by Ember Lane
Spillwhistle shook her head. “No, no, not saying that.” She grinned, her paws clasped in front of her, almost in prayer, her whiskers twitching furiously. “You’re mistaken. Of course I accept the outcome of the wager. After all, I crafted the script, so I should know how it works.”
“About that,” Cronis asked, suddenly appearing even more interested in the goings-on of Lincoln’s inaugural court. “It’s range. We should discuss it. Perhaps we could use part of such a charm to…discourage…any explorers who happen to come too close?”
Spillwhistle gazed up at the lofted stone ceiling of the petitioner’s court, seemingly confused by the large, incomplete, painting of angels swooping from an azure sky and cherubs reaching out from floating clouds, and the likeness of the yet-to-be-named God With No Name. Tearing her eyes away from the intricate daubing, she cleared her throat.
“I’m sure it can be adapted. I gleaned the ingredients from a magical book that happened to fall into my paws one bleak winter’s night.”
Cronis raised his eyebrows, making full use of having two. “I would be most interested in studying such a book,” he proclaimed.
“And it would be in my interests to lend it to my partner.”
“Partner?”
Spillwhistle smiled, mostly with her two front teeth. “Partner for say, three hours a week…more enchanter—someone who could…bless…the very best potions.”
Cronis eyed the ceratog up and down. “Two,” he barked. “And everything must be ready.”
“Agreed,” Spillwhistle said, and turned back to Lincoln. “Tell me, what would be the most prestigious address in this…”
“Sanctuary.”
“Sanctuary. What’s the name of its most affluent road?”
Lincoln didn’t quite know how to tell Spillwhistle that they hadn’t gotten around to naming the roads yet or even building some of them. Heck, they hadn’t even gotten around to naming their deity yet. Not for lack of trying, though. The tavern had an ongoing competition that was still being voted on. So far, it was a three-way tie between Goddy-McGod-Face, the Godmeister and Sid, but he supposed that’s what you got for opening a poll to the local, drunken populace. Thinking about it, they hadn’t named the tavern yet, either. He briefly wondered where he should hold a poll on that.
“We haven’t done that yet,” Lincoln muttered, feeling curiously stupid because of it.
“Then, I require that you build me a shop at the base of the steps leading up to the front doors of this place. Right-hand side though, not the left.”
“Right-hand side,” Lincoln repeated.
“Good, then I’ll stay, and I’ll not contest the script.”
“Seeing as it was your script,” Lincoln pointed out. He smiled. “Perhaps you should consult with the planning office.”
“I will,” said Spillwhistle, and she turned to leave, Pritchard escorting her out.
Cronis grunted, Forgarth snored, and Lincoln fidgeted.
“Who’s next?” Lincoln yawned, and cast his eyes down. He was surprised to see another familiar face. “Shrimp?”
The apachalant appeared completely unfazed by both the dais and the thrones and was shuffling from foot to foot as though he was about to ask Lincoln outside for a fight.
“Swift wants to see you.”
“Swift?”
“Yup.”
Lincoln had a vague inkling that he’d heard that name before, but wasn’t overly sure. He assumed that Swift was an apachalant, like Shrimp, and looked along the line, seeking out other apachalant-like folks, but could see none.
“Where is he?”
“Inspecting the city. He’s looking for more weaknesses.”
“More?”
The apachalant nodded. “Well, four of us snuck in without you knowing, and one of those is standing right in front of you armed with two knives and a slingshot, so yes, more. He’ll be done in an hour, so I suggest you complete your business with the mouse, and he’ll be waiting for you at the beacon tower.”
“The beacon tower,” Lincoln repeated. A little bemused.
“In an hour.”
“An hour,” Lincoln agreed, as Shrimp marched out.
Cronis got up. “I’ve had enough. I’m going to the Tavern With No Name.” And he jumped off the dais and ambled out after Shrimp.
“It’s not going too well, is it?” Forgarth pointed out.
2
Names Eh?
Lincoln couldn’t quite get used to the land’s weather. He usually woke in Joan’s Creek, unless a particularly long and drawn-out meeting had taken place in Sanctuary’s tavern, in which case, he usually woke on the floor in Ozmic’s room. Joan’s Creek appeared to have a completely different weather system to Sanctuary, plus it invariably had the same weather day in, day out. It might rain for an hour here or there, might even be a little cloudy, but it would always brighten up as the morning turned to afternoon, and invariably, a fine evening by an outside fire could be guaranteed.
Sanctuary, however, did not enjoy such luxuries, and its weather could turn at the drop of a hat. That day, the sky looked like a turbulent coastline with white clouds fleeing from the mountain’s top, and running along the gorge southward in a seeming race to get to Brokenford. Unlike its residents, who appeared to be fleeing in the other direction. Lincoln pulled the collar of his dead man’s coat up, and headed out to meet Swift.
The appearance of the apachalants both excited Lincoln, and worried him. He’d met Shrimp, or rather been beaten up by Shrimp, on his second day in the land, and it was then the role of the apachalants had been explained to him. They were both the land’s messengers and scouts. Gifted runners, they were also blessed with huge levels of night vision, far sight, navigation, and tracking. He was curious to know if their arrival was some auspicious thing, or merely on Shylan’s orders. Or perhaps they were escorts for the new arrivals, though that wouldn’t explain the snooping.
Lincoln hesitated halfway across the bridge. The meeting with Swift imminent, but Lincoln himself, not quite ready for it. He wasn’t quite ready for a lot of things. The truth was, he wanted to slope off, to vanish, to walk away and go questing, or just plain, old exploring. What he’d failed to take into account when he’d decided to be a builder was how tied he’d be to the city. The implications were quite horrendous.
If the city was sacked, he died. If the city was leveled, his levels vanished. In short, his health and that of the city were intrinsic. It was like being shackled to a ball and chain that your life depended on. He leaned on the bridge’s rope and looked at the ever-growing city wall, or rather, the ever-so-slowly growing wall. Smacking the rope, he straightened and sauntered across the bridge toward Starellion.
He liked it on top of the old castle. He liked looking off its southernmost parapet and out over Irydia. He guessed it was a similar feeling that a long-term prisoner would get when they moved to a cell with a window. Even the thought of clearing out the castle under him had lost its gloss. The imminent arrival of Griselda Irongrip had cast a big shadow over that. Still, it would be a bit of fun, might be… Damn, he needed something to lift his melancholy.
The beacon tower was located on the southeastern tip of the great castle. He still couldn’t fathom the amount of work that must have gone into carving a keep out of a mountain’s side, if indeed that’s what had happened. He guessed he’d find out sooner rather than later and headed toward the lookout post.
The beacon tower was still level 3. Until today, Lincoln didn’t have anyone with the far-sight skill to see more than a mile or so anyway. Impatience was the bane of his days. He had the workers to build anything up, just not the folks to fill them. Not that it’d take long to upgrade—beacon towers were fairly quick to build.
Four stout trunks made up its base, with a ladder leading up to nothing more than a round hut with half-height walls and a simple wood-lapped roof. Lincoln climbed the ladder. An apachalant was leaning on the wall, his back to Lincoln.
It wa
s easy to set them apart from every other race—they just looked fast. It was like they were streamlined, designed to cut through the air itself.
“Thameerian ships have been seen patrolling the horizon from Mystral Port to Quislaine. Addison’s not been heard from in a while, and nerves are on edge from Lakevale Pass to Brokenford.” The apachalant turned. “I’m Swift. Scareb sent me. So, how can I help you?”
“I need an army.” Lincoln leaned on the wall next to him.
“What kind?”
“Kind?”
“Attack or defense?”
Attack hadn’t even occurred to Lincoln. “Defense.”
“And you’re relying on that wall you’re building?”
“Was going to.”
“And I suppose you’ve got ballista, trebuchets, bows? And I’ll bet you want swords, and pikes, and cav?”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
Swift shrugged. “You’ve never been to Apachalant, have you?”
“Nope, never been nowhere in this land.”
“You should.” He pushed himself off the rail. “An army’ll do you no good. Not now. Not yet. Too many tongues, and it’ll destroy your best asset.”
“What’s that?”
“The forest is your best ally. We’ll build that kind of army.” Swift pointed. “There, there, and there. Camps at each of those points, and the same at the other entrance. We’ll subtly militarize Thickwick—not with huge warriors, but assassins and capable killers.” He turned to Lincoln. “No one will be allowed into that forest or out. Any soldiers sent to Thickwick either pass through or vanish. Any merchants traveling along the Silver Road are free to continue on their way, stay over, whatever they want, except linger.”
“So, a forest militia. Funny, that was my first thought, except I was going to use a gnome. My plans were a little smaller back then. So, you’ll take care of all my defense for me? What’s the price?”
Swift’s head jerked back. “Price?”
Lincoln wondered if he’d overstepped, but surely there had to be a price? “Price,” he said firmly. “What charge? Wages? Food? Accommodation?”
Swift turned away from the forest, leaning back on the dwarf-height wall. “We’ll need some kind of base, a cottage, something. I’ll ask the others where, but more than likely in Joan’s Creek. Five years of smelling a city is enough for me. Tell you what, you can give us free ale and lodging.”
“How many of you are there?”
“At the minute? Four. Me, Shrimp you know, Swamprat, and Sollen. I’ll need fifty to a hundred Kobane cavalry to keep the forest free of…issues, but they’ll just need a temple and a rest cottage. Call it a rapid reaction force.”
“So, no swords?”
Swift pushed himself off the wall. “A plug, think of it as a plug. Four of us have been here a day. Not one challenge, not even a curious look. Swamprat even had an ale in the tavern last night. You served him.”
“I did?”
“Yep. Oh, I forgot. There is a price.”
Here we go. “What?”
“I want to be one of the six to help you and Cronis. I want to help clear Starellion.”
Griselda Irongrip, Jin, me, Crags, Swift, possibly Flip, that works. Still need a caster, mind you. “Deal,” Lincoln said, and offered the apachalant his hand. “Just missing a wizard, witch, anything really.”
“Cronis?”
“Not allowed to participate—no idea why. Do you know any?”
“One,” Swift said, and shivered. He jumped back down to the fields.
Lincoln used the ladder. “Who?”
Swift was already walking back to the bridge. “East of Thickwick, in the Tanglewood, the swampy part, there’s a witch living there. It’s rumored that her enchantments are so powerful that weary travelers often stumble into her web and are never seen again. It’s told that her hut is built on their gleaming bones.”
“She sounds pleasant.”
“What’s the best way to stop folks constantly disturbing you? What’s the best way to ensure that none of the king’s soldiers will ever disturb you?” Swift waved his hand in the air. “Tall tales, that’s how. I’ll bet she’s never seen a tax collector, and not a single bone holds up her house.”
“Who?” Lincoln was already liking this woman. Clever, very clever. Anyone that devious would be a great asset in figuring out the puzzles and traps in the castle. “What’s her name? Would she come?”
Swift skipped along the bridge. “You’ll have to plead, but I think she’d be up to it.”
Wait, what, I’ll have to plead? That means… Lincoln hurtled down the bridge. “You mean, you want me to come?” Suddenly his whole mood lifted.
As he jumped onto the ledge on the other side, Swift turned. “Of course. It’s your city, your supply route. We’ll stop at Thickwick and you can tell the half-elf and the half-giant that their venture in Hunter's Cross is over, and then we’ll go get her.”
“Allaise and Pete?”
Swift ran his fingers through his mousy hair. Like Shrimp, he was gangly, or rather wiry, a look Lincoln could only liken to an awkward teenager, except Swift seemed perfectly happy in his body. “They’re out,” he said. “Think of it as another condition. Muscat knows you know them. They aren’t safe. No leverage, Lincoln. You can’t give him anything.”
“What if they won’t go?”
“Persuade them. Now, Joan’s Creek.”
“What about it?”
Swift turned away and walked into the tunnel that led to the vale. He reemerged right away, two split logs in his hands. He threw them on the rock. “No more signs.”
Lincoln looked down and saw the sign that Aezal had burnt into the log. His anger momentarily boiled up, but he knew the boy was right. Boy?
“Okay, so, you gonna tell me this witch’s name?”
Swift kicked the logs off the edge of the ledge, and walked toward the steps.
“I’ve heard your day’s been all about names.”
“You were in the hall?”
Just at that moment, Crags came running up the steps.
“Hey boss,” he said, out of breath. “You need to come quick.”
“What?”
“They’re going to lynch your new steward!” The gnome shot back down the steps.
Lincoln tore down after him, Swift passing him in a blur. Catching up with Crags as he passed the first of the cottages, he gasped: “What did Finequill do?” What was it? A couple of hours? How could the mouse upset everyone that fast?
“He’s tried to put a tax on the ale; that was the second thing,” Crags shouted over his shoulder.
“But we don’t charge for the ale!”
Crags glanced back. “That was the first thing!”
Lincoln heard the commotion before he could even see the tavern. Swift had put himself between a very angry mob of dwarves, elves, humans, and curiously, Mrs. Finequill, and a rather scared and trembling Finequill, who was standing on a stool with a noose around his neck.
“What on earth’s going on?” Lincoln bellowed.
Mrs. Finequill slunk over to her husband’s side, but hesitated and chose the middle ground. “Tell him, Arthur,” she cried, but then looked back at the crowd and egged on their ensuing jeers, drowning out any chance of her husband being heard.
Lincoln raised his hand up to the baying crowd, instantly silencing them.
“Hang on,” said a very indignant Finequill to his wife. “What are you doing on their side? They’re going to lynch me.”
“Well, you were trying to get them to charge for the ale. It’s lovely; best ale I’ve ever tasted.”
Finequill looked at Lincoln. “Tell her,” he said, sneaking the noose from around his neck. “Tell her that we can’t tax the ale without establishing a base price for it, and we can’t have a base price without charging.”
The crowd jeered. Someone threw something questionable.
Lincoln looked at the red-faced gathering. “Drinks on the h
ouse,” he said, knowing they were always on the house, but also understanding that those four words would still provoke a cheer and a rush to the bar whenever, and in whatever land they were spoken. He helped Finequill down. “Listen,” he hissed. “You can’t just go charging for something that’s been free all this time, and why pick ale? Couldn’t you have chosen beetroot, or something else that no one likes?”
“But how are we going to raise any revenue off that? I chose the most popular thing.”
Swift brought three ales out, Mrs. Finequill having gone inside with the rest of the mob. Lincoln mumbled his thanks, noting that the apachalant carefully positioned himself between Finequill and the tavern’s entrance. Though slight in build, something about Swift assured Lincoln none of the crowd were going to have a change of mind and try to get Finequill to swing, or rather, if they did, they’d have to go through Swift. Something about the apachalant told Lincoln that was no easy task.
“What do we need revenues for?” Lincoln asked, and immediately realized just how crazy that sounded. He knew an economy was unavoidable, or was it? Couldn’t it be a coin-free Utopia? “It’s a slippery slope, I tell you, and I like that the ale’s free. Heck, everything’s free; it’s the way it should be,” he told himself, as much as Finequill.
“But, but, you’ve got to tax them. You, you, you must need gold,” Finequill stammered, as if Lincoln’s words were worse than his near-recent lynching.
Trouble was, the mouse had a point. Research was becoming prohibitively expensive, yet trade was also impossible, as it would give the game away. In order to raise the money they needed to complete, say, Metal Molding level 8, they’d have to sell a thousand wagon/caravan of stone—well, maybe not quite that much but certainly not something you could do on the sly.
Finequill’s snout twitched in the air between them, his eyes narrowing, then they rounded and a quite sorrowful look took over as he began to plead. “Everyone needs gold…”
“Slippery slope, Finequill,” Lincoln eventually announced. “If I charge for ale, I’ll have to pay for labor—stone cutting, lumbering, farming, the masons, etc. So, all the money I have coming in, will go out so that I can get money back in. Seems a rather…circular…motion.”
