Vance Moore - Odyssey

"Are there no records of where materials were stored?" he asked hopefully. She shook her head in amusement.

"No. Just a record of what the caretaker received," she said. "For example, the last entry is of a sphere that gave an impression of tremendous power."

The ambassador nodded with excitement. The prize was here.

"The logs show what came in and what went out, but the actual locations are a complete mystery. And that was before nearly everything sunk into different rooms when the water was forced out.

"Surely the other workers have some idea?" he questioned her, hoping there might be someone else to interrogate.

"What other workers?" Fulla replied with exasperation. "From the logs, almost everything was handled by the previous caretaker. I am informed that the servants who did work here cannot function in the open air." Baskets of gunk were thrown out of the entry hole to splat into the mud. "If you can call this open air."

She retreated to a stack of shelves with wax boards and paper books open.

”I and my colleagues are cataloging what we find and entering a reference to the original logs and a current position.”

She appeared busy, but Laquatus could not equate her new position as chief curator with her career as a jack in the pits.

”How did you end up here?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. She glanced back, and her face filled with the demons that drove her.

”By the same process that cast you to the Cabal's far shore,” she replied. Her features calmed, and she spoke without intonation. ”What truly brings you here ambassador? I doubt it was a quest for close friends.” Laquatus considered his answer for several seconds. Just for variety he essayed the truth.

”The final object received here,” the merman said. ”I want it. What will it cost for me to have it my possession, no questions asked?”

The novelty of a straight answer seemed to disarm the dementia caster, and she fumbled for a response.

”A great many pieces were damaged,” she finally said, turning to the shelves. ”Some of them beyond repair. But even ruined, they might be of interest the Cabal for research purposes.” Her face turned sly, destroying any attempt at disguising her greed.

”Done,” Laquatus said simply. ”Hold the piece for me when you find it. In return I will aid you in smuggling your loot back to the continent.” He looked her deep in the eyes. ’Cross me, and I will prick this bubble of air. Your bones can be catalogued by the next curator.”

She started running her hands over the pieces already gleaned, like a shopper handling fruit in the market. Laquatus turned and walked to the stairs, soiled at the crassness of the deal and having legs once again.

He mounted the stair and dived through the bubble, transforming even as he swam away, ignoring the guard who recorded his exit. He surged up into the palace. He might have been within yards of the orb, but he could not detect its power. It was hidden from his magical senses. Rumor spoke of perhaps a dozen chambers under the palace, and who knew where the fool of a curator might have put it. The ambassador also worried about his monarch. Fulla was a wild card, who knew what she might say if questioned.

Aboshan emptied troves cared for by the empire's mercenaries and selkies, dumping them to decay in his palace. Only the ruler's love of control and hunger for power had brought the relics to the palace. Now the distraction of a simple assassination attempt washed them from his mind.

"Well," vowed Laquatus, "if it is conspiracies that truly engage him, then conspiracies he will have." The ambassador laughed in the bowels of the palace. He would bring new treacheries before Aboshan to conceal his own. Turg followed his masters, grinning as new plans spawned in the merman's mind.

Kamahl rode Emerald east, watching for signs of the ambassador's caravan. The gecko's sinuous gait lulled the barbarian as he remembered his escape from the town.

The mountain mage had climbed the rubble ramp to the keep's upper stories looking for signs of another exit as the cries from Order reinforcements sounded below. Through the dust laid down by his destruction, he could see tracks that led him to the postern gate. The mountain warrior skirted the crystal effect, seeing its rate of advance slowing as it continued to fill the castle. The taste of the orb's magic faded as the growth slowed.

The postern gate led down a hidden path outside the city walls. The tumult inside the town died down as Kamahl rejoined the flow of refugees. A golden coin secured him a spare great cloak from an elen bird warrior. The garment was sized for someone nine feet tall and even after a few alterations with a dagger, it was still all-enveloping. It was a measure of the people's unrest that he did not attract more notice. He moved into the old city, listening for news. But rumor ruled the crowded streets, not the Order. He headed for the Citadel road once more, hoping to find out what had occurred.

Kamahl remembered the swell of power as he felt the orb change only minutes after he saw Turg following after the lieutenant. The mer must hold the prize by now. The barbarian wondered if Kirtar survived. Somehow he doubted it.

His leg began to pulse with fresh pain from the wounds inflicted by the frog. He moved down an alley, ready for any attacker, but it was a dead end. Despite the city's overcrowding, a momentary break in the traffic gave him privacy and allowed him to seek shelter. He drew an axe and knife and jumped, his leg screaming in protest as he rose. As he started to fall back, he sank his tools into the wood racing of the building's corner. Rot and lack of care allowed his blades to bite deeply, sending sawdust to the alley below. He crawled up the structure's side, his arms burning as he finally reached the roof.

This building was shorter than the others backing the alley. He crawled behind a storage shed and concealed himself from observation. Momentarily safe, he ate what food he had. Thirst led him to raid a rainwater cistern, and he gulped the cool water down. Weary, for even his endurance had its limits, he lay down to rest.

He awoke that night. The city was quieter, the sun set some hours before. He wrapped the cloak tighter around him and drank more of the water. He had no more food. Kamahl squatted to test his leg. Finding himself fit he decided to brave the city once more.

He dropped into the alley, his lower limbs hurting at the strain but healed enough for full use. There was still traffic on the street despite the hour but not like Cabal City, whose denizens never seemed to sleep. There was a different feel to these pedestrians. They were more afraid and more furtive, even as they stayed close to the lights. Kamahl remembered his friend Chainer who seemed to know most of his city's secrets. The barbarian decided the best source of information might be one of the night birds flitting through the streets.

The first lone walkers proved almost useless. His cloaked form emerged from the darkness provoking two responses. They collapsed in panic or attacked with suicidal bravado. One man continued to fight even after Kamahl slapped his weapons aside several times with his bare hands. Finally he knocked the man out in disgust. Perhaps a more predatory type would be more amenable to conversation.

A group of youths moved in concert through a street. The avenue was barely lit by damp wood burning in a metal basket. A copper hood reflected light to the ground.

The boys split up, settling into positions outside the flow of traffic. Their actions reminding Kamahl of feral cats choosing their prey. The gang looked into the street and not toward each other. The barbarian picked a member off silently, covering the young man's mouth. They disappeared into the night, Kamahl's cloak wrapped around his catch.