"Boy! Yer late."
"Sorry-- sorry! You know how the Spires are."
I plastered my brightest smile on my face, drew myself up, and brandished the tiny sphere of trash I was trying to sell. “I present—“ I kept my voice bright, performative, almost secretive “— the Wanderer’s Compass! One of the most wonderful artifacts devised by the prestigious Gemspinner Alma!”
I let the declaration set in— fully expecting it to be the final nail in the coffin. After all, Gemspinner Alma terribly well-known, she just made so many stupid little trinkets— really, her inventions were wondrous for sales. A miracle, one could say. Stupid rich people always wanted something of hers and my current two—
Neither of my two potential customers were biting.
One was a woman dressed in a light blouse tucked into her dark ankle-length skirt, boots and a pretentious blue cloak. In fact— scratch that— her entire outfit was pretentious. All of it— from her boots to the thin silver glasses framing her face— screamed of mocking indulgence. All of her clothes were plain, unpatterned, probably custom-ordered to be so, but the quality of the cloth wasn’t something that was hidden. All of it was expensive. Her cloak was more ostentatious— a blue so rich and dark it had to of been a dye made from some kind of extinct or equally exotic monster — and it didn’t even reach her feet! The longest part ended at her thigh— if you were going to wear a cloak at least wear it for warmth— the gall was almost insulting— almost. But I was more professional than to show my distaste.
It was so obvious she was a noble— not only from her near-perfect skin and eerily icy-blue eyes, which had to have been modified— only the most expensive products gave someone a look that well put together. Mixed with her expression, some cross between thinly-veiled disdain and apathy— she looked like some kind of grimly sardonic doll rather than a person. It was unnerving.
I decided I hated her and wrote her off as a lost cause.
The guy beside her was average, dressed in suspenders, a well-worn dress shirt, brown pants and a ragged, patchwork looking red cloak. If I had to describe it— it was some weird cross between a poncho and full length cloak, stripped together through a bunch of similar red strips of cloth. It reminded me of scales, or feathers, with how the hem ended at irregular intervals. He also smiled a lot, though it seemed to highlight his waved mahogany hair and brown eyes well. If I didn’t know any better, if he was in worst clothes, I would’ve mistaken him for some middle-class chap from the upper side of the Underhollow— some weird cross between a peasant and a noble, mixed with country-side bumpkinism— but alas, I did know better.
Not that I really cared as long as I got paid by the end of the day. He was the one I was fishing for.
Interestingly enough, the two seemed to be together. Together as a couple?— probably not, I found it laughably difficult to imagine a happy relationship between the two. The man would most likely be deeply unhappy. But they were clearly associated, and both seemingly woefully unaware of the true value of what I was trying to sell them.
I plastered my most reassuring grin back on, rattling on, “You see, it’s actually quite amazing. You can slot a drawing or similar object within the sphere itself through this slot.” I held up two torn strips of ribbon, before feeding one into the sphere. “Then the needle swings to guide you towards its counterpart, whether material, location, or person.” The golden point swung to point downwards, towards the other ribbon on the counter.
I glanced up— and the dude had clearly been entranced— the other one… uh, not so much. If anything, she looked vaguely suspicious.
Dragging my attention back towards my task, I continued, “It even works through a large majority of structures.” I held the compass behind the box, and the needle continued to point towards the other ribbon. “What do you say? Quite spectacular, yeah?”
The girl spoke up, and I held the wince at her voice. “You mentioned slotting a drawing in. How does it differentiate between…” The noble gestured. “Say, divining for the depicted object rather than the material of the paper the image is resting on?”
Uhh— what? My mind spun to some randomly vague gibberish, some buzz words, and I waved her off with an easy smile. “It’s something relating to sympathetic correspondence principles, with a mixture of divination to read the attuned’s intent. Magic isn’t my area of expertise, apologies.”
Then, the boy cut in: “I’ll take it.” His friend made a noise a surprise, before shooting him a narrow look.
I quickly continued on before she could convince him otherwise— “Very good! Very good, my dear customer! You have very good sense, indeed… the price will only be fifteen gold, please.”
A pause, and I grew concerned. Had I misjudged them? Were they not nobles? Did they see through my ruse?
The lady fished out two platinum— platinum— coins and slid them across to me. I reigned in my greed as I pocketed them, rolling the compass across in exchange. This time, as they walked away, the smile that came to my face was genuine and I waved. “Thank you for shopping at Griwindle’s Little Shop of Miracles! Please come again!”
Neither of them deigned to wave back. When they left my sight, I let the grin slide off my face. The uncharitable assholes.
Other than those two— the rest of my time was spent leaning back in a chair— almost no one came to this dingy backstreet of the Diyaflos District— it was really even a miracle those two came back and I was able to make a sale— my thoughts became giddy— and I’d made two platinum— two platinum— a small fortune.
Maybe I could buy a book— another book— or afford some extra bread! I—
An old, raspy voice croaked out from behind me, in the little storefront’s back room. “Metgi! Metgi! Ya here boy?”
“I—“ I nearly stumbled off my chair as I rushed to the back, parting the small curtain dividing the two sections of the store “— Yeah— what’s up, master?”
Griwindle was an old dude. He had a weathered, tan face that spoke to his younger years out in the field— and a style of dress that I could only describe as distressed, displaced farmer. Supposedly, he’d once been a soldier— in what war and for whom, I wasn’t certain— but you could see traces of his earlier years. He had scars that traced the muscles on his arms, and walked with a rigid, stooping posture with his cane. One of his legs were missing, having been taken by a cannonball— according to him— and his hair had once been short— but now grew untamed with his beard. He graveled, almost spitting, “Ye can go home for the day.”
“… what about the other customers?”
He spat, scoffing, and jerked his chin towards the clock on the wall— a beaten old thing that barely worked half the time, with how much of it was blatantly falling apart. It read a quarter till midnight. “Ye think any customers would come around this late?”
I doubted that statement, but I’d take a break if I could get it— home was a long way off, after all. I nodded, returning to the front, before beginning to draw the shutter, moving the little trinkets on display back. Griwindle had turned away from me, focusing on scratching something on a little pad of paper he never let me see. By the time I finished closing up shop and had started shucking on my coat, Griwindle had fallen asleep in his chair, blatantly snoring.
I gave him a mournful glance before I left.
[][][]
My eyes scanned the dreamless dark of the sky. They narrowed, and a frown pulled at my lips.
“You didn’t hear?” Aurelio piped up beside me.
“Hear what?” I glanced back. The star was missing— blinked out of existence sometime between the morning and this ‘morning’. Wherever I looked, the spot it should’ve been, where the dark was truly dark, was empty of the green halo glow so characteristic of it. Its brothers and sisters were still there— chemical stars borne upon alchemical workshops occupying the Underhollow’s false sky, cutting the hopeless gloom with their gas-fueled rings. But the green one was missing, along with its whole cluster.
Aurelio slid a paper across the counter to me— a newspaper, though a dingy one, creased at the edges. The front story didn’t explain anything, some inane headline about the Empresses’ reforms. I didn’t care— nothing she did affected us down here anyway. “What am I looking at?”
“Here—“ Aurelio thumbed a page, flipped it, and tapped a small column. “— that’ll explain your missin’ stars.”
At the top, in patchy brown text— real ink was hard to get down here— read:
TURIN WORKSHOP ACCIDENT
FIVE DEAD, DOZENS INJURED
My frown grew, and I picked up the paper, skimming through it. Nothing super useful— other than the fact that reportedly it was an unmanaged gas leak which resulted in a small explosion that knocked out some vital support pillar or something. The workshop went down, and they were still picking up the pieces. Not the Keepers— mind you— the workers— the ones treated little better than servants. Despite it’s familiarity, my grip tightened.
The Keepers never cared. The Empress never cared. Why would that change now?
“That the reason it’s raining?”
He nodded. “You know how it is down here, Iwerj. A chemical plant ignores safety rules and up it goes in smoke and flames.”
“Not really flames and smoke, though,” I said bitterly.
Aurelio gave me an odd look. “Don’t know why you’re so broken up over them Iwerj— they ain’t even real stars.”
“I am not… ‘broken up’ over them.”
“Aren’t ya?”
“Each time one of those lights go out— it means someone from down here died up there. Don’t you get it?” I scoffed and held up the paper. “Never mind— can I keep this?”
Aurelio sighed, a tired, knowing smile on his face. “… You know the price.”
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
“… Do you have change?”
“Depends— what for?”
My gaze flickered around— at the broken, greasy streets, into the skittering shadows cast by the muddy, rotten lamps. A lamp across the street flickered, going off with a small sizzle and pop. Exposed wiring wasn’t good in the rain. More importantly, no one. I rooted through my clothes— brushing aside my jacket, untucking my shirt, digging past my waist band until I pulled out a platinum coin. I held it in the shadow of my chest— close enough to hide or stow away.
Aurelio perked up, whistling as he crossed his arms. “Where you get one of those pretty things, Metgi?”
The reply was easy enough and I tersely responded: “A generous customer.”
He chuckled, holding up his hands. “Aight— aight. I don’t quite have change for something like that— but—“ he raised his hand when I moved to give him back the paper “— how about you take the paper for free— and you run a favor for me?”
My eyes narrowed. Any ‘favors’ Aurelio sought to give me were always troublesome. Favors were also the most problematic currency of the Underhollow. Coins were significantly less headache-inducing to exchange. I placed the paper back down, and began to turn away, stuffing the coin back into my pants. “No.”
“Oi— oi— wait.” I paused. “Just hear it out first— yeah? I’ll give you the paper just to hear it out.”
“… Sure.”
“Great!” He clapped his hands, then leaned forward, whispering. “They’ve been breathing down a neck a bit— you see— askin’ me for someone they can use.”
“… Go on.”
“So— anyway—“ he slid the small newspaper across to me, and I took it “— someone needsa drop by Turin and Clarion to check out the situation.”
“Why me? And don’t they know the situation already?”
“They need someone who can regularly access the Spire,” he drawled. “And the situation ain’t is clear cut as that paper says it is.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m saying that with all the Keepers swarmin’ the area, there’s no way it’s just a gas leak.”
“Wouldn’t they know what actually happened?”
Aurelio clicked his tongue. “What they want to know, Metgi, is how much the Keepers know. It’s bad news for all us if the Empress’s dogs start sniffing ‘round here without warning.”
“… then that’s it?” My eyes narrowed. “You need me to dig around— find out what went down?”
“I don’t need you to find out. They do. Get me?”
“Yeah.”
His grin widened. “So you’ll take it? The job?”
“Fine, but I better be paid appropriately.”
He barked out a laugh at that. “You always do, Metgi. You can trust in coin, at the very least.”
“And if I don’t want coin?”
Aurelio choked out a small chuckle, unfolding a slip of parchment from his back pocket. Like he had it ready. “That’s somethin’ you gotta discuss with them about.” He handed me a needle, and I pricked my thumb, letting the drop fall onto the parchment. Satisfied and grinning, he withdrew the paper, safely tucking it away out of sight.
“Well then— get goin’ Iwerj." Aurelio leaned back, sighing through his nose. “Your family’s probably missin’ you.”
“All the same to you.” I nodded, tipping my hat towards him as he barked out a laugh. I folded and stashed away the small paper, fastened my bag beneath my coat, and carefully made sure I still had all the coins. Behind me, I heard a rattle of a screeching metal shutter— Aurelio closing up shop.
Little late to be closing up.
As I stepped out from the small overhang, I pulled up my hood and stuffed my hands in my pocket. I walked to the end of the street, keeping to the center of the pockmarked, oily road. My head swiveled, my attention focused on keeping alert.
It was raining— the droplets fat and heavy as they rolled slick slimy shimmery sheens down the sides of destitute buildings and decrepit, fizzling street lights. Cuts of moonlight were swallowed by the gloom, and distantly, I heard the sizzle-crack-pop of bursting electricity. Pockmarks in the stones became cesspits of chemical-water-oil, made worse by the ever molding metal and festering alcohol that some poor resident had thrown out. I turned a corner, keeping my breaths slight. The Underhollow smelled like dead, moist dirt and rotting grease. I always found it hard to readjust to the smell after coming back from above. My eyes scanned the shadows as I walked, but I only saw that everything nothing had changed since I’d left.
I twisted down another bend in the path, walking until I saw the telltale light of my home. My home, as well as many others’.
From the outside, the church was a noble building, all aging stonework and stained glass, complete with spires and buttresses and a dome that sat as its centerpiece. The building towered the peers around it, surrounded by a mockery of an iron fence. But that’s where many of the differences ended. Beneath it’s rusted archway with the wrought “Commonwealth Church,”; over the gate torn from its hinges lying on greasy gravel, the church was the same as all the buildings around it. In its dusty brickwork, lichen and moss had taken up residence like some malignant parasite, digging its tendrils deeper with every passing year. Along the stained glass, of which many had lost their sheen or had shattered, slicks of oil-grease and long-term chemical-rain had clouded them.
Once, it’d probably been a grand thing. Now, it was just a rotting corpse of older times, bloated on smoke and choked by apathetic divinity. Now, the only thing that was decent about it was the overpowering scent of wet dirt and rotting wood. It was almost enough to cover up the Underhollow’s greasy musk.
I shut the door behind me, gasping closed with a shuddering whine.
The church’s inside was in similar state to it’s outside, comparable to a bloating corpse that little rats had taken residence up in. While the moss hadn’t invaded the interior yet, the smell of rotting wood pervaded everything, mixing with the scent of burnt wax and dead incense. Ramshackle pews lined the room on either side of me, reaching towards a eroded statue of a begging figure. Sachiel, our churches patron Angel of charity and wealth. I was careful with my steps here, just about everything had some kind of slickness to it, be it from the chemical-rain or oil or the remnants of perpetually lit candles. The air was thick with incense, in both scent and sight. Smoke hung from every crumbling banister, trailed on the tiny beams of light, and clouded the air between the front door and the statue at the end.
At the end, kneeling beneath the statue, Father Laceri rose, turning.
We met near the middle, under the long-shattered glass dome. It was boarded up now, and only a few drops fell through the gaps, sizzling when they hit the crumbled stones.
Father Laceri was a man that could only be described as straw-like; taller than he was wide, thin and lanky in his own greased-stained clothing, and sporting a clean-shaven, subtly arrogant face. He reminded me of the noble woman I’d dealt with earlier. His hair was thinning, and last year he’d opted to go bald. His robes were dark, mismatched and stained with years old dirt and grease and candle wax. His steps were wisps of cloth along the uneven floorboards. He stopped.
Father Laceri still held a candle, and the offering bowl. It was empty, like it usually was.“Iwerj,” he intoned, inclining his head.
“Father,” I evenly replied.
“Curfew was four hours ago.”
“Lotsa customers.”
His eyes slid across me, pausing briefly on my bag before settling on my face. He nodded, striding past me. “And seemingly nothing to show for it.”
I hesitated, before haltingly fishing out a platinum coin. I plunked it into the bowl in his hand.
His brow raised fractionally. “… I’ll overlook this small infraction.”
“Of course, Father. Thank you for your generosity.”
“Sachiel gazes kindly upon yours.” Father Laceri turned, his footsteps echoing against the silence of the church. “May rest bring you greater fortunes, Iwerj.”
“… Good night to you too, Father.” He stepped around a corner and disappeared, the hem of his robe trailing him like a procession of ghosts, silent and eerie.
I didn’t turn to leave until he’d left my sight and I could no longer hear his footsteps.
When I could no longer hear his footsteps, I turned, eyeing the bowl-laden Angel statue, before stopping. I clasped my hands in front of me, and breathed out, whispering: “May rest bring us greater fortunes.”
[][][]
I quietly shut the door of my room behind me, taking care with the creaky hinges. If I didn’t lift the door as I pulled, I risked waking the entire Church. It squeaked, and I froze.
The rippling static of sizzling rainfall was my only answer.
Hastily, I shucked off my coat and bag, tossing them into the same corner of my room I always did. I quietly dragged my chair over and under the knob of the door, careful to avoid tripping over the uneven boards of my room. After another moment, bunching up my blanket, I jammed it under my door. It was dark— the singular molded board I had for a window didn’t let any light in. Not that it ever did, but I’d done this so many times I could navigate my room with my eyes shut. Then, I quietly turned to my tiny desk, with its rickety legs and beaten surface. I held my hands up in front of me, on either side of the candle I knew was there. I took a deep breath, and began whispering:
“Hear me,” I hissed, brows furrowed. I became keenly aware of the moist warmth in the air, the way the temperature melded into one another, where the candle’s wick began and my own hand ended.
“My body knows the call.” Something hot deep in my chest stirred to life, taking my breath with it. I focused on the next line. “My blood the ravenous hunger, my will the immutable form, the world my tantamount intention.”
“I stoke thee to life— tiny, bygone embers forgotten among the ashes.” The embers in my chest sparked.
“Like calls to like. I call out to you: primordial glint, endless spark, stolen grace.” I sucked in a breath, and it felt hot. The dark shimmered and wavered. “Descend.”
The tiny candle between my hands sprung to life, casting long shadows in the corners of my room, and I stifled the joy that jumped in my chest along with a thump of tiredness. It had taken more lines than I needed— I’d adjusted that particular incantation at least eighteen times, shifting around the words and phrases until I’d gotten it where I’d like. But I’d done it— just as I’d done it nearly a hundred times before.
I dropped to the floor, kneeling beside my bed to pry up a loose floorboard. Beneath was a small crevice, filled with a small canvas pouch, and an old, faded book. I took out my last platinum coin, securing it safely within the little canvas bag. The coin joined a small pile of golds and silvers, hoarded across the years. It wasn’t a meager— my thoughts flashed to that noble woman, and I scowled— no. No, it was meager. I’d bet it all to say that woman had more on her in that very moment then I’d ever have in this bag. This wasn’t enough.
Shoving the pouch back into the hole, I took out the beaten book beside it. It was old, weathered and creased along its crumbling spine and faded cover and grimy pages— its title has long since faded, only half of its gold-embossed lettering having survived its age. Julius’ Primer on—
I had no idea who Julius was— the last name was too faded for me to read, I could make out an elegant “C” at most— but I didn’t care. Julius— whoever they were— was helping me in my magical development. I could care less who or what they were. Probably some above ground pretentious noble who had too much time on their hands. How their book ended up down here? I don’t know. I’d dug it up on one of my many trips around, collecting functional scraps. After I brought them back, usually Alex was capable of putting it all together.
I settled on my bed, taking care to flip open the book to fifth page— where a mostly faded illustration of a person holding their hands face up as a ring of tiny floating flames orbited the space above. On the other side, a set of instructions— sparse as they were. It was an old spell— lacking in practical application, according to the dubious author— and was to purely be used to as a practical exercise. To be used anywhere! It claimed in big bold letters. It was the only line that wasn’t faded.
The spell itself was simple.
One would conjure flames above their hands, ranging from a single flame to multiple, then slowly orbit them in a circle. Of course, despite the simplicity, it was simple for the exclusive fact that the spell could be made harder or easier. It had it’s own incantation, with each line functioning as an end if the practitioner was skilled enough. Then, to make things more difficult, depending on the number of conjured flames, the mage could attempt to independently control a separate variable for each flame— to say it was difficult was an understatement.
I held my hands palm up like I’d down tens of times before, feeling the familiar spark of heat begin to grow in my chest. I whispered: “Sprigs of flame, hearken.”
“Spring into the palm of my hands.” An ember sparked, then fizzled, and I continued with a furrowed expression. “Leap and laugh, crackles and play—“ A cinder appeared, then grew and grew until it became the size of a candle. “— I promise.”
Then, with a monumental force of focus, a second and third flame joined the first, forming a loose triangle in the space above my hand. I swallowed my excitement, continuing onto the next step of the exercise. I began rotating the flames, taking care to shift some new variable with each turn. First, I’d lowered the light given off, then I would expand a flame’s size before diminishing it. On and on, I practiced until the heat in my chest settled and the tips of my fingers had grown numb from the cold.