Commandment

by Daryl Chestney

  “No, a Half-man.”

  “Half-man?”

  “We need his help,” Lakif justified.

  “Can we trust him? Would he sell us to the Seekers?”

  “He helped me to find my Stone. I believe in him.”

  “Then with your stamp of approval, I will lend him my trust.”

  Lakif breathed easier following the acquittal. Moments later, Torkoth appeared on the stairs. As Lakif had hoped, the warrior was donned in the livery of a mercenary, identical to the night they had invaded Ebon Myre. His leather armor creaked with fresh oil. A dagger was stashed in his belt, and a sword peeked over his shoulder. Strangely, the cross bar, hilt, and pommel were all wrapped in cloth, suggesting that Torkoth wanted to preserve it rather than brace it for conflict. In fact, it looked more like a gift than a means of bloodshed.

  “That’s him.” Lakif pointed out the newcomer.

  “You chose wisely.” Bael appraised the Half-man. “He certainly has adopted a manly show of readiness.”

  As he approached, a surprised look washed across Torkoth’s face.

  “What?” Lakif questioned.

  “You’re with a Kulthean!” Torkoth stammered.

  “I recall mentioning so.”

  “But he’s real!” Apparently the Half-man had assumed the Acaanan’s friend to be yet another phantasm of her mind. Bael and Torkoth exchanged salutations; Bael was not a little surprised by the Half-man’s moniker.

  “Same as the liquor?” he asked.

  “To the last drop,” Torkoth replied.

  With introductions out of the way, the three marched out into the city.

  XXI

  The Trench

  AS THE TRIO SALLIED FORTH FROM THE GOBLIN KNIGHT, BAEL EXPLAINED THAT the previous evening he had taken the opportunity to cull the locals for information concerning the Bard. As Lakif had briefly coached Torkoth on their mission, both could appreciate Bael’s information.

  “At first, I wasn’t enthusiastic. I felt that more people could identify with Bard than Cawjul. But with only the title Bard to go by, I felt I was destined to hear tales about each and every minstrel in Grimpkin.”

  “You didn’t?” Lakif asked.

  “No, but the label struck a chord with many.”

  “What was the consensus?” Torkoth asked. He was learning on the fly about Lakif’s adventures to date.

  “Sadly, the accounts were markedly divergent. Some offered me the quite reasonable story that the Bard was a local historian. The man, of vintage years, could be called upon from time to time. One Istani took the stance that the word Bard in fact didn’t refer to a person but to a group of individuals. He claimed that it was a troupe of well-traveled thespians! In consulting with them, one was rewarded with their collective experiences. Another fellow who overheard the conversation claimed that the Bard was in fact the name of a reclusive inn, a common ground for subterfuge. The exact location of the place was undisclosed, but he averred that the patrons held all sorts of mysterious, subversive, even heretical beliefs. But these far-fetched accounts were the minority. Most I spoke with shared the conviction that the Bard was a lone poet, doomed to travel the city for an extended length of time. This period of service was anywhere from a few to one thousand and one years. No one knew the source of his affliction, presumably an age-old curse.”

  Lakif accepted the various accounts with a grain of salt. The last theory was the only one that seemed to gel with the information pried from the coot in the law firm. She was left with the impression that the Bard was a popularly cherished urban myth in Grimpkin. She also wondered how many people the Kulthean had spoken to. They had probably showered him with stories, if just to hold his attention for a minute. In one night, he had gathered more information than she could hope to unearth in a month.

  Their route led them through an expanse of the Old City. They followed no hard and fast map, just hearsay that a wing of the Fornix lurked nearby. They were not left to wander the desolate arteries of the Old City for long. Within an hour of entering the lost realm, they happened on their destination.

  The Fornix was a collective term for a series of deep gorges that knifed through the district. The walls of the trenches were demarcated by a series of free-standing arches. Legend held that it was initially designed as a network of aqueducts meant to provide a waterway from the Dank Well into the Old City. The parallel arches were the structural backbone of the nascent waterways. But the project was abandoned for unknown reasons.

  The Fornix was accessible by a flight of crumbling stairs. This specific route was but one of many entrances into the infamous place. All were desolate spots, avoided by the respectable citizenry of Grimpkin. The stairs were wrinkled with disfiguring graffiti. Balusters lining the routes were decorated with wreathes, their dried leaves mottled with wilts. Small green lizards cleaved to the pillars. They stared at the trio with bulbous eyes that appeared and disappeared under bowing membranes. Lakif noticed that strange black weeds broke through cracks in the steps. The sight had special symbolism to her. If Grimpkin was the stone, the erratic cracks represented the Fornix and the weeds its loathsome inhabitants. In fact, at first she mistook the weeds for feces. When she stepped on one, it squirmed out from under her boot, as if made of jelly.

  The stairs opened into a gloomy trench. A broken jumble of flagstones dotted the ground, separated by wide treks of clotted earth. The shattered lane adumbrated an aborted attempt to build a road long ago. Blindworms cleaved to the rubble amid weeds.

  A thunderous rumble overhead drew their attention up. The Leviathan was whizzing by. The metal tracks of the train paralleled the ruined avenue for a short distance. From this position at the foot of Grimpkin, the gray district rose to great heights above. Lakif hoisted the sagging strap of her travel sack high on her shoulder, bracing herself for this realm.

  Technically, the Fornix was a facet of the Old City. But it was not delegated to desuetude as was the bulk of the Old City. On the contrary, a certain segment of Grimpkin’s populace flocked here. In accord with its position at the district’s belly, the Fornix was a haven for fringe activities. Given that it was mid-morning, Lakif had expected the area to be largely deserted. She assumed that the nefarious activities that were the order of the day here only occurred at dusk. She was wrong.

  What magnetized her eye was the plethora of divas lurking in the gloom. First and foremost, the Fornix was infamous as Grimpkin’s principle red-light district. The prostitutes, as true daughters of Grimpkin, were almost without exception of Human stock. It seemed that the Inhuman races weren’t even accepted in that lurid profession.

  Prostitution was generally applauded as a career in Grimpkin. Many of the inns, the Goblin Knight notwithstanding, had their own harem of beauties available to those with deep pockets. She had eaten breakfast with one the morning after the star fall. In such capacity, they were called hostesses. Such salacious activity, well regulated and managed, was considered an indispensable part of Grimpkin’s business climate and wholly encouraged. In fact, May 4th was officially crowned floralia, the proverbial day of flowers and prostitution. Public opinion, however, was not so favorably disposed to the divas who worked the Fornix. In the milieu of these nether reaches, prostitution was universally condemned as criminal and filthy. Lakif found the dichotomy intriguing.

  Of course, the Acaanan had heard of the place’s seedy reputation. But she had only expected to find a few stray demimondes pimping themselves. She was certainly not prepared for the vast turnout that greeted them.

  A legion of svelte divas sashayed around the shattered avenue as if perfectly at home. No two, however, stood together. Instead, they beckoned to their customers from within darkened arches and behind broken pillars. Here, décolletage dresses, hair extensions, sable stockings, and high heels were the order of the day.

  Most of the whores wore simple wreaths on their heads. Each garland was woven from a single type of plant. Fortunately, from her recent forays into the worl
d of herbs, Lakif was in a position to appreciate the ornaments better. Popular opinion held that the whores chose wreaths designed to advertise an unusual aspect of their character or personal service. Some chose plants associated with magical effects. As such, wreaths impregnated with dill, jasmine, or ginseng abounded. According to popular belief, these plants were the active ingredients in aphrodisiacs. Some bore wreaths that suggested more platonic pleasures. One such woman wore the spiny leaves of the chicory, the plant of friendship. Apparently, she was advertising her innocence and simple character. Others bore wreaths directed at medicinal properties, hoping to snare the business of the infirm. One of Grimpkin’s deeply rooted folk customs held that the cure for many ailments rested in the open thighs of a prostitute, and many a sick man sought out their nectar. One woman wore the spidery white anemone, widely touted as a cure for visual problems whereas another wreath was studded with the seed-like fruit coriander, a panacea for general maladies.

  Despite her recent research, she found that most of the headdresses contained unknown plants. But the wreaths of three women were truly unique, eliciting a reaction from the Acaanan. One woman was adorned with the shrub of absinthe. While a potent liquor, it also caused memory loss. Such a woman was obviously targeting the unsatisfied husband. The message was clear enough. The adulterer could enjoy a fine hour of bliss and then return home to his boring spouse with his mind wiped free of the memory of infidelity, thus leaving his conscience intact. The second wore the yellow flowers of agrimony, which many advocated as a balm for blood-borne diseases. In light of the venereal disease epidemic that washed through the Fornix from time to time, Lakif accredited this woman with keen insight. Her customers would be assured that their moment of fun didn’t turn into a month of urinating fire or hiding embarrassing lesions. The last to arouse her eye was a vixen who donned the purple flower hellebore. Lakif paid her special heed as this very herb was of interest to Lucretia. This plant was the essential ingredient in potions to reverse lovesickness, an anti-aphrodisiac. This woman obviously suggested that a roll with her would wretch Cupid’s golden arrow from any man, no matter how deeply another woman had embedded it. This was no vain boast, however. The vixen was absolutely gorgeous. She was of such raw sexual appeal as to turn any monk’s vows of celibacy into gambler’s oaths and reduce any faithful man to a mound of gibbering jelly sucking at her heels. Lakif imagined that the mere sight of the woman would tent a man’s pants.

  Overall, Lakif was impressed with the caliber of the whores. She had imagined that the best prostitutes, at least from a physical standpoint, would be employed at the various inns of Grimpkin. At such places they were supplied with rooms, pampered, and interacted with higher society types. Conversely, she had assumed that the filthy, seedy flotsam was relegated to peddling their porn in the Fornix. But having seen what treasures the place offered, Lakif was forced to reconsider this generalization. Some of these women boasted beauty to shame any she had seen in the Goblin Knight. She could only speculate as to what these few rogue beauties earned in a day’s wage.

  The Acaanan now appreciated that the lascivious reputation of the trench was well earned. She also suspected that there was serious word play in the place’s name. Most knew that the word fornix derived from the Istani word for arch. This was sensible enough, considering the abandoned waterworks. But the word arch inspired the arousing image of a lithe body bent over backwards, writhing in the feverish pulse of sex. She also was well aware of the close association with the word fornication.

  The prostitution was not limited to callipygian buttocks and bursting bras. The Fornix pandered to all tastes. Boys, many who hadn’t yet reached puberty, sauntered with their female competition. This niche was targeting men with special needs. To the Acaanan, such boys resembled girls, making her wonder about the orientation of their customers. After seeing some of these lads, Lakif strongly suspected she would run into certain toga-clad scholars lewdly milling around. Interestingly, many of the customers loitering about wore fur pelts draped around their shoulders.

  Aside from the prostitution, or perhaps as a result of it, the Fornix was a haven for underworld activity. There was no doubt that the divide was a separate district in Grimpkin’s underbelly, where all the stale rules that governed above were forbidden entry. Illicit activity was rampant. Drug trafficking prospered, as did the ever popular black market. Beside visiting johns, a hodgepodge of colorful types zeroed in on the red-light district. Most of the traffic was raffish sorts—as likely to rob as to beg for coin. Others were equally undesirable—the lame, the unemployed, and the drug-addicted. The Fornix didn’t discriminate; it magnetically called to all degenerates with equal flirtation.

  At one point weeks back, Lakif had briefly entertained the idea of soliciting the Fornix in her search for a Rare Earth Stone. If anywhere in Grimpkin such contraband would be traded or sold, it would be here. But the sordid reputation of the place had forced her to reconsider. It would have been an absolute last resort when she had exhausted all other possibilities.

  Apart from scouting for leads on the Bard, Lakif had an ulterior motive to visit the Fornix. As a mecca for drug trafficking, the Fornix was a wellspring for cryptide. Lakif surmised that all the powder she had abused in Grimpkin had funneled through these trenches. The Acaanan had periodically bought her stash from peddlers who canvassed the upper district. They were ideal for the lily-livered citizen who shrank from brushing too close to Grimpkin’s illicit drug underworld, or the foreigner who wasn’t familiar with the local networks. Lakif belonged to the latter category; therefore, she had always bought from these questionable agents. They were convenient, but their markup was in the order of fifty percent! Lakif soon tired of this extortion and was itching to buy directly. Nevertheless, she would never have wandered down here on her own accord. But seeing as she was under the aegis of two formidable companions, she decided to capitalize on the opportunity and get some of the precious powder.

  A slaking lime statue teetered on a cracked square of flagging. Vermillion paint adorned his cheeks and lips. All doubt about the figure’s identity was erased when Lakif noted the winged sandals. This was Hermes, an obsolete deity commonly known to be revered in the Fornix, and with just cause. He was the patron saint of thieves and the god of lucky finds, honored qualifications in the trench. Furthermore, with his winged sandals, he was commonly associated with messengers and by extension, commerce. Thus, it was apropos that he should lord here where trafficking of flesh and drugs ran rampant. The statue had been doctored in another lewd way. Hermes’ magical wand, the caduceus, was not held in hand. Instead, the snake-wrapped rod had been broken free and lodged into a crack at his groin, showcasing his erection.

  The trio attracted no small amount of attention with their arrival. Lakif imagined that few johns visit the place in groups. Every diva surveyed her companions as prospective clients; flirtatious eyes darted in their direction. Lakif could only imagine what they were thinking of her. Perhaps, like the scholars in the tabernacle, they viewed her as a male. But even if she was viewed as a woman, endless options were imaginable. Lakif knew she wasn’t the center of the spectacle; Bael would claim that honor. But the interest wasn’t limited to the working girls. Bent faces appeared in the shadows, murderously ogling them all.

  XXII

  The Leper

  FROM THE DARK RECESSES ISSUED SOUNDS OF CANOODLING COUPLES. FAINT panting trilled in the darkness, mingled with lecherous cooing. The air over the shattered lane was rife with the saccadic movements of bats darting back and forth. That storm of black lightning drove the paramours farther into shelter. In the distance, a frog belched. Lakif wondered if it was about to turn into a prince at the tender kiss of a purring nymph.

  It wasn’t long before she spied an Istani leaning idly in the bower under two collapsed supports. She instantly pegged the miscreant as a cryptide merchant, a trade proverbially reserved for that race. Three years of recreational use had honed a sharp eye to spot those surr
eptitious traffickers. The fellow wore a worn tan overcoat. Thin gray hair sprouted from his head at unruly angles. Lakif imagined he appeared much older than his actual age.

  The Acaanan hesitated to approach the fellow in the company of her two companions. For one, they were presumably here to track down leads about the Bard. For another, she didn’t want to give the Half-man the impression that her pockets were deep enough to afford cryptide, seeing how she had hedged on paying his fee. Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, she felt self-conscious about buying the narcotic in the Kulthean’s presence. Lakif wasn’t a hard-core addict, but she didn’t want to cast any false impressions.

  Therefore, she devised a charade to separate herself from the others. She craftily pointed out that they were collectively drawing unwanted interest. A group of three sniffing around would frighten off many a possible informant. Instead, it would behoove them to split up and comb the area individually. It seemed a reasonable enough suggestion, which went over well with her companions.

  Lakif waited for the others to wander sufficiently off and then made a beeline for the drug merchant. Near the Istani’s recess, a ratty figure lay in the rubble. He was wrapped in filthy clothes and armed with a wooden bowl. The bum held out the dish in supplication. Lakif sneered at the gesture. She was not about to give the destitute a single gerah. The cryptide merchant barely acknowledged her approach. She decided that she might as well cover her tracks and ask about the Bard as well as the drug.

  “I’m looking for someone…” Lakif began.

  “You’ve come to the right place,” the Istani replied with a perverse tone.

  “No, he goes by the name Bard.”

  The Istani flashed a look of understanding.

  “You know him?” Lakif perked up at her instant success.

  “I know of a poet who frequents this hole. He finds his inspiration on his back.”

  Lakif suspected that they were speaking of different people altogether.