’s house is, in fact, an enviable villa with its own garden sheltered by the southern edge, on the Sixteenth. Perhaps, from up here during the clearest hours of daylight you could even see the sea. The City can also be a nice place to live, if you can afford to experience it in the right way. The dose I snort before belting my raincoat and ringing the doorbell is just enough to keep me on my feet, so I double it. It’s definitely colder on the upper levels, this gives the affluent residents an excellent excuse to flaunt their fur coats all year round. A female voice welcomes me when I identify myself on the entryphone, under the indifferent gaze of a security camera. The front garden is a simple lawn, cut short, with a few trees and a long table under the protective cover of a gazebo. Obviously an area devoted to outdoor parties, it looks as though it could easily accommodate thirty or so guests at once. At the doorway of this two-story house, a pleasant-looking maid is waiting for me, she forces herself to smile despite the fact that she is visibly suffering due to the harsh nights high up. Inside, the house is just as luxurious as that belonging to the mummies the day before. Probably, at a rough guess the old bag’s furniture was more valuable than the pieces here, but these furnishings, with their modern design and the airy spaces, create a feeling of vibrant energy, much more appealing than the oppressive weight of period wood, crystal and antique crusts.
Dasson greets me in shorts and a shirt in his games room, heated to sauna conditions, where a weapon is hanging in the vitreous stasis of paused, imprisoned within a wall-mounted screen of heroic proportions. Maybe erotic, for its owner. Pandaesque bags under his eyes, he sticks his hand out.
“It’s a real pleasure to meet you,” he says in a perky tone, but with thinly-veiled fatigue, while I shake it. “I heard a lot about you during my first years at the Academy, and Master Tubgorne holds you in very high regard.”
“Beron is very fond of me, he always overdoes it…”
“Don’t be so modest! Can we dispense with formalities, Mr Arkham?”
“Of course.”
“Praise the Lords, I hate social formalities. Especially between old schoolmates. Let’s sit down and have a drink, then we can chat a little.”
Dasson moves the pad off the leather sofa and starts rolling himself a cigarette, holding the filter between his lips. Judging by the look in his eyes, I bet that when there isn’t a cop in the house he spices up the tobacco with a personal specialty of dubious legal status.
“What game is it?” I like video games even if I never have the time to play them.
“Black Hurricane II. The one based on the Mot Cyncal books, you know?”
“I know the name.”
“It’s a blast! You can be an eburn soldier, and choose between dead or alive.”
Yep, the Archmagus is just the type who spends his days partying and playing video games. Dasson looks a lot younger than his actual age, which is obvious if you think about it. He could easily pass for a nerd at a relative’s wedding without the mad t-shirts with the demented, incomprehensible writing on them. If I explored the house I’m pretty sure I’d come across cartoon character cuddly toys and stuff.
“Beron said you wanted to ask me about something important, but he didn’t go into detail. Ah, would you like something to drink? Or are you on duty?”
“No, I’ll pass, thanks. Our mutual friend made me try a disgusting drink that’s given me a headache.”
“How is he? Haven’t seen him for months, the last time was when I took my computer to him to uberise it a bit. I was surprised when he called me just now.”
“Uberise?”
“Yea
h, you know… um… strengthen it, using runes.” His cigarette flares by means of a simple spell, which Dasson executes mechanically, like any other smoker would do with a lighter. It’s an impressive trick, I should learn it, someday. Very theatrical.
“We were in the same dorm, you know?”
“I think I’ve seen you around.”
That’s not true, of course.
“We were all rooting for you. You, the human, were as good as the elves at willpower magic. It was an absolute disgrace they kicked you out. Bastard elves…”
I wish they’d all stop reminiscing about the good old times at the Academy. I spend quite enough time as it is brooding about the past, and I don’t need any help, but it looks as though the world has made a tacit agreement to interfere. Alchemy is the best school for humans par excellence, and a mere mortal doesn’t make the headlines. Every economic sector has a need for alchemists, whether it be designing preservatives for jellied chicken or acids for heavy industry, other races don’t seem to be able to keep up with the speed of humans’ adaptation to sudden changes within the market. In the runic engraving field, despite the fact that dwarves always excel, there are also lots of very skilled humans. In contrast, willpower is basically the domain of the elves. The entry examinations and scholarships are always formally open to everyone, but the asses cheat by gauging them on the knowledge accumulated by their own kin over the course of almost fifty years of mental preparation. Since this doesn’t stop particularly gifted students getting through, the teachers compensate by blocking them in every conceivable way. The two elf students who were caught with me while we were trying to resuscitate the corpse were suspended for a year (a trifle for someone who doesn’t have to die), while I got my scholarship revoked without much discussion.
“Creating a zombie in the sixth year…”
“Right.”
My tone of regret is unmistakable. Maybe I relaxed because I can detect sincere admiration in Dasson’s voice.
“I’m sorry, that just slipped out.”
“Never mind. Listen, I need to get in touch with someone. Beron said you might be able to help me.”
“Uh-uh.” He breathes in, nodding. “Who would that be?”
“ Screech.”
“Oh. Seriously?”
I nod.
“I think that would be tricky. You’re a federal agent, while he’s, well…”
His gaze falls briefly on the crystallised video game, which blocked in the precise moment Dasson was getting ready to spray a group with bullets.
“Yes, but I’m not interested in him. I don’t intend to arrest him or anything, I just want to talk to him. Does he trust you? How well do you know him?”
“I’ve never actually met him, every now and then we chat online,” he confesses hesitantly, maybe wondering if he’s confessing to a crime. As if I cared.
“Ah, so you’re not sure actually it’s him—“
“No, no, it’s definitely him, no question. We don’t talk about video games, and… well, you know, you can’t pretend to know certain things.”
“You could avoid telling him I’m a guard.”
“No offence, but I don’t want any trouble with Screech. All I can do is tell him what’s going on and then he can decide for himself.”
“Okay, I’m in.”
“Wait here, I’ll go and see if I can catch him online. Play the game if you want, I’ve just saved it anyway.”
The alchemist goes out of the games room and leaves the young housekeeper to make sure I’m comfortable. In the end I get her to bring me a cup of coffee and I try to continue the game that was suspended, but, ignoring the buttons, I keep jumping for no reason and shooting everywhere, the eburns slaughter me easily. It’s a good thing he’s just saved the game. I start a new campaign from scratch, which includes a brief explanation of the controls. Dasson comes back just when I’m starting to get the hang of it.
“No can do.”
“What do you mean?”
A virtual mercenary takes advantage of my momentary distraction to stab me noisily. Game over. I place the remote on the floor and stand up to face the pessimistic archmagus.
“Categorically, no. I’m sorry.”
“That ‘I’m sorry’ sounds a lot like ‘I don’t want to’.”
“In fact I don’t want to!”
“Can you explain that?”
I think I sound a tad more aggressive than I’d like to, judging by the brief flash of panic in Dasson’s eyes. He runs his hand through his hair and his tongue over his lips.
“ Screech wants me to come with you, so we can finally meet in person.”
“So?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it! I don’t want to get into trouble with a Lich! No offence, but no way.”
Obviously things have gone so smoothly so far that another irrational snag is the least I can expect. He’s fretting like a recalcitrant child, listing all the excellent reasons why he should live and stay away from any form of trouble. I listen to him with a hand over my mouth, though I’m not really concentrating on what he’s saying. I’m actually trying not to breathe while I think about how I can persuade him and avoid satisfying my instinct and shout insults at him. I can’t just push my gun in as far as the gut with this one. This technique works well with cockroaches, but not so well with those who have money to take you to court. I’m not even on duty anyway.
“Come on, Dasson. I just want to talk. And you’re an archmagus, not some random loser. You’re not exactly defenceless.”
“Are you kidding me?! I’m an alchemist, an alchemist!” He jabs his own chest for emphasis. “A chemist with magic! I don’t create fireballs, I don’t become invisible, and I don’t evoke elementals… I design pharmaceutical products, Father!”
“I’m an officer of the Guard, Dasson. What, do you think I want to get myself killed, like that, for no reason? With everything that would come afterwards? My colleagues know I have to talk to him,” false, but credible and reassuring, “and then, if I wanted to get myself killed, why would I drag you into it?”
It’s a sound argument, he thinks about it and appears to calm down.
“Anyway, you don’t fool me.” I put a brotherly hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure you’ve got some miraculous bottles of something or other stashed in the fridge. Don’t you try and tell me you’ve never made anything, not even just for the hell of it.”
“Yes… there is something…”
“See? We almost certainly won’t need it, but, if it makes you feel better… don’t forget that I’ll be there too, and I won’t be alone.”
It’s time to show him how well-endowed I am. He jumps when the Altra appears right before his nose, then he looks at me in disbelief, finally he looks at her, in admiration. He strokes her delicately as though a stronger touch would shatter her.
“Incredible…” he murmurs, a dozen runes, perfectly balanced. “Is this the work of Master Tubgorne?
“Nobody else could equal it.”
“Pure genius… and this? I don’t even know what those three are…” He points at the barrel. I let him stroke it once more, tracing a longitudinal engraving with his finger, then I put it away with measured slowness, smiling a determined smile. There’s nothing quite like magic when you’re trying to convince a wizard.
“I don’t know…” He’s still against it, but he seems more tempted than reluctant now.
“You kind of owe me, Dasson.”
“How so?”
“If you know Screech well, that means you’ve had dealings with necromancy, too. And I suspect more than me. The difference is that I’ve paid. I get shot at for two thousand crowns a month, instead of living in my villa on the Sixteenth. Come on, help me out here. I’m just trying to do my job.”
This is actually the truth, as unbelievable as it sounds. Maybe it’s thanks to this accidental sincerity of my words which makes Dasson finally give in, nodding gravely.
“Great, you’re a star,” slap on
the back, beaming smile, “you’ll see, it’ll be a brief, harmless adventure, For once,” I indicate the giant screen on the wall, “it’ll be away from TV.”
“I’ll find us a couple of shots.”
The rendezvous with Screech’s lackeys is in a loading area near one of the ramps on the Ninth, the place is so deserted that it is tempted to make a break for it itself. Here I am, tonight as well—this morning —no sleep for me. Although, ironically, I feel more rested now since this whole business started. In order to “feel better”, before leaving, Dasson threw the contents of a dozen strange coloured vials into a blender, and swigged the whole lot in one go. If the City collapsed on top of him, he’d probably step out of the rubble brushing dust off his clothes. When he realised that I’d dropped off while he was mixing his battle cocktail, the archmagus insisted on giving me a double dose of one of his inventions. I’d never tried a rejuvenating potion before, seeing as the prices of six-month ones are sky-high. The cost of making a rejuvenating potion increases exponentially with the increase in the regenerated age: just for the hell of it, some of Dasson’s colleagues calculated that if the whole of the world’s GDP was invested, no more than a thirty-year potion could be produced. Using one hundred and thirty-two—he explains—of those invented by my companion here, doesn’t produce quite the same effect, but it’s close enough and the price is affordable to the privileged classes intent on investing in longevity.
The effect is rather unexpected. Taking just six months off your age is a heady feeling. According to Dasson, who is desperately longwinded when he’s put under pressure, people have no idea how much the daily grind weakens the body, as the damage is spread over time and diluted. But when the fatigue from half a year is magically lifted from your shoulders, one second later, you feel like roaring. The wound above my eye vanishes into thin air. My new friend definitely talks too much but he’s certainly generous.
A stray dog lazily follows an olfactory trail along the wall. Me and Dasson watch him with no particular interest, it returns the favour and does the same. Eventually, a white van comes to a stop in the clearing, at a moderate speed. The brakes screech slightly when it stops and three brawny men emerge from behind the sliding door on the side of the van, leaving the fourth one to sit smoking at the wheel. They’re all as pale as death, with machine guns slung over their shoulders and the chilling eyes of serial killers.
Lieutenant Arkham: Elves and Bullets Page 14