Commandment (20 page)

After much ado, they succeeded in finding Personnel. A secretary was luckily at hand. She was a plain-looking, middle-aged woman wearing horned-rimmed glasses. To Lakif she was the spitting image of a librarian. A flicker of hope kindled when she actually offered to help them. She was their first lifeline of hope within the bureaucratic ocean. After they explained their unusual request, she surveyed a text as thick as a chest. It was apparently a ledger listing the surname of all current employees. She then slammed the tome closed, citing that no such employee existed on the payroll. When they explained that the Bard may be an ex-employee, or worse, an alias, the woman shooed them off, stating unequivocally that all obsolete files were incinerated.

At her suggestion, they were directed to yet another department, Retirement Accounts. Again, they were forced to wind a hazardous route through the firm’s dismal underbelly. At length, and after much wasted time, they stumbled upon the office in a frontier wing. Once again, a small tarnished plaque revealed the department’s name.

Lakif fidgeted uneasily on the sofa, which was so small that it barely managed to accommodate even her slim frame. The tattered furnishing was pigeonholed with small burns, discolorations, and frayed ends, testifying to a long history of abuse. An awry spring poked up from the cushion, inching into the Acaanan’s ass. Although an eyesore, the sofa was the only piece of furniture in the reception office and was marginally more appealing than the floor.

Opposite her was Bael. Denied a seat, the High-man slumped against the wall, his hands sunk in his pockets. The ceiling was so low that he was forced to tilt his head to the side. Apart from the door they had entered by, there was only one other exit from the reception area. The cubby hole couldn’t possibly accommodate a third.

Both eyed the opposing door anxiously. In the interminable period they had waited, the portal hadn’t once opened. A few times they had knocked, even pounded, but without avail. Lakif was beginning to wonder if the door actually led somewhere. She began to imagine that it was just a prop used to cover a structural defect in the wall. Several times she entertained the thought of opening the door and proving her suspicion, but resisted the temptation. In the event she was wrong, she was certain of earning the wrath of some miserable employee.

After an eternity, the door opened, jolting the Acaanan out of a stupor. Bael had long since sunk to the floor and buried his head between his knees. At the commotion, he looked up with bags under his tired eyes.

Out shuffled an odd figure. The form was dressed head to foot in a long black coat. A top hat sank down around his skull, eclipsing his beady eyes. In one bony hand he held a shiny cane. It seemed that he was prepared to lock up for the day, without even acknowledging the two waiting guests. From a giant side pocket he produced a single brass key. It trembled in his hand, but the trembling stopped as he inched it toward the lock. Two attempts to insert the key ended unsuccessfully, with it banging into the knob. On the third attempt, the key, charting a haphazard course, finally landed home. With a click, tumblers locked into place, securing the room for the night. Replacing his key into the vast coat, the old codger turned to leave. This simple effort took several steps to accomplish, suggesting his feet were magnetically glued to the floor. He then started forth, bent forward as if supporting some unseen weight on his back.

As the two looked on, he quickly passed through the closet, narrowly avoiding the squatting Kulthean in his path. Before Lakif could object, the bolting employee was charging off down the corridor—his cane rapidly tapping out the path before him.

The two occupants leapt to their feet and dashed after the fugitive. With each step, the codger leaned a little farther forward and picked up speed. Every so often he would briefly stop, allowing for his feet to catch up.

They rounded a corner only to find that the man had disappeared. Lakif suddenly panicked. She had no idea of the time, thanks to her broken pocket watch. But she guessed that it was late in the afternoon. The employee could be one of the last workers in the building. Should he leave, they could be trapped in the law offices until the morning!

They peered around another corner only to spot the coot sputtering down the hall. The tiny corridors were so tortuous that he quickly disappeared again. Fortunately, they were able to track the rhythmic ringing of his cane.

After several turns, they rounded a corner and found the senior charging in their direction. Although Lakif was certain they had been spotted, the crackpot showed little inclination to curb his pace. Bent forward, he would have rammed his head into the Acaanan’s belly had not Bael halted him with a firm grip.

“Excuse me!” Lakif blustered.

She could now better absorb the old-timer’s features. With his black attire, the fellow was the very picture of a gnarled usurer, wizened with age. His pecuniary air stamped him as an eon-long handler of hard currency. A thin lip curled in annoyance.

“Are you lost?” he scolded them. After he stopped speaking, his lips continued to smack like he was chewing on something. Lakif was taken aback by the senior’s gruff demeanor.

“You work in Retirement Accounts,” Lakif stated rather than asked.

The man nodded. His beady pupils rattled up and down in his eyes.

“For Rhembald, Dulth, and Cawjul?” she confirmed. They had walked so much that Lakif feared they had inadvertently wandered into the basement of a neighboring firm.

“Did you not see me leave the office?” The crock sneered.

“You saw us, yet hurried by?” Lakif asked.

“You wouldn’t leave!” He fumed. “I mean, don’t you have anything better to do than loiter in my office all day?”

“You knew we were there the whole time?” Lakif trembled with outrage.

“Of course!” he snapped at the Acaanan and poked her with his cane.

“How did you see us?”

“Through the peephole!” he piped. Lakif had a vision of the arthritis-riddled fool stooping to spy on them through a keyhole all afternoon.

“Yet you ignored us?” Lakif’s blood boiled.

“Why not? I know you’re broke!” he barked back. Now Lakif was convinced that the old fart’s very blood ran with currency. Perhaps his hemoglobin was small coins that absorbed oxygen.

“And him?” Lakif gestured to Bael. No one would accredit High-men with poverty.

“I thought he was a sofa!” The scrooge squinted at the towering Kulthean.

Lakif’s every impulse was to reach out and throttle the geezer. But thankfully reason intervened. To aggravate the situation further wouldn’t help their cause.

“So who is suing you?” His eyes drilled into Lakif. The Acaanan’s nares flared. Caducity had warped this senior into an incorrigible scrooge.

“Sir…” Bael began, taking over for Lakif. “We’re not here for employment or any grievance.”

“Refreshing!” His lips smacked like a rabbit chewing a carrot. “So what the hell do you want?”

“We are trying to track down an ex-employee,” Bael clarified.

“I see! He handled a suit against you, and now you mean to exact private justice! There are courts for that!” he sputtered.

“No, this has nothing to do with business.” If ever Lakif had faced a mingy old crust, it was now.

“Now I know you’re up to skullduggery,” he ranted. “Everything has to do with
business
!”

“Please, sir,” Bael begged. “We don’t know his true name, but some call him the Bard.”

“Never heard of him!” The man brushed past, continuing on his jerky way like a skeleton. The pair darted to catch up with the cantankerous fossil.

“We have it on good authority that he once worked for this firm!” Lakif cried as she shadowed the manager.

The man frowned. “It rings a dusty bell. What was his name? Alferon? Samite? No! Cawjul! That’s it!”

“Cawjul?” Lakif cried.

“That seems right,” the miser added. He was starting to pick up speed again when Lakif grabbed hold of his cane. The senior pitched to a stop, allowing the pair to catch up. This time, they maneuvered themselves as to block his exit from both directions.

“Wait one moment!” Lakif pestered from in front of him. “Know you of him?”

“I’ve heard of him.” Again, he poked Lakif in the chest with his cane. “But such knowledge costs.”

She fished around in her pocket and produced a beka. At its sight, the man rolled his eyes contemptuously.

“Don’t want to find him too bad, do you, lassie?” he groused but nevertheless greedily snatched the coin. “What do you want to know?”

“You called the Bard Cawjul?” Bael began from behind.

“I said so!”

“Is he a descendant of one of the founders?” Lakif was thinking about the firm’s mouthful of a name. She wanted to shake the old timer’s shoulders until the truth rolled from his mouth like change from a slot machine.

“No,
the
Cawjul.”

“What do you mean
the
?” Lakif asked.

“The founding father, of course.”

“I was under the impression that this was a long-established firm,” Bael asked over the employee’s shoulder.

“It is.”

Lakif and Bael exchanged puzzled glances.

“When did he quit?” Lakif tried to refocus a conversation that had obviously derailed.

“Quit? He was fired!”

“What happened to him?” Bael asked.

“He was forced out by the other two. Fiscal irresponsibility or some other nonsense because he wasn’t earning any cents for the firm—if you sense my drift. He returned to the streets, which is where he always should have been!”

“When did he leave?” Lakif felt that any second a buzzer would sound, informing them that they would have to insert another beka for more information. At his question, the crock’s fingers tumbled in calculation.

“Two hundred and nine years ago.”

“Two hundred and nine!” Lakif stammered.

“We were led to believe he was alive,” Bael sighed.

“Yes, I have heard stories of him from time to time. Oh, never fear, he won’t die any time soon. I would imagine he is a magnet for life insurance companies!”

Lakif studied the coot in an effort to assess his sanity.

“Say you he is
alive
?” Lakif asked.

“Older than Isaac he is!”

“And know you where he is to be found, good sir?” Bael stepped in. Obviously, the Kulthean was humoring the senile old fart.

“Who could say? He’s a transient, equally likely to be found lounging amid the chinked pillars of Tartarus as the amphitheaters of the Forum. But as he always harbored a lewd side, and as it has just turned frosty, I would suggest searching the Fornix.”

“The Fornix!” the pair shouted in unison. That said, the fellow pushed past the Acaanan and continued on his bumbling course, leaving the two bewildered companions speechless.

Afraid of being hopelessly lost in the timeless corporation, the two followed the ornery manager’s course. He charted an erratic path through the perplexing arena. At last, he led them through an inconspicuous door into a remote stretch of the Old City. A herd of other employees filed through the door as well. Unsure of where they were headed, the pair followed the ruck, hoping it would lead them up to the district proper.

The gallery they emerged into was clearly a vestige of the Old City. Lakif felt that they were widely separated from Mount Astraea proper. They must have walked miles in the labyrinth of the basement. Lengthening shadows broadcast a late hour. Their simple trip had devoured the entire day!

The thoroughfare was blessed with a fair amount of traffic, even at this late hour. She recognized it as one of the old highways. Such avenues were used these days for cargo transport. Sometimes it was also used by far-ranging travelers. Due to the scanty traffic, one could travel large distances across Grimpkin in a day, a hopeless prospect in the congested avenues above. Such specialized avenues were thus saved from the neglect that claimed much of the Old City.

“Can we believe him?” Lakif asked to her companion. “The Fornix sounds like a red herring.”

“I don’t know.” Bael hesitated. “We must weigh this carefully.”

“Would there be any other route to an alchemist? Some avenue we haven’t explored?” Lakif questioned. It was a mere whisper, for anything louder would echo far down the highway.

Bael nodded. “I believe the lead is worth at least a token follow through.”

“I agree.” The Acaanan was comforted that Bael was of a like mind.

“Do you think we can make it back to the Goblin Knight?” Bael doubted their prospect of reaching the inn before lock down.

“We must be fleet of foot.” Lakif revved up.

W
ITH ALL HASTE, THE TWO HUSTLED BACK TO THE
G
OBLIN
K
NIGHT
. L
AKIF’S
thoughts were now single-mindedly directed on the wayward Half-man. Her reason had moved far beyond settling the financial score with him. It seemed that they had decided to descend into the Fornix, a prospect not easily stomached by the Acaanan. If the Bard was to be found there, it was a necessary gamble. While Bael was a powerful presence, Lakif wasn’t convinced of the Kulthean’s physical prowess. On the other hand, Torkoth had demonstrated his mettle beyond reproach. If any could fend off trouble in the Fornix, it was he.

There was another, slyer reason that Lakif felt Torkoth’s presence could prove invaluable. As a Kulthean, Bael commanded much attention in Grimpkin. But with the reprobates that frequented the Fornix, the High-man’s heritage might not carry much weight. In fact, it might engender spite. But a Half-man, particularly one with Torkoth’s wild appearance, would mesh easily with those disreputable types, and this could be taken advantage of.

Her search for Torkoth that morning had been cursory at best. She swore to find out once and for all the fate of the swordsman. She vowed that even in the event Torkoth wasn’t still roomed in the inn, she was prepared to canvass the neighborhood. It couldn’t be that difficult. If Bael had succeeded in tracking the Acaanan down, it shouldn’t prove too challenging to locate a Half-man of Torkoth’s unique appearance.