INTERLUDE 4A: SOUL FREED
“Thanks in large part to recent developments in agricultural applications of certain soil-enrichment spells, we can say with confidence that within five years the farmlands of Agormand alone will supply more excess sustenance than the city of Mund can consume. I know. We cannot say how this has been permitted to come to pass and at this time, at least, overt dissolution of the relevant schemes will alert the Unwilted Bloom and other druidic societies engaged in these studies to our vested interests. Lest we risk a popular uprising, I propose that their experimentations be permitted to continue, and that we utilise the levers of taxation and logistics to resolve our financial woes. I call for a vote to set Magistrati assets on the problem immediately.”
– from the official memorandum of the Shadow Council, Enyara 663 NE
“Gorlot!”
He groaned and, eyes still shut, squeezed at the pillow beneath his head. He wasn’t going to be able to go back to sleep but he wanted to preserve the luxurious half-awake state for as long as possible.
“Gorlot! Breakfast!”
Far more than the sound of his landlady’s voice, it was the scent of not-quite burnt bacon that encouraged him to rise. He found a seated position, keeping the sheets up over his torso, and opened his bleary eyes.
“Have a late one last night, did we?” she crooned.
He didn’t meet her gaze, only glancing around to check the shields’ rotations.
Every ward secure, he noted.
“Got you three rashers; three sausages; three toasty slices almost black. Just the way you like it. Big knob on the side.”
He finally looked over. No matter how he tried to preserve his modesty, no matter how he insisted on privacy, she would always let herself in unannounced, using the morning meal as an excuse to rake his undressed form with her shining bird-bright eyes. Naked hunger glistened in those eyes, all-too-visible despite the creased flesh in which they swam.
Not the kind of hunger breakfast would satisfy. Almost unconsciously he pulled the sheets a little higher, covering his chest.
“Th-thank you, Mrs. Wallstock.”
She hummed or purred, a subvocal response that had little to do with replying to him. The white-haired woman stepped fully into the room, allowing the door to swing shut behind her, and placed the plate on the covers at the foot of his bed.
The folds of her hardly-hidden flesh moved, and he repressed his shudder.
He eyed the food instead, the lump of butter already half-melted, warmed by the toasted bread lying beside it – and his stomach roared loudly, betraying his reticence to move.
“Have at it, young man. Don’t mind me.”
Red-faced, he shuffled forwards a bit then folded himself in half, reaching out to grab the platter and slide it towards him.
“A-h-h,” Mrs. Wallstock murmured, leaning back against the door and smoothing down her girlish dress.
He tried to ignore her, buttering the toast and folding it into sandwiches in silence. All the while Gorlot was praying that someday he would figure out how to make his sorcerous shields ward off unwanted affections and lecherous eyes every bit as easily as they could the weapons of the Defiers.
“Would you like something to drink?” she asked sweetly, looking to her left to preen herself in his mirror at the same time.
“Uh…”
“Some of that tomato juice?”
“Uh…”
“I’ve got it fresh…” she wheedled.
“I… I suppose.”
Her face lit up, and she deftly opened the door and darted through.
It was always the same. It was almost a rite by now. Of course he was thirsty. Of course he’d succumb to the offer. Why she didn’t just bring the drink with the food was beyond him. Doubtless the followers of Enye or some other god who valued promiscuity and pleasure would congratulate Mrs. Wallstock for her ritualised depravities, but Gorlot wasn’t one of those. He didn’t find any redeeming features in such philosophies. Yet it seemed more and more in these modern times he was expected to be along for the wagon-ride when even his fellow champions stooped to crass jokes and innuendo. More than once he’d been teased about his living situation by a hero of Mund. Harpsong had pulled it right out of his head, and it hadn’t been long before she told the others. People who were supposed to be his friends. People who were supposed to be the most-upright of the upright, servants of the light. Warriors defending the Realm against the demonic forces, behaving just like the imps they were sworn to fight.
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It was tolerable. He’d get through it. At the rate he was saving up, he’d have enough for a swanky house in North Treetown in a few more weeks and he’d be able to leave this hell-hole far behind, nothing more than a distant memory. For now, Mrs. Wallstock’s was cheap. It was convenient. And, to be fair, her cooking was amazing.
I’ll hire her as a cook, he told himself, at ten times her last salary, and then she’ll have to behave herself. Play by my rules. Wait after knocking until I answer.
The door opened once more – no knock – and the crone came in bearing his cup, brimming with the good red stuff.
She held it out to him, and when his fingertips touched the wooden mug she pulled back, forcing him to let the sheet fall slightly in order to take it from her, exposing his torso.
“Ah-h-h-h,” she murmured again, smiling joyously. “So, what plans for the day, young man? It’s late for work, isn’t it?”
She already knew Starday was his ‘day off’. The one day he didn’t have to get up at the crack of dawn and pretend to head off to Hilltown.
“Tell you what,” she went on in a musing voice, as though none of this was planned in advance, “I have some jobs need doing around here. That shelf in the kitchen’s being a bugger again. You couldn’t take a look at it for me, could you?”
So you can stick your wizened hands all over my behind again?
Just the recollection of her twig-fingers on his posterior, ‘supporting him’, made his skin crawl.
“Sorry. Day off, remember? I’m meeting friends at noon.”
“Noon is an hour off, Gorlot. Are you sure you don’t have time?”
“Only an hour! What?”
He almost leapt up, turning his head to the dim yellow light pouring through the cracks in the curtains – he remembered in the last instant just how little there was protecting his dignity, and twisted back into his place before the sheet fell.
“Oh, but you’ve gotten crumbs everywhere! Let me –“
“No!” he yelped, hurriedly brushing them onto the floor so she wouldn’t approach any closer.
“Now they’re all over the boards,” she said, a trifle testily, clearly upset at having her opportunity to stick her hands in his lap taken away from her.
“I’ll pick them up.”
She stood back, and put her hands on her hips, staring at him.
“Later,” he growled. “Can I have some privacy, please, Mrs. Wallstock? I’d like to get dressed.”
“Alright, alright! I know where I’m not wanted!” Her thin, gloating smile belied her protests. “And to think, I made you your favourite breakfast… What’s gotten into the young of today? Such rudeness! I’ll never fathom it…”
With painstaking slowness, suddenly affecting an infirmity in her wrists and hips that’d been nowhere to be found when she was plying him with her wares, she turned the handle and left the room.
Leaving the door ajar behind her.
Restraining the urge to snap at her – that would only bring her back, which was no doubt her intention – he gestured silently instead, summoning Etaxeraxa.
“Shut that,” he commanded quietly in Infernal, and the imp obeyed without making so much as a sound, pressing all four of her palms against the door’s surface and flapping her tiny sets of wings. For her size, she was very strong. She was more than capable of the task.
He didn’t have any issues getting dressed in front of his minions. That was another thing altogether. He visited the chamberpot, quickly scrubbed his armpits and groin with a too-wet sponge from the wash-bowl, then pulled on his civilian clothing: black trousers, grey tunic, brown belt and boots.
When he was dropping his plate and cup off downstairs, Mrs. Wallstock tried to engage him once more on the topic of crumb-covered floorboards. He’d already had the mess cleaned up by Venvaino and Kimmelkramserat, and, knowing full-well she’d inspect it while he was out anyway, bade her go check his handiwork as soon as she was free.
He didn’t care to mind the scorn in his voice, preoccupied with the lateness of the hour at which she’d awoken him, and she didn’t press the matter, letting him leave through the front door without so much as a further word.
It was a cool spring day, but the skies were clear and it looked as though it would turn out fine. Dumping the contents of the chamberpot in the gutter and leaving it in the porch, the young arch-sorcerer headed out into the streets. He avoided Beggar’s Row like the plague and skirted the refuse pile the wagoners always dumped in the middle of Daybrent Road, keeping at a bare minimum of an arm’s-length from the kids that scavenged the mound of debris for remnants of coal. Wouldn’t do for one of them to try to steal from him, and get pushed off by his wards.
Not while he was still Gorlot Kade.
It was strange, knowing that if he wore his uniform he’d have crowds forming about him. He was probably the third-strongest arch-sorcerer of the city’s champions, by now. Wenderwarp and Sunshadow were legends. But he’d overtaken Miseryknot. He’d outstripped Widowmourn. His name was on the people’s lips. He couldn’t go an hour in public without hearing someone mention him, in glowing tones of admiration and awe.
It was deliciously bittersweet. He supposed with so few people to protect, no family or friends to speak of – he might one day consider coming out with his identity. Live the high life, properly. Like only the rich could.
He turned into the second alley on the right, waited until he was away from prying eyes, and had his imps bring him his champion’s robe.
Letting the purple-blue fabrics flow down about his body, he drew a deep, satisfied breath, then settled the band of his mask about his ears and pulled up his hood.
I’m back, he said to himself. Azurelight, back in action.
Now let’s see what all the fuss is about.
* * *