Chapter 2
Varello sits in the light of the fire, reading from a tattered book. He pulls a silver watch from his sleeve--a mechanickal Mortesian masterpiece acquired from a trader in Krassen a few sunspins before. He checks the time, nods to himself, and rises. He paces along the beach, a wrapped parcel slung over one shoulder, his lute hanging from a strap on the other shoulder. Finally, he comes across a worn stone pedestal which stands about as tall as a man. There are dozens of these pedestals, spaced at a distance of roughly one thousand man-lengths apart, spanning the length of the beach. He wipes sand off the runes carved into the face of the monolith, using the light of the moons to check these runes against those written in the book. He nods to himself again and unwraps the parcel, a rectangular stone which he sets into the pedestal.
There are six holes carved into the stone, forming an irregular pattern. He checks his watch again, and waits for a moment. Standing in front of the pedestal, he can see specks of light, stars, aligning with the holes. In the face of the rectangular stone are six carved lines, with the holes representing musical notes.
“Must be time,” he says to himself, to nobody in particular.
Varello produces his lute and plays the notes, slowly at first, repeating the simple melody over and over, the song aided by the power of the stars. In front of the pedestal, the water parts to reveal a thin passage stretching maybe sixty man-lengths into the sea.
He walks between the walls of water, his sandals sloshing into the wet sand. There are shells and starfish and flopping eels on the ground beneath him, and at the end of the passage is a large stone set into the ground.
His steps are slow, cautious, as he peers around at the unnaturally-bound water, magically held in check. Through the quivering, glasslike waterwalls he can see the dark, barely-visible shadows of fish writhing around in confusion at the sudden disruption to their habitat. It takes a few ticks, but he is eventually able to make his way to the giant stone.
It’s too heavy to be lifted, and he doesn’t have time to decipher the runes carved into it, so Varello produces a sheet of clothpaper from one sleeve and a hunk of trunkchar from the other sleeve. He sets the clothpaper upon the stone and rubs the trunkchar across it, transferring the impression of the characters. He finishes just as the efficacy of the spell expires and the walls of water come crashing down upon him.
Rogehn sprints down the street, the casino goons following close behind. He tries to lose them by veering into an alley, but another black-cloaked figure steps out from a shadow to block his path. He finds himself surrounded.
“You think you can beat the house?” one of them asks.
“The house always wins,” another one chimes in.
“The house is just going to have to chalk this one up as a loss.”
The goons turn toward the newest voice to find Zanther stepping into the circle, his white robes glowing in the moonlight. The men posture for a fight, producing daggers and charging upon Zanther one by one. Zanther pulls his longknife from behind his shoulder, its immaculate steel gleaming like the white tooth of a giant, fell beast.
A flash of reflected light, the clank of metal on metal, and the juicy squishing sound of a knife plunged into an apple. The men stare, mouths agape, at the violence which has been done to one of their rank. The dead man’s head and right arm have been cleaved from his body. Zanther surveys the carnage, his eyes widening in anger.
“This robe! I just got this damn thing and already it’s been sullied by the blood of an amateur!”
He flicks his longknife away from him, sending a stream of blood spatter towards the face of his nearest foe. He looks around at the goons, sizing them up.
“No more of this one-at-a time nonsense. Fight me as a group, cowards!”
They acquiesce, charging him from all directions. Zanther raises his longknife above his head and lowers it in a 360-degree swipe, taking arms and heads and ankles from each body in his immediate vicinity as if slicing through so many tree branches. There’s the soft patter of thudding limbs hitting the dusty ground, and the two undamaged stragglers turn tail and flee.
Rogehn is already halfway down the alley, but finds his escape again blocked, this time by the Trinese commandant.
“We didn’t fly halfway ‘round the plate just to go back empty-handed.”
Zanther places his hand on Rogehn’s shoulder. “And what to do with this one?” he asks, turning to the commandant.
“The Emperor has made his wishes very clear,” the commandant replies.
“If you’re going to kill me, just get it over with,” Rogehn says, flinching.
“Kill you?” Zanther asks. “We could have let those men kill you. No, Rogehn, the Emperor has a different fate in mind for you. Life imprisonment, I believe, is what his eminence wishes.”
“Life imprisonment?” the commandant asks.
Zanther shrugs, “Okay, marriage. Same difference.”
Rogehn looks confused. “I’m to marry the Emperor? But he’s a--”
“No, you deadtooth, his sister,” Zanther continues, “you impregnated a member of the royal family before your great escape, and now you must return to the palace and deal with the consequences.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Oh, you won’t refuse. After all, his order was only to bring you back. He didn’t specify the condition in which you were to be returned. You right- or left-handed?”
“Right-handed, but--OH MY GODS, NO!” he shouts as Zanther raises his longknife.
“So you agree to go back?”
Rogehn nods.
“Good, ‘cause if I have to do this again I’m taking that hand and two feet to ensure there’s no third time.”
Two members of the task force grab Rogehn under his shoulders and start to bind him, taking no chances. Zanther turns and starts to walk away.
“Where are you going?” the commandant asks.
“I’m not returning with you. The Emperor has other business for me here in Upper Kleighton,” he says, producing an envelope from his sleeve bearing a royal seal stamped in wax. He shakes it.
“I’m to deliver this to the Queen of Claustria.”
The commandant winks. “Have fun.”
Zanther grimaces. “Oh, it shan’t be fun. As our friend Rogehn here is soon to learn, women hate nothing more than to be deserted, and that goes double for spoiled royal women.”
Varello is stripped down to his undergarments, drying his clothes and the clothpaper on a rack constructed of driftwood and warming himself on the fire. The moons hang low in the sky, preparing once again to yield to the sun.
He inspects the clothpaper, noting with a grin that the rubbings of the runes are still clear.
“Now if only I could get some beer and a nice, warm space to decipher it...” he says, eyeing the tiny, shadowed outlines of the spires of Castle Claustria.
Before heading to Claustria, Zanther hitches a ride in the back of a haywagon and sleeps his way to the Universitorium in order to relax and recuperate before facing Madra’s wrath. He finds an inn and rents a room before making his way to an out-of-the-way scholast pub, the Black Kettle. Halfway through his third Mongovian Brain Buster, he overhears some old academics talking at the next table.
“So Sogbottom really went to look for the fifty-seventh prophecy?”
“Yeah, he applied for the grant, the board approved it, he checked out the keystone, and headed to the coast a few days ago.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m always happy to hear about good research being carried out, but something always bothered me about that guy...”
Zanther turns around in his seat and leans over their booth.
“I’m sorry, did you say ‘Sogbottom,’ as in the good-time tonick guy?”
One of the academics adjusts his glasses. “One and the same. You’re a friend of his?”
“Well, in a manner of speaking. It’s just that I thought he was dead. The last time I saw him he w
as in a burning house full of daemons which collapsed into a swamp.”
“Sogbottom? In a burning house with daemons? Surely you must be mistaken. Sogbottom never had even a mousebladder of fight in him. I once saw a student trip him when he was walking down the street, and Sogbottom scurried away like a scared puppy.”
“Oh? And did you ever see that particular student again after that day?”
The scholast scratches his head. “Er...no. But we do have a lot of students here.”
Zanther turns back to his own empty booth and takes a deep draught of his drink. He smiles, imagining Varello (Sogbottom being his professorial alter-ego) popping his head out of that stagnant marsh in triumph.
“I’m sure our paths will cross again soon,” he says, to no one in particular.
At that very moment, an entire horse-day away, Varello is making his way down the main boulevard of the castle town of Claustria, with his lute in one hand and a heavy sack slung over his back. The midnight sounds of the city come through windows and doorways: drunken singing and misguided statements their utterers believe to be universal truths. A few dogs bark incessantly, somewhere off in the night, but aside from these isolated noises, there is an overbearing silence.
Varello finds the entrance to the castle itself guarded by two sentries.
“The castle is closed for business. Come back in the morning.”
“I’m not here for business,” Varello says, “My name is Varello, and I request an audience with Queen Madra. I’m what you might call an old friend.”
One of the guards steps inside the castle to confer with his superiors. The other sentry turns to Varello.
“I hope for your sake you’re telling the truth. The last man to frivolously disturb the Queen found himself without a leg to stand on.”
However, Madra herself appears, wearing a tight, sleeveless dress with a turtleneck collar. The dress is black with gold trim around the edges and ornate patterns weaving around her breasts and midsection.
“Varello! You’re alive!” She turns to her sentries and mutters, “Kill him.”
They raise their spears and Varello flinches in surprise, bracing himself, but Madra laughs.
“Just kidding, guys. Show him to a room so he can clean himself up.” She smiles at Varello. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen in a bell so you can get some food in your stomach and tell me just what exactly is going on.”
One of the sentries beckons, and Varello follows, cautiously.