by Lon Prater
From a different sort of experience, he knew better than to act surprised when they did not stop at Sage Waidlai’s office but continued past it to the stairs at the end of the wide marble-floored hall. He knew whose office this was but had no idea why he was being taken up those revered steps.
Waidlai’s scarlet robes swished as he reached around Grevien to push softly on a button. A chime was struck somewhere beyond the ornately carved door. Ionitricity. And why not? The Undying Spark was all about harnessing the world’s natural energies.
The door clicked and slid softly inward in the hands of an eager looking initiate. Probably top of his class and look at him—serving as a doorman. Grevien smiled at the poor kid, who grinned back like it was the first time he had been noticed all week. Grevien and his former mentor stepped up into the office. The initiate left, shutting the door quietly behind him.
The floor was covered in plush, sound deadening carpets from the Pinsar Republics. The teak and rosewood desk was larger than Grevien’s bed, and sported the unique carvings of Borgnati. Paintings of long dead Wisdoms freckled the walls. Wherever there were no paintings, there were recessed shelves filled with well-maintained tomes and small sculptures of glass, elfin mahogany, and polished Anghahur granite.
There were no windows; instead the dwarf who sat in this office had small globes of ionic light buzzing at various points along the walls. The place reeked of wealth, history, and power.
The dwarf who currently held the reins of the Undying Spark sat with his meaty lips pursed together. He was clean-shaven, a trend becoming more popular among the more progressive and modern thinking dwarves. He jerked suddenly, as if pulling himself away from a daydream gone amuck.
“That was rather fast, Waidlai,” he said in a voice that was surprisingly soothing for a dwarf.
Waidlai cleared his throat nervously, rubbing his hands together as he spoke. “Yes, Wisdom, it seems the Equations of Syncronicity worked in our favor. He was entering the Rationarium as I was leaving to find him.”
The pudgy elf bowed his head in reverence to the equations. Grevien copied the action. The return of the old habit felt like a scar that had begun itching again.
Wisdom Errisi pointed at the folded paper still in Grevien’s grasp. “I see you’ve heard about our problem.” Not sure how to respond, Grevien stepped to the edge of the oversized desk and stretched to hand the paper across. He almost couldn’t reach. The dwarf took it, frowning as he cleared his throat, and set it down without looking at it. The silence drew out for a moment before the Wisdom spoke again.
“The governor tells me that this is all about religious freedom, but I don’t believe him.” He reached into a drawer and pulled out a tabac pipe, preparing it as he spoke. “I think one of the heathens is blackmailing him with something, something big. I can see from your face you suspect the same.”
He flipped open a jewel studded silver matchbox, and got his pipe going after two tries. “I want to know who the heathen is, and what he has on Shadwell. I can pay you a pound’s worth of gold in Trust Notes every day until you find this out for me.”
Grevien suppressed a whistle. He hadn’t expected anywhere near that much. He realized the Wisdom was also paying for his silence. “I’ll need the first week as a non-refundable advance to cover my expenses.”
Wisdom Errisi’s eyebrows raised. Sage Waidlai had lost a little color from his normally ruddy elfin cheeks.
“I have to buy protection, something that can’t be traced back to the Undying Spark. You can put the funds into an account in my name at the Dwarven Trust.”
Wisdom Errisi’s stony eyes glinted with an odd mixture of humor and the respect one has for the industry of insects. His lips curled just a bit at the edges. “Consider it done, Mr. Derleth,” the Wisdom said. “Report only to me.”
The young initiate was already opening the door from outside when Grevien and Sage Waidlai, still wringing his hands, approached it. Grevien tossed the lad a coin, which brought a genuine smile of appreciation to the young man’s face. The scarlet robed elf pursed his lips and said nothing.
This evening, the New Promise air by the wharf wasn’t powdery enough to warrant wearing his facecloth, but Grevien did anyway. It did nothing to stop the smell of dead fish and rotted pilings. But it did keep passersby from remembering his face as he left the goblin Fthalgnim’s fish market and the shrine to Grtaph the Scurrilous hidden behind a false wall in the icebox room.
When he wasn’t selling fish or ministering to the Grtaph worshippers of New Promise, the cheerful goblin sold outlawed gunpowder weapons under the blessing and guidance of one of the Orcish syndicates. Grevien had selected a four-shot pistol, with a short barrel and a worn grip.
It had probably been used in a murder on the mainland somewhere. Common underworld practice was for tainted weapons to be shipped far away and sold, to prevent police sensitives from using the weapon to tie the victim and murderer together.
Grevien had bought eight bullets, then four more for good measure. Fthalgnim had been impressed with his choice. “It’s a shame you can’t tell anyone you got it from Fthalgnim,” he had sighed. “It’s a work of art.”
Grevien agreed on both counts. He was taking a risk even carrying it. Gunpowder weapons were banned in New Promise. Possession alone could get you a year of hard labor. But the rough trade Grevien might encounter made protection worth the risk.
Besides, maybe he’d have a good excuse to plant lead in U’buru’s hide. He still owed her for the alleyway trouncing the night before. Until he needed it he kept the pistol tucked into the back of his pants and the bullets in the pocket of his rugged goldpanner’s jacket.
The visit had paid off in another way too. For a few extra Trust Notes, he had also gotten the names of a few pagans fervent enough, and well placed enough, to deserve a visit.
He found all three of his leads that night, rousing two of them from their beds at gunpoint. In the end, he believed their pleas of innocence. Funny how having a pistol in the face makes folks want to talk. Luckily, no one had called his bluff: he wasn’t sure he could ever actually fire the thing at anyone. Well, maybe there were a few candles that he could stand to snuff.
The last one he visited, an elfin tailor and priest of Lilliani Thornqueen had given him an idea though. “The ogre maid sees her shaman regularly, the one who sells the fuel and parts for the motorcars. He lives above the store, he might know something,” the lisping elf had wailed, tears flowing freely. It smelled like the little priss had wet himself.
Grevien got the name and address, over on Northside within eyeshot of the governor’s mansion. He walked by first to check out the location, his shoes making more noise than he liked on the multicolored gravel. Maybe trim a few pounds and lighten that step, he chided himself.
It was too late to do anything tonight: this shaman was a patron of the moon spirit. And somewhere up there, past the veil of smog that lay across the city, there was a full moon. When he got close to the brick wall, Grevien could hear the faint noises of a grunting chant and regular drumbeats coming from the walled, roofless third floor.
A crowd of ogres at worship didn’t sound like the right place for a human to go waving a gun and demanding information—even if U’buru happened to be among them. He satisfied himself that he knew where all the exits and windows were, and made an educated guess about the layout of the motorcar necessities building.
Grevien called it a night and walked back to his room above the Widow Dunnich’s, too tired to make the trip out to Piglet’s for black ale and banter. Stripping off his facecloth, he cringed at the two black streaks where he had been drawing in air through it. He avoided thinking about how much of the city’s sooty air the fabric had let pass into his lungs today. Finally he fell into an uneasy sleep.
Midnight again in New Promise. The One Wagers orchestrated another strike today, this time the metalworkers wanted fewer working hours every week. The mood on the city streets was like a pot about to boi
l over; ogres and short-tempered orcs made up the rank and file of the metalworkers’ union.
As a result of the strike, the air was a little more clear. The ripe moon peeked down through the thin smog like an old woman spying through her drapes. Grevien checked the pistol at the small of his back. This afternoon he had practiced dry firing and reloading it quickly. Just in case. The thought of actually using it put him on edge, but he couldn’t afford to be without protection. Not if the shaman’s tale was true.
Grevien had decided against trying to scare the ogre shaman out of any information. Once the right amount of Trust Notes had crossed his manicured hands, the overdressed ogre had given Grevien plenty to go on. Watching the ogre shaman’s scrubbed and gold-toothed face intently, Grevien could find no trace of deception in his voice or manner. If anything, the shaman seemed glad to get the shameful details off his chest.
So now Grevien Derleth was here, at the shipping docks farthest from town, lying face down on the roof of a decaying two-story warehouse, batting wharf rats away with a piece of broken broomstick. He didn’t have to wait long to see what he came for.
N’brotok, who was U’buru’s half-brother and a “special assistant” to the governor, was right where the shaman had told him he’d be: overseeing a ragged line of about a dozen stoop backed elves, goblins, and humans in chains as they scurried from the back of an ice delivery truck down a rickety wooden plank and onto a low thin mastless fishing boat, the Kreshti Advancer.
Slaves. Grevien smacked an approaching rat harder than he meant to. It squealed and fell still. He squeezed the pistol grip in a sweaty hand, hoping the noise hadn’t carried. Luckily for him, braining the rat hadn’t drawn any unwanted attention.
He crept to the edge and looked down, fighting the bile rising in his throat. So the governor had gotten himself into the slave trade, or at least a trusted member of his staff had. Now that was a secret the governor would do anything to keep hidden—even go against the late duke’s charter and alienate a host of his former cronies.
Selling citizens to the Kresht coalmines must be paying well. If news of this got out, Shadwell would be thoroughly disgraced, probably removed from office immediately. A special session of the Ward Representatives and the Industry Council would elect a new governor.
Grevien licked his lips. If only he wasn’t already taking the Wisdom’s money. This was something that would make him wealthy for life. He’d have to leave New Promise, of course. No tragedy there.
But a deal was a deal. Besides, what Piglet had said about the Undying Spark had some truth behind it. Those who double-crossed the Sparkers were seldom heard from again. Grevien tried to shake the greedy thoughts from his head. He hadn’t found the blackmailer yet, and who knows, maybe he was beyond finding.
A deal was a deal, he told himself again. But maybe what he had was big enough that he’d be able to talk the Wisdom out of a bonus anyway. Grevien vainly swung the broomstick at another rat hungry enough to brave coming within striking distance.
He watched with a sour look on his face as the tattooed Kreshti captain pushed the last goblin below decks and locked the cargo hatch. He probably works alone to keep his profit margin up.
The captain hauled a wooden chest onto the pier. N’brotok looked inside and gave a satisfied nod, rubbing his hands together. The burly ogre heaved the chest up over one shoulder as if it were no heavier than a goosedown pillow.
Grevien had seen enough. This stunk worse than goblin casserole. He waited until the ship’s little engine was pushing it out to sea and the wharf area below was empty before sneaking back down to the litter-strewn alleys of New Promise.
“You must be joking!” Grevien was back in the Wisdom’s office, unaccompanied this time. His tone was not one the dwarf often heard.
“Mister Derleth, you have found out for me all that I need to know. Whoever is blackmailing the governor no longer matters to me: the Undying Spark now holds the same cards.” The Wisdom puffed his pipe with an innocent expression on his unbearded face. Smoke wrapped around him in thick clouds. He would have looked for all the world like an ugly cherub sitting there, if his eyes hadn’t given him away.
Grevien could almost see gears at work and cold punchcard machinery churning towards an inevitable mathematical conclusion.
“You can keep the entire advance. I suppose we owe you that much. But our contract with you is complete, Mister Derleth. I will handle the Undying Spark’s affairs from here.”
Grevien glared at the Wisdom, who continued nonchalantly enjoying his tabac. “May I ask what you plan to do?” he asked, leaning forward.
The dwarf looked surprised. “Not that it’s any of your business but we will confront the governor and insist on his reinstatement of the Enlightened Duke’s policy against pagans in New Promise.” He would find good company beating that drum with him, Grevien thought: the One Wagers, su’Dresil, and all the other syndicates.
Who would have thought that so many separate interests would be able to agree on anything? The only ones left out would be the pagan worshippers, but they were used to their worship being an open secret by now. Besides, many of the pagan clerics had gotten quite wealthy through their associations with the crime families and would probably prefer a return to business as usual.
Grevien thought again about the miserable line of people cramming into the Kreshti Advancer’s cargo hold. His eyes were as hard as tool iron. “What about the slave trade?” he demanded.
“Of course we will put a stop to it, but quietly. We can’t have something like that destroying the reputation of a civilized city such as ours.” Something in the way the Wisdom gritted his teeth around the words made Grevien uneasy. He gave that answer too easily, Grevien thought, not sure what it meant.
After a few more polite words, Grevien excused himself and left Wisdom Errissi to his pipe and plans. He flipped the initiate another coin and gave him a conspiratorial wink. But this time the lad did not smile. He bit his lip and looked away, slipping the two ducat piece beneath his robes.
Grevien didn’t go home; instead he made for the clock tower and the Undying Spark’s public library next to it. He couldn’t get those poor slaves out of his mind.
The only books available on Kresht were two volumes written by well-known Sages. There was no direct mention of the slave trade, or the coal mines, but they did use quite a bit of ink debunking the Kreshti worship of the Deepdweller. After scanning them, Grevien wondered if either Sage had ever actually been to Kresht.
He decided to go to Piglet’s for a drink and to chew over his options. It wasn’t long before he realized he was being followed.
He led the tail on a merry chase, dodging streetcars and donkey carts, passing in and out of shops, and generally having a good time of it as he meandered toward the Eastside. His stalker was not very good. The fellow seemed to be swimming in a black cloak that was clearly too large for him. His face was hidden behind a deep red facecloth, streaked with sweat and filtered factory exhaust.
The follower was falling so far behind that he was hardly trying to go unnoticed anymore. Grevien ducked into an alleyway. With an ironic grin, he realized he was just a few blocks from where U’buru had left him. He waited with his back to the bricks for the amateur to blunder around the corner.
Pressing the barrel of his pistol into the figure’s high elfin cheekbone, Grevien hurriedly jerked both of the elf’s arms behind his back and shoved him behind a pile of garbage large enough to conceal them both. If anyone had seen it, they would assume Grevien was mugging the elf.
Most likely they’d stay out of it.
He slammed the elf into the brick wall and ripped back his cowl and facecloth. Waidlai wheezed at him, fear and exhaustion in his eyes. Grevien released him, but kept the pistol handy. “I had—puff, puff—to warn you, Grevien.” He bent over and put his hands on his knees. “The Wisdom—The Wisdom has set you up.”
“What for?” Grevien wasn’t sure how much his former mentor knew.<
br />
“He wants to keep you quiet-wheeze—about the slaves.” Waidai spat onto the ground. “By selling you off in the next shipment.”
Between great wheezing breaths he explained how Wisdom Errissi’s attendant had been listening at the door during the governor’s visit. Troubled by what he heard, the boy had sought Sage Waidlai’s counsel immediately. Grevien reminded himself to thank one of the luck gods, maybe all of them, that he had been so kind to the lad at the Wisdom’s door.
“There’s more,” Waidlai said, his breathing finally under control. “So long as the Wisdom doesn’t force a reversal of the tolerance policy, only pagans will be sold. The Wisdom is now a half partner.”
Grevien felt his stomach roll. “What else?” he asked Waidlai.
“Just what I told you. What are you going to do?”
“It’s better that you don’t know. Go back to your red robes and forget we ever had this talk.”
Waidlai’s eyes watered over his pudgy cheeks. He stared painfully at Grevien like it was the last time he would ever see his former pupil. “I don’t know that I can ever wear those robes again.” The Sage walked slowly from the alley.
Before the chubby elf was out of sight, Grevien called his name. When the Sage turned his head, Grevien’s voice was sincere. “Thank you.”
Waidlai nodded, forcing a dejected smile in return, then turned the corner and stepped out of sight.
Grevien Derleth stood beside the long table in a private room at the Harbor Wisp Inn until Hyrannia su’Dresil invited him to sit. She was younger looking, and more harshly beautiful than he had expected. Her silver-gray hair fell in one straight sheet onto impossibly narrow shoulders. He imagined her heart was the same metallic color.
It was risky, treasonous even, for him to propose the two murders to her. She might decide to kill him instead and go into the slave trade herself.
