Six low-blooded goblins and the leastmost sort of lord supported the Hero from either side, under his arms and from behind. A handful of the kitchen staff rushed to drag the table forward and out of the way to make space.
“Lift evenly,” barked the constable, “bend from your knees. On my mark: 1, 2, 3 –”
“Oh gods, my back!”
“HEAVE!”
Rhode lurched to his feet, which would have blazed with pain had he not been pumped full of watered down [Euphoric Stupor] and [Sensory Dissociation]. He tried not to flex or move his toes at all, relying on the thick wool padding in his slippers to spread the pressure evenly across his soles.
“Whew. Okay,” the homunculus rumbled. Since Brand was the tallest besides himself, he leaned further against the man. “Can you get me my crutches?” Rhode asked a porter by the door.
There was a bustle as plates were cleared, and tables diverted. A pair of reinforced, rough-cut wooden poles were carried in from the boot room. Densely wrapped padding around the forked end of each of them made for passable crutches, and goblins scattered as Rhode propelled himself forward with surprising ease.
Brand held a step back, with his hands out just in case Rhode should fall. A small crowd milled behind them as the two passed the boot vestibule.
“Turn right, Goodman. We are headed towards the optimization team overflow study,” Brand directed. He pointed, efficiently laced his high shoes up to his calves, then tossed his dining sandals into an empty cubby.
By keeping to the center of the hall, Rhode avoided knocking his head against its barrel-vaulted ceiling of tightly stacked shale wedges. This distressing section of tunnel had not been laid with mortar, and often seeped with damp clay. The warm, dry heat of the kitchens had done much to reduce the moldering, wet smell, but recurring failures in the ventilation shafts could fill the halls with smoke just as often. If the day ever came that it should collapse, it would surely be a death sentence.
Rhode coughed, then dipped his head to avoid a low hanging stone protrusion. “Do I know where that is?” he asked, looking back.
“My apologies. Start towards your room, past the secondary scullery, and we will go the opposite way when we reach the flammables storage.” Brand edged around the Hero, and strode ahead out front. “If you will follow me. It’s actually quite close to the blood fermentation tanks.”
Rhode fell behind. “I can deal with a lot,” he spoke, “and I’m trying to be open-minded. But I think I need you to explain what blood fermentation is.”
Brand stood in profile, facing the wall. He laid one hand on his pommel, and scratched his eyebrow with his ring-finger. “It was an early enquiry by the Goode Alchemist Krevinkya. You were not entirely our first attempt, and our previous… batch of vessels failed during their incubation. I will not pretend to understand the work of alchemy. But the tanks were proposed to me afterwards as an experiment towards mitigating a persistent type of gene corruption.”
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“Uh huh,” Rhode grunted. “Sure, fine. That’s why. But whose was it? I don’t care what you did with it, I’m asking where it came from.”
“Ah. Goodman Irving, I am ashamed to admit that I never truly expected this project would succeed. Our first crop of homunculi was lost. From my perspective, I simply believed that we had waste product with no clear plan for its disposal. When I was offered a opportunity to recycle it, I approved.”
“Okay,” Rhode sighed. “That’s still super gross, but I guess it’s not completely morally awful. I can probably handle medium evil. Medium-lite?”
“In the end, it did not matter,” Brand murmured, “the Goodwife Krevinkya leveled soon after, and the entire affair became moot. Does this answer satisfy you?”
“But you still have the tanks,” Rhode grimaced.
“I have no idea how we will get rid of them,” Brand scowled. “They are beyond disgusting. May we continue?”
For a long span of minutes, the two did not speak further. They traversed a hodgepodge of tunnels in a mess of different constructions and designs that intersected erratically. Everywhere, the cluttered storage and stacked goods that Rhode had come to expect in his short life down below were beginning to vanish. Operations were being moved above-ground into the palace, bit by bit, and the depths grew ever darker and emptier as they were abandoned once again.
As he passed by the fermentation chamber, Rhode stopped and peered through an open arch into a dusty, unlit vault. All of the alchemical piping threaded along the far back, hidden from direct view in the shadows. One could only see the great wooden barrels: silent and unassuming, as innocent as a brewery. Yet this was a mausoleum for those who might have lived and then hadn’t.
But there was only so long that the living could dwell on those who never were. Constable Brand led Rhode onwards into a modern looking finished marble corridor, and a polished wooden door that fit its frame like a watertight seal. An abandoned rolling cart was tucked away to the left of the entry, with a stack of dirty dishes laid atop it, along with an empty wine decanter.
“Intelligence officer, Weidle,” Brand called out suddenly. His hand laid on the lever-bar to the study, but he did not pull. The air shimmered, and two wide, round eyes peeled open above his shoulders. They peered beyond Rhode, backwards into the distance.
Rhode looked backwards, and recognized the cobbler from mess. The goblin’s friendly expression, and carefree slouch slid off him like grease from teflon. His lopsided grin widened, and flashed the points of teeth.
“I will be happy to render my report of this meeting, through the appropriate channels,” Brand stated coldly. “Surely, your time is more valuable spent elsewhere, Ser.”
“As it is for so many things, Ser,” the goblin crooned. He inclined his head just low enough to indicate respect. “It is not my place to question the role I am asked to play.”Rhode groaned. “Aw, shoe guy, no. You dick,” he muttered.
“Nor is it mine,” Brand continued. “Yet until I am asked otherwise, I will continue to serve in my duty to fulfill the potential of our Hero.”
The constable laid a hand on Rhode’s arm. His mustache curled in the dry heat as if it was a muscle that could flex.
“Whatever his eccentricities,” the half-elven lord assured the man from Earth.
Rhode opened his mouth. Then he shut it. His body ached everywhere except for a fingertip. Leaning his weight against one crutch, he raised the other hand up slowly. Then, he flicked Lord Fidelity Brand lightly in his stupid, pointy ear.