"My homeland likes to pretend it's better than anywhere else on Golarion. The truth is it's full of human beings, so it's bound to disappoint. Still, I might suggest we contact Almas for advice." He raised his mug. "That was a very helpful idea, thank you."
"Oh, I'm not done helping. I think this is important. For this, I'll interrupt my work for the thaumacycle competition."
He stared at her. "You've entered too?"
"You must be joking! We're opponents?" She laughed and swigged. "May the best bard win."
"You must tell me your plans."
"You really are a spy, aren't you? It's an opera called Death in Cassomir. It's about the existential bitterness of life, and it has catchy tunes. It's going to have blood, doomed lovers, monsters, and lots of song and dance."
"Aha! The song you performed today was part of it."
She nodded eagerly. "Cassomir's Locker can stand in for all the mysterious spaces beneath normal consciousness, where memory and nightmare dwell."
"Have you been to the real Cassomir's Locker?" Everyone who'd lived in Cassomir for long had heard about the warren of old basements, vaults, sewers, and tunnels underlying the shipyard. There were rumors of weird creatures far below the known levels, but even Gideon didn't believe them.
"I have! Nicolaus and I went down there with a group of wandering bravos. They're crazy, Gideon. They dream of getting rich by robbing ruins, but I swear they spend more time arguing about their plans and shopping for gear. But it was exciting. All we found was a few really big rats and a skeleton with a few coins in its pouch. But it was quite fun. I'd do it again."
"And you're basing your opera on your real experiences?"
"Sweet Desna, no! That would be dull. No, my Cassomir's Locker has ninety-nine levels of catacombs of ever-increasing doom. A phantasmagoria of tunnels leading all the way to Galt. Temples of forgotten gods, tombs of forgotten kings, and concert halls of forgotten composers. You haven't lived until you've encountered my five-thousand-year-old vampire composer."
"Still composing, I assume, not decomposing?"
"That's her motto. So how about your entry?"
"Well. Dreams on the Sellen's a more bucolic sort of opera. We meet three vagabonds on the run from Galt's guillotines. They have to flee a crusading Gray Gardener, fight river-monsters, wander misty byways. They'll encounter imaginary towns, each one skewering an aspect of human nature. I think they'll have to face a bug-monster..." Gideon's voice seemed to slow of its own accord, as though something over-large and shadowy were looming just behind. "And a...ship of ghosts."
"Gideon. You look pale."
Gideon looked over his shoulder, but all he saw was the agitated bunch of inebriates at the neighboring table, arguing about some issue involving druids. There seemed to be many more of them now. He turned to Corvine. "It's just...It's sometimes as if my artistic mind is off in a separate chamber from my other mind, some musty attic where it cackles and composes. Hopefully not decomposes. And the rest of me doesn't compare notes sometimes..."
"The story elements. They're similar to what you've been encountering. And what you remember from Bellis."
"Yes." He rubbed his temples. "Corvine, I feel I'm going crazy...as if this fog's calling to me. Connected to me." He paused. "I'd prefer you not speak of this to others. My superiors might object to using a mad spy."
"I swear I won't, although I don't think you're mad. Then again, a connection to the fog and insanity are not necessarily mutually exclusive."
"Thank you. That's highly comforting."
"I'm not a very comforting woman, I'll admit. But I'm an honest one."
"Do you prefer honest men?"
"Are they honest to me?"
"Honestly, I can't lie to those eyes."
"Ah! Now you really are looking into them. Well done. Gideon, you're once again joking your way out of a serious conversation...Gideon, are you listening?"
"Wait..."
More of the conversation from the noisy table behind them had crept into Gideon's ears. He remembered something the Master of Charm and Disguise had told his students:
The most equitable aspect of the world is that each day is as long for us as for anyone else. As such, we can babble only so much. If a local gab is saying one thing, that means he has foregone saying something else.
Some of Gideon's training had consisted of sitting in the Scar Chamber, listening as a group of volunteers talked their way through scripts, forcing Gideon to listen and pluck out meaningful patterns in the chatter. It was difficult work. The human animal, he'd come to realize, wants to talk as well as listen, and with all the frogs croaking it was hard for the frog called Gideon to stay silent as a log.
But he'd learned.
haven't found ship work in weeks harbor's slowing down
world's gone downhill
kids don't show you respect no more
telling you it's the druids
them gnomes and halflings too
tree-lovers telling honest Taldans where to go
hey now the Shipwright's a gnome he's a good man
he's not a man
been around a long time just like that druid Zaganos
bet they conspire together
laughing at us short-lived folk
Savaric said so I think
you gonna listen to him
I dunno
come hear what Savaric has to say
you're not afraid of a few words are you
"Something's wrong," Gideon murmured to Corvine, leaning in. "You hear it?"
"The table behind you? I was trying to ignore them."
"More than one table, now. Hate has a weather to it. A wind speed. This feels like the air before a storm."
"You may be right. But it's not our problem."
"I think it may be. I felt the same atmosphere before. In Bellis. Will you trust me?"
Corvine nodded.
Gideon turned in his chair and pulled a Taldan accent over his voice like a mask. "Hey! Couldn't help but listen in. You've got yourself some good points there. Where's this Savaric going to be?"
He earned some squints, but also some raised mugs. "By Quickfall Abbey, on the hour," a shipworker said. "Savaric fears no storm. Or ghosts."
"Neither do I! See you there." Gideon turned to Corvine and murmured, "Let's chat a bit, then proceed to the Abbey. I have a notion..."
"The fog?"
"I have to see."
As they left the tavern, Gideon sensed gazes upon him, so he imitated being sloshed, and Corvine obliged him by pretending to hold him up. The contact was quite pleasant, and he was pleased as they continued arm in arm on their way from Old Cassomir back toward Abbey Green.
"I'll stay next to you," Corvine said, "if you'll stop lurching."
"Sorry."
"No worries. But don't get too many ideas."
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"Mm. So what's the plan?"
"So, this anti-forest, anti-druid talk's got me suspicious."
"There's always some anti-druid talk. We're so dependent on the Wildwood Treaty for timber, it makes people uneasy. And the druids are a little disconcerting. Have you ever heard Brother Zaganos speak?"
"I used to see him around." Everyone in Cassomir knew of the druids' representative, and where he lived. "But never close up."
"The man's mind might as well be on the planet Akiton. I understand there's a need for nature priests. But it's like the druids commune with the wilderness so much they forget they're human—"
"Or elves, or gnomes—"
"You know what I mean."
"Sure. So Cassomir's uneasy about the guardians of the Verduran Forest. Even angry about being so dependent on the druids for lumber. That's a perfect hunting ground for our mind-twisting fog."
"You want to catch it in the act."
"This Savaric person might be connected. A human link. And there's something else: it seems to me significant that the attack this afternoon was near the
moat around Cassomir. The moat connects to the Sellen. And the ruins of Quickfall Abbey are near both the moat and the bay."
"You think the fog attacks from water?"
Rain hit Gideon's cheek. "I do. Every instance I know of is beside water, or at least in a maritime district. I don't know why, but the pattern fits. I know Cassomir, and most people shun those ruins. If someone wants to hold a rally they use the marketplaces—or Pharasma's Pulpit."
Corvine laughed, and the patter of fresh rain on the streets added percussion to that music. "Because an execution site's more charming than a ruin."
"Well, that's a matter of taste. But the Pulpit's intended for crowds...uh oh."
"I see it too. Lots of people headed for the Abbey."
Someone had set up a pair of torches beside a crumbling tower, and between them stood the man who must be Savaric, with a small crowd already in front of him. Mostly the assembly was male, but there were women and children, too, and the air of an angry festival. It did indeed feel like the atmosphere of a public hanging. Gideon and Corvine positioned themselves away from the bulk of the crowd, with a collapsed wall beside them. The terrain was small comfort, but they now had an easy escape toward the shipyard district, and Riposte.
Brother Zaganos's home also lay that way. Gideon feared he might know the ultimate destination of the mob.
"I know this man," Corvine said. "I've seen him here and there, but couldn't place the face with the name. He often speaks against the druids."
"Is he popular?"
"I'd always considered him a village idiot. I'm surprised so many people are here."
"I'm surprised he'd have a gathering like this in daylight. Are there no city guards?"
"Look again. A few of them are in the crowd."
Savaric began. "My friends! It warms my heart to see so many of you here. The hour's late—in so many ways. The empire's faltering. Common decency's collapsed. Work's harder to find. But there's one part of Taldor that's doing better than ever, and that's the Verduran Forest! Up at the Isle of Arenway, and in the woodland town of Wispil, they grow fat from the Wildwood Treaty."
There was an increasing tempo of boos and bellows from the crowd. Savaric held up a hand.
"Don't misunderstand me! I don't mean all forest-dwellers are against us. No! I've lived among them. I have friends in Wispil. And even they say the druids of the Wildwood Lodge have overreached. Power breeds arrogance. Their values are not our values. Compare them with the dwarves, who've long lived with true Taldan culture and are an integral part of it. Think of the Grand Bridge of Oppara, a gift to Taldor from their ancestors, freely given. Now compare dwarven generosity with the frugality of the druids! A skimpy selection of trees, given only grudgingly. Here we are, the men and women of Cassomir, struggling to build the ships that safeguard all of Taldor. We work long, bruising hours. Do we ask to become rich? No! Do we ask to be treated as nobles? No! We ask only for the right to do our work, and defend our homeland. The same homeland of which the druids are a part. And do they thank us for our work?"
"No!" cried many in the crowd.
"No," agreed Savaric. "And do they show us respect?"
"No!"
"Indeed. They sneer. And they mock." Savaric gave a bitter laugh.
"Do you see it?" Corvine hissed in Gideon's ear. "At the people's feet?"
"I see it."
It was hard to see through the increasingly heavy rainfall. But just as at Corvine's performance, he noticed tendrils of fog moving among the crowd. They did not rise to insinuate themselves into every pair of ears, but perhaps one of out ten listeners were thus embraced.
Gideon looked carefully at his own feet, and Corvine's, but saw only grass and mud.
Savaric continued. "We ask, we beg for more wood, even as the enemies of Taldor grow stronger every year. And still, when we cry out for more trees, what do the druids say?"
"No!"
"That's right. And when we beg for the right to work, without anything more than a little pay, and a little thanks, what do they tell us?"
"No!"
"Even so. And when we plead to them, telling them that Taldor itself is menaced by tyranny and diabolism, still, what do they say?"
"No!"
"No. That's right. So when they tell us that they should enjoy our hospitality, drink our finest wine, enjoy the best Taldor has to offer, all while laughing at us behind their precious treaty, what should we, the honest men and women of Cassomir—what should we say?"
"No!"
"Send them back!"
"Burn the treaty!"
"Burn the forest!"
Savaric raised his hands. "No, no, my friends. These aren't the things we should burn. But the house of the haughty druid ambassador who chuckles at our sorrow, as he has done for generations, living his high life and smirking at the little people of Cassomir...I say it's time we pay him a visit. Who's with me?"
"We are!"
"Burn out the druid!"
"Savaric! Savaric!"
"I'm thinking," Corvine said to Gideon, "that warning Brother Zaganos would be a public service."
"I concur."
They ran like jackrabbits through the rain. For just a moment Gideon thought he'd glimpsed vapor on the ground they'd just left. It was probably his fevered imagination, but it made him move a little faster.
Chapter Eight
Hellfire Jig
Gideon had never visited the home of Brother Zaganos, but everyone in Cassomir knew it, for it stood in a prominent spot, with the heart of the shipyards on its west side, a bizarre garden on the north, the city moat on the east, and an ancient canal on the south, its waters leading deep into the murk of Blackwood Swamp.
Gideon and Corvine approached through the garden, a strange assemblage of plants from across Golarion, many of them inappropriate to the climate but growing just as vitally as on the palm-shaded island of Jalmeray or the cactus-strewn desert of Katapesh.
"Ouch," said Corvine.
"Almost there."
Zaganos's home itself was a simple log cabin. It would have looked ordinary on a frontier, like Viridia's Whistling Plains, save perhaps that its logs were all the result of natural falls, assembled over many years, or so it was said. But while unassuming, the rustic cabin's presence here in urban Cassomir was almost a provocation.
Panting, they reached the porch and knocked upon the wooden door. An endless time seemed to pass. The rain redoubled its force, and it was hard to see beyond the garden.
The door creaked open.
A bearded old man in a threadbare gray robe peered from the shadows.
"Brother Zaganos, I'm Corvine Gale. Maybe you remember me?"
The old man said nothing.
"This is my friend Gideon Gull."
The old man looked at Gideon as though contemplating an ant.
"You're in great danger, sir." Gideon glanced over his shoulder and saw, at a great distance, torches through the storm. He wondered how they all stayed lit.
Still Zaganos said nothing. He opened his door and stood aside. It seemed the only thing to do was go in.
The interior was at first glance as plain as the exterior, but as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Gideon realized it was as full of objects as Corvine's apartment. Yet instead of instruments, books, and pillows, by firelight he beheld a mastodon horn, a mass of branching orange coral, a gnarled and petrified log, and a smooth slab of stone with the imprint of some long-dead, nightmarish creature.
Brother Zaganos sat upon the petrified log, the orange coral framing his head like fiery lightning. He remained silent.
"Brother Zaganos," Corvine said, "a mob is coming to burn down your home."
Zaganos smiled as one who was trying, not particularly hard, to disguise his disinterest. "You seem most concerned."
"You seem most unconcerned," Gideon said.
"I am a branch."
"What?"
Zaganos shrugged. "They are leaves. They do not see the branch that hold
s them."
"Beg pardon?" said Corvine.
Zaganos meshed the fingers of his hands. "Branches may jostle. Some might crack. You may wish to leave."
"I feel," Gideon said, "that you are not treating this matter seriously—"
"Do you wish to treat with them?"
"Are you asking us to?" Corvine said.
Without another word, Brother Zaganos turned fully toward the fire, sat cross-legged, and studied the weaving flames and shining embers. There was a strong sensation of having been not so much dismissed as abandoned.
In wordless concord, Gideon and Corvine stepped out onto the porch. They could hear the cries of anger from the north, and see the line of torches approaching like obsessive fireflies.
"I do wonder how they're managing to keep those torches lit," Corvine mused.
"I wonder how by Erastil's grace anyone ever negotiated the Wildwood Treaty with these druids."
Corvine laughed. "The worst of it is that Zaganos is said to be the most cosmopolitan and human of them all."
"So, what are we going to do?"
"We're not running, I suppose."
"You can run," he said.
"Only if you run."
The mob grew nearer. They could hear snarls and catcalls.
"See," Gideon said, "this is what drives me mad about you. You most likely have a strong opinion. But you're forcing me to guess."
"You're thinking too hard about this. There's no hidden opinion. I simply realize you have more insight about this situation, and so I defer. Believe you me, there are many things on which I will never defer."
"I think we should stay."
"That's good, since we've just been surrounded."
"Surrender Zaganos to us!" came somebody's voice, though Gideon couldn't see the speaker amid all the florid torchlit faces in the downpour. Nor could he see the tendrils of the fog, but he was certain they'd followed the mob.
Gideon found himself grimly amused at the idea that they had ownership of Zaganos in the first place. "Who says?"
"We all say!" boomed Savaric. "None speaks louder than any other," he added, speaking louder than any other.
"If we give him up," said Corvine, "what then?"
"Then we drag him to Pharasma's Pulpit, and demand he surrender more wood to Cassomir's shipyards. Or else we string him up!"
The Dagger of Trust Page 14