Gav knows his way around the city, I'll grant him that.
For most travelers, the journey into Kaer Maga stops at the Core. The only places in the city to receive regular sunlight, the three districts of the Core are considered neutral ground by the loose alliance of gangs and guilds that rule the city in an anarchic, mercenary, and utterly tribal fashion. To the north, Widdershins provides relatively posh housing for those with means, and to the south Downmarket and Hospice milk gold from locals and transients alike through trade and lodging. In the middle rests the unnamed lake that fills the troughs of fresh water that riddle the city.
It was here, in the close-packed stalls of Downmarket, that I got my first real taste of Kaer Maga's storied population. In the centuries since the first squatters stumbled across the vast edifice, Kaer Maga has become a city of outcasts and heretics, a home for those who no longer fit into the societies of their birth. Into this anarchist haven pour the dregs of a score of nations—mostly human, but as different from each other as night and day. Sweettalkers from the far east haggle in their sighs and whistles with hairless Osirion shopkeepers, the lips of the former sewn shut to keep them from uttering anything less than the truename of their god. Veiled men of the Iridian Fold follow close behind their partners, chains and lacquered armor creaking, while farther down a cleric of Abadar ignores the propositions of a Nexian whore-priest. Where so many cultures intersect, tolerance is a virtue, and there are few items or services too taboo to be sold in the claustrophobic markets of Kaer Maga.
It was while I was watching one such transaction that I felt the tug on my belt pouch. Feigning obliviousness, I yawned, then in one movement dropped low and swung my leg around in a heavy arc, sweeping the thief's feet out from under him as I grabbed his arm.
Behind me, a child tumbled to the muddy ground. Dressed in the threadbare rags of a street urchin, he looked perhaps twelve. To my surprise, he grinned up at me shamelessly, hand still firmly in my purse.
"Ha! Good on you, Lord! Got a bit too greedy for my own health now, neh?"
Scrambling nimbly to his feet, the boy gripped the hand that held his wrist and shook it like we had just made a deal.
"Here, now, Sire, I can see how you might be down on my securing of a bit of advance pay without prior notice, but I assure you, I'm worth every copper. The name's Gav, and it's a pleasure to serve. So where to?"
I finally found my voice. "What are you on about?"
"Simple logic, Sire—judging by the way you're eyeing the goods, this is your first time in Kaer Maga, and everyone knows that I'm the best guide these streets have ever seen. So either you can chase me hopelessly through the city I was born in trying to recover this handful of tin in my purse, or you can take me on as your personal guide. Which'll it be?"
His rapid-fire chatter made my head spin, but I couldn't argue the point. Matching the child's professional courtesy, I nodded solemnly and dropped his hand. "I'm looking for a man," I said. "A merchant, I think. Named Dakar."
The boy's demeanor immediately became serious, and he glanced around furtively before pulling me down into a hunker in a narrow alley between stalls.
"You don't start small, do ya, Gov? What do you want to have a run-in with him for?"
"He's got something I need," I said.
"Right, well, see, Dakar isn't someone you just walk in and see. Don't know that any folks have ever seen him. He's what you might call the leader of a merchants' guild up in Ankar-Te." The emphasis he put on "merchant" told me that the man in question was anything but. "You're sure about this?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Alright then." And without another word he stood and moved out into the crowd, darting through cracks between bodies with the ease of a seal in surf, but always staying within sight. After a few moments, he stopped and beckoned. "The Augurs are the straightest shot to the grapevine," he whispered.
"What—" I managed, then stopped short. Before me rose a wall of green flesh covered in bloodstained rags, two piggish eyes staring down at me across a long, thin nose. One hand went to my sword as with the other I sought to push Gav behind me, but the boy was having none of it.
"Greetings, wise Augur," he proclaimed, with a small bow. "This man seeks your insight before an important transaction. Will you part the curtain of days and tell us of what is and may yet be?"
The troll looked me up and down, and I quickly moved my hand away from my sword. Finally it nodded and led us over to a small table near the wall of a smithy. Seating itself across from us, the troll finally spoke, its voice the rumble of a timpani. "What would you ask of tomorrow?" it growled.
Gav held out his hand toward me and snapped his fingers impatiently. I placed a few coins in them, and he deposited several on the table before blatantly pocketing the rest. "This man seeks a business deal with the merchant Dakar, but knows not where to find him. What will result of his search?"
At the mention of the name, the troll's eyes narrowed, and it gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Then it stood, drew a knife from a hidden fold in its garment, and before I could move, thrust it into its own belly.
With a sick fascination I watched as the creature pulled the knife across its stomach, spilling its intestines onto the table before us. The child, for his part, watched without blinking as the troll swirled its own bowels with the knifepoint, studying the blood that leaked in hot rivulets across the wood.
"What is sought will be found," the troll intoned at last, "but there will be a price. The blood will flow and will not flow, and the seeker will be the hand of the handless." Then it scooped up its entrails, thrust them roughly into its gaping belly, and staggered drunkenly away with the coins, one hand holding its already regenerating insides inside.
There was a long pause, and then Gav turned his smug gaze on me again. "There you go, then!" he said.
"What in the Hells was that?" I asked, aghast.
"An Augur," he replied. "Troll fortune-tellers. Don't worry, they heal up quick—he'll be fine in a few minutes. And more importantly, Gov, everyone knows they speak the truth—which means they know everybody. And he knows we want the word out. We've run up the flag, now we just wait and see who rallies."
He grinned again.
"So, Sire, where are we staying?"
6 Desnus, 4707 ar
Waiting is not my strong suit. A man could explore Kaer Maga for ages and never grow bored, yet returning to the inn each night having come no closer to my goal is disheartening. At least the kid's impressed—ever since he realized I was a Pathfinder, he's been an endless high-pitched stream of questions about how he can join. I refused to let him in the room the first night, fearing theft, and ever since he's quietly made his exit each night when I retire for the evening. This morning, however, I rose early and found him sleeping in the hallway in front of my door, curled into a ball.
8 Desnus, 4707 ar
My skin reeks of blood.
For several days Gav and I wandered the city, spreading the word of my search through his seemingly limitless stream of contacts and seeing some of the city's more appealing sights: the towers of Highside Stacks that house Kaer Maga's wealthiest residents, and the Balconies in western Bis, where the buildings climb the inner walls of the Ring like cliff-dwellings, a waterfall of humanity that pours out across the stone beneath a ceiling barely visible in the permanent twilight. At first he tried to take me to the assorted brothels and pleasure-houses of Hospice, but while I was impressed by the variety of delights being offered, some of the more extreme services the painted boys and girls whispered in my ear turned my stomach. Instead we drank in the Bottoms with the escaped slaves that call themselves the Freemen, gambled what we could afford to lose in the exotic gaming halls of Ankar-Te, and saved coin by bathing covertly beneath the bridges of Cavalcade—all accompanied by a running commentary from my surprisingly infor
med young guide on the city's recent history. The amount of history and petty secrets I amassed in such a short time was astounding, yet everywhere I went, my incomplete task hung over my head like a storm on the horizon, and my purse grew ever lighter.
When contact was made, it was sudden and jarring. While casually browsing a bookseller's stall, I was suddenly yanked backward as my arms were pinioned behind me. Out of a corner of my eye I saw Gav writhing in the clutches of a brawny street tough, and then everything went black as a second pair of hands pulled a bag over my head. I kicked out, catching one of my assailants in the knee with a wet pop, and with the back of my head slammed backward, crushing what felt like a nose. Then something struck me hard in the temple, buckling my legs.
"No more of that, if you want to meet the master," a voice whispered in my ear.
Suspecting I knew who he referred to, I obligingly went limp and felt myself bound and loaded into the back of a cart, which rumbled over cobblestones for some time before finally stopping somewhere far from the bustle of the marketplace. Rough hands pulled me upright and led me through echoing halls of stone or tile before finally stopping and removing my hood, leaving my hands bound.
I was in a stone chamber lit by hanging braziers, the walls draped thickly with silk curtains and tapestries. Along the room's edges sat row upon row of cushions and duvets, accompanied by low wooden tables. At the far end, the room was almost completely obscured by a large paper screen, backlit by a soft yellow light that cast strange shadows. Next to me, two of the thugs removed the bag from a similarly bound Gav before stepping back a respectful distance to watch and listen.
"So," spoke a voice from behind the curtain, "who is this who shouts my name so incautiously about the city?"
I cleared my throat. "My name is Eando Kline, Pathfinder," I replied. "This boy is my guide. I was told by the Magnimarian merchant Belsir Trullos that the man known as Dakar could provide me with something I seek—a gem of some importance to my society; it's known as an ioun stone. I come prepared to bargain."
"And what do you have to offer?" the voice asked.
"My organization is ill-disposed toward secrets," I responded, attempting to regain control of the situation and put us on equal footing. "Why not dispense with the cheap theatrics? I like to know what sort of man I'm dealing with."
The guards stiffened, but the voice gave a soft, hissing laugh. With a rustle and the sound of something heavy being dragged, Dakar emerged from behind the curtain.
He was huge. His face was long and narrow, with a prominent chin and hooked nose, the hairless skin stretched tight over his skull. Sweeping back from his bald forehead, an elaborate headdress of overlapping, bejewled plates clinked and rattled. Beneath that, however, any resemblance to humanity ceased. From the neck down, his body was that of an enormous serpent, dark gray and wrapped in places with ornate golden bangles. He slithered to a stop in front of us and laughed again at our expressions, forked tongue flickering between his teeth.
"Wormfolk!" Gav breathed.
Dakar isn't quite the man I had expected.
"We prefer the term ‘naga,' child," Dakar admonished. "It would serve you well to remember that. Now, Kline, I have freely granted your request, though to do so is not often in my nature. What do you have to offer me?"
"Gold," I replied, finding my voice once again. "Gold and information. Access to the knowledge of the Pathfinders, as vetted by myself."
The naga made a nest of his coils and reclined upon them, eyes locked unsettlingly on my own.
"Do you really think I need either, Eando Kline?" he asked. "I have eyes and ears in every corner of Kaer Maga—if I wish to know something, I know it. And your wealth is but a drop in the sea as compared to mine. No, Pathfinder, I deal in neither, but rather in service and favors. And I have one prepared for you."
I stood silent, neither accepting nor rejecting anything.
He nodded. "Good. As you have no doubt gleaned from your adolescent companion, I operate a number of enterprises in this district, and help maintain peace in the city through strategic arrangements with professionals in similar trades. Recently, however, an upstart has been attempting to circumvent these gentlemen's agreements and move in on my territory. Neshiel is a hemotheurge—a bloatmage, as some might call them." He glanced pointedly at Gav, who blushed but stood tall under the gaze. "The wizard recently had the audacity to steal a valuable spellbook from one of the hex crafters under my protection, and I want you to get it back... and deliver a message in the process."
"Why can't you send one of your men?" I asked.
The snake-man tossed his head in what I interpreted as a shrug. "It's complicated," he replied, his forked tongue darting out to taste the air. "A matter of guild agreements and powerful persons who must be appeased. Suffice to say that the known free agents can't be trusted and I'm not interested in risking my own boys. Still, it should be a simple enough matter, if you have the stomach for it. I'll even let you borrow something to make the task a little easier."
From behind the curtain, a tiny object floated up and over to me as if of its own accord: an amulet on a worn leather thong, carved from black volcanic glass into the coiled shape of a leech.
"While you wear that amulet, the magic of the bloatmage will be unable to touch you," Dakar said.
I stared at it uncertainly. "I'm no assassin," I said.
"Certainly not," Dakar soothed. "But unless I miss my guess, you know how to handle yourself in a fight. And besides, Neshiel's impertinence endangers the exceedingly fragile web of alliances that keeps this city from tearing itself apart. By putting some fear into him, you'll save countless lives. Think on that." There was an expectant pause.
"Alright," I said at last, slipping the amulet over my head. "When do you need this task completed?"
The naga smiled.
"No time like the present," he said.
Thus I found myself, only a few hours later, standing outside a prosperous shop in Tarheel Promenade, while Gav peered into the half-light for anyone who looked suspicious. He gave the all-clear, and together we moved into the building.
The shop itself was a vast collection of magical oddities: disembodied hands and floating orbs that flickered through every color of the spectrum. Gav's eyes immediately lit up with greed, but I shook my head slightly and he caught the motion. We were here on a mission—we were not thieves.
Sitting behind the shop's counter, Neshiel was exactly how Dakar had described him. Obviously once human, his skin was now expanded outward as if inflated, the rolls of bloated flesh crisscrossed everywhere with varicose veins. Beneath the surface, fluid oozed and eddied, his skin one vast blister. And across this gluttonous expanse stretched dozens of fat black leeches. He looked up and smiled as we walked in, revealing a set of perfect white teeth that somehow made the whole package that much more horrible.
"Welcome, Lords!" he called in a deep, jovial voice. "What wonders of the arcane can Neshiel provide?"
I wasted no time. Without saying a word, I strode quickly across the room. Neshiel's smile flickered and faltered, and then my outstretched hand met his doughy neck and knocked him completely off his stool, slamming him to the floor and pinning him there. His hands darted in quick gestures as he mumbled half-heard words, a glow of blue fire springing from his fingers and forming a net around me, only to evaporate the second it touched my skin. Against my chest, the amulet glowed red with warmth. He saw it, and his eyes widened with fear.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"Dakar sends his regards," I replied. "Where's the book?"
He launched into a stream of curses, cut off only when my hand constricted his windpipe. I looked up from where I crouched over his bulk on the floor and saw Gav watching the exchange with open-mouthed excitement.
"Wait outside and keep a lookou
t," I told him.
"But—" he began.
"Gav, outside."
He stomped out of the room and I looked down at Neshiel, his face twisted with anger and fear. "Well?" I asked.
He glared and clenched his jaw. Inspecting the bulbous flesh, I selected a particularly large leech and pulled, ripping it from his skin and dropping it wriggling to the floor.
He gasped at the pain, but only a few drops of blood welled from the puckered wound where the parasite had attached itself. I gave him a pointed look.
He spat, hitting me on the chin. I reached down and pulled another leech. And another.
As I plucked the things from the hemotheurge's skin, a curious change began to take place. None of the wounds bled more than a few drops, and indeed they seemed to heal remarkably quickly, but by the time half of the leeches lay crushed in a pile by my feet, his face was flushed and his breathing labored. Beneath me his flesh seemed to expand and grow taught, the vessels in his eyes distending until the whites were solid red. I ripped off two more leeches, and trickles of blood began to flow from his nose and ears. Beneath me his skin was swollen and purple, a balloon ready to pop. Finally he screamed, and I ceased my stomach-churning ministrations.
Only constant leeching keeps bloatmages from hemorrhaging.
"There!" he gasped, pointing to a drawer in the counter. "Book... there... take...." He seemed to be having trouble finding the words, and with a shock I suddenly wondered if the swelling in his flesh had extended to his brain. Standing and yanking open the drawer, I found a thick leather book with gold piping that matched Dakar's specifications. I picked it up and walked around the counter. Behind me, Neshiel moaned and pressed wounded leeches to his face, sobbing with relief.
The Compass Stone: The Collected Journals of Eando Kline Page 3
