Mark of the Fool

Seeing the capital of the Empire—Sorkovo—for the first time was quite a surprise to Alex. It looked nothing—except for the mounds of snow—like he’d imagined, leaving him wondering why the capital city of such a vast and powerful Empire would look so dull.

Cobblestone streets and stone walls were a sea of grey, making the Irtyshenans seem to almost blend into their surroundings;Alex was yet to find a single one who wasn’t dressed in varying shades of grey. Birger had called Sorkovo ‘the grey city’, and the group now understood why the name fit so perfectly. Alex was convinced that the only colours that existed in this city, whose atmosphere resembled storm clouds, was in the bronze of its temples’ domes, and the red peaks of its palace’s towers.

Bronze, blood-red and grey, the only three colours anywhere to be seen in this grim place.

Or, so he’d thought.

Theresa had pointed to high windows on tall houses on either side of the street where a stunning difference was revealed. Rooms on the main floor of these sober buildings featured walls and flooring of deep brown and black, accented by bare grey stone.

Yet, a world of warm and vibrant colour bloomed above. Upstairs, walls of deep blue, bright yellow, verdant green, and even fiery orange stood in sharp contrast to the drabness outside, and one floor below. Colours of springtime and hot summer days; of life, laughter and vigour filled the upper rooms in Sorkovo’s buildings.

Alex’s eyebrows rose, as he watched scenes playing out through the windows; people laughing and touching each other as they shared steaming drinks. Music drifted from the upper floors, reaching the street through thick stone, giving passersby just a faint hint of its melody.

‘So that’s how these Sorkovans are,’ he thought. ‘To strangers and in public, they’re reserved. But, at home, they’re warm, friendly and live surrounded by vibrant colours. It’s much the same way they treat the so-called barbarians from outside their realm; cold and nasty to those beyond their borders, but warm and comforting to each other in private.’

The more he thought about the idea, the more it seemed to make sense.

He glanced around at the tall, dour-looking people, pushing past each other through the cold and crowds of the morning, going about their business.

‘Of course, they can’t just act cold and flat with each other; they live in a tough environment, they’d need to cooperate with their neighbours to survive,’ he thought. ‘They’d need help chopping wood and moving snow in the harsh winters up here; the environment’s the enemy that unites them. I guess all their hatred of the rune-marked would unite them as well.’

He remembered something that Baelin had said once:

“Usually, officers spend a great deal of time painting the realm’s enemies as something less than people,” the ancient wizard had said. “There is a reason the Irtyshenans expound the view that only they possess true civilization while all others outside of their reach are considered barbarians or monsters. It aids in their lust for conquering.”

‘A hard climate that they have to band together to deal with…while seeing the rest of the world around them as barbarians and monsters,’ he thought. ‘Makes these people cooperate with each other, and keeps them ready to fight threats from outside. I wonder if that philosophy was given to them by their gods, or was a natural part of their culture, or was created by their leaders?’

He’d likely never know its origins, but still, he took some hope from seeing that warm side of them. Maybe since he had a connection to Kelda, the Guild of the Red Mouse, might welcome—

“Ah, I see they haven’t stopped that old practice,” Birger said suddenly, pulling Alex from his reverie. “That’s what they do to thieves in these parts.”

He nodded toward a central square off in the distance.

The group followed his gaze.

Alex, Theresa, and Bjorgrund sharply inhaled the frigid air.

Evenly spaced within the centre of the square, a line of ten gibbets, with iron cages suspended from the tall structures, were on display for all to see. Ashen corpses clad in ragged grey loin-cloths were frozen upright in each cage, the tight space too narrow for a human of average height to either stand or kneel in. Frost tinged their hair and had turned their skin blue.

“First, they chop off their hands,” he whispered. “That’s the penalty for thieving, and then they’re left to the elements for a stretch of three weeks. If they live, they get set free—handless, of course—because the way the Irtyshenans see it, their gods are offering these wayward thieves a second chance. If they die, they die, and their bodies are left out as a warning to all thieves, murderers and other criminals to not break the law here.”

“Nice place,” Bjorgrund rumbled.

“Yeah…” Theresa echoed distantly. “They execute people in Generasi, but they don’t leave dead bodies around like that.”

“So much for us getting a friendly welcome from you know who,” Alex muttered, eyeing the blue corpses.

He was reminded of the caged humans at Kaz-Mowang’s palace.

“This is the street,” Birger whispered.

The group had walked through the ancient city of Sorkovo—passing many different districts—finally reaching a quarter that was quieter than the rest. Most of the buildings they’d passed on the way here were old, but were well maintained. They’d noticed evidence of repairs having been done to some facades, and they were also clean and free of grime. Along the way, they’d come across crews of labourers—high up on scaffolding—using wire brushes and rough rags, polishing away built up soot, dirt, and bird droppings from structures and important looking statues.

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Yet here, in this quarter, there were no cleaning crews to be seen.

The buildings were smaller, and the area felt and looked rural. There were no monuments lining these streets however, and jagged cracks seemed to be as much a part of the stonework, mortar and weather-beaten timbers, as ice was to these streets. Most roofs resembled patchwork quilts, with shingles missing here and there. More than a few structures had collapsed on themselves, leaving their insides exposed to the wrath of the elements.

Streets were narrow, winding and muddy, travelled by just a few folk who kept their heads down and hard eyes darting around, keeping their distance from each other.

Alex heard little laughter, and what he did hear was low and gruff.

Every window on any buildings with upper floors was shuttered.

There was a distinct feeling of decay here, of age and a decrepitness that hung over the quarter, as though it was the weathered ancestor that in a time long past, had spawned the rest of the city.

Perhaps it had.

The street Birger had led them to was ancient; the buildings were of wood and stone, squat and single-storied. Some had the look of an old stable, some storehouses, others smithies and general stores.

Alex could feel the spirit of an old village here, one left behind long ago.

At the end of the street stood a great, stone barn, looming above the other buildings.

“There?” Alex whispered.

“No, they wouldn’t be in a place that stood out so much,” Birger said. “Come.”

The firbolg hobbled along, leading the group toward a small, indistinct, storehouse.

Alex’s eyebrows rose; the place looked about the size of Birger and Bjorgrund’s cottage. He doubted anyone could run an organisation as complex as a thieves guild from there.

“Careful,” Theresa whispered. “Don’t look, but we’re being watched. People are in some of these old houses around here.”

Alex kept his eyes looking forward, calling on the energies of the Traveller, ready to get Claygon and his staff should he need to.

“Father, do you need help?” Bjorgrund asked, as the old firbolg limped up the wooden steps of the storehouse and onto its porch.

“I said, I’m fine, boy…now give me a moment. All of you, don’t say anything, I have to try and remember…” he paused.

The others looked at each other while Birger muttered to himself, standing before the dark, worn door. It must have been solid and well crafted at one time to have lasted through the years without shattering, but now, it seemed to be barely attached to its hinges.

Alex imagined that it could easily fall with a good swift kick, and the cracks around the doorframe only confirmed that for him.

‘Is this really where the guild is?’ he thought. ‘Maybe there’s a trapdoor in the floor or something, and the guild’s operation is below ground?’

For a moment, he considered teleporting inside—though that could be a big problem if the place was warded—when Birger suddenly drove his crutch into the floorboards.

“That’s it,” he hissed. “I remember now.”

Raising his left hand, he balled his fingers into a tight fist and gave the door three firm raps withhis knuckles.

Then paused.

He gave it another two knocks.

Another pause.

One more pause.

A final knock.

And he waited.

Complete silence.

Alex glanced at Bjorgrund and Theresa, the pair shrugged.

“That was the knock,” Birger whispered, trying to peek through a crack in the door. “I’m sure of it.”

He stepped back, his eyes slowly scanning the building. “This is the place, isn’t it?”

“I thought you knew where it was, father,” Bjorgrund asked.

“I do, I do…but it has been centuries now…” the old giant pondered, glancing down the street. “Perhaps I mixed up the buildings…or the streets—”

Brutus’ heads and ears suddenly perked up. He sniffed the air, then whirled about, teeth bared. Theresa spun right after him, cursing.

Alex, Bjorgrund and Birger turned around, freezing in place.

Where the street had been empty mere moments before…now a group of five men and women, dressed in non-descript grey clothing, stood paces from the porch.

They appeared unarmed, but their clothing was loose—able to hide all manner of weapons in—standing there with perfect balance, as though they knew their way around a fight.

“You lost, old-timer?” a pretty young woman asked, stepping from the middle of the group. “You looking for the old shoemaker?”

“Shoemaker?” Bjorgrund said.

“You must be looking for the shoemaker that used to be here.” The woman nodded to a pair of rusty hooks hammered into the overhang above the porch. “He’s gone. He closed up shop.” She nodded down the street. “The nearest shoemaker is three streets away. You’ll want to get moving.”

There was a note of warning in her voice, one that screamed her true words loud and clear.

You don’t belong here, don’t stay. Leave now, if you know what’s good for you.

There was tension in her jawline and a hardness in her eyes.

Theresa’s death-stalker face was on full display, her gaze even, taking in the people in front of them. Brutus growl was low.

The men and women watched the cerberus steadily.

“Damn, I must’ve gotten things mixed up,” Birger said, after taking a moment to recover. “Do the grey geese still land in the stone pond? You know, the one by the rundown church on Iron Street.”

The ruffians looked at each other for a moment; Alex could see confusion flitting across their hardened faces.

Birger watched them for a moment. “Ah, maybe you don’t know what I’m talking about,” he said slowly and gently. “It’s been a long, long time since I’ve been here. A long time, and things have probably changed since I last walked these streets.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I’m not actually looking for a shoemaker. I have a funny coin that someone gave me quite a while ago. Someone you might know; I was looking to find a money changer that might tell me where it was from. Never seen its like before, and I was hoping maybe the money changer could tell me its story.”

Eyebrows rose on the ruffians’ faces. Surprise. Confusion.

The one who’d taken the lead, watched, her eyes boring into them like daggers piercing flesh; her role earlier had been to intimidate, now, it was obvious she was assessing.

Measuring.

She looked at a tall, bald man roughly twice her age.

Her index finger twitched.

His index finger twitched back.

“We might know a moneychanger, old timer, will you follow us?” He asked.

“If you could lead me to where they are nowadays, that’d help a man on his journey immensely,” he said, smiling kindly.

The bald man looked at Birger closely. “When last were you here on this street, old father?”

“Two or three hundred years,” he said.

“And what is your name?”

“Birger of Kymiland,” he said.

The bald man’s eyebrows rose so high, Alex thought they would skitter over his bare scalp. “Interesting. Yes, I think a money changer would be interested in talking to you.”

Quizzical looks were levelled at the bald man by his younger companions, but he paid them no mind.

“Follow me,” he said, turning and walking toward an alley.

Theresa looked at Alex.

“Be ready for anything,” he whispered.

Together, they followed the group of grey-clad ruffians through the old quarter, moving along several alleys before reaching another rundown street. The bald man never spoke, but Alex noted his gaze flicking to nearby windows and doors as he led them to a small, one-story house on the side of anold road.

At one time, it might have been a shepherd’s hut—even smaller than the building Birger had taken them to—but in worse condition.

The young woman strode up to the door casually, giving it a complex series of knocks: first five, then two, then seven, then four, all interspersed with regular pauses.

After a moment, there came a click.

The door opened into a dark space.

“What th—” Alex muttered.

“What’s wrong?” whispered Theresa.

“There’s something below us…” he hissed back. “It feels like…it feels like a piece of Hannah’s power.”