Commandment

by Daryl Chestney

  As the two looked on, he quickly passed through the closet, narrowly avoiding the squatting Kulthean in his path. Before Lakif could object, the bolting employee was charging off down the corridor—his cane rapidly tapping out the path before him.

  The two occupants leapt to their feet and dashed after the fugitive. With each step, the codger leaned a little farther forward and picked up speed. Every so often he would briefly stop, allowing for his feet to catch up.

  They rounded a corner only to find that the man had disappeared. Lakif suddenly panicked. She had no idea of the time, thanks to her broken pocket watch. But she guessed that it was late in the afternoon. The employee could be one of the last workers in the building. Should he leave, they could be trapped in the law offices until the morning!

  They peered around another corner only to spot the coot sputtering down the hall. The tiny corridors were so tortuous that he quickly disappeared again. Fortunately, they were able to track the rhythmic ringing of his cane.

  After several turns, they rounded a corner and found the senior charging in their direction. Although Lakif was certain they had been spotted, the crackpot showed little inclination to curb his pace. Bent forward, he would have rammed his head into the Acaanan’s belly had not Bael halted him with a firm grip.

  “Excuse me!” Lakif blustered.

  She could now better absorb the old-timer’s features. With his black attire, the fellow was the very picture of a gnarled usurer, wizened with age. His pecuniary air stamped him as an eon-long handler of hard currency. A thin lip curled in annoyance.

  “Are you lost?” he scolded them. After he stopped speaking, his lips continued to smack like he was chewing on something. Lakif was taken aback by the senior’s gruff demeanor.

  “You work in Retirement Accounts,” Lakif stated rather than asked.

  The man nodded. His beady pupils rattled up and down in his eyes.

  “For Rhembald, Dulth, and Cawjul?” she confirmed. They had walked so much that Lakif feared they had inadvertently wandered into the basement of a neighboring firm.

  “Did you not see me leave the office?” The crock sneered.

  “You saw us, yet hurried by?” Lakif asked.

  “You wouldn’t leave!” He fumed. “I mean, don’t you have anything better to do than loiter in my office all day?”

  “You knew we were there the whole time?” Lakif trembled with outrage.

  “Of course!” he snapped at the Acaanan and poked her with his cane.

  “How did you see us?”

  “Through the peephole!” he piped. Lakif had a vision of the arthritis-riddled fool stooping to spy on them through a keyhole all afternoon.

  “Yet you ignored us?” Lakif’s blood boiled.

  “Why not? I know you’re broke!” he barked back. Now Lakif was convinced that the old fart’s very blood ran with currency. Perhaps his hemoglobin was small coins that absorbed oxygen.

  “And him?” Lakif gestured to Bael. No one would accredit High-men with poverty.

  “I thought he was a sofa!” The scrooge squinted at the towering Kulthean.

  Lakif’s every impulse was to reach out and throttle the geezer. But thankfully reason intervened. To aggravate the situation further wouldn’t help their cause.

  “So who is suing you?” His eyes drilled into Lakif. The Acaanan’s nares flared. Caducity had warped this senior into an incorrigible scrooge.

  “Sir…” Bael began, taking over for Lakif. “We’re not here for employment or any grievance.”

  “Refreshing!” His lips smacked like a rabbit chewing a carrot. “So what the hell do you want?”

  “We are trying to track down an ex-employee,” Bael clarified.

  “I see! He handled a suit against you, and now you mean to exact private justice! There are courts for that!” he sputtered.

  “No, this has nothing to do with business.” If ever Lakif had faced a mingy old crust, it was now.

  “Now I know you’re up to skullduggery,” he ranted. “Everything has to do with business!”

  “Please, sir,” Bael begged. “We don’t know his true name, but some call him the Bard.”

  “Never heard of him!” The man brushed past, continuing on his jerky way like a skeleton. The pair darted to catch up with the cantankerous fossil.

  “We have it on good authority that he once worked for this firm!” Lakif cried as she shadowed the manager.

  The man frowned. “It rings a dusty bell. What was his name? Alferon? Samite? No! Cawjul! That’s it!”

  “Cawjul?” Lakif cried.

  “That seems right,” the miser added. He was starting to pick up speed again when Lakif grabbed hold of his cane. The senior pitched to a stop, allowing the pair to catch up. This time, they maneuvered themselves as to block his exit from both directions.

  “Wait one moment!” Lakif pestered from in front of him. “Know you of him?”

  “I’ve heard of him.” Again, he poked Lakif in the chest with his cane. “But such knowledge costs.”

  She fished around in her pocket and produced a beka. At its sight, the man rolled his eyes contemptuously.

  “Don’t want to find him too bad, do you, lassie?” he groused but nevertheless greedily snatched the coin. “What do you want to know?”

  “You called the Bard Cawjul?” Bael began from behind.

  “I said so!”

  “Is he a descendant of one of the founders?” Lakif was thinking about the firm’s mouthful of a name. She wanted to shake the old timer’s shoulders until the truth rolled from his mouth like change from a slot machine.

  “No, the Cawjul.”

  “What do you mean the?” Lakif asked.

  “The founding father, of course.”

  “I was under the impression that this was a long-established firm,” Bael asked over the employee’s shoulder.

  “It is.”

  Lakif and Bael exchanged puzzled glances.

  “When did he quit?” Lakif tried to refocus a conversation that had obviously derailed.

  “Quit? He was fired!”

  “What happened to him?” Bael asked.

  “He was forced out by the other two. Fiscal irresponsibility or some other nonsense because he wasn’t earning any cents for the firm—if you sense my drift. He returned to the streets, which is where he always should have been!”

  “When did he leave?” Lakif felt that any second a buzzer would sound, informing them that they would have to insert another beka for more information. At his question, the crock’s fingers tumbled in calculation.

  “Two hundred and nine years ago.”

  “Two hundred and nine!” Lakif stammered.

  “We were led to believe he was alive,” Bael sighed.

  “Yes, I have heard stories of him from time to time. Oh, never fear, he won’t die any time soon. I would imagine he is a magnet for life insurance companies!”

  Lakif studied the coot in an effort to assess his sanity.

  “Say you he is alive?” Lakif asked.

  “Older than Isaac he is!”

  “And know you where he is to be found, good sir?” Bael stepped in. Obviously, the Kulthean was humoring the senile old fart.

  “Who could say? He’s a transient, equally likely to be found lounging amid the chinked pillars of Tartarus as the amphitheaters of the Forum. But as he always harbored a lewd side, and as it has just turned frosty, I would suggest searching the Fornix.”

  “The Fornix!” the pair shouted in unison. That said, the fellow pushed past the Acaanan and continued on his bumbling course, leaving the two bewildered companions speechless.

  Afraid of being hopelessly lost in the timeless corporation, the two followed the ornery manager’s course. He charted an erratic path through the perplexing arena. At last, he led them through an inconspicuous door into a remote stretch of the Old City. A herd of other employees filed through the door as well. Unsure of where they were headed, the pair followed the ruck, hoping it wou
ld lead them up to the district proper.

  The gallery they emerged into was clearly a vestige of the Old City. Lakif felt that they were widely separated from Mount Astraea proper. They must have walked miles in the labyrinth of the basement. Lengthening shadows broadcast a late hour. Their simple trip had devoured the entire day!

  The thoroughfare was blessed with a fair amount of traffic, even at this late hour. She recognized it as one of the old highways. Such avenues were used these days for cargo transport. Sometimes it was also used by far-ranging travelers. Due to the scanty traffic, one could travel large distances across Grimpkin in a day, a hopeless prospect in the congested avenues above. Such specialized avenues were thus saved from the neglect that claimed much of the Old City.

  “Can we believe him?” Lakif asked to her companion. “The Fornix sounds like a red herring.”

  “I don’t know.” Bael hesitated. “We must weigh this carefully.”

  “Would there be any other route to an alchemist? Some avenue we haven’t explored?” Lakif questioned. It was a mere whisper, for anything louder would echo far down the highway.

  Bael nodded. “I believe the lead is worth at least a token follow through.”

  “I agree.” The Acaanan was comforted that Bael was of a like mind.

  “Do you think we can make it back to the Goblin Knight?” Bael doubted their prospect of reaching the inn before lock down.

  “We must be fleet of foot.” Lakif revved up.

  XX

  The Reconciliation

  WITH ALL HASTE, THE TWO HUSTLED BACK TO THE GOBLIN KNIGHT. LAKIF’S thoughts were now single-mindedly directed on the wayward Half-man. Her reason had moved far beyond settling the financial score with him. It seemed that they had decided to descend into the Fornix, a prospect not easily stomached by the Acaanan. If the Bard was to be found there, it was a necessary gamble. While Bael was a powerful presence, Lakif wasn’t convinced of the Kulthean’s physical prowess. On the other hand, Torkoth had demonstrated his mettle beyond reproach. If any could fend off trouble in the Fornix, it was he.

  There was another, slyer reason that Lakif felt Torkoth’s presence could prove invaluable. As a Kulthean, Bael commanded much attention in Grimpkin. But with the reprobates that frequented the Fornix, the High-man’s heritage might not carry much weight. In fact, it might engender spite. But a Half-man, particularly one with Torkoth’s wild appearance, would mesh easily with those disreputable types, and this could be taken advantage of.

  Her search for Torkoth that morning had been cursory at best. She swore to find out once and for all the fate of the swordsman. She vowed that even in the event Torkoth wasn’t still roomed in the inn, she was prepared to canvass the neighborhood. It couldn’t be that difficult. If Bael had succeeded in tracking the Acaanan down, it shouldn’t prove too challenging to locate a Half-man of Torkoth’s unique appearance.

  Her fears vanished within seconds of entering the Goblin Knight. Torkoth was found chatting with another patron under the leafy canopy of the oak. Lakif was not a little surprised at the sight. Again, she questioned how far the modest advancement had gone to cover room and board. Clearly, the Half-man had access to ancillary income. This left the plaguing question: Under whose umbrella was the Half-man footing his stay? Was he financing it with blood money?

  Lakif wasn’t prepared to introduce Bael to the swordsman at this point. To be precise, she didn’t want the Kulthean to witness her rejection when the Half-man balked at the proposal. Therefore, she offered her friend a vague excuse to remain below.

  After Bael disappeared from sight, Lakif marched over to the table. She was a little apprehensive about Torkoth’s reaction, considering that she had up and disappeared yesterday morning. Hoping to forestall embarrassing questions, she marched right up to the table and spoke bluntly.

  “Half-man, I wish to have words with you.” Lakif obtruded into the conversation. She noted that the fighter was wearing shoes, a type of sandal that laced up the calf. Apparently, he had finally settled on a style that was comfortable. The rope anklet was still visible under the leather straps.

  “What?” Torkoth replied. Since Lakif was certain that he had heard her clearly, the curt response rang ominous.

  “May we speak?” Lakif’s confidence was dwindling by the second.

  “You spoke another word.” Torkoth’s brow wrinkled in confusion.

  Lakif scrolled back a few seconds. She was surprised that she couldn’t remember how she had addressed Torkoth. Then it occurred to her.

  “Half-man?” Lakif questioned softly, fearing that it might somehow have been internalized as an insult.

  “What is that?” Torkoth asked.

  Lakif blinked with disbelief. Torkoth must be joking! But nothing in his expression revealed anything other than sincerity.

  “That’s your race.” Lakif found Torkoth’s companion grinning at the silly topic.

  “Is that different from these others?”

  “Of course!” Lakif ridiculed the question. Once again, Lakif was astounded by the glaring canyon in Torkoth’s memory. How could one so clearly adept in the martial arts and of sound judgment be so clueless to such basic information?

  But Lakif envied the Half-man’s ignorance. The Acaanan was never afforded the luxury to forget her own identity. She was branded an Acaanan at every turn. Even when the hated word wasn’t explicitly spoken, the loathsome looks were enough to broadcast the message clearly. She hated to be the herald of bad news; Torkoth was a lowly Inhuman. But his confusion was perhaps natural enough. To her recall, Lakif had never referred to him as a Half-man explicitly. Maybe no one else had either. Perhaps they were afraid to do so.

  “More correctly, Half-Istani,” the Acaanan added.

  “Where do we come from?”

  “Who can say? Inhumans rarely know their parents.” Speaking about the Half-man’s identity crises left Lakif in foreign waters.

  “Then I suppose it’s apropos,” Torkoth mused.

  “How so?”

  “What is a man without a past, if not half a man? Like an image in a mirror…Speak!” Torkoth suddenly seemed to snap out of his introspection and swung back to the Acaanan. Lakif found her own fears evaporating as the other smiled warmly.

  “It is of a private nature.” Lakif’s eyes bobbed to the visitor.

  Torkoth nodded his consent and excused himself from his companion. Lakif led him up to one of the cloistered vaults on the higher level. En route, she cast her eye to the dusty engraving of Lucretia that had become of paramount importance to her. If her eye had been a dust rag, the statue would have been polished to a shine by this point. The crooked face still vexed her. Lakif sat and bid for her companion to do likewise.

  “How fares your trophy?” Torkoth preempted the Acaanan. “Has it bore out the fruit of your visions?”

  Lakif’s heart lightened. As Torkoth hadn’t mentioned the outstanding sum, he was saving Lakif from an awkward predicament.

  “My knowledge of the Stone was flawed. There is yet another leg to this journey. I have to rely on your help one last time.”

  The Half-man only nodded. Lakif silently probed the other’s eyes, reflecting on the three massacred travelers. Could those lambent orbs veil the mind of a brutal killer?

  “Another search has reared its head. We have discovered the need to go down into the Fornix,” Lakif continued.

  “We?”

  “Myself and Bael. He’s a Kulthean friend of mine from my school days.”

  “You went to school?” Torkoth’s eyes widened. Lakif had expected the Half-man’s surprise would stem from the mention of a Kulthean chum rather than her educational level.

  “A kind of…” Lakif didn’t want to broach that subject. “I need your strong arm one last time.”

  “He should be ample protection for you.”

  Lakif nodded.

  “You would think, but Bael is no warrior, as you are. He has neither skill of arm nor speed of foot to quell my fe
ars.” Lakif was not merely fanning the Half-man’s ego to enlist his aid. While Bael cast the image of a robust warrior, Lakif harbored doubts. His friend didn’t carry a sword and didn’t appear particularly agile. At best, he was an effectual swordsman. Torkoth, on the other hand, was a proven performer.

  The Half-man was silent, as if weighing the situation.

  “I know there is still the question of the payment…” Lakif began, but was curtailed when Torkoth shook his head.

  “Don’t worry about that. You supported me in my hour of need with food and shelter. Our score is even in that regard, and there will be no talk of debt. Listen well. I’m not a fool. It is clear that I dwell in the suburbs of your interests. You have hitched your wagon to a star, one the size of a stone. I won’t pretend to understand what mystical schemes drive you, Acaanan. There is much you are tight-lipped about. But you would have divulged more if you cared to. In any event, it’s not my business to meddle. The last few days, I have wandered the locales, hoping to ignite a spark of recognition in my mind’s eye. Perhaps there would be a familiar corner or store. But nothing. Furthermore, no one seems to recognize me, so I am forced to conclude that this is not my home. As my road is still uncertain, I will remain at your side. But not in your employ.”

  Lakif was thrilled at the news.

  “Tell me more of the Fornix,” Torkoth added.

  The following morning, Lakif waited anxiously in the common room. She chewed on a lock of hair, nervous about introducing the Kulthean to the Half-man. Bael was the next to arrive. He was armed only with a walking stick. He was either extremely confident or naively unprepared for the Fornix. But he seemed in fine feather, ready to tackle whatever obstacles presented themselves. When he signaled to leave, Lakif stopped him short.

  “I’m waiting for someone,” she explained.

  The Kulthean blinked with surprise.

  “A friend?” he asked.