“Dumbass!” Blaze sang out cheerfully. “You got caught? Did they take them away? How many pots did you lose? I told you not to carry—”
“Severant,” Keen spat out, overriding and interrupted him, “has assigned me a guardian angel while he launches an investigation to root out a conspiracy of these unknown persons who ripped me off on my last Auction House purchase, of which I knew nothing. Do you understand?”
“Oh shit, you’ve got stuck with an angel? There goes my Saturday night!”
“Yeah, and the rest of our raid nights, too.” chimed in Robyn. “Seriously Keen, how did you let that happen?”
“I assume the investigation will begin with my lab, of which some very damning screenshots were allegedly taken.”
“Oh shit.” This time Blaze did not sound amused.
“Of course,” Keen went on, dryly, “I will be helping the authorities with their investigation however I can. I will leave you to your raiding, and tune back in when this is all over.” With that Keen reached up and turned off the sirenstone in his ear.
“How in the hell,” broke in Tasha as soon as he was gone, “did a DEV get ahold of screenshots from Keen’s lab?”
“I don’t know, but they cannot get access to that machine! If they found Keen’s stock of mana-pots, they’ll find ours!”
“We’re going to have to destroy our potions.” Robyn said seriously.
“NO way, uh-uh, do you know how hard it was to dupe all these? I’d rather set my entire bank account on fire!”
“Yes, I know exactly how hard it was, I was there, remember?”
“Screw the pots, what about our items? Cat’s Claw isn’t even released on live servers yet!”
“Guys! Calm down! Look, Keen’s not stupid, he’ll ride this out, but we have to get to his lab and get rid of the machine. Severant has been after the Bladesmen for years, and he’s not going to waste an opportunity to trace everything back to us and take down the whole guild. So we treat this just like another raid, and get there first.”
“If we get caught with that equipment, we’re never going to talk our way out of this.”
“Which is why WE’RE not going to touch a thing. I’ve got, ahh, some friends in low places who will do it for us... Tasha, go hide that sword of yours, then meet me in the guild hall.”
“Sure thing, Robyn. On my way.”
I thought of Ramsey’s promise to Garret, and wondered if the crazy old priest would make my body dissolve if he didn’t keep his bargain. “Ramsey,” I said into the sirenstone, “How fast can you wrap up this trial? Because I’ve got somewhere to be right now.”
[Quest accepted: Race for the Cure]
“You bet I can.” He turned back to our side of the courtroom as Severant enforced quiet on the angry stands. “I only have one further question for the defense.” he announced. “Samiel?”
“Yes?” I wondered what this was about.
“Will you go out with me?”
“I—” I glared at him, angry, but the damage had already been done. A few of the spectators chuckled, several others disapproved, and the entire assembled prosecution was now aware that he could be used as leverage against me. Is that really what I’m scared of? “Objection!”
This produced a smattering of laughter from the courtroom. The door behind the spectators opened, and one of the sober functionaries come in, whispering something to the guard.
“It’s a simple enough question.” He smirked at me, well aware of the fact that he’d just blown any cover I would have wanted to keep on us. Behind his smirk, though was something very vulnerable and scared, bravely, barely, daring to hope.
“And one not relevant to this trial.” Severant banged his gong once again. “Settle this line of questioning and be done with it.”
“That’s him!” cried the functionary, pointing at Ramsey. “I checked his letter of introduction; he doesn’t work for Gamin and Company! He doesn’t work for anyone!”
Heads swiveled back to Ramsey.
“Bailiff, arrest that man!”
“Oops!” Ramsey conceded. “So much for that plan.” He looked at me one last time, but didn’t run.
Don’t screw this up twice. I thought. “Fine! I’ll go out with you!” I told him. “So long as you don’t get arrested!”
Ramsey punched his fist in the air and whooped like he’d just been elected King of the World. Then he kissed his hand, blew it to me in a flourish, and bolted for the door behind Severant. “Hey,” scolded the judge. “You can’t go there!” But it was already too late, and he was gone. The door guard and the bailiff disappeared in pursuit.
Severant had on his Mightily Annoyed look, and banged his gong again, rather harder than was necessary. “Order in the courtroom!” he growled at everyone. “I hereby declare this fiasco a mistrial. Lady Lynamane, your current status denies you the right to bring accusations against anyone in the vicinity of Triport.” She looked extremely displeased with this. “Divine Ishàmae, you are cleared of your current accusations.... however,” Severant glanced over at the angry ship-owners, “for your own good, and for lack of anything better to do with you, I am forced to order you into protective imprisonment in the city jail.”
Lynamane brightened up. I wondered how many assassins could be bought amongst the criminals in the city jail.
“Your honor,” Isha stood up to his full height and addressed the judge directly for the first time. “I have another alternative.” Lynamane’s gaze was guarded. Her plans are all falling apart. “I wish to plead the Benefit of the Clergy.”
“The what?” Sarah muttered, next to me.
Severant looked slightly perplexed. “The Benefit of the Clergy has not been enacted in Triport in more than a century. The secular courts have taken over all aspects of judicial matters. In fact, I do not know that an ecclesiastical court even exists in this city anymore.”
Isha took a deep breath. “Not in Triport, your honor. Cannon law still holds sway in the country of Southwind, and I hold that these crimes of which I am accused are of greater relevance to the Church of Hazel than to the city of Triport. And,” he intoned, with a pointed glance at Lynamane’s increasing scowl, “by the divine right invested in me by the Goddess Hazel herself, I hereby demand a trial by jury of my equally divine peers.”
“What? After he sunk one of our grainships?” yelled out Galinda Herrowforge. “Hang the bastard!” She was promptly escorted out of the courtroom, but her friends looked like they shared much the same sentiment.
Severant looked over at them, then back at Isha, thoughtfully. “Traditionally,” he said, speculatively, “to plead the privilegium clericale, one is asked to demonstrate the ability to channel divine magic with a turning.”
“Gladly, your honor.” Isha glared over at the prosecution in general and Keenfang in particular.
“No!” cried Keen. “Or if so, I petition to be allowed to leave first.”
Severant didn’t look like he wanted to let Keen out of his sight, guardian angel or no. I could see him thinking of not having to preside over this trial next time, after everyone had had time to prepare and the whole thing had gone political. The judge then looked over at Keen, now back to glowering in silence, and the dev’s eyes narrowed at his real target.
“Very well then. Ishàmae of House Silverthorne, you are hereby ordered to deport on the next ship leaving for the continent of Southwind, assuming one can be found at this time of year, there to be placed under the authority of the Church of Hazel.” Severant banged his gong one final time. “I declare this trial over.”
Chapter Thirteen
I found Ramsey via the sirenstone, having evaded pursuit and now hanging out in the back rows of the Auction House, where his suit blended in perfectly with the classier citizens looking to spend their wealth. I fully intended to ream him out over his stunt in the courtroom, but his ear-to-ear grin was so
genuine the protest never made it out of my mouth. Instead he jumped up and grabbed my hands.
“Sam! Haha, we did it! Keen’s stuck with an angel and you’re free to go! Is Isha ok? Did they throw out the trial? Where do you want to go dancing? You meant it, right? You haven’t changed your mind? You—”
“Isha’s fine, for now. They deported him but I think he has a plan. But Ramsey, I can’t go dancing right now. They’re after Keen’s lab!”
“Well, that’s inconvenient, but maybe not terrible. Think we can get on Hel’s retrieval team?”
“No, not just the City Guard, the Black Bladesmen. They’re going to destroy the machine, and I’ve got to get there first! Do you still have the map on the illusi-frame?”
He did, and we pulled it up. “How long do you think we have?”
“I don’t know. The raid channel has gone really cryptic with whatever they’re plotting, and it’s not like I can chime in and ask for directions.” We peered at the meandering route, which I committed to memory.
“There might be some passages here,” Ramsey waved to a big blank area on our diagram, “which would give us an edge if we had the city engineer’s maps. And I happen to know where the Harbormaster keeps them. He’s going to be busy with this incoming storm, we could break into his office and steal them.”
“’We’? No, you’re in enough trouble for one day!”
“Hey, ‘trouble’ is my middle name, and we’re seeing this through together. Anyway, I’m not letting you run off when you owe me a dance!”
“This ends somewhere down in the undercity, where I’ve already died once! It’s dangerous.”
“Yeah, well, if it’s dangerous, you could use a friend. And if it’s not, you have no argument. Do I need to prove again how it’s not your job to avoid me for my own good?”
“You’re impossible!” I tried to sound stern and angry, but by the look on his face I came out exasperated.
“Also,” he pointed out, cheerful in victory, “I have the potion we need to replicate, and the location of our maps.”
“Fine.” I conceded, reluctantly. “But if I say ‘trap’ you’d better do as I say and not step in it!” I took a deep breath. “We’re racing the Black Bladesmen here; if we stand a chance of success, we’d better get on the move. Do you have anything you need to get ready?”
“Er.” He looked down at his suit. “The lives of a hundred people depend on this?”
“Yes.”
“Then, no. Let’s go now.”
We went. I tried to tell myself everything was going to be fine.
It was pouring rain by the time we made it down to the harbor. Sheets of wind pushed the water ahead of it with impatient, rushing sounds, sweeping the cobbles and battering the stone walls of the buildings. Carved gargoyles spat jets of runoff into overflowing gutters, and the streets were as close to deserted as I had ever seen them.
This last was to our advantage, anyway, as we made it to the Port Authority Tower in the old lighthouse without encountering anyone who wanted to arrest us. I waited outside, reorganizing the backpack of five overpriced Cure Serious Wounds Potions I had insisted on buying as we left the Auction house. Ramsey wafted in the front doors; self-important and impatient in his soaking wet suit and sent the secretary on a wild goose chase for some imaginary docking permits for a non-existent ship. Ramsey then motioned me inside and grabbed a handful of papers off the secretary’s desk.
“What are those for?” I asked.
“These? Oh, they’re... um...” Ramsey shuffled through the papers. “They look like a proposal to retrofit some of the piers in the older section of the harbor to handle heavier cargo. Or maybe magical cargo. Huh. Pretty ambitious.”
“And we need them because?”
“Because nothing says ‘I have a totally legitimate reason to be here’ than a handful of documents that need signing!”
“They say nothing of the sort!” I exclaimed, astonished at his audacity. “What if someone actually reads them?”
“Then we’ll run away while they do.”
Conceding that I was out of my element, I let Ramsey lead on. No one stopped us, though once we stopped someone and asked directions to the archive. Ramsey’s rolled up papers working like some kind of magic wand of helpfulness. I need to learn this trick.
“We have Cure Potions.” I muttered.
“What?”
“Oh, uh, I was just hoping these potions we have are going to be enough.” It seems like only five problems per adventure is optimistic. At least the standardized shapes of the bottles nestled together neatly in my cheap backpack, and made carrying them easier. Huh, I wonder if THAT’S why the Bladesmen like to dupe the sparq potions, just so they can haul them around easier...
We continued on through our current hallway and up a set of spiral stairs, looking for something called Bunker Hall.
“Or maybe ‘The ‘Ol Bunker’.” Ramsey mused, squinting at a hand scribbled note. “I can’t read this well. Because of course they can’t just call it ‘The Hall of Records’ or ‘Library of Maps’ like any normal organization. Noooo, the Port Authority has to be all historical and keep the names from when this place was a lighthouse...”
“There it is.” I pointed at a small set of double doors set into the back of an alcove.
[Perception check: Success]
The Coal Bunker, now that we had finally found it, turned out to be locked. Voice cursed the sky seven shades of blue at the delay, while I stared at the shiny brass keyplate in dismay; such a simple thing, and yet such an impenetrable obstacle. I don’t even know how to begin guessing where the key is.
Ramsey just grinned, reached inside the lapels of his fancy suit, and took out the little roll of leather that I had once imbued with Light.
“You have the key in there?” I asked, skeptical.
“Even better. I have all the keys in here.”
“Huh?” I said, and Ramsey unrolled the leather to reveal rows upon rows of shiny sticks of metal, cleverly bent into careful shapes.
My eyes widened with envy at the sight of some sharp chisels and hammers, and the multifaceted wrench that would have been so very helpful in disarming goblin traps and stuck doorways. Ramsey kept unrolling the leather, revealing a telescoping probe, a crowbar, tiny vials of glue, grease, and solvent, and a host of other useful items, until it reached a length that would never fold up into the neat package that fit in his pockets. Extradimensional space. Just like Hel’s bag.
I watched in fascination while Ramsey peered inside the lock, selected a couple of slender tools, and carefu
lly inserted them into the keyhole. “The trick,” he told me, while fiddling the tools around by their handles, “is to use the picks to try and create the shape of the key inside the lock, thus fooling the mechanics into opening.” There was a hopeful click from the lock and I caught my breath, but Ramsey scowled and reset the picks to try again. “Of course,” he continued, still carefully maneuvering, “it takes a really steady hand, and I’m not as good at this as I could be...”
There was another failed click, and Ramsey scowled again as he withdrew the lockpicks and shook out his hands, stretching his fingers and cracking his knuckles.
“I have pretty steady hands.” I observed, almost breathless with wonder. This too, is a kind of magic.
“Sure.” Ramsey replied to my unspoken question. “Have a go. This is a barrel key mortice lock with two or three wards, so what you’re doing is using this pick here to bypass the tumblers, and then this heavier one here to try and spring the latch. Once you do, you can use the first pick to slide the bolt back...” Ramsey illustrated his explanation with a quick sketch on the floor, using a piece of chalk from one of his pockets which had somehow managed to escape the soaking. “It’s dwarven made at least, not gnomish, so there shouldn’t be anything really weird inside.” I memorized the diagram intently, creating a mental model of the inside of the lock as he spoke, then carefully took his lockpicks and put my model to the test.
Counting the tumblers proved trickier than I expected, and yet without them in proper alignment, I couldn’t get at the spring loaded latch. “Are you sure there’s only three tumblers?” I asked.
“I thought there was only two, but maybe there’s three. The third one’s small if it’s there.”
“So what’s the fourth thing?”
“What fourth thing?”
“Isn’t that a tumbler?”
“Are you sure it’s not the latch? If it gives, but not really, it’s the latch, unless it’s stuck...”
For A Few Minutes More Page 21