Stacks of trays and soapy water. Who is Ziggy? The Butter King and the Pork Poet. Facing your fears. Hatred for the Dark Lord explains a lot.

Sal made the decision to join the Ponti in the cleanup. That had to increase his Karmic Gauge a little, though he still hadn’t come clean with Fabrizio. He’d have to do that, if only to get out of the red.

The priest did need his help. It seemed people didn’t mind coming to set up, nor did they mind serving the food, but when it came to washing cups and wiping trays? There didn’t seem to be much interest, and this was night after night, six days a week.

Sal would have to figure out what to eat on Sunday night, given the fact he didn’t have any money, and he wasn’t clear on what he should do with the suits of armor and weaponry in his basement.

The former Dark Lord loathed doing dishes. That had been one of his tasks when he’d worked at his father in Caya Idle during those dark times after Mood died and before Salvanguish’s rise to power, and all the drama that entailed.

But he and Fabrizio talked while they washed and dried the trays, cups, and spoons. There were many piles to deal with.

As they worked, a Diagraff message rewarded him with five whole percentages points. His Current Karmic Gauge was a bright red color now, sitting at 9%.

“Who’s Ziggy?” Sal asked.

“Oh boy, that’s the governor, and he is quite something.” The Ponti scraped a tray and then put it in the hot soapy water, where Sal washed it. “His real name is Craig Clifton Zigglesworth, though I’m not sure I’ve ever heard anyone call him either name. He likes being called Ziggy. Maybe that was the problem.” The Ponti made a face. “He’s not respected.”

“Has he not the fate of the island in his hands?”

“You’d think. But not really. The Yanir doesn’t provide him with a whole lot of resources, and they tax us all a lot. That money goes back to Yanhome on the mainland, for troops, because there’s rumors that the Scallian Caprans are breeding dragons again, the big ones and not the little ones.”

“Dragons,” Sal said quietly. For him, dragons were huge, rare, and dangerous., too dangerous to deal with. His grandfather hadn’t even tried to recruiting the dragons. When it came to taming them, they were worse than cats, cats who were suspicious, and rightly so, of the more sentient races.

“There’s been talk of war between the Yanir and Scallia Capra, another one, which would be terrible. I wish we could just…not do war. Life is hard enough for most people. I don’t know. I find current events depressing.” Fabrizio scraped another plate.

Sal washed it and set it on the rack. They would get a pile, then dry them, and then put them away. “Do you normally do this all by yourself?”

“Almost never,” the Ponti said good-naturedly. “There’s always at least one person, sometimes ten, it all depends. Glad you’re hear with me, Sal.” The Ponti gave him a smile, complete with dimples.

“I must admit, I have an ulterior motive in this aid I am providing.”

The Ponti winced. “I know. I’ve been thinking about your situation, I have, but Sal, I might end up making things worse. We should wait for the Pontrafax Genetrix. She could do it. She’d be really good.”

“But she has not done so. How long has The Champion Plaza been so deserted?”

“As long as I’ve been here,” the Ponti admitted. “It’s not just the one café. The whole plaza isn’t right. You know, the last Dark Lord looked down on it from his palace. People hate that guy. The statue was replaced right away.”

“How did he die?” Sal had heard a couple of versions from Kaixo Allakarra. He wondered what the Ponti knew about it.

“There are a lot of stories about that,” the Ponti said. “Most people think that the Reborn Champion, Keyneth Kinkaid used the Destiny Blade to cut the Deux Coin away from the Dark Lord, but Salvanguish was too powerful, and it was Keyneth’s faith that saved him. That was when Madra threw the Godspear through the city. It’s why there’s a statue of Keyneth in Champion Plaza. I like that story. It shows that even a Dark General can change. Be that as it may, people are still paranoid that the Dark Lord will return someday, wielding his Deux Coin, and slaughtering innocents. Some say his ghost is still around, searching for the coin. If he were to find it, I shudder at what he would do.”

Sal set a clean tray in the drying rack. “The Dark Lord is long dead. I would think if he were to come back, everyone would know.”

The Ponti nodded, his dark eyes on Sal. “I’m sure that’s right. Salvanguish would gather his Gorbin armies to once again try and conquer the world. That might be difficult because the Gorbin have changed so much.”

Sal wanted to ask about his former minions, but what he’d read in The Chronicles of GuNakt had depressed him so much that he was desperate to change the subject. He felt Betty shift in his pocket. He wondered what she thought of their conversation.

“What of the Butter King?” Sal asked.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

“That’s the problem with nobody respecting Ziggy. And the lack of resources. You have all these gangs—we call them Braggadorios—taking control of different parts of the city. The Butter King doesn’t really have a presence in Confusion Street. It’s strictly the territory of the Pork Poet. You’ve smelled the rendering factories, right?”

Sal had. It wasn’t pleasant. A thought struck him, though. If Confusion Street wasn’t in the Butter King’s territory, and if the four thieves he met were working for him, they were moonlighting under the nose of their enemy. That was pretty brave, or pretty desperate. Or perhaps it was simple stupidity. None of those brigands seemed very clever.

“There’s five major Braggadorio families, and they all have their corresponding food group. At some point, you might have to deal with them. If you get your diner open.”

Sal stopped washing. “The Pork Poet? It is my assumption there is a story there.”

Fabrizio nodded. “Or an epic poem more like. I might have more trouble with her, if we didn’t share a common love of poetry. Did you like the Gallias Protean poem I read?”

“I attempted to, Fabrizio, but I fear my mind wandered.” What strangeness, telling the truth all the time. It was rather nice. He didn’t have to remember lies.

The Ponti shook his head sadly. “I know why you’re helping me. I feel so guilty for not jumping right in to help you with your ghost problem, like a good Pontifex should do.”

Sal took a moment to explain how he’d woken up with a spear in his face. And how he had encountered another spear in his attic.

“You can’t possibly go back there!” Fabrizio said with some concern.

“I do not have the luxury of options. My pockets are empty, and yesterday I had to donate my short sword to alleviate a stressful encounter with cutpurses. You said it yourself, finding accommodation in Tower City is not a simple matter.”

Fabrizio then closed his mouth and squeezed his lips together. No dimples, but his dark eyes, with thick eyelashes and full eyebrows, were determined. “Oh boy, then I gotta help you. We’ll walk back through town to your cursed café, and I’ll bring my incense, my best candles, and my Book of Yeshu, and we’ll convince the ghost to move on.”

“Verily, friend, do you speak the truth?” Sal asked in a sputter.

Betty Don’t-Bite sighed in his pocket.

Sal switched up his language. “Will you help me, Ponti?”

“You can call my Fabrizio,” the priest said. “We’re in this together, Sal. But if I make it worse, you’ll have to forgive me.”

“That will not be an issue,” the Dark Lord said. For his many, many crimes, Sal was pretty certain he was beyond forgiveness. Forgiving the Ponti was the least he could do.

<<<>>>

You’re really not going to tell him about the secret library and the book you took? Karmic Gauge decreased by 1%.

Current Karmic Gauge: 8% (Red but not flashing)

<<<>>>

Despite the warm, soapy water, Sal felt the spike of ice in his heart. Ouch.

They finished up quickly, putting all the trays, spoons, and cups back in the cupboards. The pair then hurried out and walked through town. Once they reached The Champion Plaza, night had come. Across from the statue, there was an empty warehouse with shadowy figures filling the windows. Sal had walked by there on his way to the Church’s well.

Another glance, and the windows were empty.

Fabrizio had a large leather satchel for his exorcism supplies. He was pale, and his upper lip was covered in sweat. “It’s times like these when I question my calling. What kind of priest is afraid of ghosts? And we won’t mention my demon phobia. I have to tell myself, over and over, that the Primogeny closed the gates to the Abyssmuck when they defeated the Dark Lord Mood.

Sal wasn’t about to tell him the truth about those gates. They were mostly closed, but not quite sealed, which is how Sal had recruited an ash demon as one of his minions. Dergle Driptongue had come directly from the Abyssmuck.

Sal didn’t want his Ponti friend any more nervous. He tried to be encouraging. “We are not attempting to reanimate a corpse, nor are we trying to enslave the spirit. We are merely encouraging them to move on.”

“I’ve heard stories they hate that. She’s here for a reason.”

“Why would you suppose her sex to be of the feminine persuasion?”

That series of word made Betty pinch him.

Fabrizio shrugged. “Just a hunch. I don’t know. You said she screams every morning, and most banshees are women, so, two plus two equals four. Did I mention I like poetry and math? A lot of people think if you like one, you have to hate the other, but I’m living proof that’s not the case. I like the precision of mathematics. Don’t get me started on the quadratic equation. It’s amazing.”

Sal thought his nervous chatter was adorable, though he knew many folk wouldn’t be so patient. Maybe that was why the Ponti didn’t have a family.

Sal pulled away the lock and chain and opened the double doors wide. He saw a pale face in the doorway to the kitchen. A second later, there was the sound of feet pounding up the stairs to the upper level.

The tables and benches were all stacked up once again.

If the ghosts could move furniture, maybe they could help him cook. That was unlikely, however. He had to banish them so he could open his diner. With the café uncursed, businesses might return to Champion Plaza. Why hadn’t the church elders in town cleared out the ghosts? And Kaixo had mentioned something about the gangs and the plaza. He still had so many questions.

Fabrizio had gone quiet. Sal could almost hear the priest’s heartbeat.

“Not all of the ghosts are bad, Fabrizio. One rolled a peach to me. I’m not sure where he got it, but the fruit was as sweet as candy.”

“More than one ghost?” the Ponti sputtered. “Oh, Yeshu, protect me with your pages. Sanctify me in your precious ink. May the spine of my life never be cracked!”

Sal sighed happily. “I do find figurative language so satisfying.”

The Ponti gulped in a breath. “I should take that as a compliment. Where do you think the, uh, banshee that’s trying to kill you lives most of the time?”

“If pressed, I would guess the attic.”

“I’m pressing, Sal. Oh, boy, am I pressing.” Fabrizio waved him on. “After you. I think I’m going to have a heart attack. I’m so scared. Are you scared? You don’t seem scared.”

Sal had dealt with actual demons from the Abyssmuck, on many occasions, daily if you counted Dergle Driptongue. He’d had his own experiences with ghosts, vengeful and righteous, and he’d even lost one of his Gorbin legions to an actual army of specters. Most of the time, phantoms were just lost souls who needed a little guidance to find the afterlife. Sometimes they weren’t.

The Dark Lord had no idea what he was dealing with, only that the banshee might know his true identity. She had been around when he’d been resurrected, and she’d called him a miscreant. What if she revealed that he was the Dark Lord Salvanguish Abner Ordinal?

The Ponti was a good, good man, but forgiving a Dark Lord might be beyond him.

“Follow me,” Sal said as he walked into the café and up the stairs. The place, as always, was unnaturally cool, which felt heavenly after the heat of the day.

Fabrizio did follow, which given the circumstance, was a very admirable show of courage.

That touched Sal. He hoped neither one of them would live to regret the Ponti’s courage or the Dark Lord’s resurrection.