Ravnica

by Cory Herndon

  “Uh, sure, I—”

  “Hey, wait!” the ogre interrupted. “Me not stupid. You not ogre. You little fat man, good for the roasting.”

  “That’s what we wanted to tell you,” Kos said.

  “Kos?”

  “Borca, it’s all right,” Kos said. “I get the feeling we can trust Nyausz. He’s got an honest face. And he’s observant. He noticed you looked like clown, and he figured out you don’t look like an ogre, so I thought it was only fair to tell him. Maybe we should recruit him.”

  “You’re right, I suppose,” Borca said and slipped into character once he spotted Kos’s angle. “You’re smarter than the average ogre. So I guess I can tell you my secret. I used to be a—”

  “You want me to say it?” Kos asked with exaggerated sympathy.

  “Maybe you should.”

  “What?” Nyausz said.

  “Nyausz, Borca used to be an ogre.”

  The ogre’s jaw dropped in shock, revealing a mouthful of silver teeth—Izzet implants made with a metal that commonly caused slow brain deterioration but gave the wearer a deadly bite that could slice through a human limb or a hunk of rock with equal ease. Kos would have felt sorry for him if the ogre hadn’t been lying to them since they’d gotten to the quarry.

  He glanced at the ogre, who stepped a little closer to Borca and sniffed the air. “Ogre, huh?”

  “Yep,” Borca said. “Transmogrification spell. Then I got stuck. Had to join the wojeks just to survive.”

  “Aw, c’mon, you pulling Nyausz’s leg,” the ogre said.

  “No, it’s true. You know that these badges are enchanted, right? We can’t lie, Nyausz,” Kos lied. “I thought everyone knew that.”

  “So that means,” Borca said, “You can tell me what happened. It all stays within the tribe.”

  Kos could have knocked Borca into the quarry. His partner had gotten cocky. As a rule of thumb, mentioning tribes around an ogre you’d just met was a bad idea, but in this case it was an especially bad idea.

  “Tribe? Hey, what tribe are you?” Nyausz asked.

  “Uh, what tribe …” Borca cast a panicked glance at Kos, who could only shrug. Borca was the “ogre” now and had to do the talking. “Tribe … what tribe are you?”

  “Me ask first.”

  “Ask what?”

  “Me ask—”

  “Well, what tribe are you?”

  “Me? Ogshkz.”

  “Now that’s strange, so am I!”

  “Wait,” Kos said, getting a little worried Borca might be digging a hole for himself.

  “Ogre talk, ’jek! You butt out!” Nyausz barked at Kos and turned back to Borca. The ogre slapped Borca on the back, almost knocking Kos’s partner off his feet, but Borca’s low center of gravity kept him upright. “Me know who you are. You Munczacz! You go missing when Nyausz just a ogret. Mama told Nyausz you eaten by wurm, but Nyausz never give up hope. Nyausz want to sing!” The hulking humanoid picked up Borca in both hands, raised him in the air, and shook him vigorously. “Eh? Munczacz? Muncz. Acz. That you.”

  “Uh … that does sound,” Borca managed, “fam—oof—familiar.”

  “Well, this is just miraculous,” Kos said in mock wonder. “Reunited. After all these years. Nyausz and Munczacz.”

  “Me said shut up, human!” the ogre snarled. He placed Borca back on his feet and patted him on the head in a disturbingly parental gesture. “So, you ’jek now. And Nyausz can help? Nyausz want to help. What you want to know again?”

  Borca put his hands on his knees and took a few deep breaths, then straightened his uniform and coughed once. He popped his neck back into alignment, shot Kos a look that could have curdled bumbat, and grinned at the ogre. “You heard my old friend. Shut up, puny ’jek.”

  Kos rolled his eyes.

  “All right, Nyausz,” Borca said, “I wanted to ask first about—”

  “Why you talk like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Muncz talk like human. ‘I are a human. Listen to I. I are so smart.’ Bah! Be proud of heritage, Muncz!” Borca had to sidestep to avoid another encouraging back slap.

  “Right,” Borca said. “Me want … ask you. Who them dead ogres down there?”

  Nyausz went from jovial to cagey in the half second it took Borca’s words to make it through his mercury-addled brain.

  “Dead ogres?” Nyausz repeated.

  “Yeah. See? Them there. Halfway to bottom. Them on rocks. Nyausz know how ogres get there?”

  “Yeah,” Nyausz said. “Me push ’em. We sparring, training for cage fights.”

  “Sparring?” Kos asked. The ogre scowled at him again but relented with a throaty laugh when Borca told Kos what he could do with his pendrek in no uncertain terms.

  “So you sparring? For cage fights?” Borca asked. “Must be new league me no hear about. Where cage fighting? Maybe me want to sign up. Me, er, small, but have heart of … of … siege wurm!”

  “Graaar!” Nyausz roared.

  “Graaaayayaaaar!” Borca elaborated and coughed. “Wait, do me have to sign anythink?”

  “Oh, no,” Nyausz said. “This underground league. Bigger purse. Me am not stupid. Going to make stake out on plane, come back rich.”

  “Now that good plan,” Borca said. “That why you spar out here in middle of street? And who them?”

  “Them my brothers. We open a new gladiator stadium someday, with gold we make on circuit,” Nyausz said. Tears welled up in his eyes.

  “So you sparring on rim of quarry, and you push both in?” Borca pressed.

  “Me not push ’em at same time,” Nyausz said. “They push me first. They couldn’t move Nyausz. So then it my turn, I win. Both times. But now …” The permanence of the twisted, broken faces staring up into the sky finally seemed to hit the ogre, and he began to sob. “Now what Nyausz going to do? Me am not enough of attraction alone. Solo ogre zib a dozen.”

  “Aw, no be so hard on self,” Borca said. “You say they started it. Them push you first?”

  The ogre sniffed. “Y-yes,” he stuttered. “Why?”

  “This isn’t a crime, is it?” Borca said to Kos.

  “No,” Kos said, eyeing the broken, bloody corpses that hung over a concrete outcrop, still bleeding out onto the dusty artificial stone. “Nyausz, you’re free to go, so long as you take care of those bodies. But if they’re still there tomorrow, I’m going to have to fine you for endangering public health.”

  “Wait,” the ogre said. He spun Borca around by the shoulders but left him on the ground this time. “One ogre zib a dozen, but midget ogre …”

  “Er, me no can fight anymore,” Borca said hurriedly. “Side effect of transmogrification, you know.”

  “No,” the ogre said.

  “Yes,” Borca nodded. “It why me have hard time talking like ogre too.”

  Nice one, thought Kos.

  “So Muncz just leaving Nyausz? Just like that? What about Nyausz?” Nyausz said.

  “What about Nyausz?” Borca asked.

  “They owe Nyausz coin!” the ogre said. “They lost bet!”

  “I thought you said you were sparring?” Borca said, forgetting his ogre-speak.

  “Yeah, sure,” Nyausz said. “But no fun without side bets. Them can’t back out just because them dead, can they?”

  “I’m no lawmage,” Kos said when Borca shot him a pleading glare for assistance. “But didn’t Nyausz just inherit everything they had by right of blood? Including wives?”

  “Me—Hey, me do! You right, ’jek!” The ogre’s eyes rolled back into his head and he counted slowly on the fingers of one hand, lost in thought at his new status. He began a long, thoughtful climb down the broken slopes of the quarry but stopped to pat Borca on the back one more time and tell him not to be a stranger.

  “Kos?” Borca asked as they watched the ogre carefully make his way to his brothers’ bodies.

  “Yeah?”

  “If there’s no violation here, can we get movi
ng?”

  “Yeah. Call it a suicide or a verbal contract, but either way it’s not a disturbance of the peace.”

  “Then let’s go get something to eat. I feel like ogrish.”

  “You look like ogrish.”

  “I thought I looked like a clown.”

  “That too,” Kos said.

  * * * * *

  They passed through a section of the huge Tin Street Market on the way to an ogrish restaurant that served something a bit more palatable than the alleged snacks Garulsz kept imprisoned in jars and cages behind the bar at the Backwater. Ogrish food was a sometimes risky proposition, but humans who knew what to order often developed a liking for the spicier dishes, and that included most ’jeks. Kos had once found it odd that wojeks tended to gather in ogre-owned establishments in their off-hours. After a few years on the job, he figured out that the food was cheap, good, and fit a ’jek’s wages. More importantly, there was almost never anyone around asking for your help when you’d just put in a long day selflessly protecting an often-thankless Ravnican population.

  One of Ravnica’s quick-forming rainstorms had begun to dump acidic water on the towers and streets under the gray sky, prompting both wojeks to pull the hoods of their leather cloaks over their heads. Kos noted Gullmott’s theater space was already completely unrecognizable, packed with huddled stalls in the market’s newest offshoot. The Tin Street Market, Kos sometimes thought, would one day cover the entire city, and at this rate he might even live to see it.

  Barkers called after the hooded ’jeks from new stalls, selling everything from meat pies to goblin labor to “authentic wojek goggle-helmets, only worn once by actual skyjeks.” Each of the stalls discretely flew the banner of Orzhov protection. The Guild of Deals certainly didn’t waste time. Nor did they let a little rain, or even a deluge, keep them from doing lively business at all hours.

  “Think we can make it to Tizzie’s without getting pulled into another fistfight?” Borca asked as they squeezed through the crowd.

  “The rain should keep the fights indoors,” Kos said. “But I’ll be surprised if we make it through the meal without at least one—” Kos froze.

  “One what?” Borca said, and stopped short when he saw his partner was no longer following.

  Kos barely heard Borca. His entire attention was on the pale, translucent figure of a bald man with a handlebar moustache that hovered halfway down a darkened side alley.

  “Kos?” Borca said, looking back over his shoulder at Kos. “What are you looking at?”

  The figure raised a spectral hand and beckoned Kos to follow him. It turned and floated away slowly, as if to give him time to catch up.

  “It’s—Down there, it—it’s …” Kos began.

  “Are you all right, Kos?” Borca asked, “You didn’t nip off to the Backwater when I wasn’t looking?”

  “No, I—” Kos began again but stopped himself. “It’s probably nothing. Thought I recognized someone. One of my ex-wives.”

  “Really,” Borca said. He didn’t look like he was buying it.

  “Really,” Kos said. The ghostly shape was almost three-quarters of the way down the alley. Kos knew what he was doing was crazy, but seeing his dead partner’s ghost after fifty-seven years wasn’t making him feel particularly sane to begin with. “Tell you what, I’m going to jog down there to see if I can catch her. Just want to chat.”

  “Uh-huh,” Borca said. He grinned, and made the short leap to a lascivious conclusion. “Right. Well, I’m not waiting for you to order.” Borca turned off toward the restaurant, whistling.

  “Fine,” Kos said and was already running down the alley. He caught up to the phantom easily and slowed to a walk behind it when he realized with a start that he had no idea what to do when he reached the ghost. A grounder might work but could just as easily destroy it.

  It took effort to find his voice, and when he did, it was a whisper. “Zunich?”

  The specter turned without stopping its progress. Tiny blue pinpricks flared in mournful, empty sockets. The figure nodded once, then turned back and kept moving. It waved its beckoning hand one more time, and Kos followed.

  The ghost led him on a winding slow-motion chase through the twisting back streets, until Kos saw they would soon emerge in a covered breezeway that opened into the north end of Tin Street Market, opposite where the chase had started. The figure stopped at the edge of the darkest shadows and turned to Kos. It bowed its head and extended its right arm, pointing at a nearby series of alcoves that had not quite been taken over by ramshackle temporary storefronts. The covered area was known as Berk’s Alley, and many of Ravnica’s most desperate chaff used it as a bunkhouse. At the moment, Berk’s Alley appeared empty, but then a child’s scream pierced the dull roar of the market from deep within from the shadows.

  Kos recognized the voice.

  “Luda.” Kos turned back to the ghost and found himself staring at empty wall.

  “Damn it!” Kos bolted toward the sound of the screaming girl. He thought he caught movement behind a wide pillar.

  “Stop! Wojek officer!” Kos shouted. “Get away from that girl!”

  A black pit opened in his gut when the sound ceased abruptly just before Kos came barreling around the pillar, baton in hand and fury in his eyes.

  He was too late.

  A gnarled, ugly little goblin stepped from around the pillar and stood over Luda’s still form. The rusty little creature, clad only in tattered black leather and a black, wool cloak, clutched a serrated dagger, now coated in glistening red. It was the same color as the lifeblood that soaked the front of Luda’s chest and grew in a halo around her body on the dusty, grimy stone. Kos saw the goblin’s ears had been surgically removed, a common practice with Rakdos slaves that kept them obedient to owners, who used magic to command them, and less likely to hear something that might prompt them to attempt escape. The goblin hadn’t heard a thing Kos had shouted, but now its bloodshot eyes widened in surprise at the sight of the furious wojek.

  The goblin dropped his blade before he dropped his head and charged straight at Kos, howling. Kos drew his pendrek before the goblin moved. He brought the heavy weapon around in a close, horizontal swipe that should have caught the charging creature in the throat. Unfortunately, Borca chose that exact moment to arrive and bumped Kos’s weapon arm while drawing his own baton. The swing went wide and Kos, thrown off balance, went down hard on the same ribs he’d broken a day earlier. Borca managed to stay upright and quickly pulled Kos to his feet. “Sorry!” the fat ’jek gasped. “Heard you shouting and decided Tizzie’s could wait. What’s going—” His eyes fell on the motionless girl. “Oh, no.”

  “Thanks,” Kos said sincerely. “I’m glad someone heard me.” He rolled to his feet and ran to Luda’s still form and dropped to his knees. Her eyes were open and already filled with rain. The lieutenant placed an ear against her bloody chest but heard no heartbeat. Blood poured from the hole in her chest, which appeared to be directly over her heart. Kos tore his gloves off with his teeth and pressed firmly but gently against the wound with both palms, trying to staunch the flow to no avail.

  “Borca, come here!”

  The fat ’jek was on his knees beside Kos a second later. “What do I do?” he said, panic evident in every syllable.

  “Just calm down,” Kos said, fighting to keep the tremor out of his voice as Luda’s life slipped through his fingers. “’Drops, I need—Don’t just stand there. Teardrops. We can save her.”

  “Right,” Borca said, and fumbled frantically at his belt. He pulled three ’drops from a single pouch at once. “Here.”

  “You have to use them. My hands are full,” Kos said. “One at a time. Press the tip against her chest at the edge of my hand there, as close to the wound as you can.”

  The sergeant did as he was told, and there was a blue flash as the teardrop vaporized itself in an instant into the massive hemorrhage. The flow of blood ebbed slightly but was still coming. “Another,” Kos bark
ed. “All of them.”

  Borca pressed another ’drop into the wound and another, and when those were gone he pulled out three more, which was technically three more than he was supposed to carry. Kos ordered Borca to get the ones from the lieutenant’s belt too, and they disappeared into the girl’s chest with a similar lack of result.

  Kos raised a bloody hand in the rain and stopped Borca before he could apply the last ’drop. The flow of blood had stopped, but not because the wound had healed. “No,” Kos said. His throat felt like it was going to close shut. “We’re too late. Those won’t help anymore.” Kos took a moment to stare into the dead girl’s eyes as they wept rainfall, then closed the lids with his palm.

  The next moment he was on his feet in murderous fury. The goblin was gone but couldn’t have made it far on those short legs. Kos scanned the crowd that had managed to completely ignore this hideous crime and immediately picked out a moving disturbance among the bustling activity that had to be the murderous little thug. He grabbed Borca’s shoulder and pointed at Luda’s body. “Stay with her. If you can, find somebody with a falcon and get Helligan out here. Then arrest anyone who comes anywhere near you until he shows up.”

  “Two of us can kill him better than one,” Borca said, standing on shaky feet. He was pale and looked like he might be sick. This kind of killing was not the norm anywhere in Ravnica outside the Hellhole.

  “I said stay here,” Kos said.

  “B-but she’s—” Borca stammered.

  “Do it!” Kos barked and without looking back charged into the dense mass of Tin Street Market after the goblin. Not surprisingly, the crowd parted for the determined and obviously furious ’jek.

  The sigils tattooed on the goblin’s arm and face burned in Kos’s inner vision. Rakdos. Ten years ago the bastards had killed a lot of his friends in an ill-conceived but bloody revolt. The second Rakdos revolt Kos had endured since joining the League. They should have razed the Hellhole instead of letting the cultists retreat, once again, to their mines and lairs.

  The goblin’s course wended and weaved in a seemingly random pattern. Focused on the tracking the goblin, Kos carelessly let his short sword get hooked on the corner of a vendor’s stall. His momentum pulled Nollikob’s Fine Dromad-Leather Goods and Dried Meats tumbling down around him as Nollikob, a lady with a surprisingly deep baritone, bellowed in surprised anger. Nollikob didn’t stop kicking Kos through the canvas until the ’jek managed to get his head and shoulders through the banner that had once displayed a menu of attractive, affordable products made from Ravnica’s most common pack animal.