The scribe nodded. “And it remains so, like a rune etched on my brow.”
“I believe more space has opened up for lettering.” Lakif pointed out his ever-receding hairline.
“How can I dispose of you, Acaanan?” The bon vivant snorted. His face was florid; Lakif couldn’t be certain if he was angry or tipsy with drink.
“I know you are a good man, a man of many talents.” Lakif’s attention was drawn past the pedant and up to the crusty corner of the inn.
“Why are you bothering me again? I’ve nothing to add to my report on the statue,” the scholar ranted. Lakif suddenly had an idea.
“I was told by Lucretia that you were still in the Goblin Knight.” After throwing out the name, she scrutinized the scribe for any iota of reaction.
“Who?”
Coming up short, the Acaanan continued. “She was a gypsy who stayed here nearly a fortnight past.” Lakif pointed up to the corner where the fateful meeting had occurred. “She stationed herself near Pomona, and I think you overheard our brief conversation.”
The fellow’s reaction was blank, and Lakif was disappointed. She had somehow felt that the scribe would have vindicated her own experiences in that corner. With his position at the foot of the stairs, he had been ideally positioned to overhear the conversation with Lucretia. As Lakif’s ruse failed to elicit a reaction, she switched back to brass tacks.
“Anyway, you claimed to be a compiler of runes and symbols, an antiquary of dead languages?”
The friar nodded. “I believe that was made clear.”
“And you admitted to hiring out as a translator?”
Again, he nodded. “I’m impressed that you paid attention. It’s difficult to know with your people.”
“How much do you charge to decipher a parchment?”
The scribe’s face lit up with excitement. “What parchment?”
“First, the cost,” the scroll-bearer demanded.
“It depends on the time required. My basic fee is a shekel for a consultation, and one per day of research.”
“Then I want to employ your services,” Lakif stated with authority. Jonas’ fee was reasonable. She suspected that the scribe wasn’t all that interested in generating profit from his services. Seeing that he had been a guest in the Goblin Knight for almost a fortnight, dining richly to boot, he was obviously independently wealthy. The small pittance he received for his services probably only covered his stationery and ink.
“I can afford to pay three shekels.” Lakif calculated the dent it would make in her finances.
The rune archivist quickly agreed with a nod. Lakif produced the parchment, and Jonas greedily ogled it. As he smacked some trace sauce from his lips, he added, “Tell me of its source.”
“It’s from an old book, which I had all but allocated to the garbage bin. But while delving through the text, I discovered this glued to the binding. The book itself seemed quite old, perhaps older than you, but as you can see, the parchment looks fresh.”
The man darted his beady eye from point to point around the page, but said nothing. His interest was clearly piqued.
Lakif anxiously awaited any news. After a minute, the scribe pushed the parchment aside. He winced, folding his arms across his potbelly as if in thought.
“Offhand, I can’t translate this. It is no language I am familiar with.”
Lakif’s spirits plummeted.
“But I have a suspicion.” Jonas snapped his fingers, and a crumb careened into the Acaanan’s brow. “It will take some research. You said five shekels?”
“Three,” Lakif corrected him.
“Done!” Jonas thumped the table with a plump fist.
“How long will it take?”
The scribe scratched his scruffy chin, dislodging a few seeds stored there. “I’ll need a few days to gather the requisite materials. Let’s say three days—no more.”
Had Lakif stopped to think clearly, she should have been leery to pay out this sum for an unknown scroll that almost certainly held no value to her. But her curiosity was raging, and to an Acaanan, that alone outweighed all sound judgment. She hesitated on parting with the parchment, but realized she had no choice. She had little confidence in her ability to copy the intricate symbols accurately and reproduce a copy for herself. She would have to assume the scribe’s honesty.
“Payment deferred. We’ll meet here exactly three nights from tonight. May the spirits inspire your research!” Lakif wished him well.
On the way back up to her chamber, Lakif bypassed her own level and continued up into the heights of the inn. She had become versed in the layout, at least the major elements. Something had been pecking at her mind since their return.
Within minutes, she arrived at the tapestry gallery. She paused to peruse the tapestry depicting the war of the Renaissance. A tempestuous sea of turmoil surrounded the Goblin Knight. Apparently, this area of Grimpkin was built on the plains of Phlegra.
“It’s number eleven,” a voice startled Lakif. She thought she shared the solemn hall with no one, but a man stood alongside her, similarly admiring the carnage.
“Pardon?”
“It was the eleventh tapestry that drew you here,” the stranger pointed out. The spectator, having seemingly read Lakif’s thoughts, had announced his identity. He was a dream.
The Acaanan started off down the gallery and paused mid-stride. She turned back to the vision.
“Deliver a message to all the others, those capricious spirits that prey on daydreamers. They needn’t visit me again. No longer are you to shower me with denied fantasies. I am living my dreams now.”
She abandoned the solicitor to quiver and vanish in a pop. The Acaanan reached the eleventh in the series and studied it at length. In light of the Bard’s tale, it now made perfect sense. The fabric depicted the execution of several alchemists. The next tapestry could represent the subsequent drying up of Grimpkin’s water supply.
Before returning to her quarters, Lakif paused under a portal showcasing the inky night sky. Only a few feeble pinpoints of starlight spangled that distant tapestry. Was it possible that the very stars were dying off? Why were they abandoning their duty to light up the heavens? Had the lynching of the alchemists indeed been the cause? Or was the world so old that they had grown tired of their unappreciated role, only to drop out one by one from their stint to enlighten humanity?
Rounding the corner, she was surprised to find Torkoth standing outside the door to her room. The Half-man casually leaned against the wall, filing his nails with a dagger. The two exchanged brief salutations for a healthy sleep, and Lakif awkwardly shuffled by. She wondered what on earth he was up to. He acted as if he were expecting someone. Or perhaps he was hoping to waylay an unsuspecting patron and commandeer his purse! There was little doubt that Torkoth was acting suspiciously. The Acaanan entered her quarters and bolted the door firmly behind.
Lakif tossed and turned in the sheets. The Bard’s tale split her mind in twain. On the one hand, they had seemingly located an alchemist’s forge that, according to Bael, could unleash the power of the Stones. As such, Lakif trembled with excitement. But at the same time she choked with dread when thoughts drifted toward the Lucent’s unspeakable past. The notorious site was the last place she wished to visit, even for a just cause. According to the Bard, it was a place to be shunned. But what options had they?
At length, the sheer gravity of sleep overcame her inner turmoil, and she plummeted into diaphanous dreams.
XXXI
The Flight
THE NEXT MORNING AGITATED RAPPING AWOKE HER. WITH A CRANKY AIR, SHE stirred from the bed and staggered toward the noise. She hadn’t taken a step when the door vibrated with a second round of blows. Hair curtained her vision and she tucked a wayward lock behind her ears.
“Bael!” She frowned on flinging the door open. “By Aurora!”
She barely spun clear as the High-man stormed in. Lakif hadn’t yet rubbed sleep from her gritty eyes when Bael cried
out in alarm.
“Gather your belongings. We have to leave at once!”
“What out of EarthDoom?” Lakif jolted, suddenly concerned. The urgency in her friend’s voice squashed any inconvenience she felt for the early call.
“The Seekers are here!”
“Seekers?” Lakif wondered if she were still dreaming. “Are you sure?”
“They march from the Forum! By sheer luck I saw them from my window!” Bael ran his fingers through his hair. “There must be a legion of them!”
“It’s a coincidence. They can’t be looking for us!” Lakif groped for an alternative explanation.
“Are you willing to take that chance?” The Kulthean looked gravely ill. Panic suddenly swept the Acaanan, blasting away any lingering traces of sleep. The Seekers rarely ventured out en masse. It would be a tremendous coincidence that they would appear here while two children of Rhoan Oak, both harboring Rare Earth Stones, went unnoticed nearby.
The sight of Bael in such a distraught state greatly unnerved her. She had assumed the High-man impervious to common distress. Indeed, it was safe to conclude that Lakif was as unhinged by her companion’s alarm as by the threat of the Seekers.
“You’re right, of course.” Lakif mentally replied; her lips could not catch up with her fluttering mind. She was literally throwing clothes on as she scrambled for a hasty exit.
As she closed the door behind her, Lakif froze. She patted her cloak to make certain she hadn’t forgotten her only item of value, the Rare Earth Stone. Its importance outweighed everything else.
“Hurry!” Bael urged.
“Wait! I’ll meet you in the common room. I have to get Torkoth!”
“We don’t have time!” Bael warned. “They are on the inn’s threshold!”
“We need him!” Lakif shouted as she ran down the hall. “Wait for us in the common room!”
Owing to the early hour, the hallway was deserted, and there were no witnesses to the dramatic exchange. Within seconds, Lakif screeched to a halt at the Half-man’s door. She pounded with such force that she feared the doors all along the hall would open in response. After a moment, Torkoth answered. His red hair cascaded before his face, which he pulled back like vines.
Lakif was surprised to see him once again completely naked. He had dashed to answer the call without even donning a sheet! Again, Torkoth defied the bone-chilling cold. How could he sleep nude, Lakif wondered? She normally would have felt a bit awkward addressing a naked man, but the circumstances drove her tongue.
She pressed him with the sudden need to leave and offered only a cursory explanation as to why. Although sparse on words, the urgency of her tone hammered home the message. Fortunately, the Half-man didn’t pester her with questions. He appreciated the gravity of the situation and complied by quickly throwing on his pants, tossing his leather armor into his backpack and strapping his short sword across his shoulder.
Scarcely a minute after Lakif’s untimely arrival, the two were hustling toward the stairs. The Acaanan’s thoughts raced much ahead of her steps. Already she brainstormed about how they could escape the inn. Hopefully, they would unite with Bael and slip out the front gates before the troops arrived.
Both jogged lightly in an effort not to wake up the entire hall with drumming footfalls. Lakif cared little about waking a disgruntled patron. But if Bael was correct and the Seekers were actually bound for the inn, they would certainly interrogate the Acaanan’s neighbors. If their exit was so loud as to awaken them, that would only provide the Seekers with more information.
Their caution was well-advised. As they neared a bend in the corridor, a scraping sound speared her ear. It was grating metal, and Lakif imagined an axe was being dragged over stone. With each breath it grew louder and more distinct, coalescing into a metallic chorus like chinking spurs. Warning bells clanged in her head—the Seekers were already here! They were just around the bend and she was stranded in the middle of the hall. An avalanche of panic overcame the Acaanan; a violent premonition of doom speared her core.
Torkoth pointed to a door to their left. Its mundane appearance suggested that it was not the entrance to a guest chamber but instead to a storage closet. In fact, Lakif recalled once seeing an ostler emerging from a similar door. Perhaps it was the same door.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Torkoth leapt through the portal, which was, as expected, unlocked. Lakif was right on his heels, as if sucked in by the vacuum of his wake.
The closet was crammed with cleaning goods. There was bucket of dirty water. The wooden handle of a mop leaned into the corner. The Acaanan spun to close the door, but in the commotion of the move, the bucket was jostled and the mop handle slid down the wall. It fell into the doorway, preventing the portal from closing completely.
Lakif nearly shrieked in alarm. She reached out to extricate the offending handle. As she began throttling it, a scaly hand closed over her own. Another hand covered her mouth.
A heartbeat later, the chinking sound resonated just beyond the door. Through the crack, she could see an oblique sliver of the hallway. She sucked in her breath.
A figure donned in violet marched by. The garb was not a regal vestment but a frayed riding cloak. Its cowl was drawn up, but its features weren’t completely hidden. The distinctive metallic glint of a visor shined dully. A gauntlet armored its right hand, which clutched a lead scepter. The Seeker brandished the rod as one would a sword, despite actually having a sheathed sword at his belt. Each step was accompanied by the same scraping sound, although Lakif couldn’t descry any spurs or other metal lining the boots.
The Acaanan held her breath as the priest panned before them. With luck, he would either not notice the wooden handle jutting from the door frame or pay it no heed. Fortunately, the Seeker passed by, only to be followed by several more, all heading in the direction of their quarters. Their superimposed footfalls echoed down the hall like swords being sharpened.
The two remained frozen in the dimness of the closet until the scrapings ebbed. Lakif exhaled with relief, having held her breath the whole time.
The Acaanan quietly opened the door, and a scaled hand caught the freed mop before it fell to the floor with a bang. Thankfully, Lakif’s chambers lay around a bend in the hall and the Seekers were out of sight.
On reaching the top of the stairs they encountered Bael. He too had narrowly found a hiding space to avoid the train of Seekers rising from below. The Kulthean’s expression was one of sheer dismay.
“A score are camped in the common room!” He moaned.
“We’re trapped! They’ll turn the inn upside down to find us!” Lakif trembled. Heinous visions swarmed her mind, visions of her burning at the stake in the center of a circle of the sinister priests—the auto-da-fe promised to suspected warlocks. She could almost smell her sizzling flesh.
“We must find another way out,” Bael prompted.
“There’s only the front gate!” Lakif fretted. She cursed herself for not having taken advantage of her leisure time to explore alternate exits from the Goblin Knight. All her former knowledge of the inn’s layout deserted her before the threat of the Seekers, only to be replaced by panic.
“The mouth isn’t the sole portal,” Torkoth interjected. “There’s an anus.”
To their perplexed looks, the Half-man elaborated. “There is another exit through the base of the central tower.”
Before Lakif could object, Torkoth ushered them down a side hall. As they wound through corridors and doors, Lakif was at a loss to follow their flexuous course. As had unfolded in Ebon Myre, all she could do was blindly follow the Half-man and pray he wasn’t leading them into a dead end.
They passed no one in the halls, which was in itself alarming. There was always an isolated ostler stirring or a stray patron returning from the latrine. To the Acaanan, the place suddenly felt deserted. Was everyone cowering in their own chambers? Or had the entire inn been corralled into a special room, a detention center, while the Seekers scoured th
e place for the two rebels?
At one point, they reached a flight of stairs that both ascended and descended. To the Acaanan’s surprise, Torkoth chose the former route. The stairs rose to a platform, and then skewed off at a right angle to another platform. This motif continued for several flights. Lakif was beginning to wonder if indeed Torkoth was privy to some secret exit or merely stalling for time, hoping to stumble upon something.
At length, the stairs ended at a door. Lakif noted that black scorch marks dotted its surface. She wondered if this was the grim chamber where the warlocks were incinerated. She cringed as Torkoth burst through.
A platform jutted out into a cylindrical tower. Above, a gigantic metallic grid spanned the entire ceiling. Below, the hollow tower dropped into blackness. A thick chain dangled from a hole in the overhead grid and descended into the tower. Another chain was attached to a large pulley on their platform and rose up into the belfry via another port.
Lakif regarded the chain in horror, feeling that the Half-man suggested they shimmy down it. It dropped down the middle of the tower, well out from the platform. Even if they could reach it with a leap, she had no confidence that any of them could successfully descend its daunting length.
But a wave of relief washed over her when their guide pointed out a stair off to the side. It narrowly hugged the wall as it spiraled down the length of the tower.
Despite the certain death promised should she fall, Lakif acquitted herself well with the stairs. They were wide enough for a man to walk without danger of slipping but she navigated each step with her back glued to the wall.
During the descent, Torkoth briefly explained the tower’s function. The nightly fires that endowed the Goblin Knight with fame required substantial fuel. This fuel was delivered to the inn via an accessory portal at the base of this tower. There, it was loaded into a metallic bin and lifted into the heights. The pulley system was used each morning to hoist several loads into the belfry located above the grating. There, it awaited its nightly immolation. Listening to the details, Lakif could only speculate as to the source of Torkoth’s knowledge.
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