by Ryan DeBruyn
“A hunter group actually bagged a Rhinoceros Beetle Dungeon?” a man asks in an attempted whisper, and the voice plus its tone forces me to glance in the direction of the speaker. Darren and Jacque are attempting to conduct a secretive meeting with an obese man who is proffering a large, shiny black length of something.
I study the item more closely, trying to understand the need for their hushed whispers with obvious excitement in the tones. The thing is probably as long as Mur’s sword at about three feet. The top and bottom are triangular and scabbed over with a green film; the entire length has three sharp sides and flat surfaces between. The iridescent sheen makes me believe that it is from an insect, but don’t horns usually taper to a point at the top?
This object does begin to taper, but something clearly sliced off its final length to make it look that way. Luckily, my guessing stops as [Identify] triggers.
Black Widow Arachnid Leg [Blue]
Rank: D-7
Well, now I am in a bit of a tough spot. I don’t particularly want to get in the middle of whatever situation the Star Bucks leaders have found themselves in. They are adults and should handle this themselves—yet if I let them buy the item and do nothing, would I be acting morally?
I recall trying to do the right thing and reporting Ride or Die’s crimes. What had that gotten me?
I’ve already got my answer. Darren and Jacque are more worldly than me, and if they fool themselves into purchasing something, it has nothing to do with me. I’ve already got my own problems to deal with.
Hurriedly I walk away from the scene, attempting to not only pretend I didn’t see it but also to avoid their notice. As much as I made the decision, I can’t say that I agree entirely with it. For the rest of the five-minute walk through the hunters’ market, part of me fights to turn back, but I keep going.
Once I am through the security pass and into the next section of the city, I make my way to the church. Almost as soon as the building comes into view, I feel the same uncomfortable sensation of eyes on my back. Scanning my immediate surroundings doesn’t reveal anything amiss.
My steps do quicken, though, and I am at the stairs to the church far sooner than I expected. I must have been near running. But even after the large oak doors swing shut behind me, the feeling remains. What in the Towers?
When I was a kid, I remember Leah asking me to go get something out of the basement of an old house we’d been squatting in. The sun was setting, and stretching shadows cast everything outside the cracked or broken windows in ominous, elongating darkness. Looking down into the basement and then rushing into and out of it is the closest match for the skin-crawling sensation I feel currently.
Spinning in a quick circle doesn’t reveal anything but the usual clergy, nun, and patrons. The lack of something or someone to justify this feeling makes me feel more uncomfortable. The attendant behind the desk is watching me and furrows her brow at my twirling. Her look makes me even warier, and I quickly approach the counter and drop off two mithril coins.
“My son, at your current rate, you don’t have any chance of paying off your thousand-mithril debt,” the attendant says after confirming my name and account.
I was just beginning to turn away, but I turn back. Her words aren’t condescending, no, but they have a strange, almost motherly tone to them—like all the other attendants before her. Her words, though, seem to imply she is offering help. I turn back, my eyebrows rising.
“I am aware of that, mother,” I say hesitantly, “but my current goal is to gain strength safely.”
“The Church can forgive crimes of new initiates, my son, and help you gain strength. All you must do is ask,” the attendant replies, and I feel a tingle creep over my skin. I can’t help but see the Church as something akin to a large, almost criminal organization that forces the people of this territory to follow their rules. At least according to Veronica’s tales of the previous day. . . My thoughts of the woman bring a slight smile, which the attendant jumps on.
“If you wish to take the offer, all you must do is enter that confessional. The priest on duty will hear your confession,” she adds.
I nod quickly and repeatedly as if I am considering it. But then I practically flee the building in the fastest casual walk I can manage. There is something altogether terrifying about the Church, and I want no part in it. I continue to rush away from the offer, glancing over my shoulder every so often.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” a voice I didn’t want to hear ever again says from a few feet beside me. My dread of its owner causes me to flinch and break into a run.
A few steps later, Tin’s hand clamps down on my shoulder hard. I cringe and look back. My breath catches when I see Esmerelda and the figure from my nightmares, Markus.
“Where ya runnin’, kid?!” Markus slurs, his hand resting casually on his dagger.
My brain is pumping out static, and I’m unable to respond properly. Instead, my mouth opens and closes like a fish’s; the sounds of my lips touching and parting registers loudly in my ears.
“I think you broke the boy, Markus,” Esmerelda says cruelly, an ugly sneer on her young face.
“If we work through the rest of the day and until next morning, we should be prepared for the ritual!” Jacque’s excitement and his French accent loudly cut through the silence after Esmerelda’s taunt.
“We may need to pull a large group of the new recruits to help with the liquid requirements. I doubt we will be able to sustain—”
“Darren! Jacque!” I shout spastically, not having thought through my action but grabbing the proverbial life-saving rope their presence offers me.
Both men stop and turn to look at our group, and Tin’s hand clenches down hard enough that I grimace from the pain. If he applies any more pressure, he may break my collarbone. I want to scream but manage to infuse the area under his hand with qi to block the agony. Darren recognizes me first and narrows his eyes.
“Jeff? What are you doing, skul—”
“I hope your purchases this morning went well,” I say, cutting him off. His tone wasn’t particularly bad, but it also wasn’t friendly, which might tip off my three companions to the fact that I barely know the two guild leaders.
Now Jacque and Darren narrow their eyes. I see Jacque’s hand reflexively grip an empty sword scabbard at his side. A moment ago, the weaponless scabbard blended into his appearance, but now something is quite conspicuous about the sword’s absence.
“Shoppin’?” Markus slurs, but his very nature makes the question sound menacing. Jacque and Darren tense. They ever so slightly shift their body postures, giving a side profile view instead of the much more vulnerable head-on.
“Sorry for the interruption. The boy didn’t mean anything by it. Markus, Esmerelda, let’s take the boy and go,” Tin interjects, attempting to calm the situation but making a fatal slip that burns my ears.
Please let Jacque and Darren realize it too.
“Take the boy?” Darren says, his eyes widening as he gives me and the three members of Ride or Die more of his attention.
“Why would you take the boy anywhere?” Jacque says, his question directed at Tin. I can feel my nerves ratcheting up. Tin may still be able to talk his way out of this. His hand on my shoulder tightens minutely.
“The boy owes us some restitution. We were just going to offer him another option to pay it back,” Tin says and I can hear the same tone in his voice that tricked me on that first day. My heart attempts to fall from its place in my chest. My eyes are glued to Darren and Jacque, and I can see them both looking back at me. Swallowing the threatening tears, I shake my head as discreetly as I can manage but feel Tin’s hand tighten further, causing me to grimace. Darren tilts his head, and his hands go to a small cylinder on his waist.
“It does not seem like the boy wishes to hear your offer. Take your hand off of him now, swine!” Jacque states, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. I feel something change in the air, almost like it is c
rackling with energy, but I can’t see anything. I look down at my arm and see the hairs there standing on end. I glance back to the two Star Bucks chapter heads. They’re both in the B-ranks, and the figures they cut are intimidating even to me, who isn’t the subject of their ire.
“Let go of the boy, connard!” Jacque growls, his voice escalating in volume from his earlier whisper. His accent and the final word add a further air of mystery to the threat. “We will not ask again!”
Tin’s fingers dig into the muscle of my chest before he releases me. I look back to see the entire Ride or Die group with their arms in the air and slowly backing up.
“We didn’t mean any harm to the boy,” Tin placates as he slowly backs away.
I hurry behind the Star Bucks’ leaders and the shelter they seem to provide. Once I cross between the two imposing men, I feel the sweat that was frozen beneath my skin before ooze out from every pore. I run my tongue along my dry lips and manage to exhale my held breath. I turn to see Ride or Die practically fleeing into the distance, and I can’t help the small smile that forms.
“How did—?” Jacque begins, turning to face me, his expression still carrying the menace it held for the three criminals. Darren interrupts whatever was going to follow by placing a hand on his shoulder and then motioning toward the guild headquarters.
Well, at least these two won’t kill me. Probably. . .
Chapter 40
September 5th, 151 AR
Jeff Turle
“How did you know we were shopping this morning?” Jacque asks, his French accent powerful and overwhelming some of his English.
“I passed by you. I truly only caught a glimpse,” I respond, feeling the momentary relief of getting out of the street and into the Star Bucks building vanish the moment the red-faced Frenchman rounded on me again.
“Calm down, Jacque.” Darren places a hand on the other leader’s shoulder again. “The boy is likely telling the truth. I think he just called out for help because of the dungeon divers. Isn’t that right, Jeff?”
If Darren thought the phrase ‘calm down’ would appease Jacque, he was sorely mistaken. Jaw muscles bulge, and fists clench as the Frenchman seems to become apoplectic. The one upside is that he can only growl at both of us through those tight muscles.
“Those guys are the ones who accused me of theft. I was unlucky enough on my first day in the Suburb to meet them. They needed a Sherpa and then slaughtered another group right in front of me!” I hurry to respond, rushing to finish before Jacque can get a hold of himself.
Jacque’s face pales far too quickly, and he leans into the wall, seeming to hold himself up with the marble façade.
“So, your criminal charge was brought forward by that group of adventurers,” he whispers.
“You led us to believe something a bit different on your last visit,” Darren interrupts as his eyes narrow. “I think you were rather flippant about the whole thing if I’m not mistaken.”
“Well.” I scratch my head, recalling that conversation. “I wouldn’t call it flippant, but I didn’t go into detail. I felt like, if I did, you would just see the reason as a convenient lie I made up. Not to mention, I hadn’t really come to be recruited. . .” I’m grasping at excuses that don’t really exist. I’m also rambling, it seems.
“Do you have any plan to rid yourself of their attention?” Darren asks and points out the door, clearly indicating Ride or Die, who aren’t loitering about but are still present in all of our minds.
I shiver at the reminder. Then I look back out the glass doors to the street, checking to be sure they aren’t actually just hiding around a corner. They aren’t visible, but that doesn’t really tell me much. Taking a deep breath, I turn back to the two leaders and shake my head.
“Well, if you want, we could probably take on the debt,” Darren states plainly but looks to Jacque for confirmation.
“As a financer,” Jacque amends as he stands from the wall. My eyes narrow at the new term, which prompts the Frenchman to continue. “It means that if you owe the Church one hundred mithril, we will pay it off, and you will owe us one hundred mithril plus a small percentage for each month longer that it takes you. The Church and others often demand a high restitution price to place individuals in debt. When someone has to decide between jail and joining the Church, the decision is easy, no?”
I scratch my face and blink. The attendant at the Church brought up something along those lines to me. Considering I’ve only paid off twenty mithril of the thousand in five days of my twenty-eight, the timing would seem to corroborate Jacque’s story.
“Many of the Church’s recruits are gained in this way. Once you work for them, you must pay for room and board as well. The wage you begin with is so poor that you find the church is increasing your debt to them. Of course, your only hope is to rise through the ranks and increase your wage. By then, recruits are usually converted to believers. If not, well, they can usually find something new to charge dissenters with,” Darren adds.
“But that’s slavery!” I exclaim, feeling the weight of unfairness settle heavily onto my chest, constricting my heart.
“Yes.” Jacque shrugs and purses his lips. “Which is why we are offering you a way out. If you were a true criminal, you would belong to the Church. But a young man just starting out—well, he should have options. Let’s say financing at 1.99%?” He turns to Darren.
“If he can’t pay off an extra two mithril a month for every hundred he borrows, he isn’t ambitious enough,” Darren says with a smile.
My stomach rumbles. I’m not hungry yet, so I know it’s a warning. So far, other than Alrick, I haven’t seen any selflessness, not like this. Are they genuine? They could be taking advantage of my situation, just like others.
“I owe just under a thousand mithril,” I whisper into the stillness their playfulness leaves behind.
“Ouch.” Darren winces. “They dinged you pretty good on that one. Don’t worry, we will pay it off, but we have a ritual to begin. In fact, can you go keep Veronica company?”
“Sure,” I respond quickly. She was my original reason for coming into the Suburb, after all. Still, the change in conversation seems off for a reason I can’t put my finger on. Shrugging, I point up. “The roof?”
“No, she is in her room. Floor seven, room seventy-seven,” Darren responds, his voice tight. Something is up, but they just point to the elevator and keep frozen smiles plastered on their faces.
I push the up button, and a door immediately peels open with a ding. I wave at the two men as I depress the seventh-floor switch, and the door slides shut again. They must be pretty eager to get to this ritual, to just tell me Veronica’s room number.
“Come in,” a few voices say in chorus from behind the door after I knock. Scratching my neck, I push open the door and am hit with a wave of heat. Sweat, which has been a constant companion since I began circulating my qi, breaks out in earnest, and I almost feel like turning back around. Yet three pairs of eyes turn my direction, and I can’t just walk back out.
“Close the door!” a lightly dressed blonde woman, who is shimmering with sweat, practically shouts from beside a pile of blankets. All of the individuals here are women, and I can’t help but feel like I don’t belong.
The room is similar to the guest quarters, but larger in every dimension. The floors and surfaces look more heavily used, but they still appear rich and vibrant. The red carpet here is brighter and deeper than anything I’ve seen before, and the tiling I stand on seems to shimmer from a mineral embedded in the rock-like surface. There are three women in the room who all appear young, but their clothing and the ways they carry themselves give a bit more away. The one who just screamed at me is standing near the sink, has blond hair, and seems to be the youngest due to a more revealing outfit and pert demeanor.
The two other women are standing in the center of the room, and both have shorter cuts of brown hair. One is wearing a long white dress that covers her from shoulder to ankle
s, and the other has on a skirt and tight short-sleeved tank-top that highlights her muscle definition. Their more reserved behavior also makes them seem older.
“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” the more muscular of the two women asks, her voice suspicious. Her clothes are wet from sweat, too, and I assume that she is upset from being in the sweltering space.
“I am Veronica’s friend. I was sent up by Darren and Jacque just a moment ago?” I say, turning my answer into a question as well. Do I have the wrong room?
“They are back then?” the woman wearing the dress responds, her voice now something I can’t place. The anger is gone—wait, are those tears in her eyes? Probably just sweat.
“Yes.” I shrug, still sure I must have the wrong room.
I am about to turn back and check the number on the outside of the room when a pale white hand reaches up from the pile of linens between the three women. It’s hard for me to believe someone is there because it looks like a pile of dirty clothes, the likes of which I have never seen. How many blankets and spare sets of bedding do these people have?
“Is that Jeff?” A soft voice speaks from the mound of blankets, dresses, and other fabrics. The voice sounds like Veronica’s, but why would she be in a heap of clothes? The room already has three fires lit, and the exterior windows are so fogged up that it looks more like the shower mirror in the Training Room after a very long rinse.
“Veronica?!” I ask as I step forward, my stomach scrunching into a very uncomfortable ball. She has always been pale, but the hand I can see looks almost ghostly.
“We will be needed below,” the muscular woman says and then looks at the blonde one. “Stay with her. We will be needed for the ritual.”
*Thud.*
My heart stutters with the mention of the ritual again. Is this ritual about Veronica? The older woman moves past me and pats my back, giving me a slight shove toward the pile of blankets.
