The Shipwright house was only a little further north than Whitley Manor, and was, to no surprise to Syler, the smallest house in the Noble Ward. It looked a bit like a ship itself, with round windows and an upper deck with heavy wooden guardrail. Decorative cannons, at least he thought they were decorative, stuck out of several of the windows. A nice touch.
Knocking on the door with three hard raps, Syler stepped back. A notch in the door swung open and an eye peeked out.
“No visitors!” a familiar voice.
“And what about old friends?” he had dropped the pompous accent and allowed his eye briefly to flash blue.
The notch swung shut and the door opened. Bartle had been a seafaring swashbuckler, turned storyteller and paladin of Pallerva, the goddess of Wisdom and Commerce. He was a few years older than Syler, and time and war had given him some salt in his close cropped dark hair, the slight point of his half-elven ears tucked behind his tricorn cap. He wore a crushed velvet blue overcoat with disheveled pajamas underneath.
Pulled into the house with a handshake that became a hug, Syler smiled and gripped both of Bartle’s shoulders, pushing him to arm’s length. He noticed pieces of Bartle’s full plate armor scattered around the foyer and his cloak made from various pirate flags hanging from a hook against the wall to his left. Four swords of different types were resting in an umbrella stand next to the door.
“You look like shit, my friend,” Bartle said.
“Same to you,” Syler responded. “Need me to shave your face for you?”
“Ha ha, no. Morrigan likes my scruffy.”
“I’m sure she does.”
“I never thought you’d be back here.”
“Me neither,” water began to gather in his eye.
Bartle motioned to a small table in the kitchen, “It seems you have a story to tell. A sad one at that. I’ll make us some tea while you gather your thoughts.”
After serving the tea, Bartle sighed into an adjacent chair. “I know what you have to say is going to be difficult. And given that she is not with you, it must involve Cara.”
Syler let the tears flow freely hearing someone else say her name. He nodded.
“Clerics couldn’t revive her?”
He shook his head, “No, she was killed using Penumbral magic.”
“The Agency?”
Syler nodded.
“I thought you were untouchable after you left?”
“Apparently not. Money must have been too good.”
“You know the Agency doesn’t need money. Could she have done something to require this response?”
The dagger appeared in his hand faster than it ever had before, slamming hard into the table and sticking straight up as it bit into the wood. “No! She is… was not like that. She would never disrupt the Guild.”
“Then why?”
“That is something I intend to find out. Will you help me?”
Bartle took a deep sip of tea in thought before answering, “We fought together during the war. You saved my life more times than I’d care to admit. I did the same for you. Anything you need.”
Syler laid out his plan and Bartle added some ideas of his own. He would also spread the word that his cousin Zandar was visiting Sartak City from Eleacar and was hosting a ball that also served as his retirement auction. With Bartle’s influence the word would spread like wildfire.
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The next day, news of the event of the year was on the front page of all papers and posters had been placed in every tavern board in the city. Excited chatter could be heard at every corner in all ten districts. Rumors of fabulous items up for auction, wondrously powerful magic items, beautiful art from all around Artan, and the best food, drink, and music was to be present at this event. Every wealthy person in the city had been sent invitations and already reserved their places.
Still wearing his fancy red leathers, Syler had returned to the southern section of the Temple district. Sven’s Coffee Shop, where he sells everything but coffee. Every adventurer worth their salt knew of Sven and his wondrous shop, filled with magic items, potions, and mundane general items like rope, caltrops, clothing, and art. Anything you want or need he either has or can get quickly, and Syler would swear that the store was larger on the inside than the dimensions of the building, though he never cared to measure it. His usefulness to the Guild has been immeasurable, and Sven had been classified as an Untouchable decades ago.
Sven was a Glamida, around 7 feet tall, and had wiry hair that covered his similarly wiry musculature. He had the face of a llama, and would make funny screaming sounds when excited or laughing. He wore puffy purple pants and an embroidered red vest, a bright pink shawl wrapped around his back and tucked in at his elbows. He never seemed to sleep and could be found running his shop at all hours of the day and night.
The little bell jingled as Syler pushed open the door into the shop.
“‘Ello! Welcome to Sven’s Coffee Shop, where we sell everything but coffee! How may I help you today?” A brief pause, “Ah, Syler, it has been years since you stepped into my shop.” His accent was thick but didn’t have a discernible placement. Maybe Syler had just not been to his hometown yet.
“How do you always see through my illusions?”
“Merely changing your eye and clothing color doesn’t change you all that much.”
He smirked, “You’d be surprised.”
“What do you need?”
“Expensive art and magic items for an auction.”
“Ah! You are the fancy Zandar. Your secret is safe with me.” Sven winked. “Okay, I think we can accommodate that. How much?”
Syler put a blue draka down on the counter. “This much.”
Sven inspected the blue draka. “That’s a lot of art, my friend. Anything in particular?”
“Nothing local, throw in a few magic items that will draw attention, but nothing too crazy, like the side collection of an old adventurer.” Sven nodded. “Can you put a trace on them?”
“For your eye?” Syler nodded. “Of course!”
“Undetectable?”
“I’m hurt you would think otherwise,” Sven placed a hand over his chest in feigned shock.
“Can you deliver them to Bartle’s house?”
“They’ll be there tomorrow.”
“Thank you.”
“No, thank you!” he scooped the blue draka into his pocket. “Come again, and be safe out there!”
“If only,” he muttered as he moved toward the door. He turned back, grabbed a loaf of fresh bread from an adjacent table, gave a little salute with it, and stepped out into the bright morning air. As he tore a chunk from the bread, he slipped into the alley next to the shop. Four people in bedraggled and worn clothing were sifting through the garbage bins lining the alley. Syler whistled, drawing their attention, lifting up the loaf to help them focus.
“The rest of this loaf and 10 white draka for the person who can direct me to the Darket.” Syler found the colloquial combining of Dark Market to Darket a bit stupid, but he didn’t create the group, he just benefited from it.
Two of the four ran immediately. One ignored the request and went back to digging around for scraps. The final person walked slowly up to Syler. A young avian boy with amber eyes, dark blue feathers, and a black beak, wearing what Syler thought was a reworked potato sack reached out his hand expectantly.
“Bread now, coin with information.”
The boy agreed, snatching the bread and ripping a huge chunk off with his beak. After a moment to swallow, the boy spoke, his voice high and musical. “Sewer system hub under the Armed Onion Inn in the Syler District.”
“The password?”
“Coin first.”
“I know the rules,” Syler said as he handed over 5 white draka.
“Blarg.”
“Not the strangest they’ve had. How long?” He handed over two more coins.
“Moving in two days.”
“Thanks, kid.” He gave the boy five more white draka. “Don’t spend it all at once.”
The first district of Sartak City was the only one to his knowledge that had changed names over time. Before most recently taking his own name, the district had different names throughout his lifetime. Names like Meric, the current Arch-mage of the University of Magi, Kagun, the current Guildmaster, and even Bartle’s name had been used.
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Syler didn't like his name being used, but had no control over the title change. To everyone not in the know, Syler was just a stealthy adventurer who was pivotal in the war. The Guild was exceptionally good at information control.
Near the Armed Onion Inn was an entrance into the expansive sewer system that spanned throughout the entirety of Sartak City, even underneath the river. The area beneath the river was the lowest point, and the most dangerous. Runecasters from the University set up a series of gelatinous oozes, semi-sentient acidic creatures that are constantly moving through, dissolving any waste that may have gotten stuck on the way to the great ooze vats underneath the river. The oozes could dissolve bone, flesh, and most organic materials, and the sewers had become a common dumping ground or place to hide certain types of valuables.
The Darket took advantage of this and learned the patterns of the oozes. Moving on when they got too close, searching areas with potential contraband, finding abandoned corpses to use for blackmail, etc. The place, Syler knew, would have what he needed.
It was early in the afternoon by the time he got near the Armed Onion Inn. The sewer entrance was a hinged grate on the side of the road near an unfortunately well lit alley. He made several loops around the entrance into the sewers to ensure no one was hanging about or watching. As he approached the latch the two lampposts on either side of the alley’s entrance went out. He stopped and sat hard against the wall, his cowl dropping over his face. His eye flared to life underneath, showing him the area. The hatch opened and two figures exited. One he recognized as Gene wearing nondescript clothes. The other was a tan furred Mau with darker fringe and blue leather armor.
Malakia.
After they had passed, Syler considered following them, but he had a few more things to plan first. He would need to have a chat with Gene after all of this was finished. The lamps went out as he drew near the hatch as well, and he entered silently into the sewers.
The runes of crafting and nature had been etched into every dark metallic panel that lined the floor, walls, and ceiling. Protection from the acidic oozes. The acrid smell wasn’t great, but better than the alternative. Small orbs of light lined either side of the tunnel after he drew closer to the Darket. The orbs stopped at what appeared to be a blank section of wall. Syler gently tapped.
A small window opened from the center of the panel. Brown fur and pointed, twitchy nose. “Password.” The voice was lower than expected.
“Blarg.”
The window slammed shut and the panel swung in. Three ratkin, short humanoids with the fur, face, and tails resembling rats, each held crossbows and eyed Syler up and down. The center one was visibly older than the others, with lighter grey fur and a bit wobbly on his legs. He spotted Syler’s still glowing blue eye first. “Blue Eye?”
“Grik.”
He stowed his crossbow, waved the others to do the same, and extended a hand. “Didn’t think I’d see you again.”
Syler grasped his hand firmly, “You are doing well, I hope?”
“I am. How’s Cara?” Syler’s focus shifted to the floor at Grik’s feet. Grik nodded solemnly. “I feel sorry for whoever is responsible.”
“I don’t. Is Frango still around?”
Grik nodded, “She is, but few are willing to deal with her.” He pointed deeper into the crowded space lined with stalls. “Should be 6 stalls down on the right. The smell should lead you right to her.”
“One more thing.”
“Sure,” Grik said.
“A red haired man and a Mau in blue leathers were here recently, did they purchase anything?”
The younger ratkin on Grik’s right nodded, “I saw them chatting with a few different mercenary groups. The man had a set of scrolls he was handing out to a few of them. Ask the Silver Tongues.”
Syler slipped 10 white draka into the kid’s hand as he walked past them.
The Darket had everything you could possibly want that was illegal according to Guild laws. Exotic animals, items of wicked magic, stolen art, even mercenary contract killers could be acquired here. The noise was loud as folks bartered with one another, trading coin, goods, or services for other such things. The Agency and therefore the Guild knew about the Darket, and it was allowed to function and prosper because of its usefulness. Syler had heard once it came close to being shut down several years back when someone tried to sell slaves. The Guild does not tolerate slavery.
Syler and many others of the Agency used the Darket for getting poisons and venoms. And no one was better at the craft than Kuku Frango.
The first time Syler had met Frango was when he had been a relatively new Agent, he thought that she was in fact a three foot tall silky chicken wearing an extremely dirty tunic that may have at one point been white. Her tunic was even dirtier now and had several new burnt holes. She was a halfling who wore a headdress of feathers, handcrafted boots that looked like chicken feet, and a trail of feathers on the back of her tunic, giving her the appearance of a large chicken. A necklace about her neck contained various items she may or may not use for her runecasting or rituals; a chicken foot, the toe of some kind of creature, several icosahedral, or twenty-sided, crystals bound with wire, some things that look like they may have once been an onion, a lime and some other citrus fruit (now long dried up and a bit moldy), and of course the skull of a chicken she called Spectral. Her tunic had many pockets filled with various items of no value whatsoever. She had very few teeth as she had used them in her experiments and instead wore a magically strengthened beak that looked like that of a chicken’s to break up her harder foods so she can more properly eat.
Her stand was cluttered, with almost no visible table space. A cauldron sat in the center, purple smoke drifting over the rim and running down the cauldron, hovering around the numerous vials of different sizes that lay scattered about. She was sitting on a crate, her eyes down and focused on a mortar and pestle, grinding something Syler couldn’t see into powder.
“Purple today, Frango?” A tiny crossbow bolt stuck into his shoulder before he could react. It stung but didn’t go too deep. The hand-held crossbow suddenly in Kuku’s hand lay empty. Syler winced as he plucked the bolt, the Penumbral armor repairing the tear instantly. “Hello to you too.”
She still didn’t look up, “My name is Kuku. The Frango name is dead.”
He rubbed a finger across the venom on the dart, putting it to his lips. After a moment, he said, “I think a little less crawler venom and more from the umber worm would give this a little more kick.”
She added more leaves to the mortar and continued grinding, “Ah, another Agent. Not seen one of you in a bit.”
“No? I think if you quit trying to kill your customers you may get more business.”
“Why would I want more business?”
“Money for your experiments?”
She cackled, dumping the ground contents into the cauldron. The purple smoke darkened to violet.
Syler continued, “I need a Blue Eye special.”
Kuku finally looked up at her newest customer. She almost dropped her stirring stick, but plucked it up with both hands angrily waving it at him. “Why are you here?”
“I just told you.”
“You killed my sisters!”
“They poisoned everyone at a Guild merchant conference,” Syler said, careful not to shift his tone in the slightest.
“Those merchants were trying to steal their land!”
“There were better options than killing 30 Guild members.”
“Fuck’em!”
“Now Kuku, you know the Guild leaves no debts unpaid.”
She swung her stick at him and he let it strike, feeling a faint trickle of blood flow from his nose. “You will get nothing from me!”
“I wish it didn’t have to be that way. You had no part in it. I understand your pain.”
“You can’t feel loss if you have not loved, you sick bastard!” Another stinging blow to his shoulder.
A coldness washed over Syler’s face, “You know nothing of my life, Frango.”
Kuku made an angry clucking noise and swung out again. This time Syler caught the stick with his right hand, twisting it away, his left shooting out to grab Kuku by the throat and pull her face close to his own. A shadow dagger materialized in his right hand and pressed against her gut.
“Do you think I wanted to kill your sisters? That what I did had something to do with you at all? I did what I needed to do. As you have done. As all must do.”
Tears rolled down Kuku’s cheeks, but her words were steady, “Kill me. Allow me to join my sisters. Only right it be you who does it.”
“No.” He set her back down on the stool and handed her the stirring stick.
“Why not?”
“I don’t kill the innocent.”
“I brew poisons and mix venoms with magic. I’m not so innocent.”
“You craft instruments of death, but you don’t deal the killing blow. That would be like calling a bowyer a murderer because someone was killed with the bow they created.”
“You are a fool.”
“An honest one.”
“Three green.”
Syler reached his hand into his coin purse, “That’s a bit steep.”
“Four green.”
He set five green draka on her table.
She glared at him, and her eyes never left his as she began grabbing vials from her table. She pulled a smaller cauldron out and traced the rune of Farroh, the God of the Sun. A small flame lined the bottom.
Several minutes later Kuku handed him a single vial of bright blue liquid. “Get out of my sight.”
A particularly nasty mercenary group known as the Silver Tongues always had a booth toward the farthest point of the Darket’s entrance. They specialized in ‘accidental’ deaths, making their kills seem as though the deceased was quite unlucky or was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The leader of this group was an Artiface, an extremely rare sentient marionette puppet with the soul of a criminal trapped inside of it. The rumor was that it was the botched attempt at a resurrection ritual of the original leader of the group.
At the center of the table was a tiny throne made from a dark metal lined with patchwork leather that seemed to be the tanned skin of various humanoids. Some of the patches bore fur, others did not. Seated on this throne, surrounded by heavily muscled goons, sat the Artiface, wearing a dark suit and a bowler hat, idly chewing on an unlit cigar.
Syler set his magic eye to appear like the other before approaching, pulling his cowl to cover some of his other features. He placed a single green draka before the seated puppet.
An extremely deep and gravelly voice emanated from the puppet, “And what brings a rogue like yourself to the Silver Tongues?”
“A red haired man and a Mau in blue armor were seen in the Darket. I wish to know what they purchased.”
“That is a lot of information,” it scooped up the green draka, “a green may not be enough.”
“Don’t push it, Crowley.”
Crowley’s head tilted, its eyes narrowed. It snapped a finger and the burliest woman Syler had ever seen stepped in front, her corded arms brandishing a heavy length of chain. “Are you familiar with the chain of respect? It’s the chain she’ll beat you with until you respect me.”
“I’m all about second chances, Crowley. Yet you keep pushing the bounds of my patience.”
The woman pulled her hands together and swung down at him with all her considerable might. Syler side-stepped, the shadow dagger forming in his hand as he lined up the trajectory and held out the dagger. The woman howled in pain, clutching at the stumps of the two missing fingers from her left hand as the chain clattered to the ground. The other goons bristled behind Crowley, but he held a hand up, his face twisting in rage.
“What did they purchase?” Syler asked again, allowing the dagger to melt away from his hand.
“How dare-” Crowley began to say, but its bleeding enforcer screamed in rage, charging at Syler, catching him off guard and grabbing both of his arms. She pulled him hard, his cowl falling from over his head, and attempted to smash her face into his. His cowl shifted into a spike like a unicorn horn from his forehead. The spike detached as her body fell to the floor, the wisp of shadow sliding into his boot. Syler adjusted the armor as it slipped back into place.
“That’s the thing about second chances,” Syler said, addressing the others, whose rage shifted to stunned silence, “Some people just refuse to take advantage of them.”
With a look of recognition, Crowley hastily reached into his coat pocket and removed a small rolled up piece of parchment, holding it out to Syler. “Pack it up. We’re leaving. And take her with us.”
“Boss?”
“If you want to end up like her, stay. I’m leaving before he kills me again.”
Syler stepped just outside of the Darket before unfurling the parchment. It was a contract to kill one Zandar Shipwright during the ball, 100 green draka with proof of death, 200 if it looked like an accident. Part of the parchment contained an image that looked vaguely like him, minus the glowing eye.