Warsinger: Ch 36

The stairs to the Undercity were the worst part of the trip. Suri was right - there were a couple of Fireblooded toughs waiting at the bottom for us. They asked for three silver Dinars, and Suri was able to use her street cred here to get it down to two. Then we were on our way, slogging along a muddy dirt path through a cramped, dark town that reminded me of a giant subway tunnel, complete with rats, piles of trash, and the ammonia reek of old piss. Houses were built out of anything and everything: some of them were solid stone and looked like they had been here for a very long time, while others had been built from mud and straw or just trash. People slept in pipes, on the ground, and in doorways. The sun didn't reach down here, but it was hotter than the surface.

"Can't say I missed this shithole." Suri had her helmet off now, but had kept the armor on. It seemed like every other person down here had the same tall, powerful build, red hair and golden eyes that she did. "We're in Dhul Fiquar territory now. When we reach the Tiger's Den, let me handle things, alright? If you feel like decking someone, don't just start swinging. Challenge them to a fight in the ring and make some money out of it, at least."

Vash, who had set up his pipe and was smoking as he walked, grunted in agreement.

"Any idea why your quest marker would be pointing there?" I rolled my shoulders, keeping an eye on everything I could. People were openly watching us as we passed by, and my bouncer senses were tingling.

"There's an appraiser that works out of the back of the tavern," Suri replied. "Guy by name of Aksil. My bet is that he knows something about that fancy necklace of yours."

The Tiger's Den was in the 'nice' part of the Undercity: nice relative to the outlying quarters. Like the portside avenue, the streets around this area were loud and busy, but it was less like the cheerful bustle of a street market and more like the knife-edge balance of fun and tension you found outside a seedy nightclub. People played games of shells and dominos, danced for tips, begged, and sold luke-warm fried skewers of mysterious meat out of ramshackle carts. There were a lot of anxious-looking prostitutes, mostly Fireblooded women, and girls who weren't hookers but whose job was to reel men into bars and ‘help’ them to drink themselves stupid. Toughs patrolled the streets, making no attempt at subtlety. They were in groups of three or four, as heavily armed and armored as anyone in the slums could be. 

“Safety in numbers,” I muttered. “Something’s going on here.”

“Yeah.” Suri frowned. “Those are Dhul Fiquar soldiers. This is triple the normal patrol for this neighbourhood.”

“Hmm. That reminds me. In case we need to communicate with anyone here, is there a way you can teach me Dakhari? Like, can I burn skill points to download it off you?”

“You know… I have no bloody idea.” Suri frowned, concentrated, then grunted. “Seems like it. Hang on.”

“Hmm? What are we waiting for?” Vash pulled up alongside us. “Other than the inevitable explosion of violence that will take place here any time now.”

His words made me take a cautious glance around our area. Karalti had squatted down and was watching a group of rats fighting over a fallen meat skewer, eyes wide and shiny as she indulged her prey drive. 

[Suri Ba’Hadir is inviting you to learn a Common Skill: Dakhari. Do you wish to accept? This skill will cost 4 Skill points.]

“Awesome.” I affirmed the selection, and waited.

Suri grimaced, eyelids flickering. Then it was my turn. The knowledge of her native language poured in like a stream of molten metal in the right side of my head. It was just warm and weird at first, but quickly grew more and more intense. I winced, clutching my face as the warmth swelled to heat and then burning pain. This wasn’t right. The last time I’d learned a language this way, it’d been mildly uncomfortable. This time, it was agonizing.

“Hector?” Suri’s voice sounded scrambled and distant.

I came to on the filthy ground. Vash crouched to one side of me. Suri and Karalti guarded me on the other.

“Urgh. Okay. Not doing that again.” I pushed myself up, checking over my stats. HP full, Adrenaline full… there were a lot of error messages in my History. Nothing but strings of numbers.

“What?” Vash said. “I didn’t understand a word you said.”

I blinked, frowned, rubbed my eyes. I consciously thought about Vlachian, or tried to. “Now? Can you understand me now?”

“Yes. You were speaking Dakhari at me.” He offered a hand – the real one. “Come on. You’ll get dysentery if you get any more of that mud in your mouth.”

Karalti looked worried as she reached for my hand. I took it hesitantly, bracing for more pain, but there was none.

“That one hurt real bad, didn’t it?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Worse than the last time you died, huh?”

“Yeah. Don’t worry, we know not to do that again.” 

“Hey, Hector. Can you understand me?” Suri asked in her native tongue.

“Yeah. I can.” I replied in the same language. It was fun to speak: closer to Hindi than it was to Arabic, with a mellow, melodic sound neither of those Earth languages really had.

“Are you alright?”

“Well, it worked. That’s all that counts, right?” I tried to shrug it off. My head was still hurting. “Just the same old brainfart I have when I die. I must have some kind of upload-download error.”

“Hmm. Alright, come on. We’ve got a bit of a hike to the Tiger’s Den.” With one last worried glance, Suri jerked her head toward the street and started walking.

“Scars from fighting off corruption,” I muttered to myself. “That’s all it is.”

About ten minutes later, we came up on a large, ramshackle inn built against one of the towering pylons. It was busy, with people pouring in and out of the big barn doors. Knots of men - almost all men - hung outside, chatting and drinking and laughing. There were a pair of extremely large bouncers at the door, their red hair buzzed short to their heads. As we approached, one of the men stood up with a look of disbelief.

"Suri?!" He called her name.

"Holy shit. Look who it is. Excuse me a minute, guys." Suri's mouth spread in a broad grin, and I watched uncomfortably as the big man laughed, kissed her on both cheeks, then thumped her on the back. His friend seemed less impressed, chewing tobacco with the tired expression of someone who'd been working too long and wasn't paid enough for it. After a couple minutes of back and forth conversation, Suri waved us over.

"Haffar," she said, by way of explanation. She switched languages as she needed to, so that she could be understood by Vash. "He fights in the same circuit I used to. Good guy. Doesn't speak a word of Vlachian or Tuun, unfortunately."

“How you doing, brother?” I held out a hand. Haffar gave me an up and down look, then clapped his hand into mine. 

“Busy. We’ve had the Sultir’s troops wandering around everywhere, poking their noses where they don’t belong,” he grunted. “Bad for business. Bad for living.”

“Fuck those guys. You two probably do a better job than a whole squad of those assholes,” I said. He nodded, as did his buddy, who was listening with one ear while he watched the crowd out front.

“Sure do.” Haffar, suitably placated, turned his attention back to Suri. “I never thought I’d see you again, sister. Rumor was the Rose Knives slipped you something and sold you on to one of the Slum Queens. That happens to a lot of new girls.”

“No, nothing like that. I keep my wits about me,” Suri replied. “I’m sorry, I’d love to catch up, but I’m in a bit of a hurry. We’re here on business. I’m looking for Aksil.”

“Nothing’s changed there. The mangy old bastard is in his usual spot, fiddling with his diamonds and his books.” The bouncer reached over and held the door open for us. “Back room. Auntie should be there, too.”

“Thanks.” Suri kissed him on the cheek, and he gruffly returned it with a small smile.

We entered into a cloaked off area, where we were given rope and had to peace-bond our weapons before we were allowed into the main club. Past the drapes was a tavern area that was currently full and focused on the strippers who were performing on stages at the end of the room. Beyond the was a dusty pit fighting arena crowded with punters. A pair of very buff, heavily oiled dudes in tight leather pants were wrestling there in the dirt.

"Hmm." Vash nodded along as one man threw the other over his head by his neck and the seat of his pants. "Nice technique. Nice pants."

Suri lay a hand on the edge of the door and smiled fondly at the scene beyond. "Yeah... the Tiger is a bit of an institution in these parts. Found the first good people I'd ever met in this place."

"Beat up a fair share of them, too." Karalti held onto my arm, sniffing intently.

"Sure did." Suri looked back at me. "Lets go find Mamaji. She'll be at the rear bar.”

Mamaji turned out to be a very old woman with a stack of golden rings around her neck and big gold rings in her ears, lip, and nostril. She exclaimed with joy when she saw Suri, embracing her, cupping her face with trembling wrinkled hands. I found myself feeling wistful. The bar I'd worked at had this same family feel about it, the same love between the staff who worked there. The Full Stop had been a popular haunt for Vets, a pretty good number of them in their fifties and sixties. Our proprietor had been a rave producer turned bar manager when the pandemic in the ‘20s trashed his eventing business and forced him to downsize. He'd been a pretty cool guy: older, white, a bit hippy-dippy when it came to topics like aliens and angels. He'd been a good manager and a good landlord, though: the kind of landlord who'd turn up with a blunt to share during 'house inspections'.

"You okay?" Karalti asked.

"Yeah. Head’s fine. Just homesick." I breathed deeply of the scent of old alcohol. "I just heard Aksil's name, though, so I bet we're about to go meet Suri's appraiser."

"Mmhmm."

Suri returned, then jerked her head to the right and led us through a dark doorway to a quieter series of booths, all of which would be great for lapdances, murder, or fencing stolen goods. Aksil, to my surprise, was a Meewfolk. The lean, punkish cat had the same rough-as-guts feral look that Taethawn did, but he was much older. The fur along his cheeks and around his eyes was shaved off, revealing lines of crudely inked tattoos. His eyes were crossed, but they were a very brilliant blue.

"Ahh, now here is a face old Aksil has not seen in a long time," he said. As he spoke, I noticed he only had one front fang – but unlike almost every Meewfolk I’d met, he had no trace of an accent. "Our Red Lioness has come crawling back to Auntie’s House, has she?"

"Not crawling, you old fleabag. Very much walking." She eased down onto the bench across from him. "I don't have any more time for small talk, though. Can you speak Vlachian? My friend here, the one with the artificed arm, doesn’t speak any Dakhari.”

“I can, yes,” he replied, in that language.

“Great. We got something for you to look at. What's your going rate for identifying artifacts, these days?" 

"Artifacts?" He reached up to stroke his whiskers, purring softly to himself for a few moments. "Between old friends, let us say... ten Vlachian olbia? You are dealing in that currency, yes?"

Suri chuckled. "Olbia are worth a lot more than dinari."

"It's true. But for artifacts, that is my price. Likely it is worth a lot more than my humble fee." Aksil spread his hands. Like cats, his long, dexterous fingers had pads on the tips.

"Make it five," I said.

His ears twitched and swivelled toward me. "Ohh, a haggler? Well, five is impossible. I have four children, and my family must eat. Eight."

I bought the star-shaped medallion out. "For this thing? You have to be kidding. I already know it's made out of electrum-"

"Wait." Aksil's face closed down, and he made a grabby motion with one paw. "Let me see that.

I glanced at Suri, who nodded. Vash and Karalti peered in curiously as the appraiser took the necklace, donned a magnifier headset, and began to examine the script.

"Ten pure gold pieces," he said, in a firm whisper. "That is a fraction of what this is worth to the right buyer. And in terms of non-monetary value..."

"Then ten gold it is." I held up a hand before Suri could protest. “But you get five now, and the rest after you tell us what it is.”

Aksil took his money from Suri, then glanced between the four of us. "This is either one of the Shields of the Firmament, or a very good copy. They are artifacts made in the lost Shrine of the Anvil, reputedly the first temple to Khors ever built by human hands. It was crafted by none other than the Arch-Smith Pranad Ba’nadi, He of Many Talents. He was the first human Forgemaster in our history, the first to learn the esoteric secrets of high artificing from the dragons.”

“How do you know?” I asked, passing him the rest.

The Meewfolk’s eyes hooded as he added the five coins to a pouch. “Trade secret. What I can tell you is that this script is comprised of tightly compressed Words of Power, the kind mages of today wish they understood. Do you know much about magic? Any of you?”

We all shook our heads, even Karalti.

“Magic is a language which, when properly spoken, shapes the nature of reality itself,” he said. “Before the Destroyers appeared in our world, the dragons were able to use formulas beyond our imagination to traverse space and time, raise the dead and heal the sick, create and destroy mountains. Much of their sophistication was lost in the cataclysm that ended their civilization. The Aesari regained some of it once the ashes settled, enough to raise cities into the sky and oppress all the other races of the planet. But they, too, fell… and we have not yet been able to recover the knowledge lost with their extinction. Few human minds were able to learn and practice magic of that level, but the Arch-Smith was one of them. It is said Sachara owed her divinity to his artificing, and the lines you see here on this medallion are highly compressed formulas, instructions for some kind of magic I cannot even fathom.”

“Interesting.” Suri frowned, looking down at it. “No idea what it says?”

“No. No artificer alive could probably make sense of the formulas engraved on this piece. I know they are historical, but I cannot read them.” He nodded. “In truth, whatever role it played in history is probably long past. However, as a historical artifact, it is exceedingly valuable to the right people.”

“Right. What else do you know about the Arch-Smith?” Suri asked. “Like, places he’s been, places he might have lived?”

“He lived wherever his queen needed him. The Arch-Smith was one of the Empress’s husbands, which is why you need to take this and hide it immediately,” Aksil replied. “There's a pogrom happening right now, and talk of the old dynasty is enough to get someone killed. Fireblooded women like yourself are in the firing line."

Suri recoiled. "A pogrom? On Fireblooded?"

"The Sultir's soldiers have been hunting and arresting any Fireblooded women unfortunate enough to draw attention to themselves, along with every mage and artificer below Cloud City level. The ‘official’ stance is that Fireblooded terrorists were responsible for the destruction of Al-Asad, and they have declared 'war' on all Casteless to deter future violence.” Aksil rolled his eyes, reaching up to gently stroke his whiskers. “The rumor on the street is quite different. It seems that someone, or several someones, appeared in court and began whispering this madness in the Sultir's ear, convinced him to declare this 'war on filth'. The days where soldiers would beat you and throw you back down into the Undercity are gone. Anyone caught upstairs is killed, burned alive in Martyr's Square in front of the city jail. If they don't make their quota, they come down here and raid our homes for victims."

Suri and I glanced at each other. The Dakhari Emissary in Taltos hadn't even hinted about this taking place. Ignas hadn't mentioned it... which meant either he hadn't known, it was being done in secret, or both.

"Would anyone know who those new faces in the Sultir's court might be?" Suri asked.

The Meewfolk wagged his head. "I do not, nor do I care to. That information is too dangerous for the likes of me. Only the Slum Queens and the Guilds trade in that kind of gossip. I DO happen to know one thing that might assist you in finding your source, but I am a poor appraiser, and your fee only covered one service."

Suri grinned mirthlessly at him. "After forking out ten olbia for that pap, it'd better be less than two dinar, or you'll be giving us that other tooth of yours, too."

He held out a hand. "How convenient. Two dinar is the price for my information."

Suri flipped him the equivalent Vlachian coins – a single copper lintz. "There. Pony up."

The Meewfolk made a soft sound under his breath, and leaned forward. "The Morning Stars are searching for Sacharan artifacts like these, for reasons that have nothing to do with revolutionary fervour. And that is because they are relying on the protection of Davri the Laundress.”

Suri clicked her tongue, reeling in her chair a little. “Oh jeez.”

“Mmhmm. Talk is that she is sparing no expense on researching the subject of the Demon Queen, up to and including hiring a sage from the over-city... a noted historian and genealogist, name of Mehkhet the Illuminator."

"A genealogist?" I rubbed a hand over my mouth, thinking. "Is this Davri person a Sachara fan-girl or something?"

"She's one of the Slum Queens. Arguably the worst of the Slum Queens." Suri said. "Fireblooded tribes are matriarchal. All six of the city’s Slum Queens claim to be the descendants of Sachara's line."

"I thought the matriarchal line was wiped out?" I frowned.

"It was." Aksil wagged his head. "Queenship and names were passed down through daughters in the Old Kingdom, but Sachara was Starborn. Many Fireblooded women are sterile, but she was a fertile woman in her prime for over a hundred years. Sachara and her brood had sons, many of them. Those sons went on to father daughters, and those who knew they were of royal blood passed that knowledge down as the centuries rolled by. Davri has recently been obsessed with proving her ‘birthright’, for some reason. The pogrom has wiped out several key figures in the Slum Guilds and the Syndicates, so perhaps she is trying to legitimize herself?"

Suri's eyes flicked to the side, pulling over a quest alert we couldn't see. "Guess we're about to visit the laundries, then."