Ghosts of Sanctuary

by Robert J. Crane

  “And you think—”

  “I think that those idiots—admittedly probably not very worldly—in the alleyway … didn’t know what a troll was.” Vaste swallowed, the churning feeling in his stomach making him want to sit down. Or perhaps bend double and heave. “It leaves me with a very, very bad feeling, Alaric. My people were not wise. They were not well regarded. The fact that they are now unknown in the largest city in Arkaria …”

  “It was the largest city in Arkaria,” Alaric said, holding up a hand as though that mere act would assuage the worry charging through Vaste’s mind. “We do not know that it remains so, nor what shape this world has beyond the walls of the city, nor, indeed, within them, entirely, yet.”

  “I don’t see how with those things in the sky that this world grows anything but closer together,” Vaste said. “Trade between the humans and the elves opened up everything, and ushered in peace, prosperity and communication between your people and those long-eared, insufferable arses like nothing before. Those ships,” and he pointed again at another airship, coming from a different direction, “herald a web of communication and knowledge and goods exchanged that we could scarcely have imagined even if we thought the shackles of magical control by the Leagues would be utterly thrown off. The idea that my people are out there, somewhere, and unknown—”

  “To idiot street thugs about to assault strangers in a back alley of Reikonos?” Alaric wore a faint smile, and Vaste felt the light sting of his sarcasm. “Of course. These people are, after all, surely the most knowing and worldly and elite among us. It is absolutely inconceivable that they might possess a gap in their knowledge of creatures in this world.”

  “You are dismissing my fears,” Vaste said with a sigh.

  “I would caution you not to embrace a fear that has yet to prove itself true,” Alaric said. “There is plenty to worry about in any given day without resorting to worrying about the things that are entirely unfounded—and this remains one of them. We don’t know what has happened to your people, nor even if these fools in the alley knew of what they spoke. Wait. Learn. Ask questions of those who would know such things … and then, if your investigation yields worrying results, by all means, worry.”

  “I just can’t bring myself to think that way, Alaric,” Vaste said. “Why, if I didn’t worry about the impossible things that have never happened, I’d be firmly stuck without anything to worry about at all.”

  Alaric let out a soft chuckle. “I think we both know—given all that seems to happen around Sanctuary—that is untrue.”

  “But …” Vaste said, staring up again, “… they built a statue of him, Alaric.”

  “Many of them, in point of fact,” Alaric said, looking evenly at Vaste with his lone eye. “All throughout the city.”

  Vaste stood there, sullen. “Is there at least one of me?”

  “My search has been hardly exhaustive, but as near as I can tell … no.” The Ghost folded his arms before him. “But neither are there any of me, or of Curatio. Most of our comrades have been similarly neglected.”

  “And who’s this ineffable bastard?” Vaste threw a thumb over his shoulder at the other statue, the one next to Cyrus, robed and standing tall.

  “I believe that is the Lord Protector of Reikonos,” Alaric said, turning his eye toward the Citadel. “As near as I can garner, he is the leader or ruler of this place now.”

  “Not someone we know, then,” Vaste said, looking up at the very human ears on the statue of the Lord Protector.

  “He certainly doesn’t look like anyone I know,” Alaric said, giving the statue a glance. “Though I have found no name given in my examinations; he is merely called the Lord Protector, ‘Our Lord’ or ‘Our Protector.’”

  “Well, I’m going to guess based on my governing criteria of statues that he’s either an idiot or a tyrant,” Vaste said, and when Alaric looked at him questioningly: “Well, look who else they built a statue to. And the only type of person who builds a statue proclaiming their own amazing-ness would have to be a tyrant of the highest order.”

  “Perhaps,” Alaric said, “but forgive me if I reserve judgment until I know more. This city, while certainly not without flaws—some you have seen and some you have not—is also a place of wonder, and whoever rules it has some small knowledge of making it so.”

  “Maybe,” Vaste said, stingily conceding this. “But still … look who they worship!” And he threw his hand out to point at the Cyrus statue again. “Mark my words, Alaric. Goat parades will follow this—this—idiocy.”

  “I rule out nothing,” Alaric said, a trace of humor playing across his face. “But perhaps you might look more charitably on your sworn brother once you have a chance to better digest these … changes.”

  “I doubt it. Statues of Cyrus. Goat parades.” He let out a sigh. “I hate this town already. Again.”

  “Then let us finish our business here with expediency, that we might move on,” Alaric said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Come—let us return to Sanctuary. For I suspect that our friends are waiting for us even now …”

  11.

  Cyrus

  “I’m glad we didn’t wait on the others to eat,” Cyrus said, mouth full of a turkey leg as he gnawed it madly, trying to take every succulent scrap from the bones. The skin was perfectly roasted, the meat within tender and juicy. Delicious, really.

  The hearth in the Great Hall roared along one side of the room, and torches flickered in sconces lining the walls. There might only be one table within the room now, Cyrus reflected, but it was a grand one, laden with innumerable delicacies.

  “I had quite forgotten the simple joy of eating,” Curatio said, attacking a salad of greens with fresh tomatoes and sliced cucumbers with a fervor. It had been dressed with some sauce he’d poured from a bottle, and Cyrus eyed the entire bowl with great skepticism. He had his eye on a roast of beef rib that lay just to Vara’s left, and motioned to her for it. With a roll of her eyes, she paused in her own eating and handed it to him. He sliced a piece the size of a boot and tore a strip loose with his teeth.

  “Manners, husband,” Vara said, her own fork poised before her mouth, similarly laden with greens. Elves, Cyrus thought, carefully suppressing an eyeroll. “Our esteemed guest seems to have lost her appetite by the mere act of watching you attack your food like a feral hog its dinner.”

  “What?” Shirri looked up from her empty plate. “No, I’m not—”

  “She’s not even looking at me,” Cyrus said, barely waiting for a bite of beef to slide down his throat before rebutting that clear falsehood.

  “For good reason,” Vara said. “If you could see yourself—”

  “My appearance didn’t seem to bother you earlier.”

  “You didn’t have half a cow in your mouth then.”

  “No, but I had a lovely taste of elf in it when I—”

  “I see the newlyweds are still arguing.” Alaric’s voice rang out in the hall as he appeared in a dense patch of mist that formed in the corner, another shape coalescing along with him, larger—

  “Vaste,” Curatio said as the troll took a staggering step forward out of Alaric’s fog. “How was your ethereal transit back to us?”

  The troll looked slightly greener than usual to Cyrus’s eyes. “Nauseating,” Vaste said, stumbling a step sideways. “And not just because of the statuary along the way.”

  Cyrus met Vara’s curious gaze. “Statuary?” she mouthed to him. He shrugged; often he had no idea what Vaste was talking about, and he had learned it was better if he didn’t ask.

  “How did you just …?” Shirri was on her feet, backing away from the table. Alaric and Vaste had appeared almost directly in front of her, and her eyes were narrowed, blinking furiously as though she could somehow clear them from her sight like the afterimage from looking into the sun. “You were not there a moment ago.”

  “I can see why you’d be confused,” Vaste said, “being as there is no magic in your time, apparently.”
The troll sauntered up next to Cyrus, sniffing. “Is that roast beef?”

  “The rib, no less,” Cyrus said, lifting the plate toward him. “How’s your stomach?”

  “Getting better by the moment,” Vaste said, snatching it from him and pulling out the chair next to him. “You wouldn’t believe what I’ve seen. Truly, we’ve come to a dark time in humanity’s history, perhaps even worse than when we left. They’ve given up their dangerous worship of gods who want to kill them and turned to even falser deities.”

  “Vaste,” Alaric said with a great sigh.

  “Oh shit,” Cyrus said, eyes wide with concern. “Who are they worshipping now? Malpravus?”

  “I wouldn’t rule it out,” Vaste said, tearing a strip off the beef. “This is amazing,” he said, distracted as he chewed. “I mean, really, I wouldn’t have thought Sanctuary could outdo your mother’s cooking, but—truly, this is a masterpiece—”

  “Who is worshipped here?” Vara asked, leaning forward. “What danger are we in for? Is there some cult to worry about, like the Hand of Fear?”

  “Entirely possibly,” Vaste said serious, chewing a lump of fat. “When you see, you won’t believe it. The depths these people could stoop to, why I wouldn’t be surprised if there are human sacrifices in every square on the morn; children gutted while still alive, caterwauling for mercy from their false gods—”

  “Vaste,” Alaric said, a little more warningly.

  “Oh, fine, they worship you,” Vaste said, settling his look on Cyrus. “Everyone here loves you. Are you happy now?”

  “Happy?” On the contrary: Cyrus felt like he’d been poleaxed squarely in the forehead. “They worship … me?”

  “Much like your little elven wifey in her home country back in the good old days, yes,” Vaste said, ripping another bite directly off the bone. “You are beloved here. And I? I am forgotten. Lucky I have this beef to ease the pain and—let’s just get it out there—fear for my very life in the midst of a society plainly gone utterly mad.”

  “The elves did not worship me,” Vara said, sounding deeply annoyed.

  “They practically fell over themselves kowtowing to you,” Curatio said. “What else would you call it?”

  “Wisdom,” Vara said with a glimmer of amusement. “The elven people have a great appreciation for quality.”

  “So does Cyrus, apparently,” Vaste said, still burying his face in a slab of beef. “And other parts, as well, I would guess.”

  “Truly, they worship me?” Cyrus looked around the table, finally settling his gaze on Shirri, who still stood, staring at the spot where she’d seen Alaric and Vaste appear.

  The question seemed to jar her out of her stupor. “Well, I mean … they worship Cyrus Davidon here.” She stared at him, and a hint of disbelief emerged on her pinched face. “So …” And she shrugged.

  “What is that shrug supposed to mean?” Cyrus asked.

  “Clearly she doubts your godhood, my lord,” Vaste said, still gnawing the bone. “Shall I call forth your priests to deal with this heretic?”

  “You of all people should know that before I was apparently elevated to god,” Cyrus pointed out, “I was an actual heretic, pursued and hated by—well, everyone. Or almost everyone. I didn’t think it included you—”

  “I liked you before everyone else liked you, even your bride,” Vaste said, eyes on his meal and not on Cyrus. “Just remember that when your true believers come for me for belittling your long arse. Or maybe be-longing it, since you can’t little that thing.”

  “I am still stuck upon the idea that he is worshipped,” Vara said. “Are you certain of this?”

  “There are statues,” Vaste said. “Many statues.”

  Vara made a face. “Appalling.”

  He shot her a sour look. “There are some of you as well.”

  Her expression lightened a shade. “… I suppose it can’t be all bad.”

  “I think we might have missed a most important point,” Alaric said, sliding up to the table and delicately taking hold of a turkey leg for himself. “First of all … our guest does not appear to have eaten.”

  “I’m … fine,” Shirri said. “Really. It’s the middle of the night.” She looked over the table with a wary eye. “You’ve made a feast in the middle of the night. Seems a bit much.”

  “As you wish,” Alaric said. “But … you have also returned to us at a most curious moment, after so recently spurning our help.” He grew serious, the turkey lingering in his hands uneaten. “I can only assume something has changed your mind about taking our aid.”

  Shirri stood there, looking like she might stumble over the word. “My … mother … she’s been taken by the Machine.”

  “Really?” Vaste asked. Then he nodded at Cyrus and Vara in turn. “Our mothers are dead.” He looked at Alaric. “Yours too, I assume.” He was met with a nod, then looked to Curatio. “And you? Yours didn’t end up with eternal life?” Curatio shook his head. “So,” Vaste turned back to Shirri, “you have us at a disadvantage, what with our mothers being dead and yours only being kidnapped. Count your blessings.”

  Shirri’s mouth fell open. “I—what?”

  “He’s just being Vaste,” Cyrus said, a pained look creeping over his face. “How do you know your mother was taken by this … Machine?” His look deepened into a frown. “Also, what the hell is this Machine?”

  “Yes, I admit I, too, am curious about the defining attributes of this group you’ve mentioned,” Alaric said, stroking his chin. He’d taken his helm off and placed it on the table like a council meeting of old, and Cyrus was not too distracted to note it. “Tell us about them.”

  Shirri drew a breath and held it, her small face puffing out at the cheeks like a fish Cyrus had once seen in a glass tank at a show of wonders. “Well, the first thing, I suppose, is … the Machine is everywhere.”

  “Are they here right now?” Vaste asked. “In my pants? Is that what I feel tickling my leg?” He looked down. “Oh, no, that’s just my hand. And perhaps a bit of au jus I’ve spilled.” He reached for a napkin and dabbed at himself.

  “They’re a group of … businessmen—” Shirri started.

  “Why does she say that word like she means ‘criminals’?” Vara asked.

  “—who engage in … every facet of life in Reikonos,” Shirri said. “They sell captive labor to factories for a fraction of the cost of a day’s wage for a normal worker. They essentially own them—”

  Cyrus slammed a fist on the table. “Dammit, I freed all the slaves, and some ass comes along and puts people back into it. On that basis alone, they are my enemy.”

  “Something I’m sure they’ll come to regret very soon,” Vaste said, still focused on his lap. He looked to Curatio. “Have you anything for removing gravy stains?”

  “Talk to Sanctuary about that,” Curatio said, a little snippily, “I’m hardly your launderer.”

  “Twenty odd thousand years old and you can’t tell me how to remove a stain?” Vaste asked. “What the hell have you been doing with your life?”

  “Please, go on,” Cyrus said.

  “This is my only pair of robes that fit right,” Vaste said. “This is an emergency!” He paused. “Oh, you meant she should go on. I’ll just keep my wardrobe woes to myself, then, shall I?”

  “Please do,” Vara said, looking at Shirri. “So … this Machine is into slavery for profit, are they?”

  “They also run all the prostitution in the city,” Shirri said. “Every single lady or man of the night—they answer to the Machine.”

  “Whoring, slaving—why, they’re in all of Terian’s favorite businesses,” Vaste said. “Say—I wonder how he’s doing—”

  “He’s dead, naturally,” Cyrus said, prompting Vaste to pause his attention toward his lap. “Dark elves only live a thousand years. He’s right at the end of that.”

  “I would not be so certain,” Alaric said. Without elaborating, he turned back to Shirri. “Please—do continue. What else do
es the Machine have its tendrils into?”

  “Local elections,” Shirri said, “paid protection for businesses. They collect a premium each week to ensure that your business, shop, stand—whatever—doesn’t suffer from criminal attack.”

  “And if you don’t pay, then your business will suddenly suffer a criminal attack—from them, yes?” Curatio asked, slight smile creasing the elder elf’s face. “A scheme almost as old as I am.”

  “There’s more of course,” Shirri said. She looked pinched, and Cyrus had to wonder if this was her natural state or one brought on by anxiety. She was certainly small of face, regardless. “Usury, blackmail—you name it, the Machine is involved in some form. All the powerful unelected positions in the city? Fixed by the Machine.”

  “So … who runs the Machine?” Cyrus asked, feeling his pulse steadily rising. The mere existence of such a thing as this Machine made him agitate to bring his own particular form of justice down upon it. “Because a visit from us … might just throw a wrench into their gears.”

  “No one knows,” Shirri said.

  “Oh, someone knows,” Vara said.

  “No one down here on the streets knows,” Shirri said. “Maybe up in the Citadel, someone does, or in the Cliffside district—”

  “What do you bet the ‘Cliffside district’ is where the big mansions are still?” Cyrus asked.

  Shirri nodded. “It is. Everyone knows that.”