by J. C. Staudt
“He’ll be back. I can’t say when, but he will. Him, or one of the other ‘proprietors,’ as the littlefolk woman referred to them.”
Norne gestured wearily. “Very well. Wait we shall.”
Sister Wolla’s impatience was exceeded only by her loquacity. After hours of the woman’s incessant rambling, not to mention the subject matter of her monologues, Maaltred began to wish she hadn’t come. He supposed the only harm in filling the sanctuary with conversation was to alert anyone who might’ve been listening, yet he would’ve preferred to maintain the element of surprise when the dwarf returned.
The sanctuary was blazing with the final stained-glass colors of the westering sun when Cronion entered a few hours later. He was whistling a merry tune, ambling in that slow, offbeat manner of his. Sister Wolla shut her mouth the moment the door creaked open, so Cronion didn’t notice the three clergypersons seated near the front row facing the entryway. He made it halfway through the room before Maaltred spoke. “Hello, Cronion.”
The dwarf stopped in his tracks and scanned the room until he found the three priests. His brow darkened when he saw Maaltred. “Bugger me… it’s you.”
“I suppose it is,” said Maaltred.
“I thought I told you to be on your way.”
“Yes, well I’ve never been good at doing the smart thing.”
“What do you want? Why are you here?”
“We’d like to meet the children who live beneath this church.”
“The chil—” Awareness dawned on the dwarf’s face. “It was you. Nanla told me she’d seen a visitor. You followed me.”
“A fortunate thing indeed. You see, there’s a missing girl and her sister. We aim to find them, and your establishment seems an apt place to further our search. We are people of the cloth, as you can see, with no ulterior cause.”
“Cloth of many colors, looks like,” said Cronion, eyeing Sister Wolla.
“She’s no one to be concerned with,” said Norne. “We’ve no interest in your children aside from the two we’re after.”
“I don’t permit outsiders into the children’s dwellings. It’s meant to be a safe place for them.”
“Then how do you manage… whatever it is you do with them?”
“Finding them suitable homes? By scrutinizing every individual and family who comes to me before we let them near.”
Norne was surprised. “You find homes for these children?”
“What else would we do with them?”
“I can think of several things unscrupulous folk might do with orphaned children. If you work only for their benefit, why do you operate in secrecy?”
“I work for my benefit as well as theirs.”
“You’ve made a living of it, then.”
“I must make my wage somehow, mustn’t I? We charge a substantial fee for adoptions. It’s good business and good coin, I’ll not deny it. My partners and I are in it for more than coin, though. We’ve the children’s best in mind, I assure you. The king’s taken to raiding every orphanage and almshouse in the kingdom for recruits to his armies. He lost eight of every ten men in Korengad during that disaster of a failed invasion. Did you know that? He’s since looked to every available option for bolstering his forces. Anything to maintain Dathrond’s illusion of power. Never would I bring these orphans to light and risk having them purged. Never.”
“You’re a different sort of fellow than I imagined,” said Maaltred.
“And why shouldn’t I be wary? When I saw you spying on me, I drove you away same as anyone else who might jeopardize my dealings. Now you’ve found us, we’ll have to relocate.”
“You really needn’t do that. We’ve no cause to disrupt your operations should they prove noble. Granted, we’d enjoy a gander to be sure. You’ll encounter no opposition from us otherwise.”
“That’s the way of it, ey?” the dwarf said with a frown. “You’ll hold your own silence for ransom.”
“There will be no ransoming of anything or anyone. Only a quick search for our two missing girls.”
“Who are these girls to you, anyway?”
Maaltred hesitated.
“His nieces,” Norne interjected. “Brother Maaltred’s sister Tanielle and good-brother Holdek were killed in a terrible accident, leaving him, their only living relative, to look after their daughters. He only means to do right by them.”
Cronion frowned. “Is that right? Then how did he come to lose them, pray tell?”
“A tragic tale, to be sure. On the road to Forandran, we were beset upon by thieves. Thieves calling themselves the Servants of the Dusk. They stole off with our girls and brought them to the city ahead of us. We’ve been trying to determine what they might’ve done with them, as we’ve no idea who these Servants of the Dusk are or what they’re about. Any chance you’ve heard of them?”
“Can’t say as I have. And a strange tale indeed, being that there are no roads to Forandran.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“There’s the desert. And the river. And the Sparleaf. And Marlana’s Clearing. But there aren’t no roads. Not to Forandran.”
“Well I didn’t mean the literal road, of course. There are no roads to Forandran. Everyone knows that. I simply meant we were on our way here.”
“Which way did you come from?”
“The east.”
“Through the desert? With two small children? What sort of monsters are you?”
“The sort willing to make sacrifices for the betterment of the little ones in our care. We’d hoped to—”
“What sort of bandits roam the desert, anyhow? Would you not have seen them coming from leagues away?”
“We’ve had a rough go of it,” said Maaltred. “That’s the important thing. Will you help us find the girls or not?”
The dwarf gave an irritated sigh. “When might they have come to us?”
“That depends,” said Norne. “How do children usually find their way to your colony?”
“It isn’t a colony. It’s a home.”
“Semantics. How do you come by them?”
“Many ways. We find urchins on the streets. We take unwanteds at birth from tavern wenches, courtesans, and high lords who would prefer their bastards kept under wraps. And sometimes, though seldom… we buy them.”
“Buy them? So let me be sure I’ve got this right. You buy children from people, then sell them to… other… people.”
“When the situation calls for it, aye. We buy them from bad folk, should the price be a fair one, and we sell them to the sort of folk who will take care of them.”
“The men who took our girls would certainly classify as bad folk,” said Maaltred. “Has anyone approached you recently with an offer to sell?”
“Not in some time. It’s a rarity that happens.”
“Still, I’m interested to see what sort of living conditions you provide for the little tykes.”
“I suppose you’ll inform the town watch if I refuse?”
“As I’ve explained, there will be no ransoming here. We’ll look; then we’ll leave.”
Cronion brooded in silence, then waved them onward. He led them through the sanctuary door and lit a torch at the top of the stairwell. “After me. Watch your step on the way down. Wouldn’t want you to fall and hurt yourself.”
Maaltred followed the dwarf into the round antechamber with Norne and Wolla behind him. The six colored flames surrounding the murky pool were dimmer than before. As Norne stepped off the final stair and entered the room, all six flames went out at once, trailing wisps of colored smoke.
“What the—” Cronion stammered. He went over to inspect the pool, waving his hand over the plinth where the green flame had burned a moment before. Then he turned and held his torch aloft, suddenly spooked. “Now that’s a curious thing. They’ve been burning low the past week or so, but I’ve never seen them go out before. I trust you haven’t played me false.”
“We’ve played no trick,” Maaltred said. �
�Vicar Norne, I would think it best if you took your pack upstairs.”
Norne nodded and gripped his shoulder straps, aware of what he’d done. “I’ll find a safe place for it.”
He was a third of the way up when the flames sputtered to life, burning fainter than before.
Cronion glowered. “What’s going on here? What’s he got in that pack?”
“Our priestly duties oftentimes put us in possession of certain artifacts of mysterious or unpredictable nature. I believe one such item is interfering with the behavior of your door system. Clearly it’s magical.”
“The enchantment was here when we found the place. I learned how to make it work, and we’ve been using the tunnels ever since.”
Norne returned without his pack. “There, that’s settled then. Shall we be going?”
Cronion floated a hand through the green flame and led them down the tunnel. After the crypt, they emerged into the cavern above the river, where he halted them. “Wait here while I warn Nanla of your coming.”
When the noise of the river put Cronion out of earshot, Maaltred leaned over to Norne and said, “That was sloppy. Using a version of the truth to spin a yarn for the dwarf.”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
“Barely.”
“You’ll have to excuse me if I’m a bit out of sorts today. I’ve been somewhat blindsided by your sudden and enthusiastic return.”
“Is it my return that’s got you out of sorts? Or is it the fact that you’re bedding Sister Wolla again?”
A look of furtive horror washed over Norne’s face. “How did you know?”
“She hasn’t been able to keep her mouth shut about the good old days since we arrived. Until today. It’s obvious you’ve given her something to placate those memories.”
“You want a confession? Fine. It happened this afternoon. Only once, though. Twice. Can you blame me for spurning my vows? Things were grim; the search for the hostages was at a dead end. I was in a bad place. I needed comfort.”
“You needn’t absolve yourself to me. I’m not accusing you. I was simply making an observation.”
“Nosing in on matters which are none of your concern, more like.”
“Vicar Norne, please. Let’s not argue.”
“Let’s keep quiet about our observations then, shall we?”
“What observations?” asked Sister Wolla, overhearing.
“Brother Maaltred was simply admiring the natural elegance of this cave. I admit, I find a certain allure in its curves; in the way it guides the river’s rage, harnessing it like some vibrant desire barely constrained. It’s as though every inch is crying out to burst its banks. Yet there’s a constancy beneath that unquenchable turmoil—something more steadfast than we may ever comprehend.”
Wolla’s cheeks flushed, her breathing grown heavy. “Norney. Hearing you talk like that… it puts a shiver down me spine.”
Maaltred hoped Cronion was on his way back. Failing that, a bucket to vomit in would’ve been nice. He was relieved when the door opened and the dwarf beckoned them across the bridge. “Move carefully now. Watch your step, and keep your voices down. It’s just after bedtime.”
Maaltred stepped through the doorway and entered a world he could never have imagined. A crypt lined with dozens of burial niches sloped down a narrow corridor of rough-hewn stone. If this place had once housed the remains of the dead, there was no trace of it now. Blankets and tiny straw mattresses filled every nook. Faces peered out from candlelit crevices to espy with curious wonderment the intruders in their midst. It made Maaltred feel guilty, somehow, to consider that even as a humble glassblower from a tiny village in the Eastgap, he saw more in a year than many of these children would see in their lifetimes.
“How many are there?”
“More than we can find homes for. More than we’ll ever find homes for, I imagine. Price of doing business, you understand.”
“And you truly believe these children are better off here than they would be in an almshouse in the city?”
“It may not be the most glamorous of living conditions,” Cronion admitted. “But it’s cool and dry, and it stays this way the year round, even in winter. That’s when they need it most, the winter. When everyone else in the city is freezing, ours down here are snug and safe. The river never freezes, even in the deadest, coldest months. Sends us clean drinking water and keeps our root cellars fresh.”
“And what of the warmer months? Do the children ever see sunlight? Do they ever get a chance to run and play?”
“Would you presume an apple is rotten simply because you found it off the tree?”
“That’s an odd sort of question.”
“Yet I trust your answer is no. So why do you cast judgment on my establishment before you’ve seen the whole of it?”
“I’m sorry. It was an innocent question.”
“No question of yours could be innocent when your very presence here threatens the safety of my children.”
Maaltred sighed. “Lead on, then.”
He checked each niche for signs of the Ulther girls as they descended to a long rough-hewn chamber with doorways leading off in various directions. Children’s toys lay scattered across the floor of the chamber, awash in the moonlight spilling through a hole in the high ceiling.
“It’s here you’ll find our cellars, washing pool, hearth, kitchens, study, and sleeping quarters for myself and the other proprietors.”
“What’s up there?” Maaltred asked, pointing at the ceiling.
“The ruins of an old tavern, closed down long ago.”
“What if someone were to reopen it and discover what’s beneath?”
“I’d be a mite vexed, since I own the place. These chambers down here weren’t always connected to the crypts. We mined the passage between and joined them to one another.”
“That’s clever.”
“We also carved out the river gate and gave steps to the washing pool.”
“I’m impressed,” said Maaltred.
“And me as well,” added Sister Wolla.
“Have you any other children in your care besides the ones we’ve just seen?” Norne asked.
“Come see for yourself.”
Cronion led them through a doorway and around a fold in the rock, where they entered a towering cavern with a spiral pathway twisting around its edges. It was like a beehive, with burial cavities encircling the pathway from bottom to top and a guardrail made of sturdy wooden posts and thick rope netting to prevent anyone falling. Stacked candelabras hung from chains anchored in the ceiling, bathing the cavern in warm golden light.
“Heavens,” said Norne. “You’re full up.”
“Nearly. I pray the day never comes when we’re forced to turn anyone away.”
Maaltred gestured toward the path. “May we?”
Cronion nodded.
They ascended the spiraling stone causeway, holding the guardrail for balance. Young faces peeked out at them from every nook along the way, but none were familiar; none were Ryssa or Vyleigh Ulther. They reached the landing at the top and paused to catch their breath.
“Are there any more?” Maaltred asked.
“More? What do you suppose this is, a livestock farm?”
“The girls we’re looking for aren’t here.” Of course they aren’t here. The odds were always slim. Did you honestly think you’d chance upon their handler in a city of thousands? Now that he considered the notion, it did seem rather ridiculous.
“Seems I’ll be of no help to you, then,” said Cronion.
“You’ve been a great help,” Norne assured him, casting Maaltred a peevish look. “Let’s leave Master Cronion to his duties, shall we?”
“One more question,” said Maaltred. “Might you know a fellow by the name of Eril Eloriad? He’s an elf.”
“What difference would it make if he’s an elf? I know plenty of elves. None by that name, though. Now unless there’s anything else, I think it’s time you were going.”
“Never understood what sort of person would want to flog themselves about the shoulders in deference to a god of three sexes,” said Wolla. “Or a god of any sex, for that matter.”
“Adenc isn’t the only deity whose tenets include self-mutilation,” said Norne.
“Isn’t that the truth. You’ll see plenty of it at the Festival of Atonement next week, should you stay for it. Horrid occasion, the festival.”
“What’s this festival all about, anyway?” asked Maaltred.
“It’s a celebration of the last new moon before winter; a day of penitence for many faiths. Repentance at any cost is the aim; a final chance before year’s end to express one’s remorse over a year’s worth of sins. And, if one should so desire, to pay for them all at once.”
“How would one go about paying for them? With coin?”
“Most templegoers prefer to exonerate themselves through ample donations, yes. However, once a confession has been made to a high priest, the priest decides the price for vindication. Those who haven’t the funds to fulfill such an obligation are oft pressed into receiving their atonement through alternate means. They are sometimes violent, sometimes gruesome, and seldom pleasant. Animal sacrifices, ritual mutilation, extremist public displays, and the like.”
“Reminds me of a day at the butcher’s.”
“It is a day for release, Brother Maaltred. A day to let out the bad and make room for the good. If one doesn’t wish to partake, there are places in the city to shelter from such activities. Some temples refuse to participate in this particular festival. Sister Wolla and her fellow priests of Phyraxis are staunchly opposed to the whole ordeal. Yet many other church leaders find it to be a necessary, if not lucrative, tradition.”
“The devout are more prone than anyone to acts of fanaticism,” Maaltred observed.
