Stupid trees.
I picked twigs out of my hair and spat out a stray leaf, and then went back inside the kitchen, where Isha slid something out of a frying pan and onto a plate, which he then thrust in front of me.
“Here. Try this, please-would-you.”
I took the yellow patty over to the tall work table and hoisted myself up, helping myself to a fork. The patty turned out to a fried egg creation, filled with bacon and sautéed vegetables.
“Well?” he growled.
“It’s amazing.” I mumbled around a mouthful of omelet. It really was. Isha, however, still simmered.
“No!” he finally cried, throwing his long arms in the air. “It is incomplete! Bah, paleo food indeed! Where is the cheese? Paleo things all went extinct!”
I stared at this non-sequitur, wondering if he was going to snatch the omelet back. I took a large bite, just in case, but Isha whirled back to the counter, grabbed a hunk of baguette from the shelf, and sawed it expertly in half with a bread knife. Another furious flurry of activity decapitated a jam jar and slathered its contents on the flayed baguette, which was then added to my plate with a somewhat defiant air.
“There!” he said, triumphantly. “Now that is a breakfast.”
I happily hoarded my meal, stuffing my face with crusty bread and boysenberry jam and savory bacon omelet, while Isha turned back to his pie crusts, muttering about paleontology not being a culinary art, and how if it was so good for you all the dinosaurs wouldn’t be dead, which was probably because they never managed to domesticate cattle anyway.
I left him to his rant, washed up, and took the remains of my package wrapping downstairs, pausing only long enough to grab the lantern.
“Shaziri!” I commanded, and light filled the basement. In my room I put away the wrapping paper, but kept the string. I then inventoried my gear. Above me, I heard a new set of footsteps enter the restaurant, by the front door for a change.
One ratty but serviceable backpack, check. One length of rope, in the backpack. One leather pouch which no longer contained healing powders but did contain a length of package string, check. I fastened the pouch to my new leather belt and arranged it under my makeshift sash, then readjusted my daggers under my sleeves. I practiced drawing them a few times.
“Hiya!” I cried at the empty air, flourishing my weapons, until I was sure I could do so without slicing up my arms.
Right.
I paused while hanging the lantern back up on its hook at the top of the stairs. A strange voice came in from the dining room. I closed and locked the cellar, tiptoed over to the swinging kitchen door, and peeked through the crack.
Ishàmae, dressed in a neat suit and his tallest chef’s hat, stood talking to a stocky, middle aged human.
“… of course, we can’t process your claim until we get this lawsuit settled.”
“Lawsuit!” replied Isha indignantly. “This is why I have insurance, do I not? According to my policy, I am only liable for poisoning and willful acts of malice. The law clearly states, ever since the case of The Guild of Chandlers vs The Triport Collage of Magecraft and Technomancy, that neither business owners nor mana-less private citizens are liable for acts of gods or demons.”
“Hmm, yes, and which one was this, did you say?” The man glanced up at the scorch marks on the walls.
“I am sure,” Isha sniffed, somewhat evasively, “that is for the good clerks of Cerulea Life and Casualty to determine. In the meantime, I must repair my premises so I may reopen for business.”
“I understand, really, I do! You have been a good customer for almost seven years now, and I’m sure it will be an open-and-shut case, just as soon as we can open and shut it. It’s just that the office has been in total chaos with this shipwreck. You would not believe how many people are claiming loss of goods or life or relatives on the Impending Turtle. Why, if we were to believe half of them, the true wonder is that the poor ship floated at all.”
“And what, exactly, does the CLC expect me to do in the meantime?”
The clerk referenced a clipboard and made a few marks on it. “Why don’t you get a loan from one of the banks? You’re hardly new in town, and I’m sure you could get some references if you needed them. Then you can pay off the loan once we’ve settled your claim. It shouldn’t take more than a few weeks.”
Isha looked strangely uncomfortable at this suggestion. “The banks will hardly loan me anything while there is an ongoing lawsuit against La Baliene. Really, this is unreasonable. You must resolve this quickly!”
The clerk waved his pencil, acknowledgingly. “Alright, I’m working on it. Now, can you go over these damages with me, one more time…?”
I tiptoed back out the kitchen, feeling guilty about the burned up dining room.
“Yeah, but I don’t want Isha to lose his restaurant! How can he not have any money, running a fancy place like this?”
I made my way through the pinkly overcast dawn to Miners’ Square, between the Market District and the Docks. The main City Watch station was here, and uniformed guards came and went from a large, imposing stone building. The day shift was easily differentiated from the night shift by the crispness of their uniforms, and both sets stopped to talk or gossip or pass along advice. Off on the east side of the square, a cheerful barista served steaming mugs of coffee and tea from a hastily improvised stall.
On Ramsey’s advice, I was here to see Hellena, who might point me in the direction of more work for a knife wielding halfling. The entrance to the watch station, though, was gated and guarded, and it didn’t look like anyone not in a uniform was getting in without an escort, and maybe a warrant for their arrest. I looked around at the busy guards, but, remembering my last encounter with them, wasn’t so sure about asking one anything. Finally I approached the barista.
“Umm, hello.” I told the woman. Girl. Woman, I finally decided, though she couldn’t have been older than her late teens.
“Hi!” she replied, leaning over the plank that served as a counter. “What can I get you? And do you need a mug?”
“Actually,” I said, looking over the bewildering and unpronounceable menu, “I’m looking for someone named Hellena.”
“Oh! Hel’s right over there.” She nodded to a stout, middle aged human leaning up against one of the stone walls. “It should be safe to approach now, she’s had one cup already.”
“Is she ever not safe?”
The barista shrugged. “Oh no, of course not, Hel’s very nice. Except, you know, when someone does something stupid. Like causes trouble before she’s had at least one cup of coffee. Although,” she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “she’s only had one, so far. If you really wanted to get on her good side, I know how she takes her second cup.”
This sounded reasonable to me. I pulled out some coins and bought a large cup of black coffee with just a small swirl of cream on top, and went over to the leaning woman. Her freshly laundered uniform indicated she was one of the day watch. She opened her eyes as I approached, and I offered up the hot mug. Hel looked momentarily surprised, then pleased, then over
at the barista, who waved.
Hel chuckled, accepting the mug. “The girl could sell shoes to a snake, I swear.”
“Err, did you not want the coffee?”
Hels’ hand curled possessively around the earthenware mug, though she set her old one down on the ledge next to her. “Nothing wrong with a cup of dragon’s blood.” She took a long swallow. “Ahh, that’s all right. Now,” her attention turned back towards me. “I’m Hellena, though I think you already knew that. What brings you to Miners’ Square at this time of the day?”
“My name is Samiel. I’m looking for work. I heard you occasionally hire adventurers.” I didn’t mention Ramsey, by his request.
“Hmm. Sometimes.” She took another sip, noncommittally. “You have any special skills?”
“I’m quick with a knife. And, uh, I brought my own weapons!” I wasn’t sure I ought to mention the incident with the centipede over in the Stacks, given how the boarox bus had turned out.
She gave me an appraising look, and I tried to look competent and tough. She took another sip of coffee.
“Well now. There’s a bounty out on goblins, at the moment. One gold per tail, and you can sell the skins for another few silver over on Tannery Street, if they’re in good condition. It’s dirty work, though, mucking about in the sewers. Maybe better for a halfling, since the humans all have to crawl too much. You ever done bounty work before?”
“No.”
“Ok, it works like this. Anything you find in the sewers is officially classified as lost property and you can keep it, but don’t do damage to the infrastructure or you’re in serious trouble with the city artificers. Goblins are nasty little shits and usually travel in packs, so watch out. To collect the bounty, you need at least a eight inches of fresh tail, including the tip, and a gold is very good pay, by the way. We usually don’t offer so much. In fact, we haven’t had to offer bounties on goblins at all recently.”
“So what’s changed?”
Hel sighed. “It’s this new legislation Senator Brightmoore is ramming through the council. I’m all for equal rights and such, but it’s stretching things to call goblins citizens. The little monsters have been in the sewers since forever, just like most cities, you can’t keep them out. Kind of like cockroaches. Used to be, we had a sort of working arrangement with them, if you can call it that. They live down there, collect anything what gets washed down the drain, and sometimes trade it to anyone who will buy it back. Most of them don’t really understand money, you know, but they can trade things. They stay out of the city proper, and if they get caught stealing stuff, they’re dead.”
Hel paused here, and took a long swallow. “Every now and then, the goblin population would get out of hand, and we’d lead teams down into the sewers to smash up all their eggs. They didn’t like it, of course, but what are you going to do? It’s not like they had a plan to feed themselves once the eggs hatched. It’s not pleasant work, but the goblins were scared of us, and we didn’t have many problems with them.”
Another swallow.
“Then, Senator Brightmoore finds out what’s going on and gets a bee in her bonnet about it. Says goblins have rights, same as people, and if they break any laws they should get a trial, same as people. All of which sounds great, if you’ve never met a goblin. They don’t understand about trails. Or laws. Or anything other than taking things when they can and running away when they can’t. I mean, there’s a reason goblins aren’t employable, and it ain’t because Triport doesn’t want for a workforce. Anyway, all that went into effect earlier this summer, and sure enough, soon we have a few goblins in jail for thieving. They get slapped with a fine, which of course they don’t pay, and back into the sewers they go. But now they’ve told all their little goblin buddies about how you don’t get killed anymore when you steal stuff, and the thefts skyrocket. Trinkets gone missing, and food, and now pets. Just a month ago we caught some of them setting fire to one of the ships in the harbor. So they got a trial, as per the new law, and then they got hanged, just like anyone else would have. Only the other goblins, they really didn’t like this. Dying in a direct confrontation, they understood. But by the time the trial was over, they didn’t remember what it was about, and they got real resentful of the hangings.”
Hel paused to stir her coffee, and I leaned against the wall, listening.
“We didn’t get to do an egg hunt this spring, so there’s a lot more goblins than usual, and they’ve started blocking up some of the storm sewer lines. The artificers guild is up in arms about this. They have to go in and do an evaluation before the monsoons get here, but it’s not safe, and if they don’t get the repairs done in time, half of Triport will flood or wash away. I’ve seen mudslides before. They’re no joke, and neither are the plagues that follow your water system all going to hell.”
I thought about the flash floods that came through the desert, the way they would come in and rewrite thousand year old canyons in a day. I thought about the much wetter climate of Triport, and wondered if there was as much rain as there was people, and what happened when you stacked too much of both on top of each other.
“If you’re willing,” Hel continued, “I’ve got a basic map of some of the sections of the drains they think are in trouble. If you’d scout it out for us, I could scrounge up some kind of reward for a completed map. And if any goblins attack you on the way, remember what I said about the bounties. No one here,” her gaze included all of the city watch, “is going to mind if you put the fear of the three gods of Triport into their vile little heads. The sooner we can get our repair teams down there, the better.”
I nodded. “I just found Triport. I don’t want it destroyed. How to I get to the sewers?”
[Quest Accepted: Save the Storm Drains]
Hel pulled a folder out of her bag and handed me a badly printed, crude map of some tunnels. “The Xs mark surface entrances into the drains. The squiggly bits are the septic pipes, so be careful, and let us know if there are any leaks. It’s vitally important those be kept separate from the wells, and we really don’t want it washing into the harbor with the drain off, either. Come find me when you’re done. I’ll have your money waiting.”
I took the paper and tried to make heads or tails of it as I walked away. I didn’t know the topical neighborhoods of Triport very well, and apparently neither did the mapmaker, but I finally got lucky as I recognized one of the drain entrances as the mysteriously disappearing river I had seen on my very first day in Triport. I may not know the whole city, but I have an excellent memory for any place I’ve been before, and it was no trouble to find my way back up the cobbled road, which the map called Waterfall Way, and to the rushing, dark sinkhole.
I perched on the edge, watching the river (which I now knew was just a stream) trickle away into the darkness.
That was a good point. After a minute’s walk, I found the lumber lady again.
“Hello.” I greeted her. “Did you sell all of your wood? I hope you didn’t have to sleep on it.”
She gave me a blank look for a minute, then smiled as she recognized me. “Newbie! You’re looking better. Come back for a quarterstaff? I do have some left, as it happens. I’ll even give you a deal!”
“Actually, I wanted something shorter. Something that burns well, for a torch.”
“You want a torch specifically or just firewood?”
“Umm, what’s the difference?”
“If you just want firewood, I have some nice pine here that’ll get you started, and a yule log that’ll burn all night once you get it going. But if you want something to carry around, you need more than just a stick. A piece of kindling isn’t a candle.”
“Oh. Do you have something like that?”
“Nope. I only do raw materials.” She took pity at my disappointment, thought. “I do sell staves to old man Recker, though, and he makes torches. You can find him at ho
me this time of day, up the street three lots, and on your right.”
I fingered my dwindling coins in my pocket. “Are you still selling quarterstaves?”
A few minutes haggling got me a smooth but unsealed ash quarterstaff for three copper, about as tall as I was. Old man Recker also proved to be easy to find, and was willing to sell me two torches for three copper apiece, cut down to my size and wrapped at one end in a smelly combination of wax and oil and cotton rags.
Back up at the sinkhole, I took one of my torches, laid it on the ground, and then pulled the piece of flint from the bottom of my backpack. A couple of strikes with one of my daggers finally produced enough sparks to catch on the cotton and wax, and the head of the torch lit up in a merry blue cocoon of flame, crowned at the top in leaping yellow. I held it over the sinkhole and looked down.
The water splashed on worked stone about ten or twelve feet below me. The surface looked washed free of most debris, excepting a goose egg sized river rock that looked like a real legbreaker. The sides of the sinkhole were slick with moss and water splashes. I considered the problem of climbing down with a torch in one hand a quarterstaff sticking out of my backpack, and had a premonition of scratching away at the slimy walls while gravity had its way with me.
Do not scurry. Instead, I stepped out into the air above the hole and bent my knees slightly as I fell. The torch guttered as the damp air rushed past, but I had practice with the Talarian Sandals, and landed on my toes, knees bent, neatly avoiding the waterfall and the river rock both.
[Jump check: Success]
Ahead of me, a tubular tunnel led away under the road. I stood up and followed it into the darkness, carrying the light with me.
Chapter Seven
As my eyes adjusted, I began to notice the tunnel was not shrouded in absolute blackness. Luminescent moss grew between the cracks of the finished stone, punctuated by clumps of glowing mushrooms.
A Fist Full of Sand: A Book of Cerulea (Sam's Song 1) Page 14