Firesign 1 - Wage Slave Rebellion (47 page)

“I understand that most adventurers wear some kind of identification so their hideously mangled corpses can be identified when a quest inevitably goes horribly wrong. Do I have that right?”

“I’m not sure I like how you described it, but yes, something like that,” said Mazik.

“Well, I thought it would be just too sad for you to go around without one of your own, so I went ahead and made one for you,” said the Tyrant, “Even put your name on it already, see?”

Mazik squinted. “The words are pretty small. It’s kind of hard to read.”

The Tyrant smacked him upside the head. “Well then don’t die a horrible, bloody death! Now shush, and stop moving. My fingers aren’t as good as they used to be.” The Tyrant squinted as she fumbled with the tiny clasp. “Ah, there we go. You can rise now, boy.”

Once Mazik was standing, the Tyrant patted his chest where the pendant lay. “Let this be your symbol, Mas Mazik I. Kil’Raeus—five fingers of silver flame grasping a gem of clear, sky blue. I chose this because you’re the instigator, the mastermind, and the ringleader of this merry little band.” She shook her head. “Woe be it to these two for falling in with you.”

“Really? Even when you’re giving me a gift?” said Mazik. He craned his neck to look behind him. “Do I have a sign on my back or something…?”

The Tyrant flicked him on the hand. “What I’m trying to say is, you’re the one who started this little fire. Don’t get burned by it. Grab onto it with both hands and do as your friend said—the best you can, every single day.” She patted him on the chest again. “This is here to remind you of that.”

Mazik stared at the necklace, and then gently grasped it. “Grab the fire with both hands, eh?”

“Yes, I admit it’s not my most meaningful gift,” said the Tyrant. Mazik’s shoulders sagged. “Really I just liked the design. If all else fails, you can try to use it to buy your life when you’re inevitably captured by someone especially nasty. The gem is also a focus crystal, so that might be helpful.”

Mazik rolled the pendant around in his palm, considering. “Thank you, ser. I appreciate it.”

“The first bit of honesty from you today!” said the Tyrant, cackling. “Well, not quite, but the first time you’ve been earnest at least.” She patted him on the shoulder. “Good. Now back in line with you.

“Mas Raedren Ian’Moro, you’re next,” said the Tyrant as she pulled another necklace out of the box, this one made of gold. Raedren stepped forward and kneeled.

“This is for you, my dear healer,” said the Tyrant, letting the necklace hang where Raedren could see it. Compared to Mazik’s gift, it was very plain. It looked like a simple coin, just a plain golden disk with a hole in the center, almost entirely unmarked save for the flower petals etched around the edges. The disk spun, revealing Raedren’s name engraved around the hole on the back.

“This is a chakra, one of eight holy symbols from our neighbors in Serti,” said the Tyrant as she tied the necklace behind Raedren’s neck. “This one is supposed to signify life, or heart, or some other crap like that. I’m not really sure, though I’m told it’s terribly fitting.”

Raedren looked down at the necklace. He wasn’t sure which kind of terribly she meant.

“What I do know,” said the Tyrant, “is that it is very heavy. It’s made of a gold alloy designed for greater durability. The extra weight is a side effect. I’m told it’s like wearing a wall clock.”

“Not quite that bad, but close,” said Raedren as he rubbed where the chain was slightly digging into his neck. The Tyrant motioned for him to rise.

“This symbolizes the burdens you now bear,” said the Tyrant, placing a hand on his chest. “The burdens of a healer and a protector. The burdens of responsibility, of loyalty, and of trust. The burden of your teammate’s lives, your enemies’ lives, and the lives of those you don’t even know, and probably never will. The burden of saving some while allowing others to die, of difficult choices, and of the guilt you will feel over every death that didn’t need to happen, but did anyway—because you were not quick enough, not powerful enough, not wise enough. This weight symbolizes the burdens of a kind man, of caring about others even as death surrounds you.”

The Tyrant stepped back and leaned against her desk. “Heavy, isn’t it?”

Slowly at first, Raedren nodded.

“Then wear it every day,” said the Tyrant, “and be reminded that though your burdens will sometimes feel too great to bear, you can walk with them as you have before.”

Raedren bowed, solemnly but gratefully. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, boy,” said the Tyrant, shooing him away.

“Mis Sarissa Gavin Ven’Kalil, front and center.”

Gavi walked over and kneeled.

“No, no kneeling for you, love,” said the Tyrant. Gavi cocked her head as she rose. The Tyrant tapped Gavi between her collarbones, where her arrowhead pendant rested. “Seems to me you’ve already got a suitable symbol, so there’s no need for me to give you another one.”

“This?” said Gavi. “This is just something my parents gave me.”

“Just? Young lady, that’s a fantastic reason for it to be your symbol! Far better than getting it from some crazy old bat just because she can order you dragged off in the middle of the night and beaten to within an inch of your life for as many days as your continually and forcibly regenerated body can handle it,” said the Tyrant, with worrying specificity. “Just get your name engraved on it sometime and you’re set. And maybe get a stronger chain, just to be safe.”

The Tyrant turned to the major and captain. “Now Ceara, if you would be so kind.”

“Of course,” said Major Rur, pushing off from the wall. She brought a sheathed sword out from behind her and handed it to the Tyrant.

“Thank you dear,” said the Tyrant. She turned back to Gavi. “Now, I understand you were using weapons his company,” she said, nodding at Mazik, “the … which one was it again?”

“The Association of Independent Weaponsmiths,” said Mazik.

“Ah, yes. Them,” said the Tyrant. “A pack of duplicitous criminals pedaling fourth-rate crap, if you ask me.”

“Hah! Agreed!” said Mazik.

“I’m sure you fit in well,” said the Tyrant. Mazik whimpered. The Tyrant smirked and turned her attention back to Gavi. “Hold out your hands.”

Gavi did so, and the Tyrant handed her the weapon.

“This, as I’m sure you’ve realized,” said the Tyrant, patting the sheath, “is a sword. Please draw it.”

Gavi grasped the hilt and tugged the weapon free. As with its scabbard, the blade was plain and unadorned. There were no intricate scripts, no sprawling flower petals, and no roaring lions worked into the metal. It did not gleam with wild magick, nor did it vibrate with a destiny as yet unfulfilled. It was just a hunk of steel with good rawhide around the grip and sharp edges on the blade, nothing more.

“I could have given you fancy ornamental weapon, as is customary, with gems worked into the guard, the pommel studded with pearls, and intricate, pretentious nonsense scrawled over every millimeter of the blade.” The Tyrant motioned to the sword. “As you can see, I did not.

“This is a working sword,” said the Tyrant. “It is not pretty and it is not fancy. It will win no beauty prizes, nor turn the eyes of any nobles with impeccable taste and too much free time with which to indulge it. What it will do is cut. It will cut very, very well. It might not be elegant, but it’s made from the best metal our blacksmiths could smelt, and probably quite a lot of their tears once they learned they couldn’t doll it up with fancy curlicues and whatnot. It’s durable, it’s lightweight, and it will hold an edge with minimal upkeep.”

The Tyrant reached out and took Gavi’s hands, guiding the blade back into its sheath.

“This is not a sword for show, my girl. This is a sword for killing people, and making sure they don’t kill you. Practice diligently and use it well, and maybe you’ll live long enough to stand in front of me again.”

Gavi looked down at the weapon in her hands. She nodded. “Y-yes, I will. Thank you.”

“Good girl,” said the Tyrant. She shooed Gavi, sending her back to stand with her friends.

“Now go,” said the Tyrant as she walked around her desk and settled back into her chair. “That’s all the time I have to play with you for today. Feel free to keep in touch with Ceara and Storr for future quests. Dnorn, please show our new adventurer friends out.”

“Of course,” said her chief of staff, bowing.

As Dnorn opened the door to usher them out, it finally sunk in. They were adventurers now. They had done it.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” said the Tyrant.

The three turned back. They found the Tyrant hunched over her desk, pen poised over a report.

The Tyrant didn’t look up as she spoke. “Here you go, smartass,” she said, her free hand coming up from under her desk. “Take this.”

Something wrapped in black cloth wobbled through the air at Mazik. He caught it, juggling it twice before he got it under control.

Mazik gave the Tyrant an inquisitive look, but she didn’t look up. He shrugged and tugged at the cloth.

“I want you to keep that,” said the Tyrant as the cloth fell away.

Mazik stared. In his hands was the Edge of Ebon Darkness, the cultist knife that was so recently the source of so much grief. Mazik had forgotten about it after the battle ended, but here it was, the midnight blade gleaming like it was brand new.

“I don’t know what it’s made of,” said the Tyrant, “but if you ignore all the religious hoopla, it looks like a good weapon. I’m sure you’ll find plenty of places to stick it. But whenever you use it, I want you to remember the mistake you made, and the blood that stains your hands because of it. I don’t hate your hard-charging, act-before-you-think ways, but never forget that people’s lives hang in the balance. Make sure you give them your best.”

Mazik stared at the Tyrant, watching her as she worked. She scrawled a signature at the bottom of the document, set it aside, and began reading the next one.

“Yes, ser,” said Mazik, bowing.

“Good boy,” said the Tyrant. “Now get lost before I decide to inspect the rest of your injuries.”

The three adventurers left quickly, with Raedren gently closing the door behind them.

*      *      *

“Another round!” called Mazik, beer sloshing in his mug as he held it overhead. All around the bar the other patrons roared their approval, raising their mugs in the universal drunkard’s salute.

“Coming right up!” said Derana as she hustled past, sweat dripping from her nose.

Raedren leaned across the table to make himself heard over all the noise. “I can’t help but notice you haven’t finished your last beer,” he said, motioning with his own half-full mug.

Mazik snatched his drink off the table. “By the idiot god we killed the other day, you’re right!” He tossed his head back, and his beer with it, draining the rest in one go. “Ahhh, there we go!” he said, setting his empty mug down. “All fixed!”

“Good man,” said Raedren with a half-smile. Then he put his mug to his lips and did the same.

“How ‘bout you, Gavs? You doin’ good?” asked Mazik.

Gavi’s mug rose off her stomach and clattered onto the table, rattling around in a circular motion until it came to a stop. It was empty.

“Doin’ pre’ty good,” said Gavi as she sat up, her words slow and deliberate and her spine bending with the wind. Mazik laughed and messed up her hair. Gavi was too relaxed to protest.

While Mazik turned to talk to some of those clustered around their table, Gavi snuggled back into the booth with a contented sigh. She nodded her thanks as another drink was placed in front of her.

True contentedness is rare. No matter how well life is going, there’s usually at least one thing in everybody’s life that isn’t going quite the way they’d like, a minor worry that saps the enjoyment from an otherwise pleasant reality. It’s the curse of humanity to focus on a minor bad even when so much is going well, and to not even realize they’re doing it.

But, for a thing to be rare, it must happen sometimes.

Gavi looked around the bar, taking in the chaotic scene that surrounded her.

There was Derana, bustling through the crowd, her tray piled high with mugs and a smile on her face. She pulled up to a table and passed out drinks with astonishing speed and little concern for where they went. The drinks were immediately snatched up, with cries of thanks and
glug, glug, glug
.

There was Tielyr, faithfully manning the bar, his hands moving and his eyes focused like a gunnery officer reloading his canon amidst an enemy barrage. Drinks hopped onto the bar as fast as he could pour them, his tongue snuck out of the side of his mouth in the throes of his concentration. Seeing this, Derana slid over and pulled him into a kiss. At least all the stress from the cultists’ siege was good for something. For a time, the hopping drinks fell silent.

There was Kalenia, sitting next to Mazik, an island of calm amidst the rowdy jubilation. She took a sip from her glass, smiling softly at something Gavi missed. Kalenia gasped as Mazik leaned past her to punch Raedren in the arm, and then again when he rubbed his cheek against hers. Kalenia blushed, and then planted a quick peck on Mazik’s cheek, much to his—and their audience’s—delight.

There was Xer and Taronn, sitting with other friends from A&N. They were all graduate students, so naturally they were drinking heavily, with a graveyard of mugs, pitchers, and shot glasses in front of them like the ravaged bones of a hyena’s dinner.

There was Tomar, Jaerfin Jae, and a few more of Mazik’s coworkers. Where earlier they sat with the awkward air of coworkers who didn’t normally spend time together outside of work, now they were talking and laughing like the oldest of friends. The alcohol helped.

There was Major Rur and Captain Ankt, out of their uniforms and sitting with others in similar attire. Gavi could see Sergeant Kolhn, Lieutenant Haik, and others. Around them were three other tables, two populated with boisterous soldiers and the other with guards trying not to see anything that would lead to work. Captain Ankt had said they were there to reclaim the city’s money, in drinks if necessary. Major Rur had just smiled and congratulated them again.