by Sean Heslin
The central figure rustled in its chair and focused blackened, corpselike eyes on Rancha.
In a voice as deep as the ocean the person spoke.
“Deal.”
And that was that.
Chapter 8
“Forbidden knowledge isn't half as fun as carnal knowledge”
- Xinci Maelrunner, in a pub, past the watershed, 2228 C.M.
Ihjundas led the miserable Rancha and the irate Perci back to the waiting pedal cart. Ihjundas gave Rancha the once-over and saw that he was in no fit state to do the pedalling. He knew that Perci would refuse point-blank, so he concentrated a little, shouting noiselessly. After a few seconds, a workman trotted out of a side door and looked to Ihjundas for instructions. The fact that he then never heard any such instructions did not seem to bother him and like most employees at the palace/castle he took Ihjundas' new ability in stride and immediately hopped up into the driver’s seat. The other three clambered up, squashing up on a bench made for two. There was an unpleasant odour.
“Where to, boss?” The man looked over his shoulder at Ihjundas. A silent destination was provided, so the man commenced to aggressively pedal at a more economical speed than Rancha had done previously.
Perci had stopped being irate for a few moments to watch this mostly silent charade. He turned to Rancha. “My new boon companion! Why is the old fart being so quiet? Who is he anyway?”
“He currently talks with his mind, you berk,” said Rancha, waving a hand, preoccupied. “Now shuttup I'm trying to think.”
Perci's face immediately turned so red he appeared liable to explode. The spittle mounted in his mouth, ready to fly…but Ihjundas interceded, adopting a questioning countenance. Perci then had the ridiculous look of a person trying to be angry and puzzled at the question that had been inserted into his mind at the same time, which Rancha would have found funny if he had been paying attention. Perci lapsed into a beetroot silence, his brow crinkling heavily as he attempted to cope with current events.
Rancha gave up thinking and decided to make Ihjundas explain matters fully for a change.
“Ihjundas,” he said, “Who the hell was the Apple Seller of Franchick?”
Chapter 9
“Old stories are the best stories, older stories are nothing new.”
- Jerimiamac The Storysmith, 3912 C.M.
Approximately two thousand six hundred and three years ago, within a marketplace in a town called Franchick, which was in turn located near the Deserts of Trallis (west of Slumberland), there was once a particularly bad, nasty and mightily vengeful thief. Not bad or nasty as in he was any good at his occupation, but bad for the more straightforward reason that he was terrible at it.
This reputation was on the whole attributed to the unfortunate and pungent smell emanating from every pore, that often alerted any potential victims to his presence.
After the six hundredth and seventy-second bungled attempt at repossessing other people's possessions, he decided he had had enough and ventured out across the nearby desert in the hopes of joining one of the tribes which usually roamed that vicinity. He had heard they had a particularly good life with posh tents and plenty of food, water, wine and other more interesting pleasures. This rumour would have surprised any member of a tribe that heard such, as they were all in reality sick to their back teeth of constantly tipping sand out their sandals, getting sand in their beds, washing sand out their hair, eating sand for practically every meal, and of course the damn sand that they had to live amongst for every single day of their miserable and sand-blown existence. Oh and the sun, but they were used to that.
The ninth-rate thief took to wandering and after two weeks he became pretty fed up. The various tribes had thus managed to avoid him so far as they had smelt him a mile off. So, there he was sitting on a dune picking sand out of his ears, when suddenly the ground shook a bit and a magnificent temple shaped like the head of some great beast rose up out of the next dune over (the head was made sandstone of course), glaring at him in an imposing manner as if to say “Come and greet your destiny.”
Unfortunately for the thief, he was facing the wrong way, with fingers in gritty ears, so he did not notice the giant stick its stony tongue out at him and sink back into the ground after a few minutes.
Two days later he was just about ready to pack it in and return to whatever town was nearby when fate, that ignoble perennial interferer, intervened. He tripped over a very small apple tree. Some sand went up his nose, so he sneezed on the plant. Out of nowhere, a stereotypical mighty, booming voice commanded him. “You have given water to this lonely little shrub. For your kindness you must now go forth as its protector; spread its fruit and you will gain good fortune.”
The thief said words to the effect of: “Yeah right, pull the other one it’s got a janglefrond on it,” to which the voice replied, “Look matey I'm not mucking around here, look after the bloody weed and you might stand a chance of getting something good out of this, never mind that if you don't I shall smite you with that pinscuttle sitting on that rock over there, you see if I don’t!”
The thief looked at the pinscuttle menacing him from its rock with the pointy bit of its tail, looked at the tiny plant which was possibly, or possibly not glowing, mulled over his choices and agreed to the task.
And so it was good.
Several months later, the little apple tree had grown at a frankly miraculous rate and spread its fruit fairly widely. Next thing he knew, the ex-thief was now the proud owner of several acres of prime orchard, two houses (one in town, one nowhere near the bloody sand), several apple stalls in markets across eight countries, and a cider distillery.
The ex-thief himself, greatly pleased at his fortune, spread his own fruit fairly widely, much to the disgruntlement of several women who found themselves stuck with several bawling children. He did, however, allocate a large sum of his fortune to making sure all his offspring were well provided for, so that was probably okay. Several decades later, long after the thief had died a happy, fat old man, these various children of assorted provenance got together and argued, squabbled and eventually feuded over who got to keep the old fools vast wealth, orchard and of course the extremely lucrative distillery. The lawyers then managed to “misplace” the will, and so kept the majority of the money for themselves as a “percentage”. Some years later when most parties involved were regretfully deceased, generally due to alcohol poisoning, the orchard had fallen into disrepair and turned into building materials for various properties. When the whole effort was forgotten and finally reduced back down to one solitary shrub, only one direct great, great, great, great, great, great-grandchild of the original thief turned apple seller remained, who, to his immense surprise, received a large amount of cash from some contractors who were knocking down the old offices of the cheating lawyers and had finally found the missing will.
The lucky guy set himself and his family up with a nice castle and airy title to go with it, perched on the side of the Valley of Deranged Meanings, which was actually a rather nice place, originally home to an old madwoman who had given the Valley its name for her reasons known only to herself, but nobody was inclined to be prejudiced against her. The fable of the Apple Seller of Franchick entered back into popular consciousness and a bit of tourism was to be had around Trallis for a while.
When the lucky descendant finally died, he left his estate and title to his only son Perci. His nine older sisters complained hellishly, but the father was a sad old fool with both feet firmly planted in Tradition.
The owner of the mysterious voice, a rock and a pinscuttle was never learned.
Chapter 10
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g campaign, 3091 C.M.
Rancha leaned back on his seat and considered the philosophical ramifications of the tale related, and vaguely wondered if he was supposed to feel enlightened. He supposed not; as stories went there had been the barest modicum of plot, a contemptible set of protagonists and no moral teachings whatsoever, so the yarn was of the kind that could have only have possibly happened in real life. The next words to reach his tongue spoke much about his opinion.
“Who even likes apples that much? Enchanted tree aside, that guy sounded like he couldn't sell fruit to a starving streg.”
Ihjundas shrugged and indicated with a nod, that he thought the story was bad too, but that’s the way it was, don’t blame me for the way I tell it.
“What?” spluttered Perci. “That's my ancestor you are talking about! My family! How do you have the gall to make such libellous comment? Huh? How would you feel if I impinged the honour of your family?”
Rancha regarded him cooly, his glands banging inside his head again. “Well, as you are sat next to the only person that I really consider family any more, and by my count, you have insulted my heritage thirty-seven times since I met you, how do you think I feel about the honour of your family?”
Ihjundas went very straight-faced and directed his ears to Perci, very much wishing to hear his answer.
Family honour clashed with the public perception that he craved deep within Perci's mind, causing him to go mildly cross-eyed. A synaptic safety fuse that only nobility seemed to possess was tripped in his hindbrain, instantly causing the selective amnesia that the over-privileged often suffer from, instantly erasing the last few moments and making him pretend that the issue just raised did not exist at all.
“Driver!” he blurted. “We are slowing down! Are we nearly there? Wherever it is?”
The peddling attendant turned his head slightly “..ep,” he wheezed “I…thi...nk so…you had…all.. bet..ter.” He gave one final wheeze and fell forward over the steering, clearly exhausted. The cart shuddered down to its bones and slid to a gentle halt. A few moments passed in expectant silence before Rancha prodded the attendant in the back, eliciting a snore.
“Um.”
Well, this looks like where we get off, Ihjundas projected, giving the impression of bright tones in his silent words, Come on you two we are going up to the Storeroom to get kitted up before you go to the Chamber Of Significant Exits and get on with your, ha, sacred quest.
This burst of silent conversation and its content was clearly too much for Perci, as he remained in a perplexed silence up another set of stairs. At the top of these particular steps was a broad landing with multiple overly large doors leading from it. The lighting here was dim and the doors were obliquely imposing structures, so Rancha felt more than a little edgy. This was one of the few sections of the sprawling complex with which he was not entirely familiar as, usually, it was off-limits to anyone who didn’t have a damn good reason for being here.
Perci took his cue from his designated guide, also feigning to look uncomfortable. “So what happens here?” he asked Ihjundas, out of sheer nervous habit more than anything. “I hope you aren't wasting my time! I do have a quest to complete you know!”
Ihjundas indulged in the standard upwards staring gesture, pleading help from the nearest available deity. Then he sauntered up to one of the scary doors and gently pushed the egress open. Ihjundas waved and bowed deeply to Perci, in a manner that Rancha was not entirely sure was sincere. Perci raised his shoulders and accepted the honour afforded to him by this obvious obsequiousness, nodding curtly as he passed under the arch. Rancha watched Ihjundas struggling to hide a smirk, shrugged and followed Perci with his human-shaped head held high in a noble affectation of airs and graces.
“Ihjundas, what is behind those other doors?” said Rancha. “I thought there was only one public way into the Storeroom?”
Ihjundas considered the question as they walked down the next passage. Well, he implied somehow conveying incredible amounts of information with his countenance, Behind the far right one is a semi-bottomless pit, but we put mattresses and a ladder down there because people kept falling in it. The next one has some spring-loaded crossbows, triggered when you open the door, but they also make great flower holders. One of the others used to be a pinscuttle pit, but I think Grinwalder keeps a potty collection down there. There are some quite fascinating ones as well, he emoted wistfully. Anyway the third on the left was some sort of room that had walls that crushed you slowly, but Grinwalder got fed up of the wall moving every time one of the potties fell off a shelf on the other side of the wall, so it doesn’t work anymore. I can't remember what the rest are, but suffice to say this is the only one that goes where we want it to.
“Old man,” said Perci, finally getting the knack of listening, though the lack of anything to listen to belied this new skill. “Who or what is this stupid Grinwalder?”
“I am.”
Five minutes later, when their pulses had returned to normal, they were sat in the office of a very apologetic Grinwalder, sipping a tea-like substance, except for Perci who was very nervously clinking a beer bottle. A high ABV one at that. Rancha felt that he was only drinking the strong beer out of sheer perverse awkwardness. It was half-past two in the afternoon. Who even did that?
Grinwalder was one of the rarer of the sentient species, a gargoyle, though the very large and spiky stone layered people did prefer their own name for themselves, however not many other people had the requisite vocal apparatus to pronounce it, so gargoyles to the masses they were.
Grinwalder, asked Ihjundas, What in the name of all the hells is that thing? He nodded towards a large black box with leather straps and some sort of conical nozzle on the front, which had previously been strapped onto Grinwalder’s spiny face but was now resting on a pile of paperwork, which in turn was on top of a nearby spare chair. Grinwalder did not like filing cabinets.
“That is my Phonical Amplification Combination Gas Filter Module With A Built-In Language Detector. I'm terribly sorry if it shocked you all a bit but it's ever so handy for talking to people on the other side of the hall.” The eight-foot tall stone-skinned monster seemed truly humble and apologetic.
Are we still calling it a hall? asked Ihjundas. I thought it had been reclassified again.
There was no doubt in Rancha's mind to which hall the two old friends were referring to. They could see it out of the window of the tiny room. Beyond the walls of the temporary cabin office set up in an insignificant corner, was a veritable cavern of a room. Shelves upon shelves upon boxes upon crates upon skips upon yet more shelves of stuff filled the uncannily enormous warehouse nicely to the brim. There were rumoured to be a couple of towers and an ex-barracks that were also part of the collection of items gathered from everywhere in the world, the moon, the demon dimension and a few other places besides.
“It isn't so bad calling it a hall. I'm just glad they got the filters working again. Do you know how annoying it was having everything rendered useless around here every Alteration, because it changed technological eras at the drop of a quantum hat? Glad the Storeroom isn't changing any more. Too much paperwork.”
Ihjundas was tinkering with the amplification mask. I do read the reports, he emoted. Sometimes.
Perci opened his mouth to say something, a set to his lips that suggested to Rancha that either he was about to say something a) Incredibly insulting about gargoyles, or b) Ask a stupid question.
“So, Grinwalder,” he said quickly. “Nice to meet you. Perci here has not been here before. Maybe you could tell him a little more about your establishment?”
“The Storeroom? Sure! A potted history then. Hmm.” Grinwalder's face spikes bunched up in thought. “Okay, once upon a time, some forward-thinking individual back in the palace/castle's history decided to take advantage of the situation presented by the constantly shifting décor, in that various useful objects were left in conspicuous places around the complex and left to change with the Alte
ration. When a suitable era of technology was reached, the items would then be gathered up and deposited in the Storeroom, preserved in whatever state they were in. This was good because you could transform something like a water divining stick into the very latest in echo-scan ultrasound water detection monitoring equipment and then back again. Frankly, the stick always works better. It also serves as storage for the various costumes required by people who are going on secret missions for the governments of the world and any dozy attendants or visitors who have forgotten to leave their spare clothes in their change-proof wardrobes when the Alteration comes, which tends to leave them with two suitcases full of itchy sackcloth. Fun fact – there is a field that most living creatures exude that prevent most stuff they wear or carry from changing, so they just found a way to do that on an industrial scale. When it works.”
Perci finally emerged from his earlier shock, was now in a state of alcohol-induced boredom.
“Must you prattle on, you... you beast?” His eyes focused on one of Grinwalder’s forehead lumps.
“The word is gargoyle, Perci, be polite,” said Rancha. “But yes, I would like to get on with things please Grinwalder, the sooner the quest is over the better. I need a nap.”
“Where are my manners! Of course, of course! Ihjundas, what brings you so far from home?”
Well, Grinwalder, these people, and I use the term loosely, intimated Ihjundas, require suitable equipment for the quest which you should have received a memo for by now.
Grinwalder grimaced, a mighty feat with his facial protrusions. “You know what the mail is like around here.” An arm indicated a pile of assorted plastic tablets, parchment and occasional sheaf of laser printer paper. “It takes me ages just to get through last week’s requests, never mind the recent stuff. Tell you what, you tell me approximately what you might need and we'll go for a wander through the stacks and pick out some of the good stuff. Least I can do for you, old friend!”