Commandment (21 page)

Her fears vanished within seconds of entering the Goblin Knight. Torkoth was found chatting with another patron under the leafy canopy of the oak. Lakif was not a little surprised at the sight. Again, she questioned how far the modest advancement had gone to cover room and board. Clearly, the Half-man had access to ancillary income. This left the plaguing question: Under whose umbrella was the Half-man footing his stay? Was he financing it with blood money?

Lakif wasn’t prepared to introduce Bael to the swordsman at this point. To be precise, she didn’t want the Kulthean to witness her rejection when the Half-man balked at the proposal. Therefore, she offered her friend a vague excuse to remain below.

After Bael disappeared from sight, Lakif marched over to the table. She was a little apprehensive about Torkoth’s reaction, considering that she had up and disappeared yesterday morning. Hoping to forestall embarrassing questions, she marched right up to the table and spoke bluntly.

“Half-man, I wish to have words with you.” Lakif obtruded into the conversation. She noted that the fighter was wearing shoes, a type of sandal that laced up the calf. Apparently, he had finally settled on a style that was comfortable. The rope anklet was still visible under the leather straps.

“What?” Torkoth replied. Since Lakif was certain that he had heard her clearly, the curt response rang ominous.

“May we speak?” Lakif’s confidence was dwindling by the second.

“You spoke another word.” Torkoth’s brow wrinkled in confusion.

Lakif scrolled back a few seconds. She was surprised that she couldn’t remember how she had addressed Torkoth. Then it occurred to her.

“Half-man?” Lakif questioned softly, fearing that it might somehow have been internalized as an insult.

“What is that?” Torkoth asked.

Lakif blinked with disbelief. Torkoth must be joking! But nothing in his expression revealed anything other than sincerity.

“That’s your race.” Lakif found Torkoth’s companion grinning at the silly topic.

“Is that different from these others?”

“Of course!” Lakif ridiculed the question. Once again, Lakif was astounded by the glaring canyon in Torkoth’s memory. How could one so clearly adept in the martial arts and of sound judgment be so clueless to such basic information?

But Lakif envied the Half-man’s ignorance. The Acaanan was never afforded the luxury to forget her own identity. She was branded an Acaanan at every turn. Even when the hated word wasn’t explicitly spoken, the loathsome looks were enough to broadcast the message clearly. She hated to be the herald of bad news; Torkoth was a lowly Inhuman. But his confusion was perhaps natural enough. To her recall, Lakif had never referred to him as a
Half-man
explicitly. Maybe no one else had either. Perhaps they were afraid to do so.

“More correctly, Half-Istani,” the Acaanan added.

“Where do we come from?”

“Who can say? Inhumans rarely know their parents.” Speaking about the Half-man’s identity crises left Lakif in foreign waters.

“Then I suppose it’s apropos,” Torkoth mused.

“How so?”

“What is a man without a past, if not half a man? Like an image in a mirror…Speak!” Torkoth suddenly seemed to snap out of his introspection and swung back to the Acaanan. Lakif found her own fears evaporating as the other smiled warmly.

“It is of a private nature.” Lakif’s eyes bobbed to the visitor.

Torkoth nodded his consent and excused himself from his companion. Lakif led him up to one of the cloistered vaults on the higher level. En route, she cast her eye to the dusty engraving of Lucretia that had become of paramount importance to her. If her eye had been a dust rag, the statue would have been polished to a shine by this point. The crooked face still vexed her. Lakif sat and bid for her companion to do likewise.

“How fares your trophy?” Torkoth preempted the Acaanan. “Has it bore out the fruit of your visions?”

Lakif’s heart lightened. As Torkoth hadn’t mentioned the outstanding sum, he was saving Lakif from an awkward predicament.

“My knowledge of the Stone was flawed. There is yet another leg to this journey. I have to rely on your help one last time.”

The Half-man only nodded. Lakif silently probed the other’s eyes, reflecting on the three massacred travelers. Could those lambent orbs veil the mind of a brutal killer?

“Another search has reared its head. We have discovered the need to go down into the Fornix,” Lakif continued.

“We?”

“Myself and Bael. He’s a Kulthean friend of mine from my school days.”

“You went to school?” Torkoth’s eyes widened. Lakif had expected the Half-man’s surprise would stem from the mention of a Kulthean chum rather than her educational level.

“A kind of…” Lakif didn’t want to broach that subject. “I need your strong arm one last time.”

“He should be ample protection for you.”

Lakif nodded.

“You would think, but Bael is no warrior, as you are. He has neither skill of arm nor speed of foot to quell my fears.” Lakif was not merely fanning the Half-man’s ego to enlist his aid. While Bael cast the image of a robust warrior, Lakif harbored doubts. His friend didn’t carry a sword and didn’t appear particularly agile. At best, he was an effectual swordsman. Torkoth, on the other hand, was a proven performer.

The Half-man was silent, as if weighing the situation.

“I know there is still the question of the payment…” Lakif began, but was curtailed when Torkoth shook his head.

“Don’t worry about that. You supported me in my hour of need with food and shelter. Our score is even in that regard, and there will be no talk of debt. Listen well. I’m not a fool. It is clear that I dwell in the suburbs of your interests. You have hitched your wagon to a star, one the size of a stone. I won’t pretend to understand what mystical schemes drive you, Acaanan. There is much you are tight-lipped about. But you would have divulged more if you cared to. In any event, it’s not my business to meddle. The last few days, I have wandered the locales, hoping to ignite a spark of recognition in my mind’s eye. Perhaps there would be a familiar corner or store. But nothing. Furthermore, no one seems to recognize me, so I am forced to conclude that this is not my home. As my road is still uncertain, I will remain at your side. But not in your employ.”

Lakif was thrilled at the news.

“Tell me more of the Fornix,” Torkoth added.

The following morning, Lakif waited anxiously in the common room. She chewed on a lock of hair, nervous about introducing the Kulthean to the Half-man. Bael was the next to arrive. He was armed only with a walking stick. He was either extremely confident or naively unprepared for the Fornix. But he seemed in fine feather, ready to tackle whatever obstacles presented themselves. When he signaled to leave, Lakif stopped him short.

“I’m waiting for someone,” she explained.

The Kulthean blinked with surprise.

“A friend?” he asked.

“No, a Half-man.”

“Half-man?”

“We need his help,” Lakif justified.

“Can we trust him? Would he sell us to the Seekers?”

“He helped me to find my Stone. I believe in him.”

“Then with your stamp of approval, I will lend him my trust.”

Lakif breathed easier following the acquittal. Moments later, Torkoth appeared on the stairs. As Lakif had hoped, the warrior was donned in the livery of a mercenary, identical to the night they had invaded Ebon Myre. His leather armor creaked with fresh oil. A dagger was stashed in his belt, and a sword peeked over his shoulder. Strangely, the cross bar, hilt, and pommel were all wrapped in cloth, suggesting that Torkoth wanted to preserve it rather than brace it for conflict. In fact, it looked more like a gift than a means of bloodshed.

“That’s him.” Lakif pointed out the newcomer.

“You chose wisely.” Bael appraised the Half-man. “He certainly has adopted a manly show of readiness.”

As he approached, a surprised look washed across Torkoth’s face.

“What?” Lakif questioned.

“You’re with a Kulthean!” Torkoth stammered.

“I recall mentioning so.”

“But he’s real!” Apparently the Half-man had assumed the Acaanan’s friend to be yet another phantasm of her mind. Bael and Torkoth exchanged salutations; Bael was not a little surprised by the Half-man’s moniker.

“Same as the liquor?” he asked.

“To the last drop,” Torkoth replied.

With introductions out of the way, the three marched out into the city.

A
S THE TRIO SALLIED FORTH FROM THE
G
OBLIN
K
NIGHT
, B
AEL EXPLAINED THAT
the previous evening he had taken the opportunity to cull the locals for information concerning the Bard. As Lakif had briefly coached Torkoth on their mission, both could appreciate Bael’s information.

“At first, I wasn’t enthusiastic. I felt that more people could identify with
Bard
than
Cawjul
. But with only the title
Bard
to go by, I felt I was destined to hear tales about each and every minstrel in Grimpkin.”

“You didn’t?” Lakif asked.

“No, but the label struck a chord with many.”

“What was the consensus?” Torkoth asked. He was learning on the fly about Lakif’s adventures to date.

“Sadly, the accounts were markedly divergent. Some offered me the quite reasonable story that the Bard was a local historian. The man, of vintage years, could be called upon from time to time. One Istani took the stance that the word
Bard
in fact didn’t refer to a person but to a group of individuals. He claimed that it was a troupe of well-traveled thespians! In consulting with them, one was rewarded with their collective experiences. Another fellow who overheard the conversation claimed that the Bard was in fact the name of a reclusive inn, a common ground for subterfuge. The exact location of the place was undisclosed, but he averred that the patrons held all sorts of mysterious, subversive, even heretical beliefs. But these far-fetched accounts were the minority. Most I spoke with shared the conviction that the Bard was a lone poet, doomed to travel the city for an extended length of time. This period of service was anywhere from a few to one thousand and one years. No one knew the source of his affliction, presumably an age-old curse.”

Lakif accepted the various accounts with a grain of salt. The last theory was the only one that seemed to gel with the information pried from the coot in the law firm. She was left with the impression that the Bard was a popularly cherished urban myth in Grimpkin. She also wondered how many people the Kulthean had spoken to. They had probably showered him with stories, if just to hold his attention for a minute. In one night, he had gathered more information than she could hope to unearth in a month.

Their route led them through an expanse of the Old City. They followed no hard and fast map, just hearsay that a wing of the Fornix lurked nearby. They were not left to wander the desolate arteries of the Old City for long. Within an hour of entering the lost realm, they happened on their destination.

The Fornix was a collective term for a series of deep gorges that knifed through the district. The walls of the trenches were demarcated by a series of free-standing arches. Legend held that it was initially designed as a network of aqueducts meant to provide a waterway from the Dank Well into the Old City. The parallel arches were the structural backbone of the nascent waterways. But the project was abandoned for unknown reasons.

The Fornix was accessible by a flight of crumbling stairs. This specific route was but one of many entrances into the infamous place. All were desolate spots, avoided by the respectable citizenry of Grimpkin. The stairs were wrinkled with disfiguring graffiti. Balusters lining the routes were decorated with wreathes, their dried leaves mottled with wilts. Small green lizards cleaved to the pillars. They stared at the trio with bulbous eyes that appeared and disappeared under bowing membranes. Lakif noticed that strange black weeds broke through cracks in the steps. The sight had special symbolism to her. If Grimpkin was the stone, the erratic cracks represented the Fornix and the weeds its loathsome inhabitants. In fact, at first she mistook the weeds for feces. When she stepped on one, it squirmed out from under her boot, as if made of jelly.

The stairs opened into a gloomy trench. A broken jumble of flagstones dotted the ground, separated by wide treks of clotted earth. The shattered lane adumbrated an aborted attempt to build a road long ago. Blindworms cleaved to the rubble amid weeds.

A thunderous rumble overhead drew their attention up. The Leviathan was whizzing by. The metal tracks of the train paralleled the ruined avenue for a short distance. From this position at the foot of Grimpkin, the gray district rose to great heights above. Lakif hoisted the sagging strap of her travel sack high on her shoulder, bracing herself for this realm.

Technically, the Fornix was a facet of the Old City. But it was not delegated to desuetude as was the bulk of the Old City. On the contrary, a certain segment of Grimpkin’s populace flocked here. In accord with its position at the district’s belly, the Fornix was a haven for fringe activities. Given that it was mid-morning, Lakif had expected the area to be largely deserted. She assumed that the nefarious activities that were the order of the day here only occurred at dusk. She was wrong.

What magnetized her eye was the plethora of divas lurking in the gloom. First and foremost, the Fornix was infamous as Grimpkin’s principle red-light district. The prostitutes, as true daughters of Grimpkin, were almost without exception of Human stock. It seemed that the Inhuman races weren’t even accepted in that lurid profession.

Prostitution was generally applauded as a career in Grimpkin. Many of the inns, the Goblin Knight notwithstanding, had their own harem of beauties available to those with deep pockets. She had eaten breakfast with one the morning after the star fall. In such capacity, they were called
hostesses
. Such salacious activity, well regulated and managed, was considered an indispensable part of Grimpkin’s business climate and wholly encouraged. In fact, May 4th was officially crowned
floralia
, the proverbial day of flowers and prostitution. Public opinion, however, was not so favorably disposed to the divas who worked the Fornix. In the milieu of these nether reaches, prostitution was universally condemned as criminal and filthy. Lakif found the dichotomy intriguing.