The Compass Stone: The Collected Journals of Eando Kline

by James L Sutter (ed) (epub)

  Despite nearly a dozen bridges, Korvosa is a divided city, carved apart by the Jeggare River and the Strait of Saint Alika. Seven districts, divided further into one to five wards apiece, split the city into relatively distinct administrative, cultural, and economic sections. While no single wall surrounds the entire city, several wards are physically defined by walls of varying ages and styles.

  I spent six days in the North Point District, canvassing the inns and taverns in search of my quarry. Comprised of four large, sparsely populated wards, North Point houses many of the city's oldest non-noble families. The Infernal Wall opens onto Northgate, home of the city hall, the gloomy Arbiter's Hall, and the Bank of Abadar. The remnants of the city's first mainland walls define the northern edge of the ward, dividing the influential Gaters (as they're called by the rest of the city) from the truly old money in Mainshore.

  Coming up empty and growing increasingly nervous, I crossed into the inviting but bustling Midland District. When people think of Korvosa, they generally think of the cosmopolitan crowds of Midland. Regardless of the bustle, I knew almost immediately that I wouldn't find who I sought there—the district contains the Korvosan Guard's headquarters, as well as both a department of the beloved Sable Knights and the hard-hearted Order of the Nail. As such, it's not exactly welcoming toward the lawless, nor to vigilantes bent on their own form of justice. I circled northwest and climbed into the Heights District, passing by the University of Korvosa on my way.

  It was here that I finally struck gold. Leaving the Posh and Turtle just below Korvosan Tower, I found myself waylaid by one of several beggars I had contracted to keep watch for my quarry. Surprisingly nimble in his stinking rags, the panhandler led me north along the waterfront via the Avenue of Arms. As I reached its north end, I came upon an intersection with a wide, tree-lined boulevard, and there, leaning against one of the trees' slender trunks, slouched the foppish elf who had eluded me

  for so long.

  Circling wide around the square, I approached from behind and at an angle, keeping the bole of the tree between us. When I grew close enough to brush up against its smooth bark, I turned and drew my dagger, wrapping my arms around both tree and elf and pinning him there, dagger pricking the skin beneath his chin. Placing my cheek next to his, I whispered in his ear.

  "Hello, friend."

  To his credit, he didn't flinch. Instead he turned his head slowly, careful not to impale himself on my blade, until he could look me in the face. At that, his eyes widened the tiniest bit, and I smiled with all of my teeth.

  Faster than I could blink, he straightened his legs and leapt into the air, bringing his throat clear of my blade. Before I could react, he slammed an elbow down on my still-sore wrist, smashing it between bone and the tree trunk. I howled and lost my grip, and then he was off, dodging through the busy streets. Obviously more experienced with the territory, he nearly lost me in the crowds of that lane as we raced across a narrow bridge, over the Strait of Saint Alika, and into the least desirable section of the city: Old Korvosa.

  Completely covering Endrin Isle, Old Korvosa is, as the name implies, the oldest section of the city. And the dirtiest. And the most dangerous. The cramped tenements of Bridgefront make the claustrophobic apartments of Old Dock appear roomy and expansive, seeming more akin to the towering shanties of Kaer Maga's Warren district. Coming to the end of the bridge, I found myself suddenly in an entirely new environment. I had heard tales of Old Korvosa, of course, but the stories never really conveyed the sights and stomach-churning smells of the place. Here, maimed veterans of the Goblinblood Wars sat begging along the streets. There, dealers in pesh and qat peddled their wares in plain sight. All of this I took in at a glance, but spared no attention for.

  The elf veritably danced through the crowded, stinking throngs. Even as I fell behind in our slow-moving chase, I watched with begrudging respect the way he spun full around to dodge through a group of thick-handed copper beaters, or grabbed a stirrup to slip under a slow-moving horse. Elves and halflings always make the best cutpurses, and this one was no exception.

  At last we broke through the first two blocks of the district, past the walls of ramshackle tenements and squeezed townhouses. With Bridgefront behind me, I found myself in Garrison Hill. Still crowded, this oldest part of the city (outside of Fort Korvosa itself) at least provides wider avenues and boulevards, especially as you near the cliffs of the island, where the high walls of the rebuilt fort still stand, proud and erect.

  The elf leapt through a merchant's cart, stomping on a display of wrinkling Ravenmoor grapes, then vaulted over the bewildered Varisian tending the makeshift stall and tumbled along the alley floor behind. Not trusting the slick fruit, I instead leapt to the side of the cart, planted one foot on the wall of the nearby building, and spun through the air behind the merchant.

  I landed awkwardly in a puddle of something, and my feet slipped out from under me, gravity slamming me hard into the pavement. The foul liquid, redolent of urine and fish, splashed up around me, soaking my clothing and coating me in a slick of filth. The elf reached the end of the alley and turned, passing from view. Struggling to my feet, I followed.

  And stopped short. The narrow waterfront lane I found myself in held a dozen or so people, but not one of them an elf. Painfully aware of the stares of the fishermen around me, I breathed hard, attempting to ignore the burning in my chest. That's when I heard a soft wooden bang to my right. Turning, I noted a small greasy window almost level with the street, with scuff marks scarring the sill. Without a second thought, I dashed at the window and dropped, trusting the slimy filth covering

  me to grease my slide. With my right foot leading I smashed through the glass and struck something soft and yielding on the other side.

  The elf and I landed hard on the rough-hewn floor of a cellar, with me on top. For a moment we lay there head-to-toe with each other, gasping to regain our wind, then simultaneously launched into a flurry of kicks that bloodied each other's faces but lacked the leverage to do any real damage. That tactic proving ineffective, I rolled off the elf and came to my feet. At that moment, the extent of my injuries became apparent. Long slivers of glass stuck out of my legs, chest, and arms, and wide patches of blood coated my body, seeping through my already befouled clothing. Darkness framed my vision and my knees buckled with exhaustion, but I managed to grab the edge of the window frame and catch myself. Through the haze of a raging headache I noticed the elf moving even slower, and took the opportunity to hum an aria borrowed from the priests of Desna, feeling the magic inherent in the music close the worst of my wounds and fill my veins with new life. Bits of glass fell from my flesh as I stepped forward, still shaky, and drew my sword.

  Rising slowly, one arm held close against his chest to immobilize it, the elf began to weave his fingers in strange movements, mouth moving but eyes still set in that same expressionless mask. A spell? Really? With my sword drawn? Fast as he was, not even an elf could concentrate on a spell and still expect to dodge me. Before he could finish his incantation, I lunged forward and ran my sword clear through his stomach, carrying him to the ground with me, where I lay panting on his corpse, his blood flowing out between us and warming my hands.

  For a short time I stayed there, surveying my surroundings from the floor. On first blush, it looked like a water-damaged empty basement. In fact, it looked like a basement on second and third blushes as well. Sighing, I sat up on the dead elf's chest, causing a spurt of blood to blast a streak of crimson on my arm. Absently, I backhanded his face. Why did he run down into an abandoned basement? Maybe he lived in the building above. Maybe he knew someone who did. Still, his strength was in his speed, and he had sacrificed it. Why? Glancing down at the body, I noticed for the first time a thin chain around his neck, at the end of which hung a softly glowing key.

  Maybe he had a way out after all.

  Gods, the smell.
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br />   Snatching up the key, I walked up the wooden stairs leading out of the dusty basement and tried the key in the door. No luck. Over the next several minutes I tried putting the key into anything resembling a hole I could find in that dust-filled, gods-forsaken basement. At last my frustration got the best of me, and I fell to kicking the elf's corpse, punctuating each strike with a curse or unanswered question. Then with one final kick, his body shifted, and I discovered what I had been missing: beneath where the elf had fallen, his wide puddle of blood seemed to drain, ever so slowly, into a previously unseen crack beneath the body.

  As I moved the key near the crack it began to glow more brightly. Encouraged, I stuck it in and twisted. With an audible, grinding crunch, a rectangular outline of cracks suddenly formed in the floor, with a dozen parallel cracks running across it. The parallel sections recessed in a series of mechanical chunks, forming a steep, crudely cut set of stairs, dripping now with blood. A terrible draft of corruption washed into the basement.

  Ah, how wonderful. Sewers. A section of the famed Vaults of Korvosa.

  With a quick search of the elf's body, I found little to identify him, but plucked an unused handkerchief from of his pouches and put it to my nose. As I had hoped, it was perfumed. Elves. I tied it around my head to cover my mouth and nose.

  Holding my sword out before me, I descended into the yawning sewer, searching for any indication of recent passage. At the foot of the stairs, a low-ceilinged tunnel flowed sluggishly with a morass of salt-water sludge a foot deep, stretching out into the darkness. Holding up the elf's key, which continued to glow with a pale blue light, I continued cautiously down the tunnel. After a time, the passage curved and I caught a glimmer of dim radiance, accompanied by the shuffling and snorting of something huge. Then the tunnel opened up, and I found myself staring down upon one of the island's many cesspits... and its inhabitants.

  Massive three-legged monstrosities with mouths that filled their bulbous bodies waddled around in the filth and refuse collected below the city. If they saw me they did not react, for they continued their disgusting work, shoveling huge piles of garbage into their gaping maws. Careful to make as little noise as possible, I edged around the circular chamber on a narrow, man-sized walkway. Three other similarly sized pipes opened into the cesspit, and as with the stairs, the key grew brightest near the far tunnel. Fair enough. Not wanting to remain near the massive, dangerous, and nauseating creatures any longer than I already had, I moved quickly down the passage. Almost immediately the air changed, the odor lessening until it felt almost fresh.

  Taking heart, I continued on, finally coming to a raised dais made of wood and covered in a thick and muddy layer of pine needles and dirty hay. A wooden trap door waited in the roof above. In front of me, horizontal lines cut directly into the stone wall created a makeshift ladder. Climbing it, I slid a dagger's blade into the slight gap between door and roof and pried. The thin blade provided little in the way of a view, but after several finger- and toe-cramping minutes I guessed the room beyond to be empty.

  Taking a deep breath, I threw open the door, scampering up the ladder and through the hatch as quick as I could. I was alone, but I felt certain someone had heard my entry. Silently I took in the boot-filled mudroom in which I found myself before moving into a well-appointed entry hall. Kicking off my slime-coated boots so as to not leave a trail, I began my exploration in earnest. Voices drifted throughout the seemingly endless building, forcing me more than once to duck into a side room and press my ear to the door.

  It was in one of these rooms that my luck finally turned and I found myself surrounded by piles of bags, weapons, works of art, and other seemingly random but valuable items, each tagged with a tiny note listing a date and location. Throwing myself into the mounds of goods, I burrowed frantically, and was soon rewarded by my own pack, its tag noting the circumstances of its theft. Tearing it open, I discovered everything as I had left it, with the notable exception of the missing puzzle box. Such losses bothered me little, however, and with a lightened heart I slipped the thong of the wayfinder over my head and clutched the journal to my chest, vowing to never let either pass from my sight again. With one longing look at the piles of loot—who knows what other secrets might rest within such a trove?—I made haste for the door, only to run headlong into a bewildered youth wearing all red, approaching from the direction of the sewers.

  We stared at one another for a few surprised seconds, then

  I kicked him hard in the knee and sprinted the other way.

  Behind me, his cries of alarm as he went down were answered by other voices, and the clank of weapons sounded from several directions.

  A staircase loomed up suddenly in front of me, and without thinking, I took it, taking the steps two or three at a time. Ahead of me, sunlight slanted through a windowed landing, broken only by the brace of red-garbed guards who came charging down the stairs, swords drawn. I was out of options. Summoning up the last of my strength, I put my head down and charged, backpack held in front of me like a shield. The surprised guards' blades whistled over my head, and then I was crashing through the glass, pack protecting my newly healed skin from the jagged shards as I plunged in free-fall to the cobblestones that appeared below, tucking and rolling to spread the impact over my whole body. Above me, the guards looked on in astonishment as I tumbled to my feet, the broken glass raining down around me.

  Seeing their expressions, I was unable to resist and swept my arm out in a low, mocking bow. Then I turned and raced laughing into the streets of Old Korvosa, the fresh breeze cool on my face and stones smooth beneath my bare feet.

  Appendix: Exploring Korvosa

  Established during the expansion of the Chelaxian Empire as the primary settlement in Varisia, Korvosa remains closely tied to its roots in devil-worshiping Cheliax and continues to be the unofficial capital of the region in the eyes of most foreigners, rivaled only by Magnimar. Korvosa is the setting of the Pathfinder Curse of the Crimson Throne Adventure Path, and further information on its web of political intrigue and infernal pacts can be found in Pathfinder volumes 7–12 and in the forthcoming Guide to Korvosa.

  Appendix: Korvosa's Offal Secret

  Built where the land meets the water and straddling a major river that dumps into the most prosperous clam field in Varisia, the lower sections of Korvosa face a huge, stinking problem: their own waste. Many of the sewers beneath Korvosa drain into massive cesspits to the south, but the isolated wards on Endrin Isle trust to an alternative means of disposal: otyughs. The otyughs of Korvosa have more than tripled in number (and can still only barely keep up with the city's offal) since Lord Magistrate Dess Leroung imported them from Cheliax almost two centuries ago. Large steel plugs in the streets, opened by equally massive crank-driven winches, separate the city's population from its surly waste disposers. These otyughs occasionally break out of the sewers and rampage through Old Korvosa, where they're subsequently corralled and incarcerated again by guardsmen wielding longspears coated in tranquilizing poisons.

  Belly of the Beast

  By Mike McArtor and James L. Sutter

  12 Erastus, 4707 ar

  Curiosity is Man's greatest blessing, that which most distinguishes him from the beasts of the field. The drive to discover, to question convention and unveil secrets, has lifted us up from the dirt, birthed science and culture, brought us both the arcane and the divine. It has made us masters of heaven and earth, and taught us to know the minds of the very gods themselves. In the Pathfinder, this need for truth has been honed to a needle point, an obsession, and one might well argue that in this purity of purpose, we most embody Man's reason for existence on this world.

  But gods, sometimes it makes us stupid.

  For the first few days after my escape, my braggadocio ran high, and it was enough merely to have recovered my journal and wayfinder. As, in truth, it ought to be—I've no need for further tro
uble, and I'm no closer to identifying my ioun stone than when I left Kaer Maga a month ago. Yet as the hours roll on, I find myself more and more reluctant to saddle my horse and show this festering hellhole my back. Instead of fulfilling my mission, all I can think about is that puzzle box, and how the thieves seemed to know it on sight, finding it worthwhile enough to jump an armed (if admittedly foolish and inebriated) man and ride halfway across Varisia to turn it over to—whom? What have I stumbled into? And what role does my box play in it? Try as I might, I just can't bring myself to turn my back on such questions. I've got to go back in, got to take back what's mine and find someone who can tell me more. That might be easier said than done, though—something tells me that, whoever these people are, they aren't going to be caught unawares a second time. If I'm going to do this, I'll need help.

  So I'll bring in a specialist.

  12 Erastus, 4707 ar

  Evening

  Adventurers and mercenaries never really retire. They die, sometimes gloriously in a bard's song, sometimes coughing up their own organs in a muddy battlefield, rarely in bed. Or they live, ruling a nation or on the run, constantly looking over their shoulder.

  And some of them—perhaps the luckiest—simply fade away.

  Given the nature of what I had to suggest, I figured it prudent to wait until nightfall, nursing a glass of bad whisky at a dive bar just north of the Icon of Man Ascendant in Northgate. The bartender, while the surly balding sort, didn't seem to find it worth his time to evict me from my place at one of the outside tables, so I sat there long after the whisky was gone, watching the stretching shadows and the children playing on the statue, clambering over its sides and running between its marble limbs. I wonder, in this land of monuments, is this how the ancients would see us today? Children running beneath the feet of giants. Finally, the sun set completely and parents called their broods home. I pulled my cloak tight around me and joined the crowd, weaving my way through the streets to Mainshore.