CH. 3
“Maxmillian Horatio Crasus Gladivus IV, we have come to convey our deepest sympathies on the loss of your uncle, Sir Crasus Bombastus Roderick VI.” The lead figure moved none at all as he spoke in a haunting, aristocratic accent. His hood shrouded his features such that the opening of it showed only a void darker than midnight.
“Quite so, condolences.” A figure to Max’s left offered.
“Oh. Thank you for that.” Max pushed past the ghastly forms and sat heavily into his hammock. “Let’s on with it then. I know this isn’t a social call.”
All hoods were pushed back and the daringly high cheekbones and clean shaven jawlines of the nine men were exposed to the gathering dawn’s light that filtered through the eastern window.
“Max, you don’t mind terribly if I call you that, do you?” The lead man asked snootily.
“No formality needed, you knew my uncle, I’d prefer we get right to business. I’d like to keep this short, your making my flat even draftier than usual and I’d like to get some sleep.” Max stared back coldly.
“I’m Waldo Adrastos, partner with the firm of Adrastos, Yorick and Radebrechen. I’m here as the chief functionary representing the Gladivus estate. My team and I would like to set up a meeting with you to discuss the matter of your inheritance.” Waldo’s breath seemed to fill the chamber soothingly. Max found himself drifting in a state reminiscent of the effects of poppy tea. He shook the mint flavored enchantment off and blinked a few times before answering.
“No, I’d rather do this now.”
“I thought that would be your answer.” Waldo smiled and the rest of his enthralled crew followed suit. Lawyers, like all other guildsmen, had requisite dues that came with the benefits of membership. While most other guilds excised an annual or semi-annual fee of a few dozen crownes, lawyers paid a single fee at the time of their admission. As apprentices in the Order of the Juris Doctorae, they paid their the simple price of their immortal souls to become guildsmen.
“Ahem. As the sole inheritor of the properties... and debits associated with the Gladivus estate, you, one Maximillian Horatio...” Waldo stopped as Max interrupted.
“Skip the title please, continue.” Max winced at hearing his full name repeated a second time that morning.
“As you wish.” Waldo smiled gruesomely as he continued. “You are now the owner and executor of your family’s net worth.”
“Right. How much do I owe?” Max closed his eyes and waited for the answer.
***
“That’ll be fifteen crownes.” Nigel handed Byron his lute and tried his best to put on a convincing smile.
“That’s a bit steep...” Byron turned the lute over and fitted his palm against its belly, strummed the instrument once and listened. He closed his eyes and smiled a little more than warmly, it was a disconcerting and horny sort of expression that made Nigel uneasy. “But your boss has a fine hand... oh yes. Mmm! That’ll do, I suppose the best comes at a price.”
Byron removed a small purse from some impossible place under his unitard and casually spilled fifteen crownes onto the counter. The combination of his rail thin frame stuffed into that outfit with his massive and dazzlingly blonde wig made Byron look very much like a sunflower. Yet he smelled like a bed of roses worn by a rutting stag. And the tiny, gold dusted fairies that whizzed around Byron in random circles kept crashing into Nigel’s head where they would get snagged in his pageboy haircut, tumbling and snarling curses at him.
“Here you are... and what the hell, anything for a school chum.” Byron tossed another crowne at Nigel as a tip as he turned and strode out the door.
“I should’ve s**t in his damn lute, the arrogant pervert.”
***
The whole office was gathered in the central dais of Bill’s department waiting for the Minister of the Spectral Regulations Division to arrive. It was Barnabus Rex’s 118th birthday, and as was the custom at a party for a senior executive of the Ministry, most of the staff had begun drinking early. Bill had not. He was still drained from a day of hangover and a night without real rest. He was simply happy that his morning had been spent tying black and grey crepe paper streamers onto the pillars and cornices of the central chamber rather than dealing directly with the decomposing public.
The office went up in a cheer as Dale emerged from the executive chambers with Barnabus shambling along on his twin canes. His hands were twisted by age and clawed with short coils of well manicured fingernails. He smiled toothlessly at the applause and shuffled forward to the enormous cake that bore 118 candles arranged such that they spelled out ‘Happy Birthday Sr. Minister Rex!’. He gnashed what were once teeth as he looked over the crowd and raised a glass of champagne while Dale steadied him by an elbow.
“Well... this is very nice... very nice to see you all working so hard... working, yes and now... ready to share the cake, to have some jolly times! Yes... working at fun so hard... so hard...” Rex managed to straighten his bent frame slightly and lift some of the fog from his mind before he continued. “Here here, ahem: ‘Tis our duty to o’ersee; that our departed shall receive; measures accorded to their needs.’”
Rex tottered a bit as he tipped a few drops from his glass onto the floor after reciting the Ministry’s credo. Dale steadied him carefully, throwing a toothy grin at the crowd.
“To each accorded to their deeds...and not a copper more- HA!” Rex finished his toast cruelly and swallowed his drink in a single pull. The office went up in laughter and applause as Barnabus crept up to the cake and made the first shaky cut. Rex flashed his gums in a cavernous smile at Dale, who carried his boss’ plate of cake. Dale returned to the massive confection and proceeded to mechanically cut up equal portions while chatting with each of the employees as they came up to get their piece. Bill had been somewhere near the middle of the line, and by the time he made it to the cake Dale had his peculiar charm in full swing.
“Oh, here we are, Bill it only seems fair that your slice should ‘measure according to your needs’. Dale set the slice on Bill’s shingle and flashed a malicious grin around the room as he turned the serving knife on edge and cut the piece in half.
“There you go, old boy, fair’s fair!” Dale laughed along with the rest of the staff in earshot.
“F**k this place.” Bill thought to himself as he sneaked away and hurried back to his office. He realized at that moment that the seals to the catacombs were sitting unguarded in the Minister’s vault while everybody was busy being stupid and getting drunk on cheap champagne.
***
After six hours of tedious explanation and a ream of forms that one of the lawyers produced from a valise of holding, Max felt his mind turning soft. There had been the matter of monies owed to various gambling houses, those debts being so long in arrears that they had been peddled to the Collections Guild where they were accruing interest at a rate that Sir Roderick had managed to kite back and forth for years by borrowing against liens applied to the family estate. Although these liens did keep Roderick out of the debtor’s stocks, so much had been borrowed that Max could not sell Castle Gladivus and the surrounding environs to pay off what was owed. Even though the title was held by the Gladivus line, all of it’s appraised value was held in escrow by the Collections Guild. And there was no profit in selling the collateral that stood in for the loans that were accruing interest. It was a common enough way for the Collections Guild to bleed dwindling nobles of their fading riches. After all in every noble line, there were always treasures to sell off.
“But all of that isn’t really what we’re here to help you with, Max.” Waldo furrowed his brow.
“This is help, is it?” Max rubbed his face with his hands as the numbness that had set into his butt hours before was on its way to getting a hold on his brain.
“Of course it is.” Waldo leaned away as though he’d been spurned. “You need to understand your situation Master Gladivus, the value of the property isn’t the most serious issue at stake here.”
“No?” Max smiled hopelessly. “What’s that then?”
“Insurance.” One of the other nine stepped forward. “That castle of yours is terribly haunted.”
“Cursed, really.” Waldo corrected.
“Yes. It’s cursed, as is the land around it. The earth has gone to briar and thorns and will turn up nothing but toadstools and Stranglevine.” The second lawyer continued. “It’s an extremely dangerous piece of real estate.”
“It’s a terrific liability.” Waldo finished.
“You’re telling me that I need to carry insurance on my property in case other people get hurt there?” Max’s incredulity deepened.
“Absolutely. Adventurers, madmen, necromancers in search of fresh souls, bandits looking to hide from the law, lost children, travelers stranded by carriage troubles, all of them are potential plaintiffs.” Waldo spoke matter-of-factly, as though he’d seen such lawsuits in the past.
“Don’t forget cattle.” The second lawyer added.
“Yes, cattle too. They get lost in inclement weather, wander into those blighted fields and get killed by gods know what sort of terrors lurk on your property. It may seem silly, but the cost of a few head of cattle every year adds up to quite a bit of property damage.” Adrastos finished his explanation before continuing. “You are going to need to carry at least a half a million crownes worth of coverage to be safe from any torts that can, and will, be leveled at you in the future.”
“I don’t believe this.” Max felt the air escape the room as he contemplated the bottomless pit of debt he was facing. “If this could be... amortized, how much will I need to put up every month to stay out of the stocks?”
“Well, including today’s visit...” Waldo began.
“Today’s visit?” Max reeled for a moment.
“Well, getting into a meeting with you wasn’t easy. All of us included, we’ve accrued one hundred and eight billable hours while finding you and bringing you up to speed. You didn’t think we’d drop by pro bono did you?” Waldo was beside himself. How ignorant his young client was. Delicious. “As I was saying, including today’s visit, the maintenance of your outstanding debts and the cost of your insurance (assuming we’ve decided that half a million crownes is adequate) you’re going to need to find... Wesley?”
“Two thousand and seventeen crownes.” A third figure answered automatically.
“Every month?” The air that had left the room now tore the heat from it as well, ice formed on the walls and frost crackled on the stray locks of hair that hung in front of Max’s right eye.
“Of course.” Waldo raised his eyebrows. “Furthermore, as the matter of the estate has been formally transferred to you, we will need a ‘good faith’ payment up front to keep you solvent until the time of your first bill.”
“You can’t just put that on my tab?” Max shrank back into himself, shivering.
“Certainly!” Waldo beamed. He loved the next bit. “All you have to provide in lieu of an initial payment is a promise to pass the next thirty days until you make your first payment locked securely in the debtor’s stocks.”
“What.. ah.. I mean...that, ah that won’t do...” Max stuttered, feverish in the arctic temperature of his flat.
“Well, I think I can trust you, as the son of a long and noble line, to furnish the firm with a mere one hundred crownes as proof of your desire to, ‘protect your investment’.” Waldo Adrastos Esq. unsheathed his pen and held the deed to Castle Gladivus in front of Max.
“Sign here, take the deed and keep it someplace safe, you don’t want anybody else taking out loans on its potential value. Then bring me one hundred crownes by nine tomorrow morning and you’ll have thirty days to... come up with a plan.” Waldo thrust the pen into Max’s hand.
“If I refuse?” Max felt his heart pounding as hard as it ever had at the bottom of a dive on the back of a falcon. “I mean... I haven’t even got a hundred crownes right now.”
“Well...” Waldo leaned in and whispered closely to Max’s ear, turning it solidly frozen with cold. “I suggest you find them.” He glanced up at the antique staff that Max kept leaning in a corner where it looked like nothing more than a burled and winding stick. “I’m sure there’s a few heirlooms left lying about somewhere... after all, I imagine a champion Wooltosser like yourself must have so many admirers that the line to get behind him while he’s bent over in the debtor’s stocks would stretch all the way to Doan. Thirty days might not even be long enough to see all those fans... satisfied.”
The deed to Castle Gladivus bears the tiny, wobbling signature of Maxmillian Horatio Crasus Gladivus IV to this day.
***
The party had been underway for over an hour when Bill moved smoothly and sweatily by the sleeping form of Minister Rex who’s snoring was far louder than any footsteps Bill might have made passing him. As he pushed aside the velvet curtains that divided the Minister’s office chamber from the vault, Bill could hear that bastard Dale leading the office in a rousing song about the wine at winter’s solstice. Idiot. Once past the heavy velvet drape, all the sound from inside the building vanished. Here, in the vault, the walls of the chamber were carved from polished obsidian. The soundless space was illuminated by a hovering orb of pure white Numenstone. It was filled with countless damned souls. A thousand years of ghosts and wraiths, shades and specters and minor demons were trapped in that hovering globe. The searing violence of their eternal frustration and agony burned with the heat of a tiny star suspended in the blackness of the vault.
That globe, not even a handspan across, was the Abyss.
Hung around the polished walls of the vault were a series of portraits that portrayed the previous ministers. Beneath each painting was a pair of seals, one that had been used to siphon clientele into the abyss, and the other to open the gates of the catacombs. With each successive minister, new seals were cast and the old stored for the traditional purpose of Maximum Redundancy. The collection and processing of the undead was a business that would never fall into disuse, and future auditing might require the extraction of a soul contained in the abyss centuries after it’s confinement. Both seals were set precisely beneath Minister Rex’s much younger visage. Bill thought that it must have been painted on the day he accepted his position. He didn’t look a day over seventy in it.
Bill unfocused his eyes and tried to define the boundaries of any enchantments guarding the seals. Nothing. Not even one of the seals was cursed or in any way magickally secured. The engineers must have assumed that nobody would have been able to make it this far into the ministry without alerting the Guardians of the Necropolis, all of whom knew Bill by his first name. They particularly liked Bill because he was neither a ghoul nor a middle class prat. He was an accidentally educated bumpkin who’s genuine honesty and lurid bestiality jokes kept their spirits up while assigned to the gloom of the necropolis. Bill loosed a nervous fart as he realized that the minister would neither wake nor be bothered for hours.
“Ye Gods.” He said aloud to himself. “They’ll never know the damn things are missing.”
***
Max had wrapped his great, great, great grandfather’s staff in with a bundle of branches of similar length that he poached from the fence keeping his landlord’s chickens in the yard. Desperate times, he had told himself. The Heartspar, as the staff had been named centuries ago, was an antiquated but powerful relic. Wizards instruments, for example wands of all sizes from athamae like the one Bill kept in his cloak to the foils carried by officers of the royal entourage, were considered Deadly Implements. Carriage of one in city limits was a serious offense. Staves, were classified as Destructive Implements, and were suitable only for battlemages to carry, and even then, only in combat environments. Getting caught with one inside the wall of Walesport would land one in Fangspire Keep for a minimum of two lifetimes.
That Max intended to smuggle his grandfather’s staff across town in the light of late afternoon was testament to his desperation and his resolve. The former being the reason for the tenacity of the later. He knew that if he could hitch with one of the Feudal Express riders out to the market in Kerreton’s Reach, he could sell his unlicensed artillery piece for several month’s arrears.
“I wanted to get here early enough to talk to Ivan Redgale.” Max shouted his practiced lie through the speaking hose at the front gate of the Feudal Express tower. Normally he showed up after hours and let himself in, after all of the managers had gone home for the night. “I’m pretty sure his bird has been passing some cystic grit. I really think he should get her in to see a proper mender.”
“Good man, putting in some time off the books to keep things running.” Even as garbled as his response was coming down the hose, Max could tell that the manager approved of such dedication. “Come on up. By the way... I’ve got a dapper little halfsie named Heart-less here who says he wanted to say ‘hi’ to you before he dropped off a parcel for delivery.”
When Max stepped out of the lift and took one look at his fidgeting, nut-brown schoolmate he did his best to stay calm while his heart raced with the certain knowledge that things were not as they should be. Bill was dressed in a classy suit with fine greaves and a dark violet waistcoat that looked more official than formal. He was also cradling a package under his left arm with the same kind of white-knuckled clutch that Max had on his bundle of ragged poles. Max forced a grin and rubbed at his frost swollen ear before he shook Bill’s hand awkwardly.
“Hey, Rupert?” Max tipped his chin with a measuredly mischievous nod. “You mind if I give my pal from university here a quick tour of the place?”
“I didn’t see a thing.” Rupert nodded back with a wink.
***
Nigel had helped Phil all the way back to his flat two blocks up the street, the old fellow was wheezing damply, dragging his creaking bones painfully. It wasn’t the first time Nigel had felt moved to make certain his boss could get home in one piece. Pillywizzet’s health was in and out most days, and Nigel didn’t have the heart to suggest retirement the old boy. He knew with absolute certainty that Pillywizzet had nothing but his work. After 149 years in the soot and hustle of the present age, having outlasted three great wars and numerous military actions, Pillywizzet should be well off the mortal coil. Yet he hung on because the genius of his work was his only legacy.
Nigel had no difficulty realizing that Phil expected him to take on that same role after he was gone. It was not a comfort to him. Bards, as Nigel thought of them, were by definition travelers, poets, lovers... they were meant to be dashing and sexy and all of that. Here he was, in line to collect dust, another relic depended upon by those Bards and minstrels who were out in the world living for the ecstasy of song and extravagance. That bastard Byron James with his flagrant joie de verve, he was living exactly way Nigel longed to. It was a choice: endure a boring existence of mediocrity and quiet toil or take a risk and get his bony ass back out on the road where he could starve or die of consumption, catch the plague or be killed outright... or something even worse could happen to him out there. And all of that risk would be had only so he could try to be something more than a quaint luthier.
Upon returning to the shop, Nigel set his work aside for the rest of the day and indulged in some lyrical work. He sat on his stool and plucked at the lute he’d had since university, the same that he’d carried with him on the road with the Blazanovs. It was the only trapping worn enough to lend an air of authenticity to his dedication. When he was alone in the shop after Phil had gone home, Nigel often stayed for hours, sometimes past midnight, writing songs and dreaming of a time when he could sing for thousands, healing their souls of misery and distress. He would lift their spirits up out of the muck and mire of serfdom and servitude with his music.
Nigel knew he could sit and play all night if he wanted, the copper bird would trill again until Mrs Ginderwald came in for a new reed the next day.
***
“Holy... is that the seal to the catacombs? The actual seal?” Max’s eyes popped as he realized the sheer volume of trouble the two of them were currently in. “Oh Billy...”
“I know, I’ve done it, I’ve really put us in it.” Bill was almost teary with disbelief and fear.
“You aren’t the only one.” max spread the poles of his bundle apart so that the knurled end of the staff was visible.
“Ohhh s**t that’s no joke neither, is it? We’re proper criminals now, aren’t we?” Bill’s fear had turned to excitement at the sight of the firepower Max had with him. “Now, hold on a minute, what are you doing here... with that?”
“Bill, I was planning to hitch a ride and sell the bloody thing.” He ground his teeth for a moment. “I had a visit from the Lawyer’s Guild today. It seems I’ve inherited quite a bit of debt.”
The thought of an impromptu visit from the Lawyers made Bill’s toes and fingers cold with fear.
“Right. Well, um, I’ve got a plan. Well, it’s your plan really. I’ve just got a means to that end. We can get into the catacombs... but we have to go now.” Bill met Max’s stare, neither of them blinked for a second.
“You mean the plan to break into the catacombs, find our way down to the lair of Mataan’ Dar, buy a mountain of greyvesdust, travel to Gynneth Mawr, spike the giant’s ale with it, and return as heroes? That plan?” Max balked at hearing his own plan said out loud now that they were in a position to do little but go through with it.
This was the ominous ‘point of no return’ moment in their lives. They trembled as they savored the total, consuming uncertainty of it.
“Well f**king hooray then. Let’s be off.” Max hefted the poles back onto his shoulder and shook Bill’s hand once he had his load in place.
“Right... do you suppose you could stroll off with a pair of your coveralls and maybe a mop and bucket? I’ve been promoted, see.” Bill put his hands behind his back, snapped into a taut, formal stance and glanced down at the pewter name-tag on his breast.
“Isn’t that a, ahh.. wait, no let me get it... right, a senior vice superintendent’s badge?” Max raised an eyebrow. “Where’d you come up with that?”
“My dad made it for me when I got the job at the ministry, said he knew I’d be the first man of dwarven blood to wear one someday.” Bill laughed. “I guess he was right.”
“And as a the new Sr. Vice Superintendent, my first concern is the cleanliness of the Sacred Antechamber of the Gate.” Bill tipped his smile up to Max.
“So you’ll be needing a janitor.” Max nodded sarcastically. “I was born for the role.”
“The evening watch comes on at ten, so we have about two hours to get past the guards before the next pair come on duty.” Bill started for the door, stopping himself abruptly as he thought of another detail in his plan. “Oh, and one other thing. Do you have any more of whatever it was you had in your flask the other night?”
“Always, I’m afraid.” Max patted his satchel.
“Good. Let me do the talking and follow my lead.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll play the villain, you’ll be the commiserating subordinate.”
“I love the sound of this.” Max passed Bill on the way out. “But I’ll need to stop off at my flat on the way over.”
“Fine.” Bill grinned evilly. “Now move along like you care about keeping a your job. You know there are lines of sots like you practically climbing over one another for a chance at being a janitor in the ministry. If you think I can’t find another half-wit to push a mop around...”
“Right then! I guess you’ve had a bit of practice at this haven’t you?” Max shot Bill a fast smile as they hurried down the coil of stairs to the base of the Feudal Express tower. “Try to remember that I won’t hesitate to put you in a headlock and rap on your skull until you’ve whistled the Cloudiver’s fight song.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Bill recalled the number of brawny fraternity boys who had called him a ‘halfsie’ or a ‘s**twhittler’ only to find themselves throttled and whistling poorly as they tried to escape Max’s headlock routine. “Just try to stay thick skinned about it once we’re in front of the guards, it needs to look convincing.”
“Of course.” Max shook his head. “I’d never lock you up anyway, not now that we’re on the lam together.”
***
When the bells of Tobin’s Watch struck ten, Nigel realized that he’d lost track of time. He swept up and put the heavy silver key in his pocket. As he was about to blow out the last lamp, the copper canary trilled twice. Nigel turned to see an identical pair of tall men wearing suits of finely crafted silken mail. The silvery weave of their outfits twitched as the muscles beneath flexed and shifted. Nigel guessed correctly that if the two of them were to stand on a scale together, they would outweigh an ox.
“Not closed just yet, are you?” The first rumbled. “We didn’t catch you on your way out for the night, did we?”
“No John, we didn’t catch him on his way out at all, he was just doing the tidying up. Weren’t you lad?” The second offered soothingly, the basso thrum of his voice only barely perceptible in the vibration of the floorboards.
“No, not... um, not quite done for the evening... nope.” Nigel swallowed as he realized how fiercely he needed to empty his bladder. “How can I help you gentlemen?”
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