Name: Moojan Ritch
Race: human
Genus: sapient
Class: C
Level: 31 (1,375,524 experience points to the next level)
Affiliation: Master
State: homesick
Brief description: 5 foot 9, tanned skin, dark-rimmed eyes, curly hair, copper eyes, missing right ear
Accolade points: 3,112 (known throughout your village)
Endowments: none
Curses: none
Attributes:
Each number in the following list is the level achieved for that attribute.
Magicka skill schools
Cohesion, consciousness
Control and technique
Willpower 42, language 31, composure 30, concentration 17, intelligence 21, anticipation 17, visualisation 2
Attacking attributes
Strength 24, short blades 42, short bow 11, long blades 39, two-handed blades 30
Main defensive attributes
Armour 40 (from equipment), shields 8, toughness 28, sturdiness 21, natural healing 25
Movement and positioning
Dexterity 36, speed 29, agility 19, fitness 26, balance 25, recovery 30, riding 17
Mental traits
Insightfulness 12, lore 34, navigation 30, tracking 30, negotiation 31, determination 19, cunning 13, erudition 40, leadership 14, perception 29, team ethic 27, empathy 11, assertiveness 14, instincts 27, inspirational 17
Miscellaneous
Luck 11
Health 4,650/4,650, stamina 3,100/3,100, mana 3,100/3,100
2 gates opened, 1 shen point activated, 1 chakra point cleansed
Abilities and spells: execution, haemostasis, rejuvenation, cure poison, cats eyes, weak aura vision, mask identity, lessen alcoholic value, armour boost, syphon health
Tattoos bestowed: None
Active quests: speak to Mino, all other quests have been put on hold
Eight Era, cycle 1720 – cycle of the incontinent cow, season of Unkh, day 77
Moojan yawned whilst stretching and felt a muscle pop; with a grunt, he massaged his back before rolling out of bed and staggering to his feet. He’d used a spell to make his eyes become a listless blue, and his hair a light brown and grey.
‘I hate camels,’ he said. When his comment failed to elicit a response, he placed his foot on the body nestled in the shabby sheet in the bed opposite and shook the form. ‘Come on.’
‘Give me 8 hours or give me death,’ the body replied.
‘You’ve had over 6 hours, Mireille; that’s your lot for now.’
‘Moojan, we’re alone; Mino will be there all day. Who are you trying to impress?’ Mireille enquired, rolling over and aiming a kick at him.
‘We want people to believe we’re travelling Anasy; what Anasy get up after lunchtime?’
‘What trained agent sleeps in past lunchtime? So either way we’re hiding in plain sight, yeah?’
‘They’ve got salt goat for breakfast,’ Moojan said, heading out of the door.
He paused outside just long enough to hear Mireille curse and clamber leaden-footed out of bed before he headed down to get a couple of spare seats. The tavern was mostly empty, and Moojan ordered the food and some hot herbal drink for them both. When Mireille made it finally and sat beside Moojan, the food was out and the drinks were releasing steam lazily.
‘So, I’m thinking we get our bearings before…’ Moojan started before trailing off, as Mireille held out her hand in a clear sign she wasn’t going to talk or listen.
She picked up a chunk of goat coated in rock salt and bit into it slowly. She dipped the remaining chunk into a red sauce.
‘Good chilli sauce,’ she said thickly.
‘May we talk now?’ Moojan asked.
‘We sweat a lot, so it’s important we eat salt,’ Mireille replied.
‘We can talk and eat.’
‘Good,’ Mireille confirmed, licking a bit of chilli off her lips. ‘It’s starting to get a bit hot now.’
‘So we need good carpets; my contact here recommends the Immortal Bazaar for our needs. He says that’s he’s laid the foundations for our negotiations with the store owner, Mino. In order for Mino to know it’s us, we need to tell him the code.’
‘We’ll pay extra for a whale, and we’ve got amber to trade if he take’s wholesale,’ Mireille stated. ‘I remember.’
‘Great, he’ll reply, “Blood is best; rubies are eternal”.’
‘To which we say, “Perhaps opals, as the ocean is in opals, and we’re after whales.” Yes, yes. I like how it’s trying to be casual but still totally sounds like a code phrase.’
‘If you think you can do better, you can set up the… er, carpet seller next time.’
‘Whatever. Get some flatbread to go with breakfast tomorrow.’
‘You should eat your vegetables, as well,’ Moojan chided, eyeing the carefully piled collection of vegetables on the side of Mireille’s plate.
‘Please, they grow in dirt – in dirt!’
‘Fine, but no ale for you tonight,’ Moojan announced, getting to his feet.
‘We’re supposed to be a married couple, not father and daughter,’ Mireille said, following Moojan out of the tavern.
‘Well, maybe if you were an adult, we could use that cover.’
‘You are such a stuck-up camel sometimes, you know that?’ Mireille replied rolling her eyes.
They were swallowed quickly by the local market, which was a teeming mass of moving people and looked like a typical, hectic market – like disturbed anthills or maybe a centipede that had fallen on its side.
The market had taken over all three dimensions: stools stood covered in goods; ropes had been hung criss-crossing above their heads, with a selection of wares hanging from them, mostly dried herbs and meats; and, along the floor, children scuttled around trying to sell goods ad hoc. These were small goods, simple and cheap things, with the children mostly trying to make the accosted person buy the item through sympathy. For only a bronze piece or two, a single goblin ear (not a real ear but a plant leaf) or dragon’s tongue could be bought; the buyer would feel like they’d done something, and by the end of the day the urchin might have made ten or so bronze pieces, which was a reasonable sum and perhaps earned the child their dinner for the day.
‘I like this shield,’ Mireille announced, stopping and picking up a heavy-looking, large, rectangular shield.
‘It’s probably fake; no one sells a scutum shield for fifty silver,’ Moojan responded, examining the shield.
‘Maybe so, but it’s got good stats and it looks like the real deal.’
‘You’re not going to encourage these people to sell fakes, are you?’
Mireille laughed. ‘Look at the people here; there must be hundreds, possibly 1,000 people a day. They’re not going to be put off by us not buying anything.’
‘It’s still encouragement.’
‘A scutum shield for fifty? Fake or not, I’m happy to encourage that. It has a durability of 15/15, which is not great, but its armour level makes up for that.’
‘You can’t trust that reading; they can fake that.’
‘I know that, but if their spell is stronger than my identification, then… well, it’ll be worth more than fifty on that alone. See, their shield has a crack, so although it says 15/15 it’s actually a 7/15 without the ability to repair. So 7/0. But this one… this is a keeper. If you had an identification spell, you’d know. I can’t believe you don’t, considering your line of work.’
‘My instructor thinks it is better for development if you learn the skills for identifying without the spell. It helps build a basic understanding or something. I’ll get the spell when he’s happy with me, unless I can unlock it naturally. He’s one of these people who think spells learned naturally are stronger than when you learn them from a book or a master. Anyway, those big shields are unwieldy; it’s almost… well, it’s over half your height! What are you going to do with that?’
‘Use it against ogreoids, giants, trollocs, or anything that fires objects, such as giant spiders and skeleton archers. Oh, and to protect against petrification from medusas and basilisks’ death stares! Loads of things really. Large shields can come in handy.’
‘Only if you have a bag to put it into; you don’t want to carry around a large shield all the time.’
‘Well, I do have a magic bag, so I’m buying it. Shopkeep’, how much for the fake, slightly crap scutum?’
‘My word, you do not need to be so derogatory about it. This is a fine shield,’ declared the shopkeeper.
‘No, it isn’t,” disagreed Mireille. “I like the colour, the blue works, and I love the picture of the naked, burly men going at it, but the quality of the shield itself is very poor, for a scutum, anyway. If this was a buckler, then the stats would be okay, but don’t try to tell me this is a high-quality scutum.’
‘My friend, this is not the best quality, but it is a fine shield for new starters. It will help you learn the basics with lots of room for error!’ the shopkeeper said with a laugh, slapping the shield.
‘True, but what you have is a scutum shield with the stats of a buckler, which should be reflected in the price. If this were a buckler, it’d be worth ten.’
‘Ten? No, no, no. If it were a buckler, it’ll be twenty-five, but this is much harder to make; fifty is a fair price.’
‘No, fifteen is a fair price.’
‘Fifteen? No, I can’t do that.’
Mireille looked around and then back at him. ‘There are lots of people, but no one at your store. Twenty.’
‘No, no, no. This isn’t my only market; I can sell it as scrap for twenty in a week’s time.’
Mireille shrugged. ‘Thirty or I’m walking away.’
‘Forty is the best I can do.’
Mireille shrugged again and walked away.
‘Wait, wait; thirty it is,’ he relented.
‘Twenty-eight; I don’t like wasting my time,’ she stated.
‘Fine, fine.’
‘You bought a lump of rubbish,’ Moojan declared as they walked away.
‘I can sell it in the training camp for eighty, easy, if I flash a bit of tit. But I like it,’ Mireille confirmed.
‘Why is it that you can do that, yet the guy who buys it is called sexist because he was distracted by your outfit?’
‘Sexism isn’t about dressing one way or acting one way. It’s about being yourself and being treated in a neutral fashion. Gay, straight, man, woman, tramped up or dressed down – whatever it is, you should just be treated no different. I see sexy men all the time, but I get on with it without comment or obviously perving. All I want is a little equality. Perv all you like, I know I do, but nobody catches me doing it, so be less obvious. It isn’t hard, if your male mate was walking around topless and in just a loincloth, you wouldn’t make comment or stare. We ask for the same.’
‘I hate all this stuff; whenever I train against a woman, I can’t work out if it’s sexist to punch a girl or if it’s sexist not to. But where’s the value in giving a girl a black eye? It’s hardly something to boast about; not like knocking out a bloke twice my size. And when we grapple and your breasts get in the way, am I meant to avoid them?’
‘Sure, you talk like that because we’re the problem. If we ever get in a fight, you just feel free to hold back and try to work out how not to treat me like a piece of meat; that suits me fine. It’ll make it easier to kill you.’
‘Right, I try to treat woman with respect and like a proper man should, and that makes me the bad guy here. Maybe you just don’t know what you want. Should I stop holding the door open for you as well? Should I stop offering to pay on a date or holding the chair out or walking her home?’
‘That depends; do you hold the door open to be polite or because I’m a woman? Because if it’s the latter then, yeah, stop holding the door open; it’s just a fucking door and it isn’t going to hurt us..’
‘Next you’ll be telling me that defending you in a fight or taking an arrow for you is sexist; you people never know what you want.’
‘I know what I want, and what I want is just to be treated like an individual, not a man, not a woman, but as me. Most men who say chauvinism is dead have this idea in their heads of how woman behave, and anything that doesn’t fit is the woman being ungrateful, emasculating, or whorish. Why do you feel the need to open a door for a woman? What does it mean to you? Work that out and sort out the part of your life that is missing, and then you’ll be happier in yourself and won’t blame other people for your misery. “Oh my life would be better if women felt grateful to me.” Introspection is a dying art because it isn’t about the door, it’s about you. Why do you feel the need to treat woman differently? What are you missing in your life? Why do you need to live in a world where women are fundamentally different? Fix yourself, yeah?’
‘Mote of the almighty, might I interest you in my wares?’ a gravelly but pleasant voice asked, cutting through the two’s bickering.
The man was holding a large tray with a variety of items on, which he was rummaging around in looking for something. ‘Ah, here is a map of the area. It even says where you are.’
‘Actually, that’s really useful,’ Moojan said taking the map. ‘It looks like you’ve written “you are here”, with a pencil?’
‘Yep, that’s so you know.’
‘Right, but what about when we move?’
‘You take the map with you; it’s obvious.’
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‘Right, right, but “you” will still be here,’ Moojan said pointing to the pencil mark.
‘Sure, I’m always here. Marthal Abahati, anyone can point you to me.’
Mireille took the map and studied it. ‘It doesn’t have much detail.’
‘It shows the entire town; s’map,’ Marthal explained.
‘Yeah, but we need something that shows the shops,’ Mireille added.
‘It shows the town; the shops are in the town,’ offered Marthal.
Mireille shook her head, handing it back. ‘There are no names, though, just roads and things.’
‘S’map; why would there be names on it?’ Marthal queried.
‘The best maps do. I knew a guy once, who was in the cartography guild; he was making gold in his sleep! Cartography is a good job. Anyway, he made maps that had the names of all the major roads on, plus mountains, forests and stuff. If you knew the name of a road, you could add it, and you could add the names of shops and things as you walked through a town; it even suggested the best route to take on trips if you knew an area was prone to banditry! His maps sold for diamonds, not even gold coins!’ Mireille said wistfully.
‘Ah, you’re after an artisan map! Well, why didn’t you say. Follow me back to my warehouse, and I’ll show you my special maps,’ Marthal proposed.
‘We don’t have time for this,’ Moojan said dismissively.
‘It can’t hurt; a good map is hard to come by,’ stated Mireille.
‘Yes, exactly. But this guy?’ Moojan replied.
‘I’m hurt, sir; Abahati has what you want,’ the man stated.
Moojan grumbled under his breath but said, ‘I do like a rummage through an eclectic store.’
‘There you go! Lead the way, Lucky!’ Mireille said.
Marthal walked like a man who owned all he surveyed, and whenever Mireille or Moojan would comment appreciatively on an item they passed, Marthal would bat it aside saying he had better in his warehouse. They didn’t have to go far; a few turns brought them to a narrow alley, and Marthal – with his broad shoulders – had to move slightly angled to fit down the alley. He stopped before a cracked, wooden shutter; some of the boards tied together had broken, and Mireille peeped inside, but the gloom of the warehouse made it impossible to see anything.
Marthal throw open the shutters with a flourish and gestured around. ‘Marthal Abahati’s emporium, welcome!’ He pulled a cord and curtains drew, allowing streams of sunlight to enter and illuminate the warehouse.
Mireille whistled appreciatively. ‘How do you know where anything is?’ she asked, looking at the shelves stacked with items.
‘I have every item categorised and indexed. That box is a collection of divining rods and paired boots; you hold the rod and keep walking, and when your feet get wet, you’ve found water.’
‘Useful,’ Mireille said struggling to hold back a laugh.
‘I’ve got cards; if you’re a player, perhaps you’d be interested in looking through my selection. I have some rare monster cards,’ Marthal offered.
‘Perhaps after,’ Mireille confirmed.
‘Here is my collection of taxidermical creatures: heffalumps, oliphaunts, a questingbeast and a plague rat. Then there are carpets and pots from around the world, wooden furniture made by masters, paintings, china, glass work and more.’
‘I can’t workout this guy,’ Moojan said to Mireille, ‘Half the time he’s peddling crap, and the other half he seems to have legit items. I mean a questingbeast? Those things are rare.’
‘Did you see the oliphaunt? That can’t have been more than a baby; that’s sick,’ declared Mireille.
‘Would you like to see my collection of carpets?’ Marthal asked.
‘Flying carpets?’ Moojan queried, curious.
‘Not at the moment,’ Marthal replied. ‘But the very same style as the flying carpets, and you can always jump from places whilst holding one.’
‘Will you spell it for us?’ Mireille asked.
‘Would that not be grand? No,’ Marthal stated.
‘Then no,’ confirmed Mireille.
‘I have water from an oasis; it is very good.’ Marthal said holding out a rather delightfully shaped bottle.
‘What boosts does it offer?’ Mireille questioned, interested.
‘It quenches your thirst!’ explained Marthal.
‘Right, I’ll pass,’ responded Mireille.
‘Here’s a rope used in the Gordian knot,’ Marthal said, holding out a fraying rope.
‘Does it have the knot tied?’ Moojan said interestedly, and he held out his hand to take it.
‘No, it is after it was cut, see,’ Marthal verified, offering the rope over.
‘It just looks like a standard length of rope,’ Moojan grumbled disappointedly.
‘Damocles’ sword?’ Marthal asked, holding out a sword that had shoddy workmanship written all over it.
‘I doubt Damocles had a sabre hanging over his head,’ Mireille replied.
‘This is guaranteed to be the sword owned by a Damocles,’ Marthal said proudly.
‘Well, if it wasn’t the one hanging then—’ Mireille started, but Moojan interrupted.
‘Wait, “owned by a Damocles”? What, you just knew a Damocles and took his sword?’ Moojan scoffed.
‘He was a fine swordsman; you will be pleased to own this,’ Marthal maintained.
‘No,’ Mireille said tossing it away carelessly.
‘A lamp,’ Marthal stated, with a hint of awe in his voice.
‘Magic?’ Moojan queried, surprised.
‘Blessed by the monks of a distant mountain,’ confirmed Marthal.
‘I can really make a wish when I rub it?’ Moojan asked, with surprise giving way to amazement.
‘Of course!’ Marthal said, beaming and holding his hands out wide.
‘Wait, and they’ll be granted?’ Mireille asked cautiously.
‘Perhaps, if your karma is strong; who’s to say?’ speculated Marthal.
‘Wait, wait, wait. Does it have a genie?’ Moojan questioned, his amazement giving way to annoyance.
‘Maybe, who’s to say?’ Marthal repeated.
‘You; you’re the seller!’ Moojan cried, getting annoyed.
‘There could be one in there; maybe it’s shy,’ Marthal offered.
‘Try again,’ demanded Moojan.
‘Ah, um, agoraphobic?’ Marthal suggested.
‘An agoraphobic genie? Give me strength,’ Moojan said, covering his eyes.
‘A strength potion? Of course. This is the locks of a Samson; if you brew it in a potion, it will add 5 strength points!’ declared Marthal.
‘Do you sell the recipe as well?’ Mireille asked.
‘Well, no,’ Marthal replied.
‘Then how would I make the potion?’ enquired Mireille.
‘That’s up to you,’ responded Marthal.
‘And if it doesn’t work?’ Moojan asked.
‘Any wrongly brewed potion is at the risk of the user, and we cannot take responsibility at that point. Five silver,’ Marthal declared.
‘Five!’ exclaimed Moojan.
Marthal tried another tack. ‘Pies? Lovely meat, pea and okra pie. Five bronze.’
‘Meat? What meat?’ questioned Mireille.
‘Ah now, you want a named meat pie; that’s extra,’ Marthal announced.
‘Where’s this map?’ Moojan asked, quickly tiring of the whole affair.
‘I have a collection of maps; this is a map of the library of Alexander,’ explained Marthal.
‘Wasn’t that burned down?’ Moojan asked.
‘So this has rarity value,’ Marthal said, beaming.
‘It also can’t be verified,’ stated Moojan, who was not open to trusting Marthal’s honesty.
‘Here’s a spy’s map of the world,’ Marthal uttered, offering a bit of parchment.
‘It’s blank,’ Mireille pronounced.
‘So the guards can’t find it,’ Marthal said, tapping his nose.
‘I also can’t read it,’ Mireille disclosed with a laugh, far more entertained by Marthal than Moojan was.
‘Ah, now these are good,’ Marthal declared as he was rummaging through a pile of bamboo sticks that each had a roll of parchment inside to protect the document from damage, ‘These are anatomical drawings of various monsters. They’re good for finding weaknesses and increasing lore.’
‘I am interested in them, but business first,’ Moojan confirmed, licking his lips at a drawing of a cacti, a rather nasty desert-dwelling fiend.
‘Of course.’ Marthal pulled out a few more before finally finding the right map. ‘Ah, a smugglers’ map. Tap it against anyone and it absorbs their knowledge of the area.’
Marthal rolled it up and tapped it against Moojan to demonstrate.
‘Great, how much?’ Moojan asked, looking over the map and nodding.
‘Ten gold,’ Marthal offered.
‘What? It’s only a map of the local area. No matter how fancy the spell is, it’s only worth one gold, tops,’ declared Moojan.
‘S’map; it ain’t going to go out of date and it doesn’t take up any room,’ Marthal said and shrugged.
‘I can keep it for all that. Maps aren’t affected by market values; they keep their value. They’re better than gold in some ways,’ Marthal stated.
‘No, it isn’t,’ Mireille said bluntly. ‘Three gold, tops, with some of your magicka potions thrown in, but that’s already too much.’
‘The magicka fortification potions or the replenishment?’ queried Marthal.
‘Two fortifications and three replenishments.’
‘Two and one.’
‘Two and two.’
‘Deal.’
*
‘You got played.’ Moojan said as they walked away from the warehouse.
‘Maybe, but this place is hot as a salamander’s arse. I don’t want to be wandering the streets for longer than necessary, so if it means a couple of gold get me out of the sun 4 hours early, then – for me – that’s money well spent,’ explained Mireille.
Moojan tilted his head back and forth. ‘Well, when you put it like that, you’ve got a point.’
‘And now I know where we’re going,’ Mireille pronounced. ‘The bizarre bazaar or whatever is this way.’
Following Mireille’s directions, they soon arrived at the bazaar. It was a nondescript building squashed between other nondescript buildings. A thick cloth covered the entrance instead of a door, and, as they pushed it aside, a thick plume of smoke enveloped them; it was sweet and sticky, and made them slightly hungry.
You have been afflicted: fruit of the kush vine
You have inhaled narcotic smoke. Your stats are decreased by 5% and you will have the munchies until you leave the affected area.
‘That’s a strong debuff,’ Moojan said, coughing.
‘I’d think it was a trap if we weren’t forewarned,’ Mireille stated, tying a strip of cloth around her mouth.
The status effect dropped to 3.5%.
‘It’s a shame we can’t weaponise it; 5% could make a massive difference,’ posited Moojan.
‘I bet the regulars have built up a tolerance as well,’ Mireille commented shrewdly.
‘True, so be on guard.’
The smoke was actually thick enough to sting the eyes and mask the smokers who huddled around tables with large shishas. Each patron watched Mireille and Moojan pass, ceasing their conversations in case the newcomers were sent by the Sultan to root out the underground markets.
A man with thinning hair came scurrying out of a doorway, like a cockroach, and scanned the room with small beetle-like eyes. Spotting the two, he gave a start, as if he hadn’t really expected to find anyone.
‘What? No, go away,’ he said in a nasal and pompous voice.
‘We’re here for the rugs.’ Mireille declared.
‘What? Rugs? What rugs? No, go away, please,’ the man repeated.
‘We’re here to speak to Mino,’ Moojan explained.
‘Are you? That’s me; am I expecting you? You don’t look like one of mine,’ replied Mino.
‘You spoke to a friend of ours, Feetham, about the wholesale of rugs. Perhaps we should speak privately?’ Moojan suggested.
‘Rugs? Feetham? Oh, those rugs!’ Mino said with a start, and he looked around. ‘Yes, yes, perhaps we should.’
He hurried them into a small office, which had a thick rug sprawled on the floor, adding credence to their cover identity; a strange plant with deep-red leaves sat in one corner; and in the middle of the room there squatted a table covered in crumbs of what looked like a block of resin.
‘Rugs you say, and Feetham?’ Mino asked.
‘Yes, and we’ll pay extra for a whale. We’ve got amber to trade if you have the supply,’ Moojan added.
But Mino waved it away. ‘Yes, yes, I know the cursed code. What is it you want?’
Moojan blinked. ‘I’m not sure…’ he began.
‘What, you don’t believe I’m Mino? Good, then leave; I don’t want anything to do with this! But I owe Feetham, and he paid me well,’ Mino said, and he sniffed heavily.
‘Regardless, it isn’t safe to talk about some things aloud,’ Moojan confirmed.
Mino waved him down. ‘I know that; do you think I don’t know? I know what you want, I don’t know why you want it, and I don’t want to know.’
‘What is this place?’ Mireille enquired, looking around.
‘This is my business; I buy and sell… all things, any things,’ Mino explained, fidgeting in his chair.
‘So tell us,’ Mireille said with an unkind smile.
‘Look, twelve years ago I had just lost all my stock in three shipwrecks, and you people were the first to find me. I had bought the ships using a loan, and you’d bought out the loan. The storm that sank my ships had come from nowhere, and, suddenly, here you lot were offering me an “out”. Rather fortuitous for you, right?’ Mino declared, scowling at Moojan.
‘My heart bleeds,’ Mireille stated.
‘You sabotaged my shipment, bought out my debt and now you pretend like I have some chance of an “out”. I’m in; I’m in for life, so don’t pretend that we will ever be “friends”. I don’t need small talk, just take your blood money and get out,’ Mino commanded, holding out a slip of parchment.
‘I’m sure the Spymaster would like to know how you are getting on,’ Moojan said
Mino visibly flinched when the Spymaster was mentioned. ‘There is a man called Sylvain in the temple of Trilth Gagglio, who lost his wife and has been trying to summon her into a new body.
Finally, he realised or decided that his wife has passed on. He says that there are three phases of being: the present form in a corporeal state; a non-corporeal state – the soul – which can reside in limbo if it is afraid to face the third state; and the unknown state or the oblivion state. He decided that his wife has passed to the third state. He claims nothing has ever been recalled from the third state, and he plans on being the first.’ Mino said all this as he fidgeted and cast nervous looks to the door, possibly hoping they’d be interrupted. Ever since the mention of the Spymaster, predictably, Mino had been on edge; the Spymaster had that effect on most people.
‘Zombies?’ Moojan enquired disdainfully.
Mino explained, ‘At the start, just the simple, mindless things, but Sylvain had a plan and a goal.
He wanted something he could hold: a body that could house his wife. As his skills grew, so did the hosts, but they were all dead forms and they were damaged – they were dead after all. So he started repairing the bodies. He found a tome by a Mary Shelley, in which she described creating a golem of flesh, but still that wasn’t enough for Sylvain. The creature he made was cold and ugly, and it had taken a soul crystal with a class-B creature trapped in it to make the creature; that’s how I know as I found the soul crystal for him.
‘So, discontented, he started experimenting with the soul-trap spell. He took the souls from animals whilst they lived, without scarring the body, and he repeated the spell until he had a living creature without a soul. Into this creature, he started summoning souls from the beyond. Then he struck a deal with a creature: if he found a fitting host for it, this creature would teach him the knowledge to get his wife back. This is when he learned of the three phases of existence. He summoned a creature into a body, and somehow your Spymaster knew of this, as this is when I started getting visits after years of hoping I’d been forgotten.’
‘And where can we find this creature now?’ Mireille asked, adjusting her sitting position.
‘I don’t know what it is your Spymaster wants with it, but it isn’t something you should antagonise,’ Mino verified.
‘Just tell us what you know so you can get back to your menial existence,’ demanded Moojan.
‘She’s peripatetic, but holds to a routine. Here, take this map. I was going to sell it, but just get out of here,’ Mino said pulling a map out from a draw in his table.
‘What is she?’ Mireille questioned.
‘You don’t know? Couldn’t your Spymaster get that information?’ Mino responded acidly. ‘She’s a lich of course; a lijk, leiche, lík, lik – call it what you like. What else do you call such an abomination?’
‘That’s just a general term,’ Mireille replied.
‘Whatever she was, she’s now a lich,’ Mino said.
‘Fire spells at the ready,’ Moojan confirmed.
Mino shrugged. ‘That’s your lookout now.’ He was clearly waiting for them to leave.
‘What does this map show precisely? What’s this route she takes, why does she take it and how long is she travelling on it?’ Mireille probed.
‘She’s keeping active; I mean, moving active not killing active. I don’t know what you know about liches, but they usually have a weakness, which is a kind of keystone that will kill the lich if you destroy it. Only this lich isn’t a normal lich and it has no vulnerability. Or maybe not having a keystone is a vulnerability because the lich is immortal normally, as long as the keystone is safe. Without one, maybe the lich is vulnerable. Regardless, without a keystone, this lich hasn’t felt the need to settle in one place and is keeping on the move. It’s moving around a set course; I think it’s marking its territory. That’s all I know,’ explained Mino.
‘Well, my misanthropic friend, we shall leave you to your den of iniquity,’ Mireille said, standing.
‘I may allow people’s vices to reign in here, but at least people are free, and there aren’t any hidden strings attached,’ Mino shot back.
Mireille raised any eyebrow. ‘Really, then you clearly don’t understand the nature of addiction.’
*
On examining it later, it was found that the map showed a large section of the Sultan’s country without any great detail, but it did offer an intermittent line showing the lich’s preferred route or territorial boundary, as the case may be.
‘There are expected dates, but I can’t work out Mino’s reasoning,’ Mireille said as she and Moojan sat on a cart wagon heading for a different village. ‘There’s no pattern to it, but he’s put predicted dates on it, if you trust him.’
‘What are these scribbles?’ Moojan asked, pointing.
‘I don’t know Arabic or Hebrew or Sanskrit or whatever it is; it could be Gurmukhi, for all I know.’
‘That’s a useful answer; just say you don’t know, yeah?’ Moojan grumbled.
‘There’s no need to get snarky with me.’
‘So where are we headed?’ Moojan enquired after cursing as the cart bounced from another pothole.
‘Not far; the information from the Spymaster was pretty accurate – as you’d expect. He set us up in the most central location of this creature’s route. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Spymaster has a better map of the routine than we do, but, as is the Spymaster’s wont, we get as little info as possible. I know it’s meant to be for security purposes – in case we get captured and that – but, sometimes, I just think it’s because the Spymaster likes jerking people around.’
‘I was told it isn’t for security reasons, but just because the Spymaster is obsessed with testing people and studying us. Everything… everything from the Spymaster is a test, and if you fail, then you get set up. Some country we’ve a dodgy relationship with will get information leaked to them so they can capture you, and then that country thinks they’ve got one over on us and underestimates us.’
‘That’s dark if it’s true.’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me; do you remember Zebu? He was far too experienced to get caught up in such a weak ploy. I bet the Spymaster sold him out.’
Mireille reached into her satchel and pulled out a bag made from waxed cloth; she took something out, and started eating it.
‘You’re still eating!’ Moojan said sounding slightly disgusted.
‘What? It’s just fruit,’ she stated.
*
They got off the cart in a town that was little more than a crossroads, but it did have cheap beds and poor-quality meals. It was late in the evening, the cart driver had been navigating by a light orb created by a low-level spell, and all the bouncing around in the back of the cart had actually levelled up Moojan’s resilience by a point.
The two had found a place to stop for the night. They were sitting at a stained table in a room that stunk of sweat and cheap drinks, and they watched the clientele.
‘So, according to Mino’s map, we should expect the lich in the next three days, if it keeps to schedule. We need to plan a trap, so we’ll scope the landscape tomorrow, and then sit and wait. They could send scouts out ahead; I would. So, we need to be careful,’ Moojan said surreptitiously.
‘I know; I attended the same training,’ Mireille replied, rolling her eyes.