Morticai's Luck

by Darlene Bolesny

  “No,” Coryden observed, “here you’re just being ignored.”

  Dualas raised his hand. Immediately, the serving girl rushed over to their table, smiling sweetly.

  “Can I get somethin’ for you, Sir Dualas?” she asked.

  Morticai rolled his eyes and rested his chin in his hand.

  “My friend here,” Dualas said, indicating Morticai, “would like some of that delicious chowder your sister makes.”

  Morticai straightened up and opened his mouth to object, but the girl rushed off. “What do you mean, chowder?” he asked. “I hate chowder, Dualas!”

  “But that’s what the Foaming Tankard is famous for, Morticai. Besides, how can you live in Watchaven if you don’t like fish?”

  Morticai sighed again.

  “So,” Coryden asked, “what is it we’re supposed to do?”

  “Huh?” Morticai asked. “When?”

  “At Fenton’s! Why do you want us to go with you?”

  “Oh. Uh, well, Fenton, as I said, is a merchant—a, uh, low-class merchant—and he doesn’t have the best sort of customers.” Coryden and Dualas were looking at him suspiciously. “Anyway,” Morticai continued, “I thought that with all this Inquisition business, it might be nice if the two of you came along. You could, y’know, keep an eye out for anything suspicious.”

  Coryden and Dualas exchanged glances.

  “Morticai,” Coryden began, “there’s nothing wrong with coming out and saying that you don’t trust the man, y’know?”

  “Well, it’s not that I don’t trust him.”

  “Uh huh,” Coryden said, unconvinced.

  “When are we supposed to meet him?” Dualas asked.

  “At six o’clock.”

  “Morticai,” Coryden complained, “it’s almost six now! If we’re going to make it we need to get moving.”

  “But I haven’t eaten,” Morticai complained.

  The clock at Grandhaven Sanctorium struck the quarter hour, punctuating his comment.

  “See?” Coryden continued. “We’ve only got a quarter hour. Come on!” With that, Coryden rose from the table.

  Dualas rose also and threw enough money on the table to cover the cost of the chowder. Begrudgingly, Morticai rose and followed his two friends.

  * * *

  Fenton’s shop lay at the far end of one of the twisting underground tunnels that comprised Watchaven’s Lower Bazaar. Centuries before, the merchants had discovered that shops built underground were easier to heat; that way, they could enjoy a healthy business even during Dark Season. Thus had the Lower Bazaar been born. During Light Season, however, it was less expensive to operate out of above-ground shops that did not require lamps. Consequently, most merchants had a shop both below and above ground and opened their Lower Bazaar shops only during Dark Season. Now, the tunnels were largely deserted, with light coming from only a few widely scattered shops.

  “I can see why you wanted us to come along,” Coryden whispered, as though the quiet tunnels would have protested any louder volume. “How much farther is it?”

  “We’re almost there,” Morticai replied. “I think it’s at the end of this tunnel.”

  “Don’t you know for sure?” Coryden asked.

  “Well, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen him. But I’m almost positive this is the right tunnel.”

  Coryden shook his head and wondered how—and why—he’d let Morticai drag him into such a situation.

  Soon, they saw dim lamplight emanating from a far doorway. Morticai held up his hand for them to stop.

  “Okay. I think the best way to do it would be for Dualas to come with me and you,” he indicated Coryden, “to wait out here.”

  “Sir, yes, sir!” Coryden replied.

  “Oh, Coryden,” Morticai complained, “you know I don’t mean anything. Besides, we’re not on patrol.”

  Coryden smiled and nodded, knowing he’d made his point. “Right. I’ll wait here. Just get on with it—I could be back in quarters catching up on my rest.”

  “We shouldn’t be too long,” Morticai said, handing the lantern to Coryden.

  * * *

  “No matter what happens,” Morticai whispered to Dualas as they approached the door, “let me do the talking. Fenton is a little strange.”

  Dualas asked, “ Strange? What do you mean …” but Morticai had already gone through the door. As he followed, a cord attached to a metal wind chime announced their entrance into the small shop. Worn tapestries and strung shells adorned the upper walls. Below them, every section of available wall space was lined with narrow shelves that held row upon row of small jars. Dualas moved closer to look at the jars. Herbs.

  A short, fat, balding man had come into the room through a back doorway. He smiled broadly and stretched his arms out to embrace Morticai. They grasped arms in greeting “Friend Dyluth,” he said, “it has been far too long since you have honored my humble abode with your presence!”

  Dualas realized that Fenton, for this must be the merchant, was referring to Morticai by that strange name—Dyluth. An alias, perhaps?

  Fenton caught sight of Dualas. “And who is your friend?” he asked in a much more reserved tone.

  “Fenton,” Morticai said with a grand gesture toward Dualas, “I’d like you to meet Dualas. Dualas is a man I would trust with all that I have.”

  Dualas found the formal phrasing of the last sentence strange, almost ritualistic. Picking up on the cue, Dualas bowed deeply before the man.

  “I am honored to make your acquaintance.”

  That seemed to suffice. With a pleased smile, Fenton gestured to the back doorway. “Please enter. I know that Dyluth would not come unannounced without good reason, nor would he bring an unknown friend without the same.” He then went directly to the front door of the shop and locked it. Dualas looked at Morticai to see if Fenton’s action had alarmed him, but Morticai, seemingly unconcerned, gestured for him to come along.

  The room they entered was even smaller than the shop had been, although the furnishings were rich. It was styled in the Bracarian tradition—thick carpets, low tables, and a large number of pillows. Newer tapestries hung on the walls, but much of their beauty was lost in the dim lighting. A single lamp sat in the center of a low, round table. Dualas noted that the lamp’s chimney was in desperate need of cleaning. Morticai had moved to where he could watch the doorway, which Dualas suspected was not an accident. He followed suit and sat on the floor beside him. He had never been fond of Bracarian customs and felt awkward sitting on the floor.

  Fenton entered and closed the door behind him. The room was stifling; Dualas hoped they would not have to be here long. Fenton moved to a samovar that sat on a nearby table—Dualas had not noticed it before.

  “Well, Dyluth,” Fenton began, “it has been a long time since we have talked. Are you still in the Northmarch?”

  “Yes,” Morticai said, chuckling.

  “That is funny?” Fenton asked.

  “Well, I’ve seen a few old friends lately, and they all ask me the same thing.”

  “Ah. I suppose it’s because you’ve never seemed to, how shall I say, belong in the Northmarch. I have never been able to imagine you sitting on a horse, wearing chain armor and swinging a sword.”

  “I’ll have to come by sometime in my armor.”

  “Please, don’t. And your friend?” Fenton gestured to Dualas. “Are you also in the Northmarch?”

  Fortunately, Dualas caught the slight dip of Morticai’s head before answering.

  “Yes, I am.”

  It was not a lie, but normally he would have answered that he was a knight of the Faith in service to the Northmarch.

  Fenton brought cups to the table nearest them. He was about to pour into Dualas’ cup when Morticai quickly placed his hand over it. Fenton stopped and looked sharpl
y at Morticai.

  “What’s this?” Fenton asked.

  “I am afraid that my friend Dualas shall not be drinking with us,” Morticai explained.

  Fenton gave Dualas a suspicious stare.

  “Why?”

  “Because he is a knight of the Faith.”

  One would have thought Morticai had told Fenton it was Droka himself sitting on his floor. Fenton jumped back and, seemingly from nowhere, his free hand produced a long knife. Dualas could see that the hand was shaking.

  Morticai stretched his hands out, palms upward.

  “Friend Fenton, I mean you no harm and neither does my friend Dualas. And you know that you do not want to cross blades with me.”

  “Dyluth, what is this trick?” Dualas could see that the man was almost in tears. “Why would you bring such a person here?”

  “I say again, we mean you no harm. Please, put your knife away. You know my skill with the blade.”

  “I know.”

  “I shall drink with you.”

  “You will?”

  “Yes.”

  Slowly, Fenton sheathed the knife. Dualas watched him replace it in the wide sash wrapped around his waist. Fenton poured himself and Morticai cupfuls of what Dualas now suspected was vallemo. Fenton immediately picked up his cup and downed it. He poured himself another but waited, watching Morticai. Morticai drank, and then Fenton began to take normal sips from his cup.

  “Why have you come?” Fenton asked.

  “To ask about Burnaby Manor,” Morticai replied.

  “Who told you to ask me about Burnaby Manor?”

  “I will not tell you. It is privileged.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “What has been going on there? Why was I told that you might know something about it?”

  Fenton sipped his cup and watched Morticai suspiciously. Morticai drained his cup. As though it were a signal, Fenton began to talk.

  “The man who used to provide my vallemo used Burnaby Manor as his home for a long time.”

  He began pouring Morticai another cup. Dualas glanced at Morticai in alarm. Morticai did not look happy either, but returned Dualas an even stare and said nothing. Again Fenton drained his cup, poured himself another, and waited for Morticai to drink. Morticai drank, and the conversation continued.

  “One day,” Fenton said, “I went there to find the door locked, which was not right. I spoke with some people in the Pit; they told me that the Manor was haunted. Of course, I laughed.”

  Fenton stopped talking and again performed the ritual of refilling the cups. Dualas noticed that Morticai looked like he did when he’d had too much to drink—it took him too long to blink, and he swayed ever so slightly. The knight wondered how far this could go, and when, or if, he should try to intervene.

  Fenton continued. “So, I hired me some boys from the Pit—good ones mind you, tough—and told them to investigate the Manor for me. They did. And they died.”

  “They … died?” Morticai asked.

  “Yes. They were found the next day on the docks. Every one of them. Cut to pieces. Me, I don’t need to be told twice—Burnaby Manor is haunted.”

  Again Fenton poured for them, but this time Morticai did not drink.

  “Fenton,” he asked, “is that it?”

  “That’s it. All of it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Fenton pointed to Morticai’s cup. Once again, Morticai drank.

  “There is one small thing, but I swear that I’ll hire you killed if ever it comes back to me.”

  “And that is?”

  “When people whisper about Burnaby Manor at night, they say that it’s haunted with the Droken. They have seen dark things there.”

  “What kind of ‘dark things’?”

  “Dark things that wear armor.”

  Morticai nodded, a little too deeply, in reply.

  “You have my word, Fenton, that this shall not come back to you.”

  “Your word has always been good, Dyluth.”

  Fenton rose. Dualas rose, glad to be off the floor, and then had to help Morticai to his feet.

  “I would have thought you could hold vallemo better than that, Dyluth,” Fenton said, eyeing Morticai.

  “Out of practice,” Morticai muttered in reply.

  Fenton led them to the front door.

  “I am curious why you ask such questions, Dyluth. And I am curious why you feel that you must bring a bodyguard from the Faith with you. But I do not know if I wish to hear the answers.”

  “Believe me, you don’t.”

  “So be it.”

  Fenton unlocked the front door. As they left, Fenton reclosed the door and locked it behind them. Morticai took a few unsteady steps and then fell against the tunnel’s wall for support.

  “Oh, Glawres, my head,” Morticai muttered.

  “You used me, friend ‘Dyluth’,” Dualas said acidly. “And how long have you been using vallemo?”

  “You assume too much, Dualas. I used it first as a child. I have never used much of it, never had to have it, and do not use it now. I bought it from Fenton when Coryden and I were helping Lewis quit using it. As you can see, it wouldn’t have helped if he’d had to buy it for himself.”

  Coryden ran up the tunnel towards them.

  “Morticai! What happened? Are you all right?”

  “Well, not at the moment. I’ll be fine in a bit.”

  “What happened?” Coryden asked Dualas.

  “He drank four cups of vallemo in exchange for information.”

  “What? And you let him?”

  “It’s not his fault, Coryden,” Morticai interrupted. Cautiously, Morticai began moving down the tunnel, using the wall as an anchor. “It was an unusual situation. I thought I could get by with two cups, but it took longer because Fenton was scared. I would be in a lot better shape if someone had let me eat first.”

  “You knew this would happen?”

  “I knew it was a strong possibility.”

  “Damn!”

  Dualas moved to Morticai’s side. Morticai gratefully accepted the additional support.

  “Oh, quit worryin’, Coryden,” Morticai continued. “You and I have crawled back to Northgate in worse shape after a night’s drinkin’. Besides, wait ’til you hear what we found out.”

  * * *

  The main reception hall of Dynolva Manor filled slowly. The crystal chandeliers cast their scintillating light not on the exquisite attire of Watchaven’s nobility but on the livery of the manor’s servants. Many had their spouses and children with them. The group spoke in hushed murmurs, and parents kept a tight rein on their children, but nonetheless, the noise level was climbing steadily.

  Lord Danvek stood at the far end of the room on the raised platform that usually held a table laden with appetizers. The table had been moved, and the lord of the manor stood quietly with his hands clasped loosely behind his back as he watched the last of the servants enter. As expected, when the doormen closed the large doors, a momentary silence fell across the crowd. It was his cue.

  “If I might have your attention,” he began, “there has been a great amount of concern among all of you these past few weeks. There have been many questions as to what has been and still is transpiring between Dynolva and Watchaven. It is much to your credit that rumors concerning recent events have been kept to a minimum. Unfortunately, the trade war with Watchaven not only continues, but worsens.”

  A murmur rose and fell among the crowd. As it passed, Lord Danvek continued.

  “Because of the deteriorating situation, I have found it necessary to request your presence here this evening. Until this situation is resolved, I am requesting that all of the staff remain at the manor.”

  Again, the crowd reacted, some with gasps, some with nods o
f fulfilled expectation.

  “I know that this will be difficult. Unfortunately, we all know that humans can be terribly unpredictable. It is my belief that the city is no longer safe. You are welcome and encouraged to bring your families here. Those of you who are currently living in the city will no doubt be concerned about your possessions. I am afraid I must ask you to leave your furniture behind, but you are welcome to bring all of your other possessions here. We are preparing the stables so that we may provide a place for storage.”

  “The underground storerooms are empty now that Light Season has come upon us,” he continued, pacing the length of the platform. “It shall be up to all of you to help us fill it again. All food that you bring shall be placed in the storerooms. We must be prepared to stay here for a long while—or to leave in a hurry, if need be. We have worked out rooming arrangements. You will find them posted beside the doors.” He gestured toward the back wall. “Are there any questions?”

  “Lord, are we going to war?”

  “We do not know. Not yet. Hopefully, not ever. But, we must be prepared, and I shall not tolerate any injury to any of you.”

  “What about supplies other than food?” another asked.

  “We shall send special groups out tomorrow to gather what we need, but they will be armed and will number no less than ten. Any other questions?”

  The crowd murmured amongst themselves, but no more questions were forthcoming.

  “Thank you for your service and attendance tonight.”

  Later that night, Lord Danvek sat in his study, quill in hand.

  “Your Majesty,” he wrote, “I regret to inform you that I have had to require that all our personnel remain at the Manor. The situation within Watchaven is becoming untenable and several injuries have already occurred. I have been informed by my inside source on the Trade Council that Watchaven plans to continue its current policies. I have noticed a tightening of security about the city and cannot help but wonder if it is a prelude to war. Has any word been received concerning where the Northmarch shall stand if it should come to war? We cannot stand against both Watchaven and the Northmarch, but then, neither could Watchaven stand against us if the Northmarch were to side with us. Please keep me advised as to your wishes.