by S. G. Night
Rachel quirked her eyebrow. What?
“But I do have some unconventional girls here who could tend to you…” the madam continued thoughtfully. “For a slightly higher fee, I could have them escort you to—”
Rachel waved her hands in negation, a flush of sudden understanding burning on her neck. “No, no! Not that kind of friend! I’m looking for a man.”
The madam frowned. “Oh…I apologize, m’lady, but the Gilded Lily has no male workers in its employ. You understand, of course?”
It was a testament to Rachel’s willpower that she resisted the urge to hit herself in the face. “No, no, no, I’m looking for a friend of mine. A friend of a friend, actually. A patron of yours, I think.”
“Ohh…” the madam said again, a little put off. “I see. A regular here?”
Rachel nodded. “That’s what I heard from the other houses.” She’d learned from her first few awkward attempts at other establishments that, in Dírorth, you do not call them brothels. You call them houses or nothing at all.
“A girlfriend of mine has been hounding me to deliver a message to him, but he’s never home. His name’s Hammon. Spends a lot of his time in Redborough. I’ve been asking around and, from what I hear, he favors the Lily.”
The madam nodded in recognition. “Ahh, yes, the loud gentlemen with the peculiar hat. He’s here every Antag night. Always arrives at eight-o’-clock sharp. Always orders the Year-34 vintage and the house soup. Not quite as consistent about the girls he takes, though. He’ll buy any of ‘em — or all of ‘em, even. Just showing off his coin, if you ask me. From what my girl Ruth tells me, it’s probably ‘cause he’s compensating for something. A little lacking in the—”
“Thank you,” Rachel interjected forcefully. “I’ll just…stop you there. That’s all I needed, I’ll come back on Antag to see him.”
The madam looked slightly put out at Rachel’s interruption, as if she couldn’t fathom why Rachel wouldn’t want to hear about the phallic endowment of wealthy, fat men. “I could deliver it for you, if you would like to leave the message with me.”
“No, that’s fine,” Rachel improvised, taking a few steps toward the door. “I really should give it to him myself. Personal stuff, you know.”
“Indeed.” The madam gave her another businesslike assessment with those invasive eyes. “That tunic really compliments your figure, you know.”
Caught off her guard, Rachel fumbled. The flush was burning up from her neck and scorching her ears now. “Um…I…uh….”
“You are very finely shaped, m’lady, if you don’t mind me saying,” the madam noted, like she were commenting on a horse she was thinking of buying. “Nice hair, good teeth, easy on the eyes. Clear skin, curvy, not too tall…breasts a little on the small side, but with the right corset….” She gave Rachel an imperious look. “Have you ever considered housework? I could use a face like yours around here. The pay is good here — the girls get a quarter cut, and free room ‘n board. If you’re looking for work…”
Rachel bolted out the door, slamming the Gilded Lily shut behind her. As she erupted into the street, she ran straight into the chest of a man who was about to enter the brothel. She tried to brush past him, but he caught her by the arm. She flared, struggled, and she was about to open her Stinger between the man’s legs when his voice stopped her.
“Rachel.”
Looking up, she saw a white-skinned, yellow-haired face with a pair of catlike eyes the color of lightning. Rachel sighed in relief.
“Have you learned anything?” asked the illusion-wrapped Notak, gently releasing her arm.
Rachel cleared her throat loudly, trying to get some fragment of her composure back. “Uh, yes, actually, I did. You?”
Notak arched a curious eyebrow at her. “Yes. Are you alright, Rachel? You seem flustered.”
She felt her flush deep and she shouldered past the Elf. “You were right about the tunic,” she grumbled. “From now on, I’m wearing a fauling dress. A very ugly, loose-fitting dress.”
——
The Scorpions did not speak of what they had learned until they were safely in the Manji Tor with the door bolted shut. Therein, Notak spread his new map of Dírorth out on the kitchen table for Rachel’s inspection.
“Very nice,” she commented. “Drew this in all your spare time?”
“I found a Genshwin informant in Patrician’s Market. A cartographer. He gave it to me, along with everything he had on Hammon.”
“Huh,” Rachel said. “Convenient. I wish my day had been so easy. Whatcha got?”
Notak proceeded to explain the pattern that he had worked out with Enoch, showing Rachel the different routes and establishments that Hammon would favor on the different days of the week.
“There is a problem, though,” he concluded. “While we know the routes he takes and the places he frequents, we do not know which day goes with which schedule. I was hoping that the routes would all have a common intersection, but no such luck.”
“And that’s what you have me for,” Rachel said. She pointing to one of the buildings Enoch had highlighted. “This here is the Gilded Lily, the brothel you found me at. He goes there every Antag evening at eight.”
Notak nodded slowly. “Today is Povtag. That leaves us tomorrow and the morning of the after to prepare before Antag evening.”
“And tomorrow’s Simtag, so the Humans will be at the shrines all day,” Rachel agreed. “Clear streets until midday. So, I’ll hit Hammon on his way to the Lily on Antag night while you infiltrate the warehouse and get the manifests. Tomorrow I’ll scout out the route and find a nice, private spot.”
Notak affirmed. “Sounds like a plan. Good work. I suppose we have earned the rest of the evening off.”
“Agreed,” Rachel sighed emphatically. She went to the common room adjacent to the kitchen and sank into a chair, kicking off her boots. “God, that feels amazing. My feet are killing me.”
Notak followed her into the common room. He went to the small bookshelf on the wall and gave the titles a thoughtful look over. “I believe,” he said pensively, like he was talking to himself. “That I will spend the evening indulging myself with the works of my beloved Simiel.” He pulled down a book whose spine read Dracustata.
“Of course you will,” Rachel muttered, leaning her head back and shutting her eyes.
Taking a seat next to her, Notak cracked the volume open to the first page. “And what is your plan to do with this rare and wondrous free time?” he asked dryly.
Rachel breathed a single chuckle. “Sleep,” she huffed. “Think.”
“I shall read quietly, then.”
“Thank you.”
They were silent for a second. The whispers of the candlelight were the only sounds, and the light outside the window began to fade to night. After a moment, Rachel opened her eyes back up and looked down at her chest, lips pursed.
“Do I really have small breasts?”
Notak seemed to freeze solid in his chair. Stiffly, he turned his piercing blue eyes onto Rachel, his face intensely blank. “I do not how to answer that.”
She frowned at him. “Yeah, you probably aren’t the best person to ask…” she said, almost to herself.
“Indeed,” Notak said dubiously. “Do I even want to know what prompted such a question?”
Rachel shrugged and put her head back again. “No, not really.”
“I shall not ask, then.”
She smirked to herself and closed her eyes once more. Notak returned to his reading.
Despite what you might think, they were comfortable there — the sleeping she-Majiski and the Elf with his book. It was completely normal to them. Rachel and Notak had a strange relationship. I won’t lie and say that I’ve ever understood it — I still don’t.
***
SIX
Den of Wolves
Racath landed in the subterranean corridor beneath Oblakgrad, the daylight above vanishing as the trapdoor snapped shut. The torches greet
ed him, old friends bracketed to the marble walls of Velik Tor’s antechamber. He carefully around the brittle bones of the skeleton named Fool, and proceeded down the corridor toward the massive brass and iron gate, brushing back his hood. He ran his fingers across the smooth columns as he walked.
At the gate, Racath removed a brass sphere from his belt and inserted it into the complex machinery in the heart of the gate.
A mechanical boom reverberated down the hallway, like the pounding of a welcoming drum. A deep, ghostly voice that seemed to come from everywhere at once spoke:
Thy name….
Racath popped his knuckles, smiling to himself. “Racath Thanjel.”
The Lock of Names retracted with a chorus of clicking and grinding. The voice came again.
Thy allegiance….
“The Genshwin,” Racath answered.
The Lock of Allegiance opened in reply before the Curator’s voice came a third time.
Thy lineage….
“Majiski.”
The Lock of Heritage drew back slowly. Racath waited for the fourth question, the riddle. He and the Curator had spent long hours talking in the past, passing time with puzzles that had grown increasingly more difficult. It had become a game to them, and had inspired many of the answers to the Lock of Riddles. Racath always enjoyed it; it was something to look forward to when coming home.
The riddle was spoken. I am not without you, you are not without me. Devoid of any value, if either dies in infamy. What be I…?
Racath suddenly remembered his encounter with Nelle, the girl with golden hair. She’d told him about this, that night in the mountains. The more he thought about it, the more the answer she’d provided seemed to fit.
“My shadow.”
With a booming thud, the Lock of Riddles released. Gears groaning like a long morning stretch, the great doors churned open, revealing the passageway beyond. Racath frowned; how could Nelle have possibly known the answer to the riddle…? Unless she really was…whatever it was she had claimed to be.
“I would have accepted the name Tarek, as well,” said the Curator as he coalesced out of thin air. The old ghost’s face rippled with pale energies as he made a graceful smile. “Welcome home, Master Thanjel.”
Racath’s brow furrowed as he remembered more of what Nelle had said. “How do you know about that?”
The Curator looked at him innocently. “Know about what?”
“What I named my shadow.”
The Curator shrugged, his smile sly. “There is not much on this plane that is unknown to me, Master Thanjel. If you really listen, nothing is hidden. It’s a good name, though. Tarek. It is your middle name, if I recall correctly. You share it with a Majiski who lived many years ago. A great man, to say the least. Do you know what it means?”
Perplexed, Racath shrugged. “No, not really.”
“Oh, come now,” the Curator prompted. “We both know that of all the Genshwin, you are the one who could be called a linguist. I am sure that you could speak the language of God fluently if you had the resources to educate yourself. Do you not have a guess?”
Racath thought a moment. “It’s Rotenic….”
“Yes…?”
“A verb, I think…” Racath hedged. “Maybe…to wake up? No…to stand?”
“Close enough,” the Curator said, nodding like a school teacher. “Literally, yes, to stand. But more than that, too. At its heart, the word means to remain standing, to stand tall and unmoving.”
Racath mirrored the Curator’s smile. “Good to know. I think you’ve asked me that riddle before once.”
“Indeed, I did,” the ghost said. “Several years ago. You didn’t know the answer back then. Tell me, how did you figure it out this time?”
“Just a good guess,” Racath muttered, shrugging.
“You don’t lie well, Master Thanjel,” the Curator said impishly. “You should work on that. Someone told you the answer, yes?”
Racath didn’t acknowledge the question directly. Instead, he thought for a moment, debating the value of asking his own question. Certainly, he reasoned. Who better to ask?
“Curator…” he said slowly. “Is it possible for someone to know the future?”
“Ahhh…” the Curator said knowingly, tapping his ethereal nose. He looked astoundingly like a friendly uncle, even with his flaming hair. “You’ve met the Lady Aritas, I see. She would be the one to give you the answer. To answer your question, yes, it’s possible. Very possible. All of God’s ancient augurs had that ability. I would postulate that some of the Demons might as well. But, if you want the answer to the real question you’re asking: yes, Nelle Aritas is an augur.”
Racath looked up, curiosity piqued. “She knows you, too?”
“Well, not exactly,” the Curator said thoughtfully. “I know her, but I do not believe she knows me. Like I said, not much on this plane is hidden from me. Father Gospodar has sent me to watch over her before, special as she is to Him.”
“Wait,” Racath interjected. “Gospodar? You know the—”
“Oh my,” the specter teased. “I fear I’ve said too much. For now, Master Thanjel, all you need to know is that you should heed what the Lady Aritas told you. But I would keep it to yourself for now. Mrak would not take kindly to knowing that the Scorpions are working behind his back.”
“You know about these Scorpions, too?!” Racath asked incredulously. “But—”
“Do not trouble yourself over it,” the Curator advised. He turned away and began to melt away into nothingness. “Just let your choices carry you, Master Thanjel. You will bring yourself to knowledge eventually.” Then he was gone.
Racath sighed, frowning at the vacant space where the Curator had stood. “Wonderful,” he muttered to himself, reluctantly starting down the tunnel beyond the gate. “God in heaven, will this week ever end?”
——
After reaching Velik Tor’s plaza, Racath entered the thin crowd of Genshwin who drifted about between the kitchens and the offshoot tunnels. Some of the more familiar Majiski waved to him and he nodded in reply. Others, mostly the younger acolytes, gave him a wide birth; being a Talon came with an aura of respect. And fear.
The smell of sizzling grease wafted from the kitchens and found his nose. He wanted nothing more than to take some time off his feet, eat, and relax for a while. But, unfortunately, reporting to Mrak came first.
He headed for the Patriarch’s tower, his gait less than enthusiastic. Halfway there, he bumped into another Majiski. Before Racath could apologize, the other Genshwin’s familiar face broke into a grin.
“Racath! You’re back!”
Racath smiled in recognition. “Hello, Toren.” In unison, they held up the first to fingers of their left hands to their shoulders.
I should probably explain this. Majiski don’t shake hands. Touching markara is a rather personal form of contact, and since the markara apexes at the palm, clasping hands is especially intimate, even with gauntlets on. It’d be like hugging someone bare-chested. The gesture that Racath and Toren made — index- and middle-fingers of the left hand held up across your chest — is the rough equivalent of a handshake. It’s called “crossing”, or “crossing fingers”.
Five years Racath’s senior, Toren Valgance looked as he always did: light brown hair neatly kept on his head, bright blue eyes glistening, a sincere smile adorning his handsome face. He wore his full Shadow with the hood down, a claymore’s massive hilt protruding from over his shoulder.
“You just getting back from Litoras, then?” Toren asked.
Racath nodded. “I’m on my way to see the old man now.”
“I just got through talking to him,” Toren said, jerking his thumb in the general direction of Mrak’s tower. “I got back from Heen this morning. Nothing big, really, just a hit-and-run job. Ever since Mrak made you a Talon, I’ve been getting all the easy assignments!” He socked Racath’s shoulder playfully.
“Lucky you,” Racath chuckled. “What’s his m
ood like today? Should I be worried?”
The other Talon’s expression darkened. “Actually, you should probably go take a piss before you see him. Otherwise, you might wet yourself. He’s seething right now. Worse, apparently you’re what’s gotten him all riled up.”
Racath shoulders slumped. “Great. What did I do now?”
“Not really sure,” Toren shrugged. “He was muttering something about a place called…Vall? Vale? Something like that. I think he might have grumbled a little about a fire, too. And a Demon, I think.”
Racath groaned. “God dammit…how does he find out about these things so fast…”
Toren’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t do anything…did you?”
Racath glanced away from Toren. He didn’t answer.
“Racath!” Toren hissed, aghast. “Are you crazy?! Mrak’s gonna tear you apart! You know how important discretion is to the Genshwin, especially since Jared went missing.”
“Come on, Toren,” Racath argued. “That was months ago.”
“Regardless, we can’t afford a security breach now. And you go around doing…whatever it is you did, and—”
“Don’t lecture me, Toren,” Racath interrupted, pinching his eyes shut. “I’m going to get enough flak from the old man. Please?”
Toren frowned and shook his head disapprovingly, but relented. “Fine. Get moving then. I wish you luck, kid. I’m in desperate need of a bath and a nap, so I’ll catch you later. But, on the off chance that Mrak kills you, can I have your room?”
“Funny,” Racath said dryly. “Go on, I’ll see you later.”
Toren brushed past him and vanished into one of the tunnels that branched off the subterranean plaza.
Grumbling, Racath went to the door at the tower’s base. Entering, he climbed the spiraling staircase within and pushed open the door to the library without knocking. The stacks of old books welcomed him with their familiar warmth and smell. But before he could really stop to take it in, a brittle voice came from the loft that sat above the library.
“Come here, Racath.”