"So if you're not a slave," Salim said, "why the chains?"
Gav hissed and yanked at Salim's sleeve.
"What?" Salim asked.
Roshad chuckled. "The boy's right. The Iridian Fold doesn't appreciate outsiders prying into our affairs. But you've earned your question."
"We're szerik," Bors said. The two men paused expectantly.
"Are either of those terms supposed to mean something to me?" Salim asked.
Roshad sighed. "You seem well-traveled—we thought you might be slightly more cultured than the rest of this city's savages."
"Hey!" Gav said, but Roshad waved him to silence.
"We come from the east," he said. "Across the continent of Casmaron, south of the great Castrovin Sea, in a region called Karazh. Even there, however, the Iridian Fold is not a common calling. Many men become lovers, as everywhere, yet fewer than two out of a thousand feel the pull to become szerik. Bors and I took the chains many years ago, but we still have a long way to go." He squeezed the big man's hand.
"So the chains are like a wedding ring?" Gav asked, excited.
Bors shook his head, but it was Roshad who spoke. "The chains are a symbol, yes, and a constant reminder. But szerik are much more than spouses, or even brothers in arms. In your language, the philosophy would translate to roughly, ‘shared mind, shared heart.' Total communication and integration. When two szerik truly achieve their goal and gain a complete understanding of the Iridian Fold, they cease to be two beings, but rather a single being in two bodies."
Salim nodded. "I've heard marriage vows with that sentiment."
"No!" Roshad's hand slapped against the table with a crack. The few other people gathered in the bar at this early hour looked over, then quickly looked away. Roshad and Bors's expressions of disapproval were mirror images, and it was eerie to see the same frown on different faces.
"You think such things a metaphor," Roshad said hotly. "This is why the Iridian Fold rarely comes this far—you westerners think everything is a symbol. The men of the Iridian Fold aren't making a statement—it's literal truth. Shared mind. Shared heart. Completely."
"Like telepathy?" Salim asked. "Magic?"
Roshad nodded and settled back in his chair, the outburst apparently already forgotten. "There are spells like that, yes, and some use them. But most of our brothers would see that as weakness. When two men come to truly embody szerik and the Iridian Fold, they don't need magic to know what the other is thinking, to move together as one."
"Interesting." Some days, Salim felt like there was nothing in the world he hadn't seen—yet despite his travels, he'd never heard of this particular philosophy. Looking at Bors and Roshad, seeing the way their movements unconsciously mimicked and complemented each other, he could believe there was substance to their claim.
The thought brought with it an unpleasant twinge. Salim had learned long ago that close friends were a liability, and one way or another, he'd left all those he loved behind. It was safer for everyone that way. Yet to have a partner who knew you that well...
He forced the thought down and turned to Gav. "So how do you know about the Iridian Fold, then? I've traveled all over the Inner Sea and never heard of them."
Gav opened his mouth, but Roshad answered for him. "Several of our brethren have made the pilgrimage to Kaer Maga."
"Pilgrimage? What's so special about this city to draw you across half the world?"
"Stories," Bors grunted, and Roshad nodded.
"Achieving the fullness of szerik is not easily done," the little man explained. "Journeys and trials often help greatly in bringing two men together. Many of us embark on quests, following stories of those races that live in something close to szerik. The City of Strangers is one of many—our brothers come here in hopes of finding the fabled Second City hidden within it, where everyone lives as one, in perfect communication."
Gav gasped. "The mind hive!"
Roshad looked at him in surprise.
"I...think I know the place you speak of," Salim said, thinking of Xavorax and its grotesque Caulborn. "But it may not be quite what you imagine."
"Truly?" Roshad's eyebrows shot up and disappeared beneath the fitted fabric of his hood. "We will speak more of this."
"Of course," Salim said, but something in the men's story bothered him. "But you keep talking about your brothers—are there no women in the Iridian Fold?"
Roshad's eyes went wider still. Bors laughed once, loud and sharp.
"A woman could never be szerik." Roshad sounded awkward, as if embarrassed to be explaining such a basic fact of life to a grown man. "Every woman is born with a thousand souls inside her—a thousand voices. Some of those voices become children, but the rest remain with her. A man is born with only his own voice. Two soul-voices blending to achieve szerikis difficult, but possible. A woman's voices are constantly weaving in and out of harmony with each other, thus the cycle of blood." He paused, stroking his veil thoughtfully. "I suppose a woman who cut out her womb might have only one voice. But then, what difference would there be between her and a man?"
"I can think of a few," Gav noted.
"Bah!" Roshad waved a hand. "Bits of flesh. We're speaking of souls, boy."
Which reminded Salim of why he was actually here. During their walk back to the inn the previous night, he'd explained the outlines of his mission to the two Iridian Fold men, out of appreciation for their help and as a chance to get his own thoughts straight. But now that he'd had more time to think, the next step was clear. "I'm going to Heaven," he said.
All conversation at the table stopped as three faces turned toward him.
"Sure, gov," Gav said slowly. "You seem like an alright sort. Though I thought you Rahadoumi didn't want to go there?"
Salim shook his head. "Not when I die. Today. For the investigation. None of this seems like Heaven's style, and Caramine's angel is probably something else in disguise, but if I want to rule it out completely, I need to check at the source."
"So you'll go to Heaven," Gav said, drawing the words out. "Just like that."
"Just like that." Salim drew the amulet with Pharasma's engraved spiral out from beneath his robes and let it lie on his chest. Now that he was thinking about it, its weight seemed to grow, pressing back against his sternum. "The goddess is a stingy old bitch, but I wouldn't be much good to her if I was stuck on the Material Plane all the time. The amulet fixes that."
Roshad frowned. "You can't leave now! You haven't told us about the Second City."
"Ask Gav." Salim tilted his head toward the boy. "For better or worse, he already knows the whole story."
"Hey!" Gav said. "You can't leave me behind—I want to see Heaven!"
Salim turned toward the urchin, not bothering to hide his smile. "Oh? And do you think the angels will judge you favorably, then?"
"Of course!" he said, then paused. "Probably." Another pause. "I'll stay here."
"Good lad."
Bors reached across the table, wrapping Salim's forearm in a grip like a manacle. "We're coming with you."
Salim didn't try to pull away, just shook his head. "Sorry, I work alone."
Bors expression didn't change—jaw set, dark eyes serious. "We have to. We're machorei."
"Bors," Roshad said uncertainly. "I don't think—"
"He saved your life, Rabbit." Bors glowered down at the smaller man. "Then he helped save mine. Which means he's saved us both twice now. Our debt is wide."
"I said—" Salim began, but stopped as he realized no one was listening. On the other side of the table, the two Iridian Fold men locked eyes. After a moment, Roshad sighed and turned back to Salim.
"Bors is right. This is not a matter for discussion. You are machoreiwith us. Our brother."
Salim felt himself flush. "Roshad, Bors...I'm honored, but I don't...I mean—"
Roshad barked a laugh. "All westerners think like dogs in heat! Not brothers like szerik, Salim. Machorei. Blood brothers. You've saved our lives, and opened a
debt. We must stay with you until we've adequately returned the service. To do otherwise would be an incredible dishonor."
"Ah." Salim's awkwardness lessened, but didn't abate entirely. On the one hand, he hadn't been lying when he said that he worked alone. It had been that way for more years than he cared to count, and the few exceptions he'd made were now old, familiar lumps of scar tissue in his memory. At the same time, however, he was heading into territory potentially far more dangerous than a simple city slum. Bors's obvious strength could be a valuable asset, and Roshad's magic would complement his own nicely—or, better yet, absolve Salim of the need to call on the goddess at all. That was a pleasant thought.
Gav interrupted his musings. "Look out, gov. Your friends are back."
Salim turned and saw a small, dark-haired form pushing her way through the door, knocking Karus the half-orc out of her path with a straight-armed shove that sent the hulking bouncer stumbling sideways. Behind her came four of her black-robed Pharasmins. Maedora locked eyes on Salim's table and began making her way over.
Salim turned to Gav. "Time to make yourself scare, Gav."
"Me?" Gav asked. "What about you?"
"I can handle myself. Hide in the back somewhere and watch, if you like. Then get out. Check back with Karus every day to see if I've returned. I doubt the Pharasmins have noticed you yet, and it's best to keep it that way."
Gav wavered, uncertain. "You're sure you'll be alright?"
Salim smiled wryly. "What happened to the street tough who only looked out for himself? I'll be fine—Maedora talks mean, but she can't touch me." Or at least, that had seemed true so far. "The same isn't true of my friends. Go."
"Aye, gov." Gav turned and slipped between the tight-packed tables and through a servants' door.
Salim turned back toward the approaching party and caught Roshad and Bors staring at him.
"We don't understand," Roshad said. "Didn't you say you also worship the Lady of Graves?"
"Not worship," Salim corrected. "Work for, and not by choice. I'll explain later. For now, just follow my lead and don't speak unless you have to."
Maedora came to a halt in front of Salim's table. The glowering priests behind her carried themselves like enforcers, chests puffed out and arms crossed.
"You were warned," the psychopomp said. "If your actions endanger this investigation, not even Ceyanan will be able to protect you."
"I heard you the first time," Salim said. "When you so kindly stopped me in the street. To what do I owe this visit?"
Dark eyes regarded him icily. "You know what. The streets are full of rumors about the Pharasmin who attacked a houseful of Freemen in the Bottoms last night."
"Oh, that. So?"
"So?" Maedora leaned forward, hands on the table, and placed her face next to his. "Every time you disgrace yourself and create a disturbance like this, you undermine the church's authority in the city. You attract attention to our work and make my investigation more difficult."
Salim leaned forward himself, until their faces almost touched. "Only because you rely on that authority." He craned his neck to look past her. "Do you really think that these cloistered crows are going to do your work for you?"
Maedora jerked upright. The porcelain mask of her face cracked into a scowl. "You tread on thin ice, Salim," she whispered. "How you've managed to survive this long in the Lady's service is beyond comprehension."
"Because I get things done," Salim said, and smiled. "Any other mysteries you need me to solve for you today?"
It seemed to Salim that the sound reached him first—a sharp cracking noise. Then pain blossomed across his cheek, Maedora's backhand twisting him halfway around in his seat.
Chairs scraped as Bors and Roshad jumped to their feet, but Salim flung out a hand. "No! Leave it. I'm fine."
The two men slowly took their seats once more, eyes never leaving the psychopomp and her Pharasmins.
"You think you win a victory by baiting me," Maedora said. "That by making me lose my temper, you score a point. But there's only one scorekeeper, Salim, and she doesn't care what pain you experience so long as you can still serve your function. Remember that."
"Trust me," Salim said, wiping the trickle of blood from his lip, "I know that better than you can possibly imagine." He laughed bitterly. "That's part of the problem, isn't it? You can't imagine. You think you're some grand inquisitor, a shepherd of souls, but all your knowledge of mortals comes from the outside. You can take us apart, but you can't relate. So you have to rely on others."
Maedora glowered at him. "I rely on others to gather information—something you clearly don't seem to value. Since the necromancer filth turned out to be a dead end—a dead end that cost the church much, thanks to you—I've had agents and informants infiltrating every cult, every criminal organization, every wizard's circle in this city looking for the soul thieves. And then you come along and kill several of the Freemen—an abolitionist group! Perhaps the one other organization in this entire city whose ethos would prevent it from enslaving souls and selling them."
Salim shook his head. "That's where you go wrong, Maedora—you and all psychopomps. You're manifestations of an ideology, and so you view things in absolutes. You can interrogate others, but you can't question yourselves or go against your nature. But mortals—we do it all the time. We work against our own interests, reinterpret our beliefs—or, as you so kindly reminded me yesterday, betray them through weakness. You're a judge at heart, just like the Lady herself, and so you divide people into groups, and make assumptions based on their characters and intentions. But there's more to it than that." He leaned back in his chair. "The Freemen are the ones harvesting souls, Maedora."
"What?" The psychopomp's eyes went wide, and even her honor guard looked shocked.
"That business in the Bottoms," Salim said. "They have some sort of mechanical engine that siphons out soul energy. They think they're doing good work, freeing souls from Hell's slavery and putting one over on all the evil planes. Go check for yourself, if you like—a bloatmage named Freewoman Caramine can tell you everything. I'm sure she'll be suitably impressed by your less conventional form. Send a report to Ceyanan as well, if you want. But the Freemen are just a front—I'm going to go ahead and find out who's actually behind it." He turned to Bors and Roshad and held out his hand. "Coming?"
The two men glanced at each other, then grabbed his wrist. Salim brought his free hand up to the amulet.
"Where are you going?" Maedora demanded.
Salim gave her a split-lipped smile. "Heaven, of course."
Salim hadn't been sure a psychopomp could look flabbergasted, but Maedora managed. "What? That doesn't make any sense. Why—"
Then her words cut off as the world disappeared.
paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas
Chapter Fourteen
Heathen Shore
Between.
It was always like this. No matter how many times Salim used the amulet, he never got entirely used to it. By all accounts, the transition was instantaneous to outside observers, but Salim knew better than most how subjective time could be. It seemed to slow, spinning with the rest of the world as it swirled down into the amulet's spiral, leaving a vast nothing in its wake. His skin alternately burned and froze as desperate nerves sought to make sense of the sudden absence of sensation, his ears ringing with the deafening silence. Then there was a sharp tug, as if all of Salim's internal organs had been pulled sideways, dragging the surrounding flesh with them.
They were standing in a forest. In every direction, titanic evergreens stretched up and up, their branches beginning thirty feet above and spreading out in a fractal array of blue-green needles. Despite the trees' immense size, buttery sunlight still burned down through the canopy in bright shafts, warming the scene and casting radiant spotlights on the ground. The forest floor, for its part, was completely devoid of underbrush. Instead, a thick, rolling carpet of white mist obscured ev
erything below Salim's knees, its wispy curls strangely unaffected by the bolts of brilliant light. The air was warm and silent.
Or at least, mostly silent. To Salim's right, Roshad groaned. The little man leaned over, one hand on his knee, the other poised to rip away his veil if the contents of his stomach decided to spontaneously eject. Beside him, Bors rested a meaty hand on his partner's back, but looked a little green around the gills himself.
"Hell of a way to travel," Roshad said at last, pushing himself upright. "I feel like I spent five days on a boat, but all at once."
"The amulet can be disconcerting," Salim said. "But don't worry—it doesn't get any better with practice."
Bors squinted upward, his head craning back as he tried to find the tops of the sunlit trees. Salim smiled.
"Don't bother," he told the warrior. "You'll just keep looking up forever. These trees don't have tops, at least not as far as I know."
"Where are we?" Roshad reached a hand into one of the shafts of sunlight. The air sparkled and glowed around his intruding fingers.
"Heaven," Salim said. "Or at least its outskirts."
Roshad goggled at him—one of the few expressions not hindered by his veil. "You were serious."
Salim smiled. "Of course."
Bors kicked at the mist flowing around his feet, sending up an eddy that arced and then splashed back down again. Salim thought it might have been shaped like a dolphin. "So it's true what they say about Heaven being built on a cloud," the big man mused.
"Not really," Salim said. "If you reach down, there's still dirt under there, at least in most places. But I can see how someone catching just a glimpse would think that." He tucked the amulet back into the front of his robes, then turned and began to walk. "Come on."
"How do you know where you're going?" Roshad turned in a circle, looking at the seemingly endless sea of mist and tree trunks. "Everything looks the same here. There's no path."
Pathfinder Tales: The Redemption Engine Page 16