by Kamilla Reid
“Of course, milady.” The doorman’s white gloves wrapped around the centre goblet and lifted it to Root.
“Hold the Flame Dust,” she said at the last minute. “No need to take the edge off.”
“Of course.” The doorman snuffed the flame that danced over the goblet and handed it back to Root. She took a full, long gulp.
Aaaaaahhh. Nothing like a refreshing boost of Chorm to get you through the doors of Grotius Vulcherk’s notorious Zero-th Floor of the Dark Arts.
She replaced the goblet and with a deep breath stepped through.
28
THE CURATOR
Ernward was enjoying himself. He never fell bored of his position as Curator for the Zero-th Floor. What with so many fascinating and mysterious treasures. All the dark things he’d heard whispered about when he was growing up; the kind of things that, even now, after all these years made his neck hair lift and his webbed hands zingle.
He caught himself in the mirrored eyes of a sarcophagus. A grotesque reflection. The waxy liquefaction of skin. Features mangled and shapeless as a candle at its quick.
The price of sacrifice.
Indeed, if one were to become Curator of the Dark Arts Gallery, there would always be sacrifice. And though Ernward was still young, in fact the youngest to be instated to this position he’d already traveled a long valley of deception, greed and power to get here.
Grotius Vulcherk himself had recognized Ernward’s talent. Indeed, it was Ernward who’d supplied him with rare archives from the Drowned City, the same of which had been originally allocated to a historical museum. Tsk, tsk that they never made it. Ernward grinned as he recounted the theft. It had been an impressive accomplishment. Yet nothing like the coup that had brought him the attention he sought, the respect of his mentor, Grotius Vulcherk.
Today that coup will pay off ten-fold he thought. Twenty fold….a hundred fold! It will bring in more money than anything of the gallery’s history. And Ernward himself would get half.
Vulcherk was smart to offer him partnership and the distinction of a private auction. It was a calculating win/win. Sure, Ernward could have sold independently but with so much cloaking and secrecy required and nothing in the way of reputation to back him, nothing like Vulcherk’s at any rate, not to mention limited connections, partnership was the wiser choice.
And the bonus of Curator wasn’t too shabby either.
Ernward surveyed his Zero-th floor guests.
He was aware of all five bidders. Keenly aware. Their figures reflected in the black marble ceiling and in the moody, grey glass of Things. He followed them in the silver shine of dark treasures and in the glaring suspicion of his own hollow eyes. One must always be suspicious. For one thieving mind there were always ten more. And these buyers were hungry. They’d seen the prize and not a one could shake their eyes away. It had been born of the Drowned City itself and out of legend its very constitution was held responsible for the power of Kings and Sagicians and creatures of Might. It was not surprising that such a thing could invoke these wagging tongues. These wagging war-mongering tongues.
Ernward shrugged. War was not necessarily a platform he supported. But as he had learned from his mentor, it was not his business to know the end result of his transactions, but to ensure impartiality. Impartiality meant loyal customers, which meant even more transactions. The primary goal.
Ernward caught a movement, a zig to the room’s zag.
“What misery is this?” He said to himself as the young girl trod over his black glossed floor. Another child? That’s two in one day…neigh within hours of each other. He would make a note to tighten security. He looked at the girl in her red cloak. This one, he knew right away, did not belong. The other one had, as if the cold leaden walls were home. The other had struck into business with cunning professionalism, reminding Ernward of himself at that age. He had humored the child despite his schedule.
But this one, she wandered in with fear at her heels he thought and clenched his fists.
The moment Root entered she wanted to turn back but the door shwished behind her and the last thing she needed was to look conspicuous. She straightened her back and tried to present an air of authority.
In her bag, she could feel the Brotswin. She hadn’t even thought of it since arriving at Vulcherk’s and this moment did nothing to change that. There would be no languishing goodbyes here. Uh uh. Sentiment did not seem welcome in this place.
A quick scan revealed a slick enterprise indeed on the Zero-th floor. Nothing at all like its lower offerings. She realized immediately that those were mere facades, that the whole building was set up as a big amusement of cheap, convenient, bargain hunting diversion. Nothing of the real business. The dark and dangerous and profitable business that took place on this secret floor with its shiny turf and sleek counters and glass encased wares. She knew instinctively that there were other, cruder things here, too. The kind of things that were hidden in lesser rooms. Cages more like. Dungeons. The kind of things that were hideous in sight and sound. Reserved for the more common of the deranged and evil Dark Arts customer.
Root shuddered then set to her task of Quest whistle blower. The sooner she could get this over with, the better. She tried to pinpoint recognition in the browsing customers. There was a handful of people, all of them stinking of secret obsessions and wealth. They kept their heads low and their eyes darting. You could practically hear them sweating in the silence of the room. A man, bald and pale with shredded, melted folds of skin stood at the opening of another door. He held up a long baton with a compact of batting at its end and rapped it against a huge brass gong. It sent a deep-throated wave through the air, signaling the patrons to enter. Call her superstitious but Root knew this invite didn’t include her.
As she watched the guests, five of them plus their attendants file in; she could see there was no one of recognition. She sighed. Was she too late? Had the big, fat cheater already come and gone, now harboring some sort of dark ammunition in his or her pocket? How could Root find out?
Then it dawned on her. The till. Perhaps she could find a receipt or something. A purchase with a name on it. She surveyed the room, now empty. Her eyes landed on a large ‘V’ shaped counter in the back.
Not everything on the Zero-th Floor was of a dark nature. Vulcherk seemed to collect objects of unusual innovation as well. But, as Root waded deeper into the reserve the scales definitely tipped in the direction of macabre with many frightening and mysterious things vying for her attention. A squirming tangle of whitish worms rested in the folds of a black velvet pillow. Root leaned in for a closer look and almost cried out as it flew at her with a bloodied mouth in its centre and splatted against the glass. The legs squirmed and spread out leaving the horrific mouth wide and convulsing open, shut, open, shut. Rows of teeth labored to get through the glass, to find her face. Root felt sick as she pulled herself away.
Some Things shared occupancy in various cages; others were given lone status in glass casing on podiums. One in particular had Root’s heart racing though she couldn’t turn away. It housed a writhing mass of black feathers. She couldn’t tell what it was doing until it was finished. And all that remained of its dinner was the cat’s bones in a pool of red.
Root felt the bile rising into her throat. She focused on the counter now, refusing to be unhinged. Once arrived, a few deep breaths and a careful scan for Squawnches and/or other such patrols was necessary before she could concentrate on the task at hand.
She saw the till. It was unoccupied and beside it was a large black, leather bound book of accounts. So far, so good. She tried to crane herself over the counter to lift the cover but could just reach the tips of her fingers. She looked around again. The coast was still clear.
Hopefully.
She crouched down and wormed into the opening of the counter. From here she crawled to the till and reached up. The book was right…there. Her fingers slid over it and pulled it down.
Her heart was thudd
ing so loud she was sure someone would hear it and catch her.
She opened the book.
Rats!
No names.
She closed the book and was about to rise when an idea came to her. She flipped it open again.
Aha! Addresses! Now she had ‘em. Okay, so should she rip the pages out? Or take the whole book?
A noise. What was that? Root held her breath and tried to tuck herself under the counter from view. She waited, stock-still with fear.
After a time she realized it must have been nothing. Her body relaxed in the relief.
Until…
SNAP! The book suddenly clamped shut over her hand.
And began to chew.
Root muffled a scream. The book remained attached despite her desperate flailing attempt to rid herself of it.
She immediately froze. Caught in the frigid glare of the Curator of the Dark Arts Gallery.
“That’s enough now, Stinlet.” he said blandly to the book.
All at once the book released its hold and fell into Ernward’s expectant hands.
“Explain yourself,” he said with a cold glare.
Root held her wounded hand. The tips of her fingers had been chewed raw. Some were bleeding. “ I was…I have a…” With her good hand she pulled out her merchandise and held it up for the Curator.
“A Brotswin.” he said, raising his eyebrows. “From where did you get this?”
“The Ekladian Sage Mother.”
Ernward glared at her. He snatched the Brotswin from her and began looking for the Ekladian stamp. When he found it, he was immediately suspicious. “How? And don’t tell me you stole it. Your tactics are a far cry from the art of thieving, Miss…”
Root didn’t want to tell him her name. “I wasn’t trying to steal your book. I was…I was just looking to see what a Brotswin had sold for…what it was worth. You don’t have prices on anything.”
Ernward eyed Root. She could barely stand it. All of the lost expression of his waxy shapeless face was shouldered in his eyes. They were black as the marble around her and as cold. “An Ekladian Brotswin is of high value as I’m sure you recognize or you wouldn’t be here.” He had taken on a business tone and yet all the while he was searching for loopholes in her face. “I estimate several hundred….thousand.”
Root gulped.
“I shall be in need of a second opinion. You understand, of course.”
“Right. Of course.”
“Will you excuse me?”
“Uh…sure.”
When he was gone Root felt like she could breathe again. He had left the book, Stinlet on the counter, obviously trusting his security measures. Or maybe just to dare her. Either way, Root had to access it again but as her fingers throbbed she thought a better approach was in order.
“Hey, Stinlet.”
The book sat in silence.
“Look, I’m sorry I…opened you. Like I said, I was just looking.”
Not even a growl from the thing.
This was going to be difficult. Root absently picked up a long, black, quilled pen and began rolling it in her fingers as she thought. The book suddenly shook. She stopped. The book went as still as a statue again. She could’ve sworn…
Her mind went back to brainstorming. “How can I….?” She tapped the pen distractedly.
The book shuddered, like a small waft of wind had tickled its pages.
“What? This?” She held the pen up. The book shuddered again. She brought the pen closer. The cover lifted somewhat. Closer. A few pages lifted. And closer still, right up to Stinlet in fact. The cover splat wide open and the pages flitted in a fan of activity before halting at a blank one. Ready for the pen’s entry.
“ Cool.” Root smiled. “But I’m not adding anything.” She took the pen and moved it left, toward the pages that were already filled. They began flipping. “Woah, not so fast.” She slowly moved the pen to the right. The pages turned back until they came to the last page of entries.
“Bingo.” Root whispered. “Now hold still, Stinlet. This won’t hurt a bit.” Root took the inside edge of the page and began to pull.
“I’m afraid they won’t come out.” The voice was dead calm.
Root started. “I was…”
“Master Vulcherk is renowned for his ability to maintain his customers’ anonymity. Do you really think the details of his transactions would be so easy as for a child to obtain?”
“Oh no, I wasn’t…
The Curator snapped his fingers. At this the pen whipped from Root’s hand and poised on a blank sheet of the black book. “One Ekladian Brotswin.” Ernward dictated. “Value. Two hundred seventy five thousand gilds.” The pen scritched across the page. “Donated via the last will and testament of its anonymous owner.”
Root’s eyes bugged. “But, I’m not dead!”
“Not to worry. The details of that have been arranged. Unfortunate accidents often befall those who insist on playing where they shouldn’t.”
Ernward slipped a black chain around Root’s neck so fast she could hardly react. He tightened and pulled her from the counter.
Vulcherk’s patrons paced about the room anxiously. It was not a good sign for the bidding to be delayed like this. Ample space was kept between each other and any interaction was relegated to shrewd smiles and head shakes. They had already become bored of the room’s offerings, having seen similar artwork in their own homes and chambers. A waiter, dressed with the same impeccable standards as the doorman had done all he could to keep the guests satisfied but even he was feeling the discomfort of nerves.
The Curator, entering with a girl on a chain did nothing for the mood. Other than exacerbate it.
“What is the meaning of this?” A man asked.
“Ladies, gentlemen.” Ernward proceeded in a confident voice. “I hope you will accept my apologies for the delay. It seems on this momentous occasion you will be witness to some entertainment, in honour of the history taking place” The history to which he was referring seemed to be displayed in a glass encasement upon a shiny black podium at the front of the room. Root saw that the object was oddly shaped and soft white, like ivory. Root couldn’t imagine the draw of something so very plain.
“You, my dear guests,” Ernward continued “shall be given the rare privilege of an Ogoz feeding. Indeed, you shall personally witness the extent of Master Vulcherk’s confidentiality clause.”
Now they got it. And where Root thought she would witness outrage on the faces of the bidders, instead she was shocked to see hungry, eager anticipation. Ernward smirked, self-satisfaction and indeed his own avid suspense assembling in his eyes. He signaled to the waiter. “The Ogoz, if you please.”
The waiter returned with a glass cage. Within it a writhing mass of black feathers had been provoked by the move and now tore around the cage in upset, leaving a tar-like smear across the glass. Root thought she would faint. The cage was placed in the centre of the room. Root couldn’t take her eyes off it and so hadn’t noticed that the guests had been spread out along the walls as spectators would. When she did finally notice, it was too late. Another great wall of glass was rising around her, this for their ‘viewing pleasure.’
The Curator held the chain firmly around Root’s neck before abandoning her to her fate. She ran after him but whereas he simply seeped right through the glass wall, she crashed into it, to the delight of the audience. She recovered and pounded on the glass, plastered herself to it in hopes that she might somehow slip through as well. All to further delight. She realized she was no different than any of the other creatures brought to this evil place. She was a mere amusement. A sick fascination for sick, sick minds.
She heard a noise and turned. Her heart stopped. The lid was lifting from the smaller glass enclosure. A thick snake of black feathers began to spill out with an ugly gurgle. Root went rigid. The creature moved quickly. In a matter of seconds it would be upon her.
“Close the door, please, Stevlyn.” Ernward said to the
waiter.
29
TAKE THE SNAKE
As Stevlyn dutifully reached for and was just about to lock the door, it was suddenly bashed open, blasted right off its hinges. Before Stevlyn could even react he was hurled like a rag doll into a nearby wall.
The guests of the Zero-th floor turned to see a hideous creature lunging toward them. Its eyes were mad with fury and a steam seemed to come from its nostrils. Vulcherk’s patrons flew from its path as it kicked its way into the glass cage, shattering it into a million sparkling pieces.
“CPR!” Root cried, never, ever, ever so happy to see anyone in her entire life, especially her beloved mangy pet.
The Ogoz rose into the air, taking on the deadly stance of a cobra. There, on its underbelly Root could see millions of teeth zippering down the length of it. And then, like lightning a green tongue shot out and had her. It coiled around her neck and began to squeeze. Nothing of sound or even breath could escape. Root scrambled for air while the tongue, thick as a cord towed her in.
An unexpected bite at the other end of the Ogoz sent it into a blood chilling rage. Its tongue spun free of Root and snapped at its attacker, each strike cracking the air like a whip. Yet, try as it might it could not manage a direct hit. CPR was too fast, and too driven by something the Ogoz could not even fathom. Indeed, the devotion that CPR had for Root was the mighty force that propelled her. And nothing, no parking lot leash and certainly no Ogoz was going to come between them.
CPR had the writhing thing clenched in her jaws and was shaking madly when Root pointed toward the on-looking patrons. “CPR, throw it over there!” she screamed.
Any and all semblance of calm disappeared once the Ogoz landed and began thrashing its way toward Vulcherk’s guests. Taking advantage of the distraction, CPR raced toward Root, intent upon escape.
But the Curator got to Root first. He swiftly stuck a razored point into her back. “Tell it to stop.” He whispered.
