by Luke Arnold
The stars fought the clouds while I bought a bottle from the corner store and dragged my feet up the steps to my office. I threw my bloody, pissy clothes in a pile in the corner and used a wet cloth to wash the grime from the mirror. I didn’t look as bad as I felt, but that wasn’t much comfort. If I looked as bad as I felt my whole face would be back on the prostitute’s floor. My nose appeared to be the stand-out performer in this band of mangled features. It wasn’t the first time I’d broken it but I used to have a medic around to do the cracking and administer the medicine. Now, I couldn’t even think of a friend who would come around to snap my face back into place.
I opened my gullet and let the whiskey flow in. It helped, but you might as well pour a cup of water on the desert and say you’ve stopped the drought.
I let it seep into my blood before I put my fingers to my face and felt someone kick in my sinuses. I swore, took them away and had another slug. I drained the bottle. I got up and paced around the room cursing some more. I slapped the top of my head and found new bruises. I sat down again and held my nose, closed my eyes, jerked it to the left.
Not hard enough.
I screamed into my fist and threw the empty bottle at the wall. It was a few minutes before I tried again. During the second attempt, I heard a click bounce around my whole stupid head. It dislodged some blood clots at the back of my throat that fell into my guts. I managed to make it to the sink before the whole bottle of whiskey came back up.
I washed my face, wiped the sink clean of blood and filled it with water to soak my stinking clothes. I dropped in some soap and then I dropped myself on the bed. I slept through the day, and when night came, I just kept on sleeping.
There was someone in my room.
Not enough light to see them, but I knew they were there. They weren’t moving. I wasn’t moving. I was stark naked with toilet paper stuffed into my nose and nothing in arm’s reach but a bloody pillow and my own limp dick.
When the light flicked on, I jumped up on my knees and pulled back my elbow, readying a punch.
The intruder didn’t flinch. He had the body of a boy and the delicate features of a beautiful woman but with a pencil-thin mustache that might have actually been pencil. He was holding out a lamp and was better dressed than anyone I’d seen in Sunder for years. Expensive velvet garments in charcoal and blue with a deep-purple cape that fell over his shoulders. He had painted nails, clean boots and two thin blades strapped to his belt.
“Hello, Mr Phillips.”
I took a long enough pause to see that his weapons weren’t drawn before I collapsed back and covered my privates with the sheet. I’d reopened the scars on my arm and lip, and fresh blood dripped on to the bed.
“It seems you’ve been learning some lessons,” he continued. “I believe your schooling may not be over for th—”
“Is that a cape?”
He stopped, mid-word, with his pretty little mouth hanging open.
“W-what?”
“Are you wearing a cape?”
“Yes. I—”
“Who the hell wears a goddamn cape? What are you?”
“I have been sent by—”
“Eat a dick.”
“Excuse me?”
“Excuse you? I don’t know why I should. You break into my place in the middle of the night and wake me up in my birthday suit. There is a thing called business hours.”
“It’s exactly your business that I have come to talk about.”
“Then business hours it is. Come back after midday and wear something sensible.”
I rolled over and showed him my ass.
“Mr Phillips!” The little shit was getting really agitated now. “You’re going to want to hear what I have to say.”
“Go practice your trapeze act, Flyboy, before I make you eat your outfit.”
The toilet paper fell out of my nose while I talked, so I shoved the crimson plugs back in.
“Mr Phillips. I bring you a message on behalf of The League of Vampires; the mighty protectors of the weak and bringers of justice. It has come to our attention that—”
“Are you a Vampire?” I didn’t even roll over.
“It has come to our attention that—”
“You’re just a messenger, right? That’s what you said?”
“I come on behalf of the League—”
“But you’re not a Vampire?”
“… I am not.”
“Then don’t say ‘our attention’. It has come to their attention.”
He stopped talking for so long I almost fell back to sleep.
“It has come to their attention that you have been investigating the disappearance of a member of the Blood Race. We have been watching y—”
“They have.”
He sighed.
“They have been watching you for some time and have allowed your investigation to continue because… they had faith that your interests and theirs were the same. Now they fear that your lack of care is more of a danger to their cause than a benefit. You will stop your investigation. You will not mention the Blood Race. You will abandon your meager attempt to find Mr Rye or there will be consequences.”
“What about the girl?”
“What girl?”
I rolled over and plucked the paper from my nostrils.
“Ahhh. They didn’t tell you everything, did they, kid? A girl is missing and a ticking in my brain tells me it isn’t a coincidence. The League hasn’t even mentioned her, have they? They’re just looking out for their own.” The doubt that washed over the kid’s face was easier to read than first-grade homework. “So maybe I’m not hot on the trail here, but if it’s all the same to you, I’m going to do my job and collect my money till this thing is over.”
He shook his head like a disappointed parent.
“You’re a drunk. You’re a liability. On behalf of The League of Vampires, I am warning you to stay out of our way.”
He blew out the fire in the lamp and the room went dark.
“Wow. Spooky kid. Are you out there creeping around trying to get out without me hearing you? When the League get to town, I’ll tell them how impressive your performance has been. Ten points for concept but only five for execution. I’m going back to sleep now.”
I tried to go back to sleep. I was too full of bile and clotted blood to care about some ancient organization making threats from the shadows, but I knew I’d skipped over something, somewhere, while my mind had been dealing with grudges and rotgut instead of missing old men and runaway girls.
Up in the night sky, somebody turned on the rain real hard. It clamored on the window like an untrained drummer trying to get my attention, but my mind was back in the old days, before I’d made so many mistakes.
The second mark was made by my friends…
My whole life, I’ve been introduced to things that I might intellectually understand but not actually be able to experience myself. Flight was a big one. The first time I saw someone take to the skies, my sense of wonder was crushed beneath a deep, bitter jealousy. I could almost understand Weatherly after that; why someone would build those walls rather than look upon miracles that weren’t meant for them.
Camaraderie eluded me in much the same way. I tried to summon it many times, in every institution I served in: singing anthems and slapping backs and calling people brother or mate. I could say the words but they were always empty. Feeling like part of a group seemed as impossible as soaring into the sky.
Family was another idea that never quite got into my bones. Maybe I could let myself off the hook on that one, circumstances being what they were, but I’m sure someone else could have found a real connection in the Kane household where I only saw nice folks doing me a favor.
Love? Who the hell knows? Does anyone really understand that one? There are a million poets around the world right now still trying to crack that code.
Then, there’s friendship.
I get the idea, of course, but it looks different when ot
her people do it. They seem at ease with each other, while I always feel like a tourist. During my first year in Sunder City, I thought people spent time with me as some sort of charity. I wasn’t witty or insightful or especially interesting, so I thought they only kept me around to be nice. It was only later, looking back at the laughs and the long nights in the bar, that I realized Hendricks might have been different.
I was struggling through my second night as a wash-boy at The Ditch. It was owned back then by a Dwarf named Titan Tatterman, who paid too little, shouted too much and usually passed out drunk before the end of the night. It was only because he was such an asshole that I was able to get the job.
I’d washed up in Sunder without qualification, contacts or experience and on top of that, I was Human. That meant there was always someone who could do the job faster and better than I could. You want a scout? Employ some Elven eyes. In need of excavation? Only a Gnome will do. You need weapons and don’t go Dwarven? When your gear falls to pieces it’s your own damn fault.
All I had was wide-eyed enthusiasm and a willingness to do the jobs nobody else would bother with. Usually, that meant that I was cleaning.
I’d wiped down the tables, rinsed the glasses, stacked the plates, and was tentatively prodding old Tatterman who was asleep in a booth, when someone rapped on the glass pane of The Ditch’s front door.
I turned to see a golden face framed by hair that was the color of copper wire and just as straight. His broad smile suggested familiarity but I was certain I’d never seen him before. I unlatched the door, ready to explain that we were closed for the night, but before I could open my mouth he chuckled and said, “Well, look at you.”
Just the act of his eyes taking me in seemed to change me. He had such presence that, as stupid as it sounds, I was struck by the profound realization that I existed. I had gotten so used to being part of the background, watching others, being amazed rather than amazing, that it was almost like I wasn’t really there. Most folk only acknowledged me in passing glances. Hendricks looked at me like I was an exotic plant that had sprouted up through the floorboards.
“I heard a little whisper that you come from Weatherly,” he continued, placing a hand on my shoulder.
“Uh, that’s right.”
“Fantastic!” He brushed past, into the bar. “I want you to tell me everything. It’s one of the few places on the continent where I have never been allowed entry. Which, to be honest, I find absolutely infuriating. I have never met someone who visited the walled city, let alone lived there. What a treat this is!”
As he spoke, his hands soared wildly around him. Even if you couldn’t hear his melodious, articulate voice, I imagine you could get a fair sense of what he was saying just through his gestures.
“Now,” he continued, “what are we drinking?”
I looked dumbly between the stranger and my comatose boss, face down on a table.
“Uh, we’re closed.”
He swatted my words out of the air with a laugh.
“This is Sunder City, boy, nothing ever closes.” He peeled a bronze leaf from his pocket, lifted up one of Tatterman’s fat fingers, slid the note underneath and left it there. “Now, have you ever tried burnt milkwood?”
The Opus was formed by Wizards, Elves and Fae at the end of the Fifth War. Over the centuries, other magical species joined their ranks until it became the most powerful organization in the world, responsible for protection, education and lawmaking across all lands.
Members were selected from every race, but the Wizards, Elves and Fae each nominated a High Chancellor to take position at the very top. Their job was not so much to rule, but to act as figureheads, entrusted with bringing the entire organization together. For the last one hundred years, the Elven Chancellor had been Eliah Hendricks.
Eliah was a High Elf in love with the low places in life. He had an unrivaled enthusiasm for adventure, romance, food, drink and conversation and his position ensured that he was given a warm welcome all across Archetellos.
Almost.
Weatherly was the one great city he had never visited and I was his first informant from the inside.
We talked till dawn on that first encounter and he came back every night that week. He wanted to know everything I could remember about growing up. Did we have indoor plumbing? Yes. What were our staple foods? Potatoes, chicken, beans. What was our education like? Rigid, and focused on productivity. Did anybody ever step outside the walls? No. And eventually, how did I escape?
Nobody had asked me about my story before. Not really. They got the broad strokes and stopped being interested. Hendricks picked me clean of every detail and relished in the journey as if he had been by my side. While I recounted my experience of leaving the walls, he began hopping up and down. When I told him of the Satyr in the shack he practically screamed.
“My word, boy! And what did you think when you saw him?”
“I… was beside myself, I guess.”
“Of course you were! How marvelous. Aren’t they incredible? Beautifully kind people, each and every one of them. Then what happened?”
For the first time ever, I was able to share my life with someone who seemed to care. Hendricks didn’t just listen; he cheered me along like he was watching a sporting match and every new piece of information was a point for his team.
“Oh, bravo! Yes! Aren’t those lamplighters just a dream!”
I showed him my tattoo and it brought him great amusement.
“You know, the Opus started this tradition.” He pulled back the sleeve of his fine velvet blazer to reveal a single tattoo of detailed black lines that flashed olive-green when it caught the light. “Almost three hundred years ago, the first marks were drawn onto all the magical leaders that agreed to the truce. Each pattern is individually designed but all of them symbolize the great river of magic that flows through each and every one of us.” He looked up just in time to see my smile falter, which made him laugh heartily. “Well, almost all of us. These days, many organizations copy our little ritual. You Humans are an inherently jealous species, you know.”
He winked and refilled our glasses for the fifth time.
When Hendricks left Sunder, so much of my life seemed to go with him. Lucky for me, he was never too far away. The continent was relatively stable and Sunder had become Hendricks’ pet project. Previous High Chancellors had treated the fire city as an enemy, attempting to kill it with legislation and embargos. Hendricks saw its potential. Or, he at least appreciated its power. Rather than battle it from the outside, he hoped to lure it into the Opus from within. However, Sunder needed a bit of sculpting before it would be accepted as part of the united Archetellos.
Most of the work was being done by Hendricks himself: whispering honey-scented compliments into the ears of ministers or buttering up the bumptious Governor Lark. He wasn’t completely alone, though. As I learned from a letter that arrived at The Ditch one morning.
My Darling Fetch, I need a small favor. A friend of mine is coming to Sunder but I have been called away on other business. As she is a member of the Fae, I must be very careful whose care I leave her in. You know from our conversations how delicate the relationship is between Sunder and the Spirit-race. Her arrival could be a profoundly positive move towards creating a partnership. Or it could be an absolute clusterfuck. With that in mind, I can think of no better man for the job.
She will be waiting for you on the Southern Main Street Bridge at noon tomorrow. Her name is Amarita Quay. I’m sorry, but I already have a huge smile on my face in anticipation of your meeting. Be careful, my dear boy, she’s got splinters.
To understand Hendricks’ nervousness about a member of the Fae arriving in town, you need to know a little Sunder City history.
When the Opus was formed, the Fae wrote the rulebook on how to work the land, and the whole continent welcomed their assistance. The Faeries had the seeds, the natural spells and a relationship to the elements that was unmatched. It was universally accept
ed that if a local Faery blessed your farm, it would suffer no droughts, no floods, and crops would likely flourish.
Most cities and species worked within those rules, until a bunch of Dragon-slayers discovered a limitless supply of energy right beneath their feet. So, the slayers grouped together, brought in some building partners, and built themselves a city from scratch.
Other than the fire, Sunder City was utterly impractical. There was no adjacent farmland ready to sustain crops. No natural food for cattle or sheep. The mountains to the north blocked out much of the sunshine and when the nearby streams overflowed, they made the plains all sodden and marshy.
But the slayers and their business partners didn’t care. They had pits of fire beneath their feet and that was all they needed. The Dwarves built a mighty furnace up on one of the hills, and great mounds of metal were being pumped out within months. They made factories, forges and steel mills, so blacksmiths and artisans came to work them. Of course, to make steel they needed to make iron, which was seen as another insult to the Fae. Each new piece of industry dug an even deeper line between Sunder and the rest of the world.
Canals were cut into the earth to control the water, flushing out the filth and letting the topsoil dry. They drove steel beams into the rock to solidify the foundations and lift Sunder City up off the land.
Before long, they were producing more material than they needed. The excess was shipped off around the world and the profits were used to import food to feed the workers. In under five years, the first ever city without farmland was born.
Sunder was the ultimate insult to the Faery-folk. It was a fire-fueled slab of steel that carved its way into the earth without any sense of the future. The Fae refused to cooperate in its creation or provide any of the citizens with support.
Poverty seeped into the shanty towns and shacks that sprung up on the outskirts of the city. During its first true wave of immigration, Sunder City met disease. In other areas of the world there was always a plant or potion to be found. In Sunder, there was no natural world left. There was only garbage, sewerage, starvation and broken skin. It was an exploding population of desperate families who’d left their homes with the hope of something better and wouldn’t turn back till they found it.