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“So, are you going to tell me about the alley?” Sel’s question dropped in a sudden rush of Zanrush as he walked with his sister along the creaking port. Rune-engraved bones flanked the sandstone and pumice boardwalk, letting it rise and fall with the tides. To either side, workers rushed about purposefully, some carrying large barrels or crates, others guards or officials setting out to inspect the new arrivals. Sel and Mi, who crested from the dock onto a narrow side-street, were scarcely out of place amongst the other foreigners and workmen.
Mi was still wearing the over-large, Justic armor, and her black hair- unbound by the magical string now wrapped around her wrist and only loosely restrained by her vaikal- billowed in the salty sea breeze. She glanced back. “I told you already.” She said. “It was just a fight. Some asshole pushing around a kid, younger than me.” She shrugged. “Turns out she was a Diver, and was looking for Ren. I’m just worried she’ll get in more trouble than she can get out of.”
The mage just shrugged and turned them down from the narrow walkway to an older dock. “I’m sure the girl’ll handle it.”
“I was talking about Ren.”
“Oh. Right.” Sel frowned, thinking. “Yeah…”
“Where are we headed, anyways?” Mi asked as they shoved past a small crowd standing around a Zabi magician, the bronze rings in his grey beard glowing magnificently as he changed the color of a torch he held to a deep green. They wove into the uncrowded sections of street as he drew a round of cheers from the bystanders. “Did you find something in the logbook?”
Sel nodded. “Oh, yes. We’ve a location- and once we find my contact, we’ll have a means of luring the Prince out. Guaranteed.” His enthusiasm unsettled Mi. Sel whistled, looking ahead of him to a man sitting at the edge of the last dock. “Sir? A moment.” He stepped off onto the half-sunken port, towards an old man sitting by a small skiff.
Mi followed warily. Piles of netting and cargo isolated this last dock, and made it difficult to see the others, and the sun cast long shadows across pumice and bone. The skiff’s oars were folded over a silver-painted edge, but bore no crest, and Mi didn’t see its mother ship. The man didn’t respond to Sel, instead choosing to keep humming a tune down into the amethyst waves, taking long drafts from something in a green bottle. Sel tried to take a step forward, but the man raised a hand. “Easy there, mage. One more step and my friends’ll put a bolt through your head.” His voice was grinding glass and gravel, wracked with breaks and cracks. He wore a metal cap over a cloth hood, and a loose tunic with a feather dagger in his sheathe- a Justic artisan.
Sel stepped back. “Easy, there. We’ve met before. Though, I suppose you wouldn’t recognize me.” He said, almost to himself. “Grimrick, right? I’m the Archwood Cleric,” he flashed the wooden dagger he kept covered by a sash by his waist, “a friend of Cillio. When we met, I was, uh, Talien Gilesp, I think. An acrobat in Siltire.”
“Ach, it don’t matter what skin suit y’d worn, mage. I’ve learnt not to bother with keeping track of them all. Fucks with my head when you fiddle with your history.”
“Believe me, I know. I don’t change much anymore.” Sel was sympathetic. When an adventurer changes themselves, they don’t just shapeshift, as most see it. Instead, they change history to make it so their new identity was always the truth, sending imperfect ripples through memory and record to fit the new form and identity- which in turn messed with those who possessed said memories or records. Details wouldn’t match up, memories of events people never attended or which never occurred would arise, and several versions of the same event would start popping up with different names on them. Liminality, people called it. Mostly harmless, but often annoying, and painful to those who were more sensitive to it. Turns out Sel was as well- he was struck with his first big liminality event a few months ago when his mentor back in the Pitchwood decided to travel the southern mountains in the identity of an animal- it took him nearly a week to kill the headache from all his changed memories. “Hurts me as much as you. That’s why I learned to be a proper mage, with spells and incantations and the like.”
Grimrick grunted. “If y’ promise me y’ll stick as you are, then I’ll try not to forget your name.” He then jerked his chin at Mi. “So, who’s this, then?” He grumbled, letting the empty bottle tumble from his hands and into the skiff. “Why’s she dressed like a Fort-bound fop?”
Not a fan of the Fort. Good. The soldiers from New Justicia weren’t sympathetic to outlaws, especially of foreign stock. “She’s my sister- and the armor is a whole story. I told Cillio about her.” Sel quickly back to the street connecting to the docks. It was busy, and nobody had seemed to catch their conversation, but Sel was paranoid after that encounter with Neist artificer.
If you see no spies, He remembered Kurata saying, in her patient, smooth tone, then act with certainty that they are there.
Sel turned back to Grimrick. “Look, I know that you have rules, but it’s a bit dangerous for us to be out so publicly. So if we may just talk with you aboard the Laniravi, I’ll tell you everything.”
“Not with a mute Zandai with a stolen feather knife. You said you had a story.” The man kept his gaze leveled on Mi. “Well, girl? Tell it.”
Mi tilted her head towards Sel. He shrugged, and she spoke. “I got in a fight. Some drunk soldier-types were assaulting a woman, and I thought I’d save her. Nothing more special than that.”
“And you stripped them?” He looked behind the two. “They dead?”
“Hardly! Well, maybe.” She did stab one pretty seriously. Their knives were wicked things. “I have my means. Magic.”
“Bullshit.” The old man growled. “You ain’t an adventurer. Ain’t got their tingle. I could always feel out mages, ever since I was a kid.”
“There are other forms of magic.” She tried to gesture to the string wrapped around her wrist, but he didn’t pick up on the clue. She sighed. Too dangerous to talk about an artifact like the one she carried openly- honor among thieves died when faced with something so valuable. “Look, believe me or not, but more mercenary-types are coming to take back their companion’s feather,” she rested a palm on the dagger, “and we need to talk to Cillio.” An idea struck her. “If not, I’ll take your boat myself.”
The old man rolled his eyes. “Y’ ain’t bolt-proof, girl.”
“But I am wearing a soldier’s armor. And I think your friends aren’t stupid enough to shoot down a Justic soldier so soon after the hierarch’s death. The Sons and their smaller gangs’ll tear you to pieces well before the Dustkeeper releases the details of my body.”
A moment. Then, a laugh. “You’ve guts, girl.” Grimrick’s grin was jagged and yellow. “I think Cillio will like you.” He snapped. “Breakbeak, let’s show our new friends our home, eh?”
A noise- something between a chirp and a snap- came from the pile of ropes and crates to Mi’s side. She stepped back, the feather dagger in her hand, as a plume of tentacles spilled upwards from a small hole in the crates. Something pulled itself out of the pile, all green and red flesh and no bones except for its skull- an oblong thing with no eyes and a bird-like beak. It spilled forward, pulling with it a tiny cloak of iridescent fishscales, which just barely covered the writhing mass of tendrils that made up its body. When it pulled the cloak over itself, it appeared almost human. “Sk-krik?” It chirped.
“Um… hi?” Mi lowered the dagger by a hair.
The thing ‘walked’ to the skiff, pouring into it and drifting to the front. It looked back blindly and chirped again.
“That means ‘follow’.” Grimrick grinned. “Breakbeak can’t row well enough, mind, but he’s the only one who can find our ship when it's hidin’. You’ll see what I mean.” Grimrick waved away the outlaws’ question before they voiced it. He pushed himself off the dock, and onto the skiff. His back was bent severely whenever he walked. “Y’all coming?”
The sun hung low as Angean finally made his way to the Diver Colony. He’d opted to go alone, fearing leaving his wounded without protection, considering the violence that Kao, the Diver messenger, had faced before arriving at his door. He had put on his full armor- or what bits he could smuggle aboard Larissa’s Rage. A heavy chain shirt worn over a dampened coat of cloth, with steel tassets, a leather skirt and heavy boots over his legs. His arms were bare, and more than a bit sunburnt at this point. Even so, he felt naked without a helmet or weapon.
He had to pass through the residential districts of the city- Kao had warned him that the ferries would be too crowded with passengers and stop too often to be faster than walking. Angean didn’t mind. He needed time to think. Or, if he was being honest, to brood.
Nettle was a bitter creature to encounter, so far from the flower fields where Angean had once commissioned the mercenary. That scent was overpowering and magically memorable. It brought back scenes of that last crusade, of when he’d rode alongside two dozen officers, recruiting and pressing soldiers into his service. Angean had promised himself, when he resolved to become torman and enroll in the officer’s academy at Frama, that he’d learn the names of all those he commanded. That he’d remember them, that he’d toast to them. Now, so many years later, he couldn’t even think of one from that last campaign. Even Nettle was an alias.
Except for Jero, of course. Blondie had always been there for him. When he was still an artsick liaman in Indan, when he was drunk in a ditch following graduation, when he waged war. At one point, Angean had secretly wondered whether or not Jero had somehow used his adventurers’ magic to incept himself into the warrior’s life, and visited a blue mage who specialized in recovering overwritten memories. As it turned out, Angean lost none at all from him. As the blue mage had put it, Angean was so core to Jero’s identity, that even the most radical change in form or history wouldn’t change their relationship. Angean never knew much about romantic love, but the knight thought that moment was as close as he ever got. Not that he’d ever admit it.
“Hey!” A gloved hand pressed on Angean’s chest, pushing him back. “I told you, the colony’s off-limits. You deaf or something?”
The hand belonged to a short, broad soldier, whose face was shadowed by his iron half-helm. Angean stepped back. He was at the gate, his memories having overshadowed the entire journey. Only the one guard stood in front of it, while, through the gate, Divers were passing out what food they had recovered from their disaster to those crowded around an old guardhouse. Beyond, Angean saw what Kao had told her about- a massive sinkhole, marked by tall, red-painted rods of iron. A half-dozen people were inspecting the edge, driving rods into the ground to affix climbing harnesses to.
“Oh, sorry.” Angean shook his head. The real world was louder than his memories. Sharper, too. The man tapped his foot, waiting for Angean to back off. “Wait, no, I’m invited. To secure the sinkhole.”
The guard glanced over Angean, and shrugged. “Fine. You look prepared enough.” He admitted. “Just don’t be stupid around that thing. Divers already lost some folk to it when it opened up. Haven’t retrieved them yet.” With his warning, he stepped aside.
Angean cleared the camp swiftly. All the Divers’ strange, hooked spears and curious helmets stuck out to the knight. He wasn’t repulsed by the sea like many of his kin, but those who took to it willingly unsettled him.
An old woman addressed a small group by the sinkhole's edge as Angean approached. She was broad, with a single eye framed by a warped monocle. Her thin, short hair was interwoven with purple, painted charms. “Remember, I can’t send anyone else until daytime. The dragon servants might come back during the night, and I need every Diver on hand to protect what’s ours. So, be smart, and err on the side of caution.” Her eye caught Angean like a fishhook. “You. You’re the torman we’re waiting for?”
“That I am. Angean of Indan.” He stepped up to the group, surveying what he had to work with. Jero, who was jotting down notes on a small scroll while sitting on a pile of pulleys, bags, and rope, gave a truncated salute to his commander; a diver with a square helm rapped his fingers along a long sickle-spear, who seemed all too anxious to be let down to the rubble below; a young Zandai daikun, armed with two of their signature, curved swords on her hip, had been listening to the elder’s commands with her arms crossed. Yet, among all of them, one struck Angean as odd- the tall, delicate woman in the farmer’s clothes, who bore no weapons and didn’t seem to be eccentric enough to be a mage. Angean frowned. “I thought this was a dangerous mission.” He nodded at the civilian.
The elder sharpened the scowl that had permanently engraved itself on her face. “This woman says she knows something of alchemy.” She said. “Kurata and Kikuchi- this one’s mothers-” she gestured at the daikun, “-never let us teach our craft on Tierre, so our knight here knows nothing, and you southerners haven’t been graced with a proper diver colony since you would have been a babe.” She snorted in disdain. “Keep her safe, and she’ll keep you from blowing yourself up once you find the Alchemist and his components.”
A civilian specialist. Angean never liked to bring them along- they evoked a different kind of responsibility than he felt commanding soldiers. He was never a good bodyguard. “Fine.” He said, and looked over Jero. “Find my sword?”
The artificer wiped his quill at the edge of his page, and clipped it to his chest. “Right, yes… um… here!” He rummaged through the pile of pulleys and ropes, finding the sheathed, single-edged blade.
It was wrapped in string and marked with wax that bore the insignia of the old empire- the guards had bound and confiscated it, sealing it so that it was assured to be the same condition as when Angean relinquished it to them. To his surprise, the seal appeared to be the same one they pressed onto it at the docks- they hadn’t actually used his blade. Angean had heard rumors that Coin City guards would steal or replace weapons in their custody, but his blade must not have appeared valuable enough to take. He snapped the seal, and pulled the blade. “Good enough.” He let it glint in the sunset’s glow. “But not too sharp. Wish they’d given me some time with it after our first fight here.” Angean locked onto the elder’s sharp eye. “Any idea what we’ll find down there?”
“Monsters- dragon servants and trolls, most likely.” The elder gestured for the group to begin moving closer to the edge- the Divers had finally set up the rappelling ropes. “Maybe the odd nelkan or water sprite. But, we’re most worried about whatever did that.”
Looking down into the pit- where the Divers had tossed down cages containing bright witchlights to illuminate it- Angean saw a gash in the rubble and broken cloth of what must have once been the Alchemist’s tent. Shattered vials, broken powders, and a disconcerting amount of blood trailed away from it, and into the darkness of a sloping, near circular tunnel lined with worn, red bricks. The tunnel sharply turned, heading back towards the city and cutting off any further view from the witchlights.
The elder shook her head. “We caught glimpses of something moving bodies through that tunnel, along with bags of supplies and equipment.” She explained. “They’re either the smartest trolls we’ve ever encountered, or thieves looking to pillage our alchemical equipment. Either way, they’re more dangerous than a common beast.”
“Why trust us with this?” Angean leaned back. The hole wasn’t too deep, but the jagged stone and metal at the bottom was disconcerting. “We could just run off with your equipment as well.”
“Twi vouches for your warlock.” The elder gestured at the young Diver with her. “And young Ito here has more to lose than any of us, should the Master Alchemist never come back.” She snapped her fingers, pointing at the ropes. “Now, no more inane questions. Clip yourself in and climb, or turn away and I will find someone else.”
He took a breath. “Fine.” Angean looked over to Daikun Ito. “But this is your operation. I’m not responsible for all… this.” He gestured at the hodgepodge of disparate warriors around him.
The woman was inscrutable under her shroud. Then, she nodded. “Alright. There are two rappels. I’ll go with the artificer, make sure the walls are secure. When we give the signal, join us in pairs- Twi and Liera’ze, then Ser Angean. Okay?”
To anyone else, she might have seemed experienced, or even just talented, but Angean heard just how rehearsed that speech was. He leaned forward, whispering to her- “Commanders don’t ask for permission, lady Ito. Order with confidence next time.” He leaned back, making a show of tapping his boot heels and straightening his back. “Understood!”
Jero and Twi followed suit, with the civilian lagging well behind. She’ll be a handful. Angean thought, watching Jero and Daikun Ito snap the rappelling hooks into crude harnesses the Divers provided. He wondered what they’d find down there.
Maybe they’d just find a hungry monster down there, easy to kill in a group and save the day. It could be that simple. It won’t, Angean knew that much, but it could. There was something comforting in that.
Jero and the girl began to walk backwards down the walls of the pit, and Angean patiently waited his turn to delve alongside them.