Soulseeker’s Descent

by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  He touched Stern’s Dagger across his chest and was overcome with an irresistible need to visit Nabas. His eyes gleamed. He saw in the mirror the effect that memory had on him.

  “You’re getting old,” he told himself. “You’re the most powerful man in this part of the world, and yet you’re a prisoner. You’ve only been on the throne for six months and you already look like a cat that hasn’t mated for years. You look pissed, Ehréledán. Perhaps an adventure would do you good, even if you don’t have Ságamas the Sailor. I wish he were here, that old fungus-face.” His smile immediately twisted awry. He missed the old sailor from Moragald’Burg, who by now must be riding the waves of the Early Sea. “An adventure wouldn’t come amiss,” he repeated. “Macadamio!”

  “Your Majesty?”

  The butler was a thin old man who wore baggy suits that made him look like a puppet. His white hair was combed back with some kind of gel that kept it in place all day long and that repelled Mérdmerén. He had a large nose like the beak of a macaw. His function was to exclusively serve the king.

  “Take a seat,” the sovereign ordered him. “I’m going to dictate a letter to you.”

  “In your seat, Your Majesty?” said the butler in surprise.

  The luxurious armchair was made of wyvern hide and wood from the forests of Vásufeld.

  “Come on, man, there’s nothing to worry about.”

  The old man went to the chair as he might have to a poisonous flower. He studied the king’s polished and well-organized desk. Still fearful, he sat down.

  “Guards! The butler’s sat down in my chair!” shouted Mérdmerén.

  The old man jumped to his feet at once, pale, and began to stammer something. Two soldiers came in at a run, their spears at the ready. The king was laughing heartily, unable to stop.

  “Just look at his face!” he managed to say.

  The butler and the soldiers were confused. In recent weeks, the king’s behavior had been puzzling.

  Shit, the king thought, his smile fading. I really think I need a vacation soon, or else I’ll go crazy from being shut in here.

  “Everything’s all right,” he told the soldiers and sent them away with a wave of his hand. He addressed the butler. “Come on, man, sit down. It was just a joke.”

  “But, sir,” the old man said reproachfully, like a grandfather confronting his naughty grandson.

  “Silence, and that’s an order. Sit down and take pen and paper.”

  The butler did as he was told. Mérdmerén folded his arms and walked to the nearest window. He looked out at the horizon of the magnificent city of Háztatlon. He had always been awed by its vastness. After six months of reconstruction, the Imperial Palace was regaining its beauty. At the same time, the city continued to grow. After the war, they had seen an intense demographic explosion. The survivors of other villages had come to settle in the capital of the Empire. Business showed signs of progress, and there were rumors that in San San-Tera, an estate that had been famous for its yield had re-emerged. Another farmer, young Lombardo, was already sowing the first batch of coffee on a piece of land he called El Zapotillo.

  “My dear Ságamas the Sailor, comma. I hope your ill-begotten mother, the land of Moragald’Burg, has welcomed you to her inhospitable bosom of mountains and scarcely inhabitable lands. I am writing to you to let you know that the Empire requires a vessel as durable as the Stingray and a captain as valiant as you. Nabas, the prettiest village in these lands, has asked us to pay a visit. The Imperial Palace awaits you with abundant food, a hot bath, and women aplenty. Adventure is on its way. We await your return to this, your second home.”

  “Is that all, Your Majesty?” the butler asked. He was still horrified at having been the object of the king’s joke, something which had never happened to him in his more than fifty years in the service of the Imperial family.

  “Seal it and send it as fast as you can to Moragald’Burg.”

  On the king’s life-hardened face was the trace of a smile, like that of a child. He could already taste those days of adventure again.

  ***

  Lombardo was digging a hole to plant the last coffee bush of the two hundred he had bought for the land the king had granted him in payment for his commitment during the war. He worked the land as his father had taught him, and he had even given the estate the same name. He was sweating profusely under the intense noonday sun. He took off his soaking shirt and got ready to dig in the roots of his coffee tree.

  He had hope for those crops and was thinking about the future. But at times, he was assailed by the memories of those last years. All the misfortune, the flight, the war, the lost comrades… being raped by that gruesome creature called Macabra. He shuddered at the thought. He could not forget, no matter how much he might want to. At least now he could look at other horizons. Going out with Ajedrea of the Recesses was another one of his hopes. Thinking of her made him forget about all those atrocities he had lived.

  “Doña Ajedrea is looking for you,” said one of his farmhands.

  “By the Gods, I’m not even fit to be seen. Tell her I’ll be there in a moment.”

  He ran off to the house. It was a small, simple building but it had been built with the pride of a man who is sowing the seeds of his future.

  ***

  Turi the Crafty had begun to spend time with his cousin Atha. The girl was divine, and the young man idolized her. Her skin with its tone of light copper, her almond eyes and her long chestnut hair vied with her curves. She was currently getting dressed after an intimate moment with Turi, whom she was already impatient to see again. He wanted them to formalize their relationship, for them to be pledged to one another, but he was sure that neither of them would be able to keep their promise in an environment that was changing so rapidly.

  Nobody dared predict the course of the government, although there was optimism in the air. The dukes, the nobles, and the landowners of the different cities were mostly satisfied with the new king, particularly because of the glorious victory against Némaldon that Mérdmerén had won for the Empire. It was said that the king had got rid of the Master, the evil one, and it seemed that nobody remembered what had really happened, which favored Mérdmerén’s good standing with the people.

  “Well then, shall we meet later?” Turi said, trying to sound less interested. But Atha was no fool.

  “I can’t tonight,” she replied and left, graceful in the candlelight.

  Turi had not dressed fully. He regretted having seduced one of the prettiest girls in the Dungeon. The deed would give him something to boast about to his friends and cousins, but it would never satisfy him.

  He missed Greyson and his other uncles. Some now occupied posts in the government, while others lay under the ruins left by the massacre.

  “How time goes by,” he told himself as he stood up. His bare feet touched the cold stone of the sewers that held the Dungeon.

  He took a green apple out of his satchel; he had stolen it in the flourishing market of the Square of the Kings. He sank his teeth in the crisp fruit, and still chewing, went in search of Cail the Intrepid. He found him playing Foreign Sticks, a game imported from Moragald’Burg.

  In it, two contestants faced each other, each one with a single stick—a dry twig—at their feet. The purpose of the game was to break the opponent’s stick by throwing a pebble. It was a very simple game that attracted lots of bets. Often, differences were solved with fists. The Baron had forbidden fights; apart from the fact that violence never led to anything good, the physical evidence would make it easy for the authorities to arrest them. Now that the Faceless Baron was involved in politics, they could feel safer but they had to avoid being overconfident, as the Empire needed to keep up appearances.

  Turi was growing impatient. “Come on, man, get on and win!”

  Cail was missing every chance he was given.

  “I won!” cried Dresco the Pale as he got to his feet. “Five crowns,” he said, reminding him of the terms of the b
et.

  Annoyed, Cail cleared his throat and handed over the coins.

  “The next time I’ll beat you, you’ll see, Fuzzy.”

  Dresco the Pale was an unusual young man. At only fifteen his beard was as bushy as a full-grown man’s, which was why they called him Fuzzy.

  “You need to practice more, Intrepid. You don’t know how to toss the pebble. Ask Turi to teach you.” He turned to go.

  Cail and Turi were silent for a while.

  “You’ve been a bit odd lately, cousin. What’s up with you?”

  “Nah, it’s nothing. Just that I miss adventures, you know what I mean? Six months ago we were defending the Dungeon from invasion, saving Ehréledán from the evil ones, fighting a brutal war. And now what’s left for us? Stealing all over again?”

  “Don’t you like the quiet life, cousin? It seems to me we’re pretty well off. There’s food, safety, and women. What else d’you want?”

  “I want something more. I want to explore new horizons.”

  “Take a break, man. Different times’ll come and you’ll have to prove your skills. Meanwhile, relax. Don’t go hurrying into the wolf’s den when the wolf’s hungry. That’s what Greyson used to say.”

  “Poor old Greyson,” muttered Turi. “The Baron named him a permanent escort to the King, he must be terribly bored. Although with his looks, he’ll have earned some respect in the corridors of the Imperial Palace.”

  “Let’s go to the Thieves’ Market, I’m hungry. I fancy lamb chops. Lend me a crown, I’ll give it back to you another day. I lost all my money against Fuzzy Dresco.”

  “And now you’re planning to eat my money?”

  Cail raised his hand in front of Turi’s eyes. He was holding a leather pouch and shaking it to make it clink.

  Turi went pale.

  “How did you take it from me? You bloody thief!”

  “Oh, come on, cousin. I’ve always followed your tricks, so the least you can do is lend me a bit of money. If you don’t, I’ll tell all the cousins I took your pouch without you noticing. Come to think of it, you’re another one who might need to get away from all this for a while.”

  An idea came to Turi’s mind. He savored it for a moment before making his decision.

  “I’ll be back, cousin. Don’t expect me for dinner.”

  ***

  Evening was falling over the city. Late though it was, the builders and workers were still going on with the work of reconstruction. The pay was worth the effort. The Baron had suggested rewarding the workers well, as this motivated them to do their best. In any case, effort deserved to be rewarded. Slavery and paupers’ salaries had to be abolished. There were dissentient voices, but the Baron was not going to give up his fight for social progress.

  Turi turned into the alleys of one of his favorite quarters: The Black Cat, home to immigrants from distant lands and thieves who did not belong to the Dungeon of Thieves. He loved stealing in this area since he felt he was doing good by taking from those who lived by robbing others. Sometimes he ventured into districts like the Workers’ or The Pink Zone, a wealthy neighborhood where the men and women preferred the company of their own sex. Everyone found a place in Háztatlon, just as long as they paid their taxes.

  The young man slid among the shadows like a cat. He heard whispers; presumably, this was a gang of villains planning some mischief. Crimes were common currency in the enormous city. Someone might be murdered as a result of a quarrel over love, and the body would only be found when the stench began to bother the neighbors. There were not enough soldiers and guards to contain the city’s violence; by now, the city had come to control itself. If crime increased in one sector, someone took a hand in the matter, and if the situation got out of control, the Baron took charge.

  The young man moved between two walls and started to climb up the building with his back against one wall and his feet pushing against the other. He soon reached the roof. At the top, he stopped to reflect. Why this need for a change? He had everything: women, money, reputation, education, family. But something was missing. And he was sure that this something would be found in the adventures he so much longed for.

  The young man reached for his only weapon, a neglected iron dagger he had always carried with him. It had been a gift from the Baron and was still useful to him. Watching the sunset, the work of reconstruction, and the people’s enthusiasm, he sighed. The same idea came back into his mind, and he knew he would follow it to the end. He was determined to follow his convictions. And in addition to that, he missed two great friends whom he considered almost part of his family.

  With a leap, the young acrobat plunged into the shadows once again, heading toward his objective.

  ***

  Mérdmerén was getting ready to go to bed, smiling as he imagined Ságamas opening the letter he had written to him. It would take months to reach him, but months were what he needed to prepare for the adventure and the journey to Nabas. He was planning to stay there for a while, maybe several weeks, to clear his mind. He would go hunting. He might even buy a villa or a small hotel and take charge of the tavern; not to make money, but just for the pleasure of seeing other travelers come and go and listening to happy or sad stories without running any risk. No, not that; now he was the king.

  “You can’t always do as you please,” he told himself with a melancholy smile. You won a crown in exchange for missing out on adventures, he thought.

  The king donned showy pajamas of Érliadon cotton with gold embroidery. It was nighttime. He looked out through a window to admire the dark streets and the background noise of the city.

  He turned around and went towards the bed. He thought about his daughter, who had gone to visit Lombardo on his estate. The young ones were now in a steady relationship, and the king suspected they would soon declare themselves officially engaged. A sudden presentiment made him spin round. In front of him was a pale boy with short black hair and a mischievous look in his eyes. Mérdmerén let out his breath in relief.

  “Hell, Turi. You’re a bastard through and through.”

  “The King has a very common way of expressing himself,” said the thief.

  The king looked displeased. The joke did not make up for the boy having invaded his privacy.

  “If you haven’t come because you’re about to give birth to a rock or because you’ve got a very important message—and I mean very important—you’re bothering me, and you’ll hear more about this.”

  Turi’s face shadowed; he had made a mistake. It occurred to him that Mérdmerén might complain to the Baron himself and the latter would hand out exemplary punishment.

  “Forgive me, My King. I thought—it’s just that—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come into your bedroom like this. I intended to amuse you.”

  “Amuse me,” the king muttered. He no longer seemed angry, but very far away from the palace. “That’s what I need, to have fun and adventures.”

  Turi opened his eyes wide. He and the king shared the same restlessness.

  “I feel trapped amid so much order in all this peace,” he said. “Háztatlon is on the right track now and I’m glad, but my nature’s in search of other horizons.”

  “Sit down,” Mérdmerén said.

  He waved at a round wooden table with a simple copper decoration in the middle, and two chairs. While Turi sat down, the king reached for a crystal bottle and two wooden cups. The sovereign had strange habits.

  “This is the best brandy in the Empire. That’s what the drunkards of Aldebarán swear, though it’s also said that the spirit from Doolm-Ondor is delicious. Others hold that the calista of Moragald’Burg will leave you groggy for a whole day after just a sip.”

  Mérdmerén poured the drink.

  “In wooden cups to remember the frugal times when we were considered the cockroaches of society. I miss those days.”

  Turi laughed silently.

  “It’s true that the life of a cockroach has its good points. But look at everything you have now
.”

  “It’s a lot, and at the same time it’s nothing.”

  “Eh?” Turi cried.

  “Material goods are no use when you’re dead.” The sovereign patted his chest. “What’s in here is what matters to me. And here,” he added, raising a finger to his head. “All luxury does is make us lose ourselves; it shines so brightly it doesn’t allow us to see. When your life’s a frugal one you notice everything around you, like the treasure house of nature.”

  “There’s so much order in the Niche these days that I start to fancy a bit of disaster,” the thief said. “I don’t know. The danger keeps you alert; it means you have to keep your wits about you to survive.”

  “We’re free spirits. We weren’t made to be kept in cages, Turi. That’s the truth. I can say the same about Ságamas. Even about Leandro, although the general’s mellowed with fatherhood, and now he’s living comfortably in the court. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. Maybe Leandro is more malleable but as for us, we’ve grown up amid the rubbish, we miss the filth, however crazy that may sound. Bottoms up now, it’s the best way to take a top-quality brandy.”

  Turi followed the king’s advice. When he swallowed he felt the burning and gave a choked moan. Mérdmerén poured another round.

  “I’ve been dreaming about adventures with a passion I can’t control. I feel like running away. But I’m aware of my responsibilities, and how angry the Baron’ll be if I leave instead of keeping to my side of the deal. I already regret that deal, but that’s the way things are.”

  Turi thought for a moment.

  “Unless the adventure was an errand of the Gods,” he whispered and downed his drink in a single gulp.

  “Don’t leave me behind, man,” Mérdmerén said. He drank and poured the third round.

  “Why don’t we go visit Ságamas in Moragald’Burg?” the boy suggested in a voice heavy with alcohol.