Chapter 12: The Darrinian Capitol
As if emerging from a long tunnel, the four of them follow the path out of the Mucklands and across the fields surrounding the Darrinian Capitol. They can tell it’s the Capitol because the buildings are huge, bureaucratic, and imposing. Shaped like huge hammers and fists (one is even shaped like a blindfolded ogre holding scales; the seat of the legislature), these buildings make up the nerve-center of Darrinian political decision-making.
The Darrinians, by nature, have always been fierce isolationists, jealously protecting their privacy and self-determinance. In the interest of self-protection, they sent their spies and their armies into neighboring lands to ensure that their own lands would remain isolated. As a result of this constant aggression, the Darrinians are now never invited to participate in the bi-annual Continental Council or the Upper Kleighton Lympic Sports Meet, which is held every sixth sunspin.
Once, in the early days of the Lympic Sports Meet, the Darrinians agreed to play the role of host. When the delegations and fans arrived from the farthest reaches of Upper Kleighton, they were fed a grand feast, every bit of which was drugged. Their guests fell into a deep sleep, and they awoke to find themselves being expaled. As there were no survivors to report home with the details, the Darrinians have maintained that nobody ever showed up in the first place, possibly because they all got lost. Naturally, they were the de facto winners of every event, but have since been banned from any participation in the Meet.
It’s for all these reasons that Zanther, Madra, and Novanostrum ender the Darrinian Capitol with an air of hesitation. The girl riding piggyback on Novanostrum’s shoulders, however, does not seem concerned.
“I don’t know what you’re all so worried about, I’ve been here dozens of times and nobody’s ever expaled me.”
“That’s because you’re from around here,” Zanther explains, “foreigners like us, they’re not so keen on.”
Novanostrum smiles. “Don’t worry, I’ve got a plan.”
Madra frowns. “Fake mustaches and fake names? And stupid accents?”
“Of course,” the wizard says.
Despite being home to a bloodthirsty, xenophobic army, life inside the city gates looks pretty much like life at any other major city in Upper Kleighton. A man haggles with a merchant, trying to make change for a goat, which is struggling against the rope in his hand. Most of the inns and shops are built from sturdy, grey brick, as is the road below their feet.
They register at a small inn using Darrinian-sounding names and head to their room to clean up. Without all the dried blood covering her body and after running a comb through her hair, Novanostrum finds the woman to actually be quite attractive.
“So...uh...you said your name was Risma, right? How would you feel about getting a glass of wine with me?” the wizard asks.
“Sounds like lots of fun. I’ve never been on a date with a wizard before. Will you do some magick for me?”
“Well, I work on commission.”
“Put on a show for me, maybe I’ll put on a show for you.”
Zanther and Madra sit at a table at the Rusty Hammer, stealing the occasional glance at the weapon shop across the street as they sip their drinks.
“You know,” Madra says, “Novanostrum’s really falling for that girl. What do you think of her?”
“Something’s a little off about her. For someone knocked around by a gang of daemons not six bellchimes ago, she seems pretty full of pluck. And for all that blood, there’s not a mark on her. Not a scratch, not a bruise. It’s awfully strange.”
“Maybe she’s just dumb and lucky,” Madra says.
“Living all alone smack dab in the middle of the Mucklands? Something’s going on here, and I don’t think I want to find out what it is.”
Madra sighs. “Varello. I can’t believe he’s gone.”
Zanther smiles. “Gone? That guy’s slippery as a snake. I wouldn’t count him out just yet.”
Madra wipes her eye. “I...I suppose you’re right.”
“Hey guys!” Risma shouts as she and Novanostrum walk towards them and sit at their table.
A barwench takes their drink order and scurries off to fill it.
“They still over there?” Novanostrum asks.
“Yep. Maybe they’re open all night. You know how these Darrinians are...” Zanther says in a low voice.
“Nah, they’ll lock up and head out in a little while. Just have to be patient.”
“So how are we getting in? Or are we just gonna smash and grab?” Zanther asks.
“Here’s the thing,” Novanostrum says, “with this watch, the Ristwatch, I can slow down time for about thirty eyeblinks, or completely stop it for ten. It takes roughly and hour for the magick to recharge. Either way, that’s not going to be enough time for a good, solid heist. We need a plan. Any ideas?”
Risma gazes out the window, her eyes on the sewer grate at the edge of the street. “What if we come up from below? This city has all kinds of tunnels running under it.”
Madra grins. “Going through the sewer? You know, Risma, this really sounds like a job for the men. We should keep watch from over here.”
Zanther narrows his eyes at them.
They have a few more drinks as they wait for the sun to disappear completely. Soon after the gas-lit streetlights pop into luminescence, a burly man across the street turns his key into the lock of the door to the weapon store and plods into the night. Novanostrum sees this from the nearby alley, nods at Zanther, and they drop through the metal hatch leading to the sewer and into the darkness below.
The sewer is just a tunnel with a man-length-wide ditch running through its center. Preferring not to draw attention by using his staff to produce light, the two of them make their way using the muted light from the street above which trickles down through grates placed here and there above their heads.
Down unseen paths branching from the main sewer line, they can hear the skittering of tiny, padded footsteps.
“How do we know this even connects with the weapon shop?” Zanther asks.
“They have to drain a lot of water forging those longknives and pikes, so they must have a fairly large drain somewhere in the smithery. I’m thinking it’s right around...here,” Novanostrum says, pointing directly overhead at a round metal grate.
“Well, how do we get it open?”
“Give me a boost and I’ll show you.”
Zanther cups his hands together and Novanostrum puts a foot on them, lifting the grate out of place and getting a handhold on the floor above. He pulls himself up, and reaches an arm down for Zanther to follow.
“Guess they’re not too concerned about security,” Zanther observes.
“Not when everyone’s convinced the only criminals are foreigners.”
Zanther gives a wry smile. “There might be a little truth to that, though.”
The shop itself is spacious, its walls lined with longknives, handbombs, and powderblasts. Novanostrum picks up an elephant-bone staff, waving it around, checking its balance. Zanther, meanwhile, holds two matching gold-plated longknives, taking a few practice swings. He grabs their scabbards and tosses them into a large sack.
They each grab a few powderblasts, all of them with gleaming steel barrels, and toss them into the bag, along with a few dozen pouches of ammunition.
“Do we need crossbows?” Novanostrum asks.
“No, I don’t think so. Oh...wait. What’s that?”
Hanging just out of reach, their eyes are drawn to a showy master longknife, its incandescent blood-red blade inlaid with jewels.
“The Longknife of Iniquity,” Zanther says, “wonder what it’s doing here?”
“Leave it,” Novanostrum advises, “it’s time to get out of here.”
“A weapon like this...do you think this is even the real thing?” Zanther says, his eyes growing wide.
Novanostrum shakes his head. “You can’t counterfeit the g
low of a blade forged in the flames of High Hell. More trouble than it’s worth. I suspect it’s only a matter of time until the Quester of Righteousness discovers his weapon is here and lays waste to anyone in its vicinity.”
“If he’s even still alive,” Zanther says, “I mean, how else would they get it?”
“The Longknife of Iniquity has passed through countless hands. It’s been bought and sold and killed over and lost and found more times than a prostitute from New Kestle, and contact with it is just as deadly.”
“You’re right. As always, you’re right,” Zanther concedes, following the wizard back into the sewer.
They emerge into the alley a few moments later to find Madra and Risma waiting for them. Madra paws through the sack as a group of shadows amass at the end of the alley.
“Foreigners!” one of them shouts, “Darrinia does not take kindly to thieves!”
Zanther and Novanostrum bare their new weapons, but Risma holds up a finger to them. She walks over to Novanostrum and gives him a kiss on his mouth.
“Let me save you for a change,” she says, waving her arms and opening a portal in the air which looks like a rippling whirlpool. She pushes the three of them through.
Zanther and Novanostrum fall a few armspans to the ground to find themselves on the road just outside the city gates. Madra, carrying the sack containing the powderblasts, comes tumbling after them a moment later. The portal evaporates with a loud compression of air and energy.
“She opened a mattergate?” Novanostrum puzzles to himself, “I’ve never seen it done before. I think I’m in love.”
“You think she’ll be okay back there?” Madra asks.
“Risma? I have a feeling she’ll be just fine--it’s this guy I’m worried about,” Zanther says, giving Novanostrum a playful punch to the shoulder.