The Compass Stone: The Collected Journals of Eando Kline

by James L Sutter (ed) (epub)

  As I neared the exit, I caught a glimpse of movement through a cracked door that I'd walked heedlessly past in the excitement. Flinging it open with my hand on my sword, I found myself confronted with a child. Eyes wide, the toddler couldn't have been more than two or three. On his flesh, corpulent with baby fat, sat two small leeches. He looked up at me in concern, then back to the sniveling mass of Neshiel. Both bore the same sparse brown mop of hair.

  I pushed past him and out the door. Gav greeted me with enthusiasm. "What happened?" he asked, trying to look around me into the shop. "Did you get it?"

  I felt sick.

  "Let's go," I said.

  Back at the Sorry Excuse, I sat at a splintered table and twirled Dakar's gem lightly over my fingers, making it appear and disappear. Even while dormant, the stone still sent faint vibrations down my arm, as if the limb were reawakening after falling asleep. Three empty pints and a hyperactive Gav kept me company, the latter still high from our second exchange with a real-life crime boss.

  "...and that's how I would have taken him if you got in trouble," he finished, finally pausing for breath. "So where to next?"

  I stopped flipping the tiny green crystal and replaced it inside my shirt, where it rested by my wayfinder in a pouch next to my chest.

  "Well, out of this accursed city, for starters," I replied. "Hopefully before this whole thing comes back to bite me. Then find someone headed back to Korvosa and post some letters, maybe even stop in there myself."

  "Sounds great," he said, flashing me that winning smile. "When do we leave?"

  I stopped short and looked down into his open, trusting face. This kid had nothing to tie him here, I realized. No family, no support network, just the living he scratched out on the streets through his wits. Not that different from me, really. And now here I was, a chance for him to be a part of something larger, to transcend the day-to-day. I knew the feeling all too well, and confronted with those hopeful eyes, I couldn't tell him no.

  "Alright," I said at last, taking some coins from my pouch and scratching a quick list on a slip of paper. "First order of business, as junior member of this expedition, you go pick up these supplies while I stay here and have another drink. You got it handled?" I raised my hand to order another mug from the barkeep.

  "No problem, sir! Back in a blink!" And then he was out the door, sprinting with heedless abandon through the mass of shoppers.

  I sat there for a full minute, watching the crowd beyond the doors. Then I stood and hoisted my bag, the drink untouched. Walking out the door, I looked one last time in the direction Gav had gone, then turned and strode quickly the other way.

  The kid was sharp, there was no doubt about that. He'd make a good Pathfinder someday.

  But I work alone.

  Appendix: Going Deeper

  While most of its residents are content to live in the city's soaring towers and hollow walls, Kaer Maga's surface structures are just the tip of the iceberg. Beneath the bustling markets, an intricate network of dungeons, tunnels, and complexes extends down through the Storval Ridge, and perhaps even farther. Although the top few levels have been frequently inhabited and remodeled by various daring organizations, incursions by the dangerous creatures that inhabit the lower reaches led the city to establish the Duskwardens, charged with seeking out and sealing all entrances to the greater catacombs. Even so, the depths of Kaer Maga remain uncharted and hold a powerful allure for foolhardy adventurers.

  GameMastery Module D2: Seven Swords of Sin offers additional background on Kaer Maga, sending PCs into a well-defended arcane stronghold beneath the city in order to stop a powerful sorceress from awakening relics dating back to the time of the Runelords themselves.

  Appendix: Who's Who

  With so many conflicting cultures and outcasts from conventional society, Kaer Maga can be a confusing place. Presented below are definitions of some of the city's more notable groups, guilds, and organizations.

  Ardoc Family: The extensive ruling family of Bis, golem-crafters who wear their chisels as badges of office.

  Augurs: Troll soothsayers who use their own innards to prophesize with questionable accuracy.

  Bloatmages: Grotesque arcanists who seek power through increased production of blood and lymph.

  Brothers of the Seal: An ancient sect of militant monks charged with guarding a magical portal somewhere beneath Kaer Maga. Currently broken into two increasingly violent rival factions: those who wish to open the seal, and those who believe it should remain closed.

  Council of Truth: A respected group of scholars devoted to unlocking the secrets of the universe. Disappeared suddenly a generation ago under mysterious conditions, leaving their facilities abandoned.

  Duskwardens: A group of urban rangers and warriors devoted to keeping the dark things beneath Kaer Maga from interfering with the city itself. In charge of operating the Halflight Path.

  Freemen: An egalitarian gang of escaped slaves that controls the Bottoms.

  Sweettalkers: Religious zealots from the far east who, unworthy of speaking their god's true name, choose to sew their own lips shut rather than utter an impure word.

  Tallow Boys: The common name for a loose-knit organization of young male prostitutes, many of whom also peddle information collected from their clients.

  Appendix: The Ring Districts

  The following districts comprise the region of Kaer Maga known as the Ring.

  Ankar-Te: This district attracts the most immigrants from the distant south and east. In its narrow streets, child-goddesses locked in ornate metal palanquins mingle with zombie servants and hairless Tallow Boys as they race about doing their masters' bidding.

  Bis: Bis's fabled Balconies, a vast swath of residences on the ring's inner walls, are ruled by the golem-crafting Ardoc family, their laws fair but enforced by an army of constructs.

  The Bottoms: Escaped slaves and runaways of all sorts are welcomed into the ranks of the Freemen here, their emancipation protected by their well-armed "brothers." They hope someday to grow strong enough to abolish slavery in the other wards.

  Cavalcade: Here a number of the streams from the city's unnamed central lake merge before tumbling down the cliff, giving rise to a network of bridges and water-powered workshops.

  Highside Stacks: These towers house Kaer Maga's wealthiest citizens, some of whom have never been seen in the city proper, preferring to conduct their business via magic and proxies.

  Oriat: Residents of Oriat tend to be cautious and jumpy due to regular outbreaks of guerilla warfare between Brothers of the Seal, which sometimes spill out into public and result in civilian casualties.

  Tarheel Promenade: More established than the transient stalls of Downmarket, the bazaars of Tarheel Promenade are particularly known for their concentration of arcane services and temples.

  The Warren: This towering shantytown, perched on rickety scaffolding bridging a vast gap in the Ring, houses the city's poorest inhabitants.

  Appendix: Bloatmages

  Hemotheurges, more commonly known as bloatmages, are spellcasters who use blood as a key component in their magic. As common lore holds that sorcerous ability is inherited naturally through bloodlines, bloatmages overload their own circulatory systems, producing more blood than they require in order to amplify their natural ability, frequently using the excess as a component in arcane rituals. As a result, bloatmages' skins distend grossly as vessels burst and blood pools in rolls of bruised, engorged fat.

  With their bodies so delicately balanced at their bursting point, bloatmages must be careful to regularly let their own blood in precise amounts, usually through the strategic placement of dozens of leeches. Without such measures, the increased pressure on a bloatmage's brain causes him to lose most of his higher cognitive functions and fly into an insane rage, lashing out both physically and magi
cally. If the hemorrhaging bloatmage is not immediately bled in this situation, organs buckle under the strain and he quickly lapses into seizures and dies.

  Although evil bloatmages have been known to collect the blood of others or form symbiotic relationships with vampires, most bloatmages are scholarly ascetics concerned primarily with unlocking greater power through the blending of sorcery and wizardry than either is capable of alone.

  Appendix: The Core Districts

  The central part of Kaer Maga consists of these three districts.

  Downmarket: Common lore holds that you can find anything you want in this crowded market of wagons and stalls, no matter how rare or taboo—as long as you can pay the often steep prices.

  Hospice: Catering to visitors and residents alike, the inns and bordellos of Hospice specialize in a wide variety of cultural comforts and fetishes, earning a reputation as the most lavish (and morally decrepit) red light district in Varisia.

  Widdershins: Merchants and middle-class citizens without ties to any of the ruling factions tend to settle in this relatively peaceful residential neighborhood, maintaining a well-paid constabulary to keep it that way.

  Fool's Gold

  By Mike McArtor

  13 Desnus, 4707 ar

  They say the heart's natural state is one of yearning, and nowhere is this truer than in regard to the open road. Put me too long in any given city, and my legs will itch for the feel of a horse beneath them, my toes for the sand of distant shores. Yet just two days out of Kaer Maga, the rains hit, drenching me so thoroughly that I dared not unwrap my journal from its oilskin, and I began to remember why it is that man builds cities in the first place.

  Thus it was with a glad heart that I came to the crumbling walls of Sirathu, poorest of Korvosa's holdings. Everything I'd heard of it in the past had painted it as a backwater suited solely for sharecroppers and herdsmen (and the occasional disgraced noble), but as I arrived its muddy streets were abuzz with activity, even given the rain that fell in obscuring sheets from the tiled roofs. Taking the opportunity to dry out and rent a room at the Royal Hare, I spent a bit of time in the common room, and was well rewarded. It seems that since the town's inception, a font known as the White Prince's Fountain has stood dry in the market square. When it was originally constructed, the leaders of Korvosa promised it would be enchanted to provide limitless amounts of pure, clean water, so that the town might never need bother with wells. Before it could be finished, however, the collapse of the Chelaxian Empire drew the city's attention elsewhere, and the fountain has stood dry ever since, a symbol of the nobility's low opinion of the common man. A few months ago, however, a young local girl was found unconscious next to the fountain, which now poured forth water so pure that it rejected even the dust of the air. And the girl, too, seemed changed, speaking sometimes as a child and sometimes in a stranger's voice, warning those who would listen that they must rise up and break with Korvosa entirely before it's too late. While not all of the locals have gathered arms and rushed to the child's standard, the strange events leave little doubt among these practical people that, one way or another, change is coming.

  As is fitting with my role and nature, I of course attempted to arrange an audience with the child, but the locals are understandably suspicious of outsiders and reluctant to endanger their supposed oracle. Perhaps if I remain for a few days and gain their trust, they'll change their minds. If not, well—between the disturbing puzzle box I took off the dead elf in the swamps and the ioun stone that still needs to be examined by someone more experienced in such matters, I have more than enough mysteries on my plate.

  3 Erastus, 4707 ar

  Three weeks! Three weeks I chased those gods-damned thieves across southeastern Varisia, and only now, hiding in the dark crotch of a bridge like a beggar, am I finally able to begin thinking clearly again.

  It was my own fault, of course. The wine at the Royal Hare is less watered-down than most, and as the night of my arrival wore on the patrons proved too eager an audience for tales of my wanderings. Unable to resist, I expounded until my voice was hoarse, plied by the steady stream of drinks from my new friends, locals and travelers alike. While recounting my journey upriver on this latest mission, I came to my encounter with the owlbear, and as a grand finale pulled out the skull-embossed puzzle-box I acquired there. It had the desired effect, provoking gasps and signs against evil, but my pride proved my undoing.

  Later that night, after I had staggered back to my room and readied myself for bed, there came a knock at the door. Made foolish by wine, I presumed it to be yet another admirer, perhaps a comely local lass looking for a tumble with the mysterious stranger. Cracking the door and peering out, I discovered three figures I recognized from the common room: a burly half-orc, a Varisian woman, and an effete elf. Before I could react, the half-orc slammed the door forward and into my nose, which broke with a crunch. My eyes clouded with pain, I stumbled backward, fumbling for my dagger, as the three moved quickly into the room. The elf and the woman ignored me completely as they rifled through my possessions, chattering urgently in some language or cant I couldn't understand. I, for my part, had little attention to spare them either, as my blurred vision filled with the looming dark mass of the half-orc. I jabbed tentatively at his shape with my dagger, but he caught my arm and squeezed until the bones groaned in protest and I dropped the weapon, lest he break my wrist. Grabbing my throat with his other massive paw, he lifted me free of the floor and thrust me against the wall, keeping me out of the way of the searchers.

  At that moment the elf let out a triumphant cry. In the tongue of his people, he blurted out something about "the box." In response the woman hissed angrily at him in their mystery language, and the half-orc turned his head to mumble something back over his shoulder. That was all the chance I needed. Pulling my legs up tight, I withdrew a hidden dagger from my boot and swung it hard and underhand into the orc's side, sliding it flat between his ribs. He grunted as my blade slid forward to the quillons and I torqued left with all my might. Warm blood and worse drenched my arm and chest, and the half-orc and I dropped to the floor in a tangled mess.

  Thrusting the twitching corpse aside, I stood just in time to see the window shutters swing free and hear the quiet thuds of bodies hitting mud. Singing a quick psalm of healing to mend my nose and purge the unbidden tears that blurred my sight, I ran to the window and found the elf and woman mounting a pair of waiting horses, a third steed standing unladen and obviously intended for the half-orc. I turned to gather my gear and give chase, only to discover my pack missing, along with this precious journal and the wayfinder that, in more cautious moments, I keep around my neck to prevent such things. Taking up my sword, I vaulted after them to the street below. Yet before I could cut them down, the thieves put spurs to flanks and raced south along the town's main road, followed by my screams of impotent rage.

  The strange fountain offers pure water and ill omens.

  The next seven days are a blur of motion. Pounding on the door of the local horse trader, I purchased a swift-looking mare at an outrageous price and was on the road within hours, using all of my meager tracking skills to follow the bandits' trail. Had they even for a day crossed into the woods or attempted to double back and ambush me, all would assuredly have been lost, but the bastards flaunted their confidence by staying to the road, always just a half-day's ride ahead of me. At night, sometimes, I would see their campfire in the distance, but though I rode until my horse blew bloody foam and I swayed unconscious in the saddle, the trail led ever onward, until at last I topped a rise and found myself staring out over the vast expanse of Korvosa, the grandest metropolis in Varisia. In the burgeoning light of dawn it glittered like spun gold, every roof and steeple reflecting the honeyed glow. Yet only a fool takes Korvosa at face value.

  At the bottom of the hill the wide trail suddenly became a paved road, straight and level. For the last mile into tow
n I rode on massive slate slabs surrounded by shards of gray flint. It was the only time I had seen such a road in Varisia, and I wondered as I went if similar thoroughfares crisscross all of Cheliax.

  This road took me through a tent city filled with the sights and smells normally associated with native Varisians and Shoanti, which the locals derogatorily call Thief Camp. To the south, Thief Camp gives way to an area of roughly built wooden houses and shops catering to visitors from elsewhere in the region. Residents of the city use this unnamed area as a buffer between themselves and, as they put it, "those thieves and savages outside." After making a few subtle inquiries with the merchants and traders in Thief Camp, I at last followed the road to a massive stone bridge ending in a black-marble gatehouse in the Wall of Erodred.

  The Avenue of Arms continues to defy explanation.

  That twenty-foot-high wall, made of black marble, bears along its top a row of black, downward-pointing metal spikes, broken only by the occasional leering bust of some fiend or another. From what I understand, this reflects modern Chelaxian architectural sensibilities, and was yet another failed attempt by a monarch of Korvosa—in this case the recently deceased king, Erodred the Second—to lure Cheliax into reabsorbing the city.

  At the gate, I stopped and attempted to press one of the guards for information on the two thieves who had passed before me, but though I offered healthy bribes, the guardsman shoved away my palmed coins with bored disdain. Of all the times to run across an honest guard... Fortunately for me, my questions were overheard by a nearby beggar who was happy to point me in the right direction, and there began a long stretch of skulking and information gathering that bled my purse almost dry.