The door clatters open and Evelyn stumbles in melodramatically. Upon crossing the threshold, I hear her soul leave her body and she collapses in a heap on the living room floor, because we don’t have any chairs.
“Shoes off,” I say and I drop a clump of grass into the pot that Emmet had assured me were chives. She mumbles indistinctly but kicks off her boots while lying face down on the floor.
While Evelyn focuses on melting into the floorboards, the door creaks open again and Emmet shuffles in. He also looks dead on his feet, but manages to deposit the package he was holding on the counter before sinking to the floor.
“By Her light, I’ve been on my feet all day,” Emmet groans as he loses his battle with gravity and flops down on his back. Evelyn groans in commiseration – the two of them awfully chatty for a pair of corpses.
The stew spits at me for attention so I take it off the heat – who am I to argue with it? Looks ready enough anyway. I place the pot on the counter and unwrap Emmet’s package, which turns out to be three left-over bread rolls from whichever church service handles the food. Thank the gods for small mercies. At least now this can pass as dinner – teamwork makes the dream work.
The stew is soon split between three wooden bowls, sitting in a row on the counter. The smell of greasy broth pools off the counter and slowly pools over my two groaning companions. Emmet takes in a deep breath and staggers to his knees, and Evelyn at least manages to roll over.
And they doubt me when I say that I’m a necromancer.
“Feed me, or put me out of my misery,” Evelyn says while throwing an arm over her eyes.
“As enjoyable as that sounds, I don’t need another reason to end up on a wanted poster,” I sit to her left and Emmet settles down across from us, the three of us sitting around an imaginary table that we can’t afford. I hold her bowl out to her, “eat it quick before the softening charm runs out.”
“That does not sound healthy,” Evelyn groans and sits up, taking the stew. “Hey, this isn’t bad.” I take a sip too, and it could definitely be worse. Emmet was even right about the chives. “This is spicy! How is this spicy? Since when can we afford chilli?” Eveyln asks while chewing tentatively on a piece of runny meat – gods, the spell did a number on that. I’m confused by her question though.
“It’s just onions and potato,” I say. “And chives too I guess,” I add. Emmet smiles and dips his bread roll into the stew.
“Then how is it spicy?” asks Evelyn, looking bizarrely confused.
“Onions are spicy – why do you think they make your eyes sting?” Evelyn opens her mouth to refute my unassailable logic, but gives up.
“Oh my god, this fucking world!” she exclaims, and eats another spongey meat strip.
“What do onions taste like back where you’re from?” asks Emmet and I tense up a little, the room growing suddenly warmer. We hadn’t really talked about Evelyn’s situation much since Havale, and I’m not sure if we’re meant to. The question doesn’t seem to bother Evelyn, if anything a bit of energy creeps back into her.
“Yeah, what are they meant to be back home? Dirt, was it?” I join in impulsively and swallow back the resulting cringe. What is wrong with me sometimes? Eveyln doesn’t seem bothered and responds with a familiar scoff.
“Don’t pull a muscle trying to be funny Lulu,” she says before crinkling her nose in deep contemplation. “Well onions taste like,” she pauses, “they’re sour or something? Sweet when you cook them?” she trails off.
“I don’t know, sounds kind of made up,” I say and Emmet chuckles while Evelyn sends me a look of mock betrayal.
We trade a few barbs over which world has the more sensible vegetables. Even Emmet gets involved – and surprisingly defensive – when Evelyn is informed that the saltiness in the stew comes from the chives. In the end, I remind the others about the enchanted meat and we choke it down before it reverts to its natural inedibility.
We finish up and sit back reflecting on the stew and its shortcomings. At least I am, I’d hope the other two show a bit more gratitude, but eating it is more praise than I’m willing to give to this slop.
“So, what would you rather be eating? If you were back home, I mean,” asks Emmet as he plays around with a piece of meat that he’d been too slow in eating. Evelyn leans back, eyes tracing the ceiling thoughtfully as the Emmet’s gristle clinks around in an entirely unappetising way.
“There’s this Thai place a block and a bit from where I live,” she begins but catches herself and pre-empts our blank looks, “it’s the name of a country – the restaurant sells their food, don’t worry about it.”
“Nice place?” I ask, reclining backwards on my elbows in the absence of chairs.
“No, it’s kind of shit, but it takes like thirty seconds to walk there,” she says. “But anyway. They make this pad thai, and it’s pretty good, but way too greasy. You eat it, then feel kind of gross afterwards.” She idly stirs the grease stains in her bowl with her finger. “But about every third time you go there, you’re just hungry enough, and the chef is just light enough on the oil, it’s everything you could possibly want.” She trails off and props her chin on her knee.
The three of us stay quiet after she stops. It wasn’t even much of a story – she didn’t even tell us what pad thai is. I know I’d rather be eating a roast or something worth a damn. Emmet shifts slightly.
“My church used to do baking for the harvest festival back in Weld. I really miss the pumpkin tarts that Brother Rodney used to make,” he says softly, eyes slowly tracing the floorboards. “They weren’t great – he was always a bit put out about having to work in the kitchens. After a few years, I think I was the only one eating them.” Emmet smiles at the memory then looks to me expectantly. I shift around under their gaze, racking my brain for something to say.
A thousand delicious meals flit through my mind, way better tasting than greasy whatever and pumpkin tarts. The other two sit in silent invitation, their expressions relaxed in a nostalgic melancholia. That delicious soufflé I had at father’s last dinner party sounds kind of silly now. It’s funny how kind of shitty food reminds you of home.
“One of the maids used to let me help bake a cake for my birthday – when I was little,” I say, slowly, “One time we must have messed up the measurements because the cake didn’t rise properly and it turned out kind of hard.” The two nod quietly, not really paying rapt attention, but listening all the same. “Regardless, I tried it anyway because it was my birthday, and it had this really heavy cinnamon flavour but with a weird bitter aftertaste.”
“Too much baking powder?” asks Emmet, no doubt remembering something similar. I shrug.
“Maybe. It kind of sucked. But every year after, we kept on trying to figure out the right measurements to do it again. We never quite got it right though.” Father fired her a few years back anyway, he said she was getting too old.
With my piece said, and the room’s atmosphere suitably gloomy, I get up and collect our bowls. With a pulse of necromantic energy, the leftovers instantaneously decay into black sludge. It smells, and I quickly throw it out the window. Night has crept up while we weren’t looking, leaving the room fairly dark.
“That’s pretty gross,” says Evelyn.
“It’s good for the plants,” I respond and lie back down on the floor. Emmet pulls out some blankets and I bunch mine up like a pillow – it’s warm enough tonight. We settle in a circle again, lying head to toe.
“Can we start looking for a way back home tomorrow?” asks Evelyn after a moment of silence. We hadn’t really talked about it since the hill above Havale – happy to put it off while we got settled in Kismet. I turn over to face her in the dark.
“Yeah, I can drop by your work tomorrow at lunch. We’ll work something out,” I reply into the dark. Emmet mumbles something in support and I turn back to face the wall.
“Thanks guys,” Evelyn says quietly. “I’m just starting to really miss home.”
I can’t say I would say the same, but I think I know the feeling. The sounds of the tanners and smithies above us peter out and the room goes silent.
O – O – O – O – O
The child, the centipede and the snake rest while the stars glimmer overhead. Trees reach out with creaking joints and eyes flit through their shadowy depths. The night grows restless.
The child sits hungry. The centipede lies exposed. The snake stands cold. An apple glistens above in the starlight.
The crows edge further into the clearing, eyes focused on the radiant fruit.
The three in the clearing don’t notice the treasure hanging above them.
But they must.
O – O – O – O – O
“Now see how your heart and life lines intersect just above the destiny lines? I foresee a long and happy relationship between the two of you.”
I stop at the mouth of the alleyway and wait as two girls emerge, blushing and giggling obnoxiously as they hurry off to do something inane. This looks like the place. A few paces into the alley, sits a small wooden stall, decked out in vaguely mystical paraphernalia. The alley casts shadows strategically, giving the setup a convincingly professional ambiance. I step up to the counter and the owner doesn’t miss a beat – even if I probably don’t fit his normal clientele.
“Good morning sir. Care to unravel the bonds of fate?” He says, leaning forward dramatically and jangling the glass beads littered all over him. “Only two knights for a palm reading – not much to ask in exchange for divine providence.” I feel awkward cutting him off – but sacrifices have to be made.
“I heard that you do proper divination – not just the rubbish with the hands,” I say, crossing my arms and wondering whether I should sit down or not.
“Buddy, not so loud,” the fortune teller drops the performance and peers over my shoulder. “This gig lives and dies on the illusion. Buy in, or keep it down.” He gestures at the chair in front of the counter and I take it. “Now what are you looking for?” he asks when I’m seated.
“Like I said, I heard you do divination magic here and I want to know how it’s done.” I snap my fingers alight, partially to indicate that I’m not some random passer-by, but mostly because I can. He looks between me and my fingers, then snorts.
“Typical mages. I don’t know what you’ve heard buddy, but it isn’t divination magic – it’s divine prophecy.” I immediately get up to leave, but he grabs my arm. “Wait, wait. I know your type likes your check boxes, but it’s not magic – I’m a priest of Sok.”
I remember that Emmet got really huffy when I kept calling his healing, ‘magic’. It totally is, but that’s beside the point. The fortune telling priest sees my lack of recognition and elaborates. Too late, I realise that I’ve just wilfully entered a theology discussion.
“They’re a local god here, mostly of fishing, but we used to send most of our prayers their way regardless,” he says and begins laying a handful of seashells across the counter.
“Never heard of them,” I say, trying to disengage from whatever he’s setting up. “Look, I appreciate the scam. I was under the impression that this was real divination magic. I don’t need to hear the – no doubt riveting – backstory that you’ve concocted.” The fortune teller stops constructing his little aquarium display and looks up with exactly the same scrunched expression that Emmet gets whenever Evelyn calls The Mother, ‘mummy’. Maybe this guy is actually legit.
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“Bloody Imperials,” the guy mutters, “used to be you couldn’t walk to the pub without seeing a proper offering on every street corner.”
“What kind of offerings,” I ask, choosing to participate in the conversation for gods knows what reason.
“Fish heads mainly.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t give those Imperials licence to go around muscling everyone out of the game,” he says. “Bought out the main church and everything. Now everything is Mother this, Mother that. Just because they heal a little better than everyone else.” He trails off in a grumble and I take the opportunity to shift the conversation back onto something that I have even the slightest capacity to care about.
“So, what does a fish god have to do with divination?” I ask. It’ll all be worth it if I can learn a sliver of magic – even if it has to be divination.
“Fishing God – and not much. It’s just what they like responding to best. The apathetic bastard – praise be their name,” he says, offering a prayer to offset the snipe in the grand calculus of piety. “Come on, how about a reading? Smart guy like you? I never can miss an opportunity to spread the good word.” The salesman reappears and he starts sprinkling sand around the shells. “Just five knights.”
I probably shouldn’t spend half a baron on this guy’s coping mechanism, but for all the shit I give it, I am interested in divination. With Darke Mag’kx lost to the catastrophe in Havale, who knows when I’ll get another shot at learning more magic. At least this guy has the courtesy to set out a make-believe runic array – the other purported magic practitioners I visited this morning ended up showing nothing but card tricks and desperation.
“Alright, what do I need to do?” I ask, handing over the money I buy food with and turning to face him. The counter now has what can charitably be called a pentagram, made of sand and seashells. Very in theme, but not a lick of thaumaturgic meaning to be seen. The priest gestures to his sandcastle and I place my hand in the centre of the array. With a quick movement, he opens a barrel and from it, scoops up a dead fish and flops it onto the counter. He clears his throat and begins an incantation in what I think is meant to be iambic pentameter.
“The tide drags the wandering soul, fate flops beached; The bait set, the net is cast. Sok dives deep.”
With stress on the wrong syllables, he finishes his chant and slices the fish across its stomach. The guts spill into my upraised hand and the priest starts picking through them. A weaker man than myself would have sprung back and probably vomited – it’s an old fish – but I’m made of sterner stuff, and more importantly used to it.
Mostly I just feel an echoed sense of disappointment as the slimy intestines crawl over my hand. Also disgust. No wonder everyone dropped this religion.
“Nothing. Looks like this one didn’t take,” he mutters, scooping up the entrails and fishing out a new one. Another fish-full of fish guts empties into my hand and again he doesn’t seem to be able to glimpse the eddies of fate through the duodenal lining.
“Maybe go for a limerick instead?” I ask, exercising an uncharacteristic level of restraint by not wiping my hand on his clothes and leaving. I remember that druid back in Havale doing all that faffing about with limericks and pine cones when she tried to cast a healing spell.
“Nah, limericks haven’t been popular with anything but nature gods in generations,” he says distractedly, still sifting through innards. “It’s all about getting the God’s attention – just gotta keep trying.”
He produces yet another fish, butchers the meter of his prayer, and spills a third set of viscera into my waiting palm. In that instant, a torch flickers behind his eyes and something very far away casts its gaze upon us. The feeling vanishes between heart beats and we both suck in a deep breath. The fish guts hit my hand and instead of blood, thick, black mud oozes across the counter.
“Oh boy, that one felt like it worked,” the priest says, panting a little and poking around in the fish guts.
There’s not a flicker of mana anywhere around us and definitely not in the man before me – I doubt he’s ever cast a spell. Not a drop of the stuff, yet that fish shouldn’t be full of mud.
“I don’t know buddy – usually there’s something a little more obvious,” he glances at the black mud seeping out of the fish, “more obviously poetic, I mean,” he amends. I retract my hand and rub the grainy silt between my fingers. “If I were you, maybe steer clear of dirt? I wouldn’t go underground any time soon.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” I say, scanning the counter for familiar tingle of released mana. Nothing. “Do you always have to make the array and do the chanting?” I ask, wiping my hand on a towel he offers me.
“If you want consistency, yeah,” he replies. “But in the end, it’s just a roll of the dice to get noticed or not – especially with the smaller Gods.”
“A friend of mine just blasts off healing whenever he wants to,” I say. This is just like with Emmet’s healing really, no proper sign of magic.
“Your friend’s with The Mother?” he asks and I nod. “Yeah, those bastards get all the luck. Barely lift a finger and you’re drowned in miracles,” he spits on the ground. “Tell you what, have one of these – get some representation going.” He tosses me a seashell necklace. I look at him and he must assume I’m asking how much it is – as if I’d ever pay. “On the house. Sorry for not foretelling your love chances.”
I give my regards and leave him to clean up his disgusting counter top. I fiddle with the seashell around my neck and try to brush off a lingering feeling of being watched. Behind me, black mud mixes with red blood and it all drains down the gutter.
With only one more lead on learning magic in this gods forsaken town, I reach the docks. The boardwalk stretches right across the bay, with dozens of small fishing boats docked seemingly at random along it. Even for a small Northern city-state, this is a pretty poor showing. The only saving grace for Kismet’s mercantile prospects is a single pier that manages to go far enough out to dock a middling sized frigate. Or a schooner. Whichever’s smaller – I don’t know anything about boats.
Being the only pier in town, it’s a natural congregation point for sailors. It goes to follow that the pub that manages to be closest to the pier will be able to monopolise the thirsty sailor demographic. Sailors having long since replaced water with alcohol in their hierarchy of needs.
The lucky pub is called The Salty Moustache. A slightly better name compared to the Goblin Piss Inn, but not by much. If anything, points off for lacking a pun. Anyway, the reason I’d lower myself to even acknowledging it, is that my contacts mentioned a rumour of a magic user with a grudge against his liver. By contacts, I mean Evelyn overhearing someone in the restaurant she works at – so I’m not expecting much.
I push the doors open, step out of the way from a stumbling drunk, and survey the dingy interior. It’s still charitably morning, so naturally the pub is completely packed. It’s mostly sailor types – eye patches, bandanas, no shirts – but I quickly spot someone who fits the description that I was given.
Old guy, white beard, looks like he started drinking last night and never stopped. Either this is my guy, or it’s one of the other dozen or so pickled retirees hanging around the edges of the pub. I take the chance and sit down at his table.
“Rumour has it that you can control the wind,” I interrupt his drinking with absolutely no preamble.
“The fuck are you?” He shouts, lifting his face out of his tankard. “Who’s been talking shit about me?” He makes some effort to stand, before remembering that he had abandoned that ability hours ago. He sloshes his awful beer everywhere and I force myself to persevere for at least another thirty seconds.
“No, sir, please,” I try, “I heard that you used to use magic back when you sailed.” A moment of lucidity dawns on the idiot at some point during that. Though it might be because he spilt the last of his beer.
“Magic, hey?” he says, leaning back in his chair. I lean forward, throat clenched in stupid anticipation. “Magic in bed more like!” He cackles and falls backwards. Hopefully he brains himself on something.
I get up and begin heading for the door. Maybe I’ll go have a lie down before I need to meet up with Evelyn. My implacable motion is brought to a sudden stop as something hot and heavy lands on my shoulder. As someone without a trace of a guilty conscience, I immediately try to make a break for it, but I’m spun around and thrown into a nearby chair.
Another hand joins the first and I look up to find two rugged mercenary types looming over me. Across the small table sits a third, equally intimidating, man. Between us, a candle flickers, its light casting deep shadows and picking out the scars that line his face. Very effective performance all up, I wonder if they practiced. Before I manage to centre myself to mock them, the brute grins.
“Couldn’t help but overhear your conversation back there, friend,” he says with gossamer thin friendliness, stretched to breaking over a naked blade.
“What do you want?” I ask, not in the mood to play my part. Instead of being disappointed, his façade splits down the middle and his smile just turns cruel.
“Me and the boys have been keeping an eye out for wizards,” the boys dig their fingers into my shoulders. “Especially small-time ones sniffing about for scraps.” A cold lump gurgles in my stomach as the odds of this being a random mugging shoot through the floor.
“Look, I was just interested in his stories,” I try, voice high as my chest tightens in anticipation. With a deliberate motion, he pulls out a leaf of paper and places it in front of me. My scowling caricature stares back. That fucking wanted poster.
“Look,” I try again, shifting in my restraints, “it doesn’t even have a reward listed. Literally no point bringing me in – they’ll probably just kill you too. You know how the Empire is,” I say quickly, clammy hands pressed together in supplication.
“Yeah, I know how the Empire is, friend,” he says as his buddies chuckle idiotically. He leans forward threateningly and his sword clanks against the table leg. An ornate and polished pummel pocking out of an ill-fitting scabbard. The imperial smirks at my expression, “now how’s about telling us where your friends are?”
And with that, it’s probably best to consider diplomacy to be over. Sorry Emmet, I’ll try harder next time. Maybe. The three imperials bunch me in, probably seconds from dragging me into an alley for a spot of interrogation.
Now, in their hubris, they made two classic blunders. The first, of course, is that they didn’t kill me immediately, thus sealing their fate. The second – and more realistically – is that they left an open flame sitting in front of the idiot who seems to have specialized in pyromancy.
Grease.
I swing my hand out, clammy palms catalyse, and an arc of grease sprays out. The spluttering candle does its job, and a wave of flaming oil flies into the smirking imperial’s face. He falls back, screaming, and I quickly drop to the floor and crawl under the table. My knees and elbows smart at the rough floorboards, and the burning grease scalds my hands, but I manage to climb over the failing imperial and emerge from the other end.
I scramble onto my feet just as one of the other two imperials snaps to attention and runs at me. With burnt fingers and not enough time to think of a spell, I panic and grab the closest thing to hand. With a surge of adrenaline, I heave a chair over my head and throw it at the rapidly approaching soldier. The room, already quiet after the sudden pyrotechnics, goes silent as the chair hits the thug with a dull thump, then clatters to the floor.
“Fuck yeah!” some random patron grabs his neighbour by the shirt and socks them across the jaw. He’s thrown through a table in response, followed by a complete breakdown of society. I duck underneath an airborne tankard and three sailors pile onto the imperial in a tangle of limbs.
I push through the crowd – half of them running for the sidelines, the other half dragging them back into the fray. An elbow gets buried in my stomach and someone else shoves me reeling into a group of sailors. The reflexive apology doesn’t even leave my lips before one of them turns around and punches me in the face.
My vision completely blacks out for a moment and I feel like throwing up. I stumble against a table as my legs stop working and my vision clears just enough to see the same dickhead winding back for another go.
“There you are, you little shit!” a drunken slur manages to clear the general pandemonium. “I’ll fucking show you some magic!” The old man I’d spoken to earlier is standing behind me, candle clenched in one hand and with his other, chugging a bottle of whiskey. The dots manage to connect despite the concussion and I drop to the floor in a heap. The old fuck smashes the bottle against some unfortunate passer-by and brings the candle to his lips. With a truly horrific belch, a wave of fire sprays overhead, right on top of the belligerent sailor.
I sway to my feet as the last of the whiskey dribbles down the old man’ front. He smirks at me, surveying his handiwork and I bury my fist in his jaw.
I step off him, staggering forward and pushing through the rest of the bar’s patrons. With a heave, I swing the door open and almost collapse as the sweet scent of fish guts replaces the stifling miasma of alcohol and sweat. Gods, I hate pubs.
Someone manages to get thrown through a window in a shower of glass. The remaining windows flicker with the cheerful glow of a housefire. Hopefully the pub pulls through – if only because I promised Emmet not to burn down anymore towns.
The door bangs open again to reveal two of the imperials. One with a black eye, the other with a charred and smoking beard. They zero in on my stumbling ass and stagger forward. Could they not have just stayed in there for another five minutes? I ignore my aching everything and start running along the wharf.
I race alongside the water, stumbling over the ropes and fishing line left laying all over the place. My side burns after two weeks without any strenuous exercise and the knocks I’d taken in the pub don’t help matters. The imperials have an equally difficult time – at least I haven’t been set on fire in the past five minutes. But they do have the benefits of basic fitness and quickly start to gain ground.
Something sharp and shiny flies past me, the knife striking the boardwalk and embedding itself in the wood. I don’t bother looking behind me and I put everything into staying on my feet as my pursuers keep coming.
As I start weighing up the benefits of jumping in the sea and swimming for it, I see a break in the boardwalk. A stone tunnel protruding from the street and empties into the bay. From its end comes the sound of rushing water – it’s the sewer entrance.
Not having a spare second to re-evaluate my options, I jump into the water, grasping clumsily at the sewer grate. The imperials come to a staggering halt, smirking and sure that I’m completely fucking. With choppy water and whatever’s coming from the sewer splashing me in the face, I splutter the magic words.
Spongify.
The iron bars built into the sewer tunnel outlet twitch, then sag under their own weight. Kicking my legs, I flounder over the lip and shimmy my way between the bars. Before the imperials even notice, I’m through the grate and fucking off down the tunnel. How’s that for a small-time wizard? Hah!
The cobbled sewer quickly gives way to the natural limestone caves that honeycomb the city. Cursing echoes down the tunnel as the imperials bang against the already hardened bars. Avoid the underground the priest said – last time I’ll ever trust a fortune teller.
Now I just need to figure out which of these tunnels leads home.