“Emissaries of the Laughing Prince are not to be trusted,” Vezta said through pursed lips.
“You don’t like undead either?” Ilya asked.
Watching the skeletons move about gave Ilya a deeply unsettling feeling inside her chest. The undead of the Necropolis weren’t like the skeletons Arkk had raised. Arkk created puppets using bones as a base. The denizens of the Necropolis were people, able to think and act on their own. Not only did Ilya find herself uneasy in their presence, but she felt bad about it because they otherwise seemed normal. If she closed her eyes, she wouldn’t even know she was talking to an animated skeleton.
But to hear that Vezta didn’t like them either surprised her. Vezta always struck her as someone with a sense of morals that didn’t quite align with anyone else. In all their time together, Ilya really only knew two things that Vezta desired; The protection of Fortress Al-Mir—and Arkk by extension—and carrying out her former master’s final directive of reversing the Calamity. She didn’t want food, she didn’t want fun, she didn’t want to socialize much at all. Oh, she could be polite and smile at the right times, but if an action didn’t drive her toward either of her goals, it was like she didn’t care.
To hear her express discontent with something actively aiding them in one of those two goals came as a shock.
Ilya wondered if Vezta was just more open with her. Had they… Ilya frowned to herself, watching Vezta as the slime-like monster seemed to ooze back into her seat, losing part of her defined form in the process. Had they somehow grown closer than she figured was possible?
Coworkers, yes. But Vezta had a lot of coworkers that she would never relax in front of.
“I don’t care if they’re undead or sapient lumps of sewer muck,” Vezta said after a long moment of silence. “The problem is their target of worship.”
Ilya slumped back herself, somewhat disappointed that she hadn’t found someone else uneasy about the undead. She supposed it made sense. As far as she could tell, Vezta didn’t have bones. The sight of a skeleton walking around was likely no different to Vezta than a werecat or orc walking around.
“The Laughing Prince,” Ilya said, trying to keep on track. “That isn’t one of the traitor gods though, unless you were wrong about the Calamity. Why wouldn’t we ally with them?”
“The Laughing Prince is the god of festivals, children, and extreme joy. He—”
“And undeath.”
“Yes,” Vezta said. “And undeath. But I’ve already mentioned that I don’t care about that aspect. Nor do I care about festivals and children. The former are a waste of time except when a morale boost is needed, the latter are generally useless with few exceptions.
“It is the subject of the joy that disturbs me most.”
“Having fun?” Ilya asked, confused. Vezta was an ancient being who could only communicate with the people of today using her connection to Arkk. Otherwise, she spoke in that language that felt like every word was slamming a book into someone’s brain. So perhaps there were some word communication issues, but Ilya didn’t see a problem with a little elation.
It just meant the Laughing Prince was a god of happiness and fun, didn’t it?
“I believe I’ve said it before,” Vezta said, peeling herself off the chair as she leaned forward. “Perhaps not to you, I don’t recall, but some of the Laughing Prince’s few words to the people are that ‘Life is a joke,’ a phrase that can be taken many ways. Some say, ‘Life is a joke so enjoy every laugh.’ Others say, ‘Life is a joke, and not a good one.’”
“Ah. You’re worried they might be part of the latter faction. What are they doing? Biding their time before they betray us?”
Vezta slowly shook her head with a humorless chuckle. “No, Ilya. The latter group are by far the more predictable. Nihilists who want to end everything aren’t very subtle. I don’t believe our guests subscribe to that philosophy. If they did, the Necropolis would surely be devoid of both life and undeath.
“It is the former believers that disturb me the most. They tend to be far more in tune with their god than most and what a god finds amusing is often not what you or I might find amusing.” Vezta stood up, forming full legs as she started pacing back and forth. “One of them might do something just because they feel whatever their current task is isn’t fun enough. Perhaps we start a battle only to find our bombardment magic has been subtly altered to rain down confetti rather than destruction. Or our soldiers might find their armor enchanted to dance a hornpipe when worn. The prisoners might be set free simply to cause a bit of chaos.
“Or they might do nothing at all!” Vezta barked out, slamming her palms against the armrests of Ilya’s chair, bringing her face far too close. “They’ll just enjoy watching us squirm.”
Vezta stared a moment longer before dropping her head with a great sigh. She slowly pushed herself back, straightening herself. She ran her hands down her sides, smoothing out the oily slime that made up her body.
“I apologize,” Vezta said, “for venting just now. But there are few I feel I can express my frustrations toward without negatively impacting operations.”
“That’s alright,” Ilya said slowly. “I don’t care that much.”
“Which is why I came to you.”
“More importantly, if you feel they are such a threat, did you talk to Arkk? Tell him all this?”
“No.”
“But, if they’re such a threat—”
“They are useful,” Vezta said with a deep frown. “I cannot deny that. Already, that Lord Yoho has brought over rings of power, enchanted masks and cloaks, and researchers who have all studied the Calamity far longer than us. I wouldn’t dare speak my mind to Arkk for fear that he ends up souring a useful relationship because of my words.”
That was a good point. If Vezta said to be wary of them and it ended up putting them off…
“Then it is up to us,” Ilya said. This was something she could do. Support Arkk from the shadows. “We’ll keep an eye out for any subterfuge. They already know I’m wary of them just from how I acted while visiting the Necropolis. A bit more suspicion won’t be unusual. Dakka as well. She could keep another eye on things.”
“Three people isn’t many…”
“There aren’t many of them. Arkk did bring up the possibility of undead volunteers joining him. Apparently, beyond Yoho and the researchers who aren’t actually with us, only about a dozen agreed. Those seemingly disillusioned with the endless festivities of the Necropolis. Arkk wants to give them command of some of the undead soldiers he has been creating…”
“If they truly contracted with Arkk, deliberately betraying him would be difficult without him noticing,” Vezta mused to herself, resuming her pacing. “That said, followers of the Laughing Prince can be sly if they think they’ll enjoy the outcome more than the drudgery of their task can wear them down.”
“Which is why Dakka should help. Perhaps with a few others who are in a position to keep watch over things.” Ilya paused a moment, mentally running down a list of everyone in Company Al-Mir. She snapped her fingers as a clear choice popped into the forefront of her mind. “I bet Richter’s abbess would be overjoyed to spy on the undead. We’ll probably want some spellcasters too, since none of us know anything about rituals or magic.”
“Not Zullie or Savren,” Vezta said, vetoing them before Ilya could even suggest it. “They have to work closely with the researchers. Causing suspicion between the groups would hinder that.”
“For all her faults, Zullie is rather meticulous. I don’t doubt that she would notice sabotage in her rituals. But that other problem? Bombardment being replaced with confetti? That is something to keep an eye on.”
“Perhaps Zullie’s two assistants? We inform them to keep watch over any magics the undead might come into contact with.”
“They work closely with Zullie but increased scrutiny from either of them wouldn’t be out of place. Especially Morvin. He is a bit more cowardly—Don’t tell him I said that.”
Vezta nodded her head in agreement with Ilya’s proposition. “That would work, yes. Assuming he can keep his mouth shut and not give away our suspicions to Zullie, Savren, Arkk, or the undead researchers.”
“He isn’t that bad. He just gets nervous in stressful situations.”
Vezta raised an eyebrow. “Like the one we intend to place him in?”
“Well… yes. Like that.”
“Better than nothing, I suppose,” Vezta said. She let a rare smile cross her face. “I’m glad I came to you. I feel much less frustrated.”
“Any time, I suppose,” Ilya said, wondering if they had become friends at some point. “I’ll speak with Morvin and Abbess Hannah—I feel like those two will be more receptive to me than you—if you want to inform Dakka of our worries.”
“It’s a plan.”
“Dismissed. Rejected. Publicly humiliated.”
Cedric Valorian Lafoar let out a long, withering sigh. He set his pen down, adjusting it slightly so that it was aligned with the edge of the desk. Reaching up, he pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed again, and finally said, “Mags. Thought you were in Elmshadow.”
“I am.” A slovenly woman sat draped over a day couch, dangling an arm off one side. A mane of curly black hair was tossed up and over her head, hiding her face from view. She managed to affect a perfect picture of a depressed and drab young lady.
Affect being the key word.
Mags had no true emotions. Cedric was well aware.
“Comfort me?”
“No.”
The woman seemed to slump into the couch even further.
It didn’t last long. Her skin, hair, and even the couch itself took on a glisten. Her delicate fingers elongated and thickened, the soft curves of her body rippled like water disturbed by an unseen force. Her curly hair retracted, lightening to a salt-and-pepper gray in a trim, militaristic cut. The silk dress flowing around her dissolved, leaving behind the rigid lines of a military uniform. Her face contorted, features hardening and sharpening while a stubble sprouted across her chin.
The once reclining figure now sat bolt upright in a high-backed chair, exuding an aura of command and discipline.
“You read my report?”
“I did,” Cedric said, not reacting to the change. A reaction was just what Mags wanted. “Four of my best men, trounced by a single orc? Are you certain they were my best?”
Mags shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe. Hard to tell. All you humans are the same to me. That said, they certainly didn’t look their best. The orc didn’t even use weapons.”
“Yes, you mentioned that,” Cedric said, his eyes drifting to the report on his desk. A single, unarmed though not unarmored orc managed to lay waste to four men at the same time. Orcs were hardier than the average human, it was true, but not to such an extent as that. The victory condition for his team was merely scratching the orc whereas the orc had to render his men incapable or unwilling to continue.
“Arkk didn’t use magic to strengthen or hasten his champion?”
“The armor itself was enchanted,” Mags said. “I didn’t recognize it, but it was shadowy and translucent. Took sword strikes and spears without even a mark. Beyond that, there was no magic involved in the fight.”
Cedric sighed once more. When he had first heard of this Arkk, he hadn’t sounded all that different from the usual mercenary company. Company Al-Mir wasn’t even particularly large, employing under a thousand men. But it seemed like every time he heard Arkk’s name mentioned, the man had some new trick up his sleeve. From illegal magics to that walking tower of his. Now impenetrable armor?
“Then he sent the army away,” Cedric said, frowning.
“Not away. Just off to the side. I think he wants them to watch. Bit of an exhibitionist, I think.”
Cedric didn’t rise to Mags’ words. He tapped his finger lightly against the letter on the desk. “I was just penning a letter to Arkk asking what could possibly be going through his mind. Rejecting the aid of my army after having been the one to request it…” He shook his head.
“Isn’t it fun?” Mags said, his smile wide. “I haven’t the slightest clue what he is thinking! A Keeper like that turning down a whole army offered on a silver platter? Unheard of!”
“I take it things didn’t go according to your plans.”
“I didn’t even get to start my plans!” The general in the armchair shook his head, completely exasperated. “Rejecting the army… Who would have planned for that? But, to be honest, this is still working out well.
“He is housing the army in a series of corridors and chambers built into the mountainside,” Mags said, a sly grin slowly seeping across his face as he propped an elbow on the chair’s arm. “He has made an enemy of most of them. He doesn’t even know it. The discontent, the insults, the anger. Some of the older soldiers are more relieved than not but most of the army is made up of younger, hot-blooded idiots who would rather die for their pride than live to see—”
“Mags,” Cedric cut in, his voice harsh and commanding. “You are not to get my men killed.”
The chief adjutant parted his lips, showing off razor-sharp teeth. “Afraid that might not be up to me any longer. You see, I rolled over and accepted Arkk’s rejection with hardly any defense,” he said in a glee-filled tone. “I’m not exactly very popular at the moment. Combined with a few whispers that have made their way through the army, claiming tricks, sabotage, heresy, and all manner of unfortunate rumors about Arkk… Let’s just say that I might not be the one in charge much longer and those who will replace me might be keen on showing off the might of Chernlock’s Armed Forces.”
“What have you done?” Cedric asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Surprisingly little. A whisper in an ear here. A nudge there. But overall, you’ve got your hot-blooded toy soldiers to thank for anything that might happen.” Shaking his head with a wan smile, he shrugged his shoulders. “The depths a human will sink to when their pride has been insulted…”
“Mags—”
“Ah! Got to go. I think rumors of me taking bribes from Arkk have reached a boiling point.”
“Mags!”
Cedric stood, slamming his palms against the desk. But it was too late. The room was, once again, empty. Grinding his teeth and clenching his fists, Cedric glared down at the half-written letter to Arkk. Shaking his head, he stalked around his desk, out the door, and into the manor at large. A few of his personal guards, who had been waiting right outside his door, started following after him. He waved them off.
Downstairs on the ground floor, he stopped in front of Lady Katja’s quarters. She normally had her own guards posted, not trusting his, but the hallway was clear today. Hoping that didn’t mean she was out, Cedric thumped his fist against her door.
Having heard Mags report on the woman’s nightly activities, he half expected the door to open to a sweaty and nude woman with her companions standing awkwardly in the background. Instead, a fully clothed young boy opened the door with fingers marred with fresh ink. It was the pudgy page-like boy that Katja kept on retainer who bore a suspicious resemblance to the late Duke Woldair.
Upon seeing who was at the door, the pageboy threw open the door fully and dropped down to his knees. “My liege,” he cried out, only to squawk in pain as the door rebounded off the wall and struck his shoulder, knocking him aside.
Cedric paid him little mind, pushing the door fully open and taking in the room.
Lady Katja, formerly sitting on a short couch by a bookcase, was both standing up and offering her usual archaic bow. A somewhat scruffy man sat at a desk not far away, adjacent to the desk’s main chair. He dipped into a bow of his own with an expression on his face that said he would much rather be anywhere else but here.
“My Lord,” Lady Katja said, still in her bow.
Stepping inside, Cedric glimpsed the contents of the papers on the desk. It seemed like learning materials. The man must have been some kind of tutor brought in to teach the pageboy how to read or write.
Cedric decided both were completely ignorable. He turned to Katja as the woman stood properly, hands tightly clasped together. “You have a method of contacting Arkk in an emergency. Illegal magic.”
He knew that they often met, thanks to Mags, so such a method was only logical.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what—”
“I don’t care about your usage of illegal magic. I just need to speak with Arkk before something unfortunate occurs to my men. Don’t waste my time, Lady Katja,” he said, employing all the verbal and bodily imposition he had learned over his years.
It worked. She swallowed audibly before casting a glance at the tutor. “Do it,” she hissed.
Cedric cocked an eyebrow, turning to regard the scruffy man with a little more scrutiny.
“I…” The man started, looking up with the expression of a man who knew he should have stayed in bed this morning. He swallowed, smiled a fearful smile, and cleared his throat. “My mother always said never to disagree with someone who can put your head on a pike.”