Date: Tenth of January, year 810 Post Seminal War (810 PSW)
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The steam-powered tug Saltbeard made decent speed up the Trebor-Varr Barak canal, even with two passenger and forty freight barges in train. The passenger barges were out in front of the tug itself, with the cargo barges between it and the Saltbeard herself. Twin towering plumes of white steam were rendered golden by the setting sun as its set over the edge of the forests.
Job stirred the simple pot as Anra, Sly, and Index gathered around. “It’s only gutter-porridge, but it’s better than eating jerky or pemmican cold with weak grog.”
Enra nodded, “soldier’s stew. A common enough practice, especially when all we have available is hardtack rations.”
Sly snorted in amusement, “well, ain’t you just a well of thinkin’. Wer’d you come from Prancer?”
Job shook his head, “ain’t a nice thing to call someone Sly.”
Enra just shook her head, “Prancer? Ain’t tha worst ahi been called Nicker-Fingers, and to answer your actual question: Pradam, by way of temples and high sea roads. And yes, I know how to speak ‘gutter’, at least the Alth dialect of it.”
Job watched Index’s eyes start to cross as she tried to follow the conversation as it flicked between the common of the markets and the gutter-born cant of the streets. “The big Island of Alth herself, and the capital Padan no less? Why in the seven hells would you pick the Trebor campus over the Padam one? We’re a backwater ‘out-island’ that wasn’t much more than a fishing town fifty years back.”
Enra flipped a page of her spellbook, “because Aris Cretu was made Lord Trebor in 772, and the Hokfiin Faalyol Campus is both more modern than the Padam campur or the venerable Olor campus on Bera. And the HF campus is the furthest from the beady eyes and gossiping tongues of Padan.”
Sly snorted, “an’ how’d a noble-born Althan elf learn tha’ cant? Ain’t seen many knife-ears on the street Prancer, and none yer size or with that cut of jib.”
Index was starting to curl up on herself, morose at being cut out of the conversation. Job noticed this, “Sly, can it with the cant for a bit why don’t you? The four of us are supposed to be working together, not ripping each other's throats out. Index, how’d did a golem come to get free will? I know Innoch is something of a special case, a relic of the Seminal War, but…?”
Index brightened, “I can’t say about all the details, mostly because I don’t know them all, but you can blame Professor Bluehair for a Surge in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m not so much a golem as a created, free, sentient spirit of Intellect bound into an animated wooden statue.”
Sly’s eyes crossed at the explanation, unable to follow it without any context for the mage-speak. Job had to bite his tongue to stifle his laughter. “Professor Bluehair is a gnome Sorcerer, blessed with the suck that is Wild Magic. Most of the time, it does what the caster intends, but other times it doesn’t. In mage-speak, mis-casts like that are known as ‘surges’, and they get capitalized when things go really out of hand.”
Index nodded, “Originally, I was ‘born’ to help with keeping track of the Trebor Library, what books were on which shelf, who had taken which book back home to read, that sort of thing. As the library grew, and as more magic poured into the area, I grew from a helper-spell to a full-fledged spirit, and through enough contact and interaction with people I gained sentience. Professor Bluehair and Head Archivist Innoch were working on a project to attach me to a wooden mannequin to give me a body, so that I could walk about the campus instead of being stuck inside the Library itself. The Surge pulled a bunch of energy out of a ley-line nexus, a well of magical power, and tossed it into the binding spell. The result was a bit more than a mannequin I could puppet.”
Enra nodded absently, “I do know more about Innoch Warforged, but it is not my story to tell. If you want it, ask the man himself, or get his permission for Lord Cretu, Lord Wavethunder, or Lady SiDabolo to tell it.”
Sly nodded, wide-eyed at Enra casually naming two of the three most powerful Lords of Altheim and the only known SiDabolo on the planet. “So if you can mingle with the Lords and Ladies, where did you learn the cant?”
Enra roller her eyes, “just because I can doesn’t mean I want to. I prefer living to gossip, and magic to backstabbing my sisters over a gaudy bauble. So I went to the HF campus and left the two of them to their court games. And the better for it. Lord Cretu himself was a dockyard kid himself, once upon a time, and the Trebor Upper School makes damn sure all of its students know how to sail old-fashioned sail-powered craft as an exercise in teamwork. Hopelessly obsolete practice for the Navy, now that the new flask and fire elemental steam plants are coming into service, alongside the Var Barak Steelworks’ new face hardening techniques and the Perle Shipyards laying down the Navy’s first Protected Cruiser. But teaching nobles to sail alongside artisans and even lucky commoners does teach teamwork… and the cant. Where did you learn it?”
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Sly looked at the floor, “young an’ female in the gutters, not many options, y’know? Fell in with a crowd for food, a roof, and some safety. Kept me outta the wench houses an’ dockside taverns. Cost was workin’ for the crowd, doing Nicker-Fingers work. I got good, but as I got older, I started seeing more and more I didn’t like. The warehouses the crowd ran, but never let anyone into. The extra layer of secrets. The headhunter types that came and went. People, in the crew and not, that vanished in odd ways. I got out before the hammer came down, an’ been at loose ends ever since.”
Job stirred the pot one last time, “food’s ready. Prestidigi it if you want, because it doesn’t taste like much more than it is: jerky and crumbled biscuits in weak grog. Index, Sly, If you need…”
Index shrugged, “I’d like to try it as it is.”
Sly tossed a shoulder, “we’ve eaten worse in the past Job, this ain’t gonna make me toss up.”
Enra took her bowl and spoon, and muched away happily. “I always did prefer simple food. And what’s this about eating worse in the past? It can’t be any worse than scorched mountain oysters.”
Job tucked into his food before answering, mindful not to talk with his mouth full, “traditional Gutter Porridge, as any urchin can tell you, is made from whatever scraps of plausibly edible things you can find. Bread scraps are a luxury, if you can avoid the mold. Fresh-killed rat chunks are a delicacy, but you gotta fight the cats for them. Most of the time its bits of half-rotted vegetables, a fish head out of a trash heap, and some water out of a fountain. Ate like that for fifteen years before Head Archivist Innoch found me. I couldn’t run with Sly’s crowd, not the way they treat non-humans, not after my scales started showing when I was six or so. Didn’t have the strength to join the Guard, nor the balls to try for the Ironbark Regiment. Scrounged work where I could, but there was never enough to go around for a scrawny kid like me…”
Several Hours Later…
Job led the group off of the passenger barge and onto the wharf. The Saltbeard was already free of her load and maneuvering to pick up another one for the trip back down the canal. Job looked about in confusion, “wasn’t a man by the name of ‘Elfyr’ to meet us here? I don’t see any sort of welcoming committee or sign.”
Two rough-looking dwarves trotted towards they party, and Job marked them down as dockside toughs looking to shake-down the newcomers. Sly intercepted them and began a quick, hushed conversation.
One of the dwarves started in on her, “early ye be, and a new mask. Head for the cottage, the gift be along when it gets here.”
Sly shook her head, “Not early, not late. The songbirds have been chased from the house.”
The dwarf scoffed, “The hounds ‘re gelded!”
Sly flipped a hand, as if tossing something away, “not a hound in sight, but plenty of black dogs and spotted cats. The house got smoked out, and the hunting cats are on the prowl.”
The speaking dwarf looked grim, and his companion spat on the stones. “Shite, you serious?”
Sly nodded, “never moreso. Black Dog led the black dogs, and he brought his Beta and the pack too.”
The dwarves were nervous now, dancing from foot to foot. “Shite, what’re we songbirds gonna do now?”
Sly shrugged, “no songs to sing for now, scatter to the trees ifn ye can.”
The dwarves bobbed their heads, then split up and walked off the wharf and vanished into the streets of Varr Barak.
Job rubbed his eyes, “Sly, the seven hells was that about?”
“There’s cant, and then there’s Cant Job.”
“Sly…”
“Not now, and not here.”
“Alright. Anyone see Elfyr?”
+ murrr?+
Enra jumped with glee, “Noxxy! You naughty kitty!” A large black cat jumped into her arms and began to purr happily.
“He’s delayed and we’re to go to the Iron Harp for our rooms? Thanks Noxxy, I owe you some tuna for this.”
Sly was looking at the cat in utter confusion. “What in a salty wench’s left breast?”
Index tugged at the sleeves of her robes, “a familiar. Elfyr’s I presume?”
Enra laughed and set Noxxy down, where the cat rubbed against her leg posessively, “no, Lord Trebor’s, though Noxxy does have something of a mind of her own, being a cat and all. She says that When the whole Sirenhold affair came up, Lord Trebor lent her to Elfyr to act as an extra set of eyes and as a messenger.”
Job nodded, “alright, so this Elfyr is a Crown Agent then?”
Enra nodded, “of a sort, and tasked to watch over me. Part and parcel of being allowed away from my family. Better a distant eye then a bodyguard up close.”
Sly looked uneasy at the thought of working with a Crown Agent. Job understood, given her past, but she didn’t really have an option. Sly had come to him, and was already neck deep in whatever Job himself had gotten mixed up in.
Job rubbed an eyebrow, “ok, does anyone know the way to the Iron Harp?”
Noxxy headbutted Job in the leg. + Hey! Down here! Got something for you! +
Job looked down at the familiar, who promptly placed a folded piece of paper on his boot.
+ Map for you. I’d lead you there, but I gotta run. Sirens to track, and all that. Have fun!+
Job picked up the map and unfolded it. “Ok, we have a map. Enra, are the reservations in your name again?”
Enra bobbed her head cheerfully, “of course! The Head Archivist wasn’t sure who else would be available as my assistants. He only booked two rooms though, so I guess we need to pair off...”