ALL NOVEL 65 – The Red-shingle Path
Kitchen cooking implements, pots and pans, tools, glassware - such things had no place being carried around in Zel’s Fog Storage. In the field, there was no use for a full-sized cooking pot; a small field one alongside its tripod was what a beast-slayer needed. So they went, sorting through the length of the list and pulling things out that weren’t sufficiently described by their titles, only to return most of them back to storage anyway.
After hours of pulling things from storage and hauling them into the house, it was finally done. The number of things taken from the E.Z. campsite had shrunk to a little over a quarter, still including a large portion of the active-combat equipment. The rest of the day they spent doing next to nothing, excepting an hour and a half of helping Makhus taste-test different formulations of that blue drink while what he proudly declared to be his final batch of Fivefold Philter bubbled away in the background.
Out of four variants one consistently turned out to be preferred, even as Makhus put together new sample groups with different formulations. At the end, he was left frustrated yet satisfied by the fact that a version of his original formulation with the alcohol content reduced and herbal extracts added turned out to be the preferred one, instead of any of the more complex, fancier formulations he had attempted.
“Yeah, s’pose the common folk would prefer simplicity anyhow,” sighed the alchemist in resignation. “At least it’ll be easy to make.”
Some more time passed. Sigmund prepared supper, nothing more complex than cauliflower and broccoli boiled, spiced, breaded, and fried; a side of boiled and scalloped potatoes; and some sort of dipping-sauce made from sour cream, garlic, and chive. The four ate their fill. Zel considered foregoing the large portion she had initially chosen, thinking that she might puke if she were to receive a truly mighty gutpunch in the immediate future, but then decided to go for it anyway, thinking that a simple strike wouldn’t make her puke - at least not while using Storm Engine for total body control, which she would do in combat anyway.
And indeed, they did depart for that supposed fighting-pit some time later, but not before both Zefaris and Zelsys made a mnemonic imprint of the directions they heard to ensure neither of them had misheard, shared it with Sig and Makhus. They had a mind to write them down too, but Makhus got ahead of them by doing it in code and using Old Ikesian, stating that he could read it as if it were clear writing and Sigmund could decode it handily-enough.
“If we don’t return by sunrise, you’ll know where to search,” Zel said to Makhus before they finally left. Zef had changed into a clean set of the clothes she’d bought from Bherad’s, strapping on both Pentacle and its speedloader, even taking along her bayonet - prepared for open combat. Zel didn’t bother with such a thing, feeling no need to seek out a firearm in favor of her cleaver and her own capabilities.
So they went, walking the streets of Willowdale for what must’ve been nigh on twenty minutes before the first landmark mentioned in that old man’s directions came into view - a house with one bright-red shingle amidst its roof of blues, the bottom-most row, third from the left. A turn into the back alley, and into the city’s deep tissues they plunged, into the self-same quarter which hid that speakeasy.Through the claustrophobic alleyways, lined by ancient houses whose facades concealed not their age the way those in the public eye did. Some were still obviously built with wattle-and-daub and stood upon wooden beams. Strangest of all, though, was the fact that Zelsys could’ve sworn she saw a familiar shade of red vanish behind a street corner from the edge of her vision.
Unfamiliar gazes trailing them from windows, porches, and the occasional balcony. Only a few were hateful, most were merely curious or unfamiliar, but there were a few that conveyed recognition. Zelsys was certain she saw one of the older gate guards in one of the windows.
A considerable walk and some half-dozen increasingly esoteric environmental directions later, and they were there… If the description of the door had been truthful, at least. It was supposed to be a black, metal-plated cellar door at the bottom of a staircase near an old two-floor apartment with a small wooden sign above it, with burned-in text advertising a gambling parlor.
It was, indeed, such - the sign was ancient, the wood grown through with moss, and the door looked no younger. Its surface was pock-marked by the signs of a smith’s hammer, and it had a visibly well-oiled slot at eye height. The next step was to simply knock, and Zelsys did.
The slot slid open, a pair of old eyes looked from past it, then it shut and moments later the door swung open to Old Sailor standing before them. He looked upon them, smiled through his facial hair, then wordlessly stepped aside to let them through, his hand in a vice-grip on the door all throughout. Shutting the door behind them he took the lead, stating plainly, “Wasn’t sure you’d show up, if I’m honest. Come, it’s a bit of a walk.”
And so, they walked some more. Through a short passage into a cellar containing mostly-empty shelves with some vegetables and various jars, and from that cellar through passage that had clearly been made in a wall recently, through another cellar whose contents were similar. From there, the old man moved aside a cabinet and a rug to reveal a trapdoor, which plunged deep into the earth with a stone-brick staircase of twenty-three steps. These were… Old. Very old.
At the bottom of the stairs awaited them yet another door, and knocking on this one in their stead, he said to the doorman at the other side: “These are the ones I vouched for.”
Some noise could be heard, but it was nowhere near the levels of a proper pub or even that speakeasy. When finally the door swung open and the old man ushered them in, they were met with a scene straight out of some old history book.
