Commandment (34 page)

The trip back to their old haunt was surprisingly enjoyable. Normally, the dusk hours would greet them with pedestrians hastily making for home. This night, the avenues were alive with activity. The celebration in the Fornix had spilled out into the byways at large.

By a stroke of luck, the grand gates were wide open when they arrived. This was amazing because Lakif was convinced it was past Vesper. The chief warden had bestowed his own honor on this auspicious day. It was almost too heretical to believe—a gate ajar after Vesper! Lakif wondered if such an event would ever unfold again in the future. This day was unyielding in its marvels.

The common room, as expected, was buzzing with banter. Lakif strutted in with smug inner satisfaction. No circulating story could hope to best the Bard’s riveting narrative.

As promised, Lakif shouldered the cost of Torkoth’s room. In fact, while the guard wasn’t looking, she specified that she wanted two rooms close in proximity. Based on the Bard’s account of the Lucent, Lakif was more than ever convinced that Torkoth’s aid would be indispensable there. Something about the fellow’s cool demeanor always eased the Acaanan’s anxiety, and she wanted to keep him close at hand. Moreover, Lakif was certain that something was amiss between the Half-man and the inn, and she wanted to maintain a close eye on the swordsman. The chief warden wasn’t able to oblige her wishes with adjacent rooms, although the two were sufficiently close together. This was fine with the Acaanan.

“Tomorrow, we’ll canvass the neighborhood for gossip about this church,” Lakif informed the Kulthean as the trio rounded the steps. She was resorting to familiar tactics, namely, mining the locals for news on the church before committing herself to a trip.

Bael nodded with a yawn. He stated that he was bushed and headed off to his quarters. As they navigated the inn, Lakif was surprised at all the patrons milling in the halls.

In her room, the Acaanan unlaced her boots and flung them off with a jerk of her legs. One of the boots banged into the Penate. The statue was of a mouse lugging a trunk. Once again she wondered about the inspiration for the various deities that protected each room.

Her eyes flirted with the bed, which looked arrestingly attractive. But fatigued as she was, she wasn’t mentally ready to turn in. She needed a distraction from the inviting sheets.

Rummaging through her sack, she groped a rolled up scroll. It was the parchment she had rescued from the book’s binding. She had forgotten all about it in the scramble to locate the Bard. She again scanned the bizarre lettering, hoping that some new feature would leap out to explain its importance. But once again she was frustrated by inscrutable symbols. Nevertheless, she was strangely attracted to the find, if for no other reason than the mystery it posed. She considered tossing the parchment in the trash bin. For starters, she had no idea how to decode the language. In addition, now that the Bard had directed them to the site of a potential alchemical laboratory, she would have many other considerations to occupy her thoughts.

She was about to discard it when a bolt of insight struck her. In her mind’s eye, an image of the friar leapt out. Had she unconsciously spied the fellow amid the patrons below, or was it just her imagination? She snatched up the scroll and bolted from the chamber.

Before she could count to twenty, she was skidding down the stairs into the common room, nearly knocking over a startled patron in the process. She scanned the crowd exhaustively.

There he was!

The more Lakif looked at the pedantic friar, the more she was convinced that this was the ideal candidate for the task. She had sporadically seen him lingering around the inn over the past days but had paid him no further heed. Apparently, the scribe was involved in some serious research here, and circumstances had kept him around for a while.

As expected, he was seated in the same spot where the Acaanan had originally spotted him. As per his custom, he was immersed behind a bulwark of parchments and scrolls. Lakif confidently marched up and buttonholed the scholar.

“Excuse me. We had words many a day back,” Lakif harried the scribe.

“Shoo!” The reader flapped his fingers. “I’m occupied.”

“Thanks for the minute.” Lakif threw herself down before him. She slapped the tabletop with her palm as if to adjourn a court session.

“You have some nerve!” The scribe’s nostrils flared.

“Do you remember me?” Lakif asked.

The fellow threw down the quill. “I’ll be unable to forget for some time.”

“Jonas! That was your name?” Lakif snapped her fingers. It was then she noted the plates stacked neatly on the floor, cleared off to provide space for the paraphernalia. Jonas apparently had his priorities straight, prefacing any endeavor with a hearty meal. The leftovers were scraps of in vitellina elixam, a type of boiled veal that was a specialty of the inn. There also was residual scilla in cream sauce. Without a doubt, Jonas lived large.

The scribe nodded. “And it remains so, like a rune etched on my brow.”

“I believe more space has opened up for lettering.” Lakif pointed out his ever-receding hairline.

“How can I dispose of you, Acaanan?” The bon vivant snorted. His face was florid; Lakif couldn’t be certain if he was angry or tipsy with drink.

“I know you are a good man, a man of many talents.” Lakif’s attention was drawn past the pedant and up to the crusty corner of the inn.

“Why are you bothering me
again
? I’ve nothing to add to my report on the statue,” the scholar ranted. Lakif suddenly had an idea.

“I was told by Lucretia that you were still in the Goblin Knight.” After throwing out the name, she scrutinized the scribe for any iota of reaction.

“Who?”

Coming up short, the Acaanan continued. “She was a gypsy who stayed here nearly a fortnight past.” Lakif pointed up to the corner where the fateful meeting had occurred. “She stationed herself near Pomona, and I think you overheard our brief conversation.”

The fellow’s reaction was blank, and Lakif was disappointed. She had somehow felt that the scribe would have vindicated her own experiences in that corner. With his position at the foot of the stairs, he had been ideally positioned to overhear the conversation with Lucretia. As Lakif’s ruse failed to elicit a reaction, she switched back to brass tacks.

“Anyway, you claimed to be a compiler of runes and symbols, an antiquary of dead languages?”

The friar nodded. “I believe that was made clear.”

“And you admitted to hiring out as a translator?”

Again, he nodded. “I’m impressed that you paid attention. It’s difficult to know with your people.”

“How much do you charge to decipher a parchment?”

The scribe’s face lit up with excitement. “What parchment?”

“First, the cost,” the scroll-bearer demanded.

“It depends on the time required. My basic fee is a shekel for a consultation, and one per day of research.”

“Then I want to employ your services,” Lakif stated with authority. Jonas’ fee was reasonable. She suspected that the scribe wasn’t all that interested in generating profit from his services. Seeing that he had been a guest in the Goblin Knight for almost a fortnight, dining richly to boot, he was obviously independently wealthy. The small pittance he received for his services probably only covered his stationery and ink.

“I can afford to pay three shekels.” Lakif calculated the dent it would make in her finances.

The rune archivist quickly agreed with a nod. Lakif produced the parchment, and Jonas greedily ogled it. As he smacked some trace sauce from his lips, he added, “Tell me of its source.”

“It’s from an old book, which I had all but allocated to the garbage bin. But while delving through the text, I discovered this glued to the binding. The book itself seemed quite old, perhaps older than you, but as you can see, the parchment looks fresh.”

The man darted his beady eye from point to point around the page, but said nothing. His interest was clearly piqued.

Lakif anxiously awaited any news. After a minute, the scribe pushed the parchment aside. He winced, folding his arms across his potbelly as if in thought.

“Offhand, I can’t translate this. It is no language I am familiar with.”

Lakif’s spirits plummeted.

“But I have a suspicion.” Jonas snapped his fingers, and a crumb careened into the Acaanan’s brow. “It will take some research. You said five shekels?”

“Three,” Lakif corrected him.

“Done!” Jonas thumped the table with a plump fist.

“How long will it take?”

The scribe scratched his scruffy chin, dislodging a few seeds stored there. “I’ll need a few days to gather the requisite materials. Let’s say three days—no more.”

Had Lakif stopped to think clearly, she should have been leery to pay out this sum for an unknown scroll that almost certainly held no value to her. But her curiosity was raging, and to an Acaanan, that alone outweighed all sound judgment. She hesitated on parting with the parchment, but realized she had no choice. She had little confidence in her ability to copy the intricate symbols accurately and reproduce a copy for herself. She would have to assume the scribe’s honesty.

“Payment deferred. We’ll meet here exactly three nights from tonight. May the spirits inspire your research!” Lakif wished him well.

On the way back up to her chamber, Lakif bypassed her own level and continued up into the heights of the inn. She had become versed in the layout, at least the major elements. Something had been pecking at her mind since their return.

Within minutes, she arrived at the tapestry gallery. She paused to peruse the tapestry depicting the war of the Renaissance. A tempestuous sea of turmoil surrounded the Goblin Knight. Apparently, this area of Grimpkin was built on the plains of Phlegra.

“It’s number eleven,” a voice startled Lakif. She thought she shared the solemn hall with no one, but a man stood alongside her, similarly admiring the carnage.

“Pardon?”

“It was the eleventh tapestry that drew you here,” the stranger pointed out. The spectator, having seemingly read Lakif’s thoughts, had announced his identity. He was a dream.

The Acaanan started off down the gallery and paused mid-stride. She turned back to the vision.

“Deliver a message to all the others, those capricious spirits that prey on daydreamers. They needn’t visit me again. No longer are you to shower me with denied fantasies. I am living my dreams now.”

She abandoned the solicitor to quiver and vanish in a pop. The Acaanan reached the eleventh in the series and studied it at length. In light of the Bard’s tale, it now made perfect sense. The fabric depicted the execution of several alchemists. The next tapestry could represent the subsequent drying up of Grimpkin’s water supply.

Before returning to her quarters, Lakif paused under a portal showcasing the inky night sky. Only a few feeble pinpoints of starlight spangled that distant tapestry. Was it possible that the very stars were dying off? Why were they abandoning their duty to light up the heavens? Had the lynching of the alchemists indeed been the cause? Or was the world so old that they had grown tired of their unappreciated role, only to drop out one by one from their stint to enlighten humanity?

Rounding the corner, she was surprised to find Torkoth standing outside the door to her room. The Half-man casually leaned against the wall, filing his nails with a dagger. The two exchanged brief salutations for a healthy sleep, and Lakif awkwardly shuffled by. She wondered what on earth he was up to. He acted as if he were expecting someone. Or perhaps he was hoping to waylay an unsuspecting patron and commandeer his purse! There was little doubt that Torkoth was acting suspiciously. The Acaanan entered her quarters and bolted the door firmly behind.

Lakif tossed and turned in the sheets. The Bard’s tale split her mind in twain. On the one hand, they had seemingly located an alchemist’s forge that, according to Bael, could unleash the power of the Stones. As such, Lakif trembled with excitement. But at the same time she choked with dread when thoughts drifted toward the Lucent’s unspeakable past. The notorious site was the last place she wished to visit, even for a just cause. According to the Bard, it was a place to be shunned. But what options had they?

At length, the sheer gravity of sleep overcame her inner turmoil, and she plummeted into diaphanous dreams.

T
HE NEXT MORNING AGITATED RAPPING AWOKE HER.
W
ITH A CRANKY AIR, SHE
stirred from the bed and staggered toward the noise. She hadn’t taken a step when the door vibrated with a second round of blows. Hair curtained her vision and she tucked a wayward lock behind her ears.

“Bael!” She frowned on flinging the door open. “By Aurora!”

She barely spun clear as the High-man stormed in. Lakif hadn’t yet rubbed sleep from her gritty eyes when Bael cried out in alarm.

“Gather your belongings. We have to leave at once!”

“What out of EarthDoom?” Lakif jolted, suddenly concerned. The urgency in her friend’s voice squashed any inconvenience she felt for the early call.

“The Seekers are here!”

“Seekers?” Lakif wondered if she were still dreaming. “Are you sure?”

“They march from the Forum! By sheer luck I saw them from my window!” Bael ran his fingers through his hair. “There must be a legion of them!”

“It’s a coincidence. They can’t be looking for us!” Lakif groped for an alternative explanation.

“Are you willing to take that chance?” The Kulthean looked gravely ill. Panic suddenly swept the Acaanan, blasting away any lingering traces of sleep. The Seekers rarely ventured out en masse. It would be a tremendous coincidence that they would appear here while two children of Rhoan Oak, both harboring Rare Earth Stones, went unnoticed nearby.

The sight of Bael in such a distraught state greatly unnerved her. She had assumed the High-man impervious to common distress. Indeed, it was safe to conclude that Lakif was as unhinged by her companion’s alarm as by the threat of the Seekers.

“You’re right, of course.” Lakif mentally replied; her lips could not catch up with her fluttering mind. She was literally throwing clothes on as she scrambled for a hasty exit.