Commandment (23 page)

“Then why don’t you buy from him?” He glared at the Acaanan with gritty eyes.

“He’s run out,” Lakif launched a mouthful of spit against the arch.

“When I run out, my supply sells for eight per scruple!” he retorted with a droll giggle.

Lakif wrinkled her nose at the sarcasm.

“Let me see…” Lakif ran through a series of mental calculations. “Then, let it be ten grains.”

“See that pillar down there?” The dealer pointed down the Fornix to a leaning support. “Walk to there, count to a hundred, and come back.”

Lakif nodded like a seasoned buyer. She knew the Istani wouldn’t have the cryptide on his person. It would prove unacceptably dangerous in this environment and necessitate an unsightly accompaniment of guards. Most likely, he had his precious cargo stashed in a cubby hole nearby. The Istani turned and was swallowed by the darkness.

Lakif started off down the archaic lane. The arches naturally attracted her attention. She knew that they marked the entrance to Erebus, the gloomy underworld. Most distressing was that she couldn’t see clearly through them into the darkness beyond. She now applauded all the illicit trade that had been forced down into the cracks of the district. Perhaps only that activity kept the creatures within from streaming forth in bloodlust.

Lakif turned her attention back to her path and jumped. A white figure was hovering nearby. She was dressed in a white wedding gown but had no head! Was it a ghost? A moment later, the figure stepped forward and its head emerged from the darkness. A pearly veil drooped before her eyes. Sable black hair curled out from under the veil. A regal golden fleece was wrapped around her shoulders, and she cradled a small posy of flowers against her curvy breast. The girl had seemingly stepped from a wall, as does a dryad from her tree. Lakif couldn’t be certain if she was real, a figment of her hyperactive imagination, or a spectral bride that haunted the Fornix.

But an eager client hustled up to her and they began whispering together. It was an authentic girl. The prostitute had adopted the guise of a blushing bride! The client’s eyes zeroed in on that posy, and the treasure it concealed. Hopefully the fellow hadn’t brought his life savings. Under her wiles, it would run through his fingers like water.

Voyeuristic impulses took control as Lakif thirsted to see the natural evolution of the meeting. But suddenly the two disappeared behind a curtain. She was staring directly into someone’s chest! It was as wide as a shield and equally as durable. She gulped and looked up at the hulk standing before her. Typical of a Kulthean, the fellow towered over the Acaanan. But that was where the similarity to that breed ended. His tangled hair was studded with beads that hung to his shoulders, and his face was ruined by scars. Lakif trembled before the bruiser.

“What the hell you up to?” he scowled.

Lakif was at a loss for words. She didn’t know if this was a crazy man, a thief, a john, or some combination of the three.

“I was just…” she faltered.

“Taking pointers, huh? I’ve all but had it with you freelancers! You can turn tricks in the gully yonder!” He thrust out a crooked finger, pointing down the trench. “But thinks you can slither up here to steal my bread and butter?”

Lakif quailed before the brute. Evidently, he was the bride’s pimp, and interpreted Lakif as a rogue prostitute trespassing on his turf.

“A word of advice: nobody wants your scabies. And you’d be a one shot wonder. No one will take an Acaanan’s sloppy seconds!” With that, he nudged Lakif with a calloused palm. The thrust was forceful enough to stagger the Acaanan, who fell back on her rump.

The oaf cracked his knuckles and leered. Clearly he wasn’t above manhandling women. Horrified, Lakif feared he was about to punch her out, perhaps as a lesson to all future competition. He stepped forward but stopped in mid-stride. He blinked several times, as if uncertain what to do.

“Just be gone!” he shouted, waving Lakif to the devil as he marched off in a huff.

The Acaanan rose and dusted herself off. From the pimp’s irate demeanor, she had expected a throttling. Down here in the Fornix, no one would bat an eye at a Kulthean thrashing a scrawny Acaanan, even if a female. As she spun around, she started at finding Torkoth standing nearby. A short sword was poised in his hand, and an incensed look heated his face.

She now appreciated that Torkoth’s presence alone had rebuffed the pimp. Lakif stalled before his expression. She had never seen that look on the Half-man, or any man for that matter. And she wished to never again have the experience. It was no wonder the Kulthean had backed down.

“I thought we were to separate!” Lakif seethed. It ruffled her that only the threat of the Half-man’s retaliation had warded off the Kulthean’s fists.

“It seemed that…” Torkoth began.

“I didn’t need your help!” Lakif shouted.

“Then why did you bring me along?” Torkoth stepped back, genuinely surprised.

“Don’t change the subject!” the Acaanan snapped at him and stormed off. She realized that it wasn’t Torkoth’s defense that inflamed her, but the callous behavior of the pimp. How could an aspiring warlock be viewed as a free-wheeling hooker? After a few deep breaths she realized that her anger had been misplaced.

A howl ruptured her train of thought. A vagabond had appeared out of the gloom and was heckling her! The figure was draped head to toe in tattered cloths, not unlike a mummy. Even his face was completely obscured by a dirty strip of cloth wound around his head countless times. All the Acaanan could make out were blood-streaked eyes glaring out from between the bandage’s frayed edges. It was the same bowl-bearing pariah that she had scoffed at before. Apparently, he had witnessed the Acaanan’s humbling before the pimp. Coming from such a degenerate, the jeering shredded the Acaanan’s pride.

“What do you want?” Lakif scolded the bum.

“Come lay with me! I won’t rebuff you!” The voice gargled as if congested with fluid. Lakif paled as the fellow lurched within arm’s reach. Fortunately, he stumbled over his own feet and fell to his knees. A moment later, he doubled over as if an invisible fist had struck him in the gut. A volley of deep, phlegm-laden coughs fired off in rapid succession.

Lakif backed away from the cloud of pestilence that buzzed around the beggar. A bandaged hand reached up toward her. She could see elements of the hand through the thin bandages. There was no skin, but beefy, red muscle that wept a pussy fluid. This was no ordinary beggar, for he was doubly cursed with a horribly disfiguring ailment. Lakif suspected he was a leper. Those plague-infested fools frolicked in the Fornix. She instinctively dodged the outstretched limb, fearing that a mere graze would infect her with the insidious disease.

“Away, foul vermin!” Lakif swatted at the air as if catching a fly. It wasn’t clear if she was commanding the beggar or ordering her own retreat. Although she wanted to berate the diseased soul, she was afraid to even speak, lest contaminated air leap into her lungs.

She looked around for Torkoth. Where was the Half-man when he was needed? Lakif would have liked nothing better than to see this disabled bird take flight before the armed scarecrow. But he had left her to cool down.

“You seek the Bard?” The man’s waterlogged voice popped.

“You know of him?” Lakif leaned back to maintain a safe distance from the contaminated vessel.

“I do,” he huffed out the words. From the manner in which the beggar winced with each word, Lakif suspected it was a chore for him to speak. The Acaanan’s eyes darted around the trench for Bael. She spotted the Kulthean on the far side. With his imposing stature, he easily stood out from the surrounding riff raff.

“Wait here!” Lakif ordered as she sped off. “And don’t die before I return!”

She sprinted over to find the Kulthean chatting easily with a prostitute. The alluring vixen was all too comfortably brushing up against him. Curiously, Bael was blushing with embarrassment before the woman’s wiles.

Paying the escort no heed, Lakif burst onto the scene. The woman groused when the Acaanan tugged at the Kulthean’s arm.

“Away, hussy!” the woman barked.

Although Lakif didn’t say a word, her animated manner conveyed her sentiments well. Bael took polite leave of his concubine and they returned to the recess.

Thankfully, the beggar was still present, although he had collapsed in the rubble. From his awkward position, Lakif wondered if his legs had broken off under him. He was flailing his arms up and down in the dirt like a child making a snow angel.

“Keep your distance,” Lakif warned the Kulthean. “He is a storm of maladies.”

“Who speaks—a ghost?” The bum reached up to fan the air.

“We just spoke,” Lakif clarified.

“Behold the man!” The leper pointed at them. Lakif couldn’t be sure which of them he was singling out.

“Pardon? This is my friend.” Lakif introduced Bael.

“No, you both are but a single man split in twain. One was blessed with all beauty, presence, and compassion, while his counterpart is cursed with all that is base and craven.”

“We were speaking of the Bard.” Lakif tried to ignore the scathing comment. She wanted to shake the bum back to reality, but did not dare touch him.

“Ah, the savant of Grimpkin!” He coughed out a mucous-matted response.

“Where is he?”

“I wouldn’t know.” The figure staggered to his feet.

“But you said…” Lakif began.

“I said I knew
of
him!” With the change in tone his voice whistled, and Lakif wondered if he had a hole in his throat. Lakif grumbled at his hair-splitting.

“You miserable liar. Your brain is as rotted as your fingers!” she cursed.

“My
master
would know of him.” The bum kneeled as if he would propose to the Acaanan.

“Who is your master?” Bael asked. “Eyre Rasp.”

“And who are you?” Lakif fired.

“Janus.” The leper grabbed at his own throat as if he was holding it together, or choking himself.

“Jonas?” Because of the bum’s hoarse tone, his name sounded almost identical to the scribe at the Goblin Knight.

“
Janus
.” The servant shook his head.

“Then how can we find Eyre Rasp?” Lakif had fears that the bum’s tongue would fall out before he was able to divulge the informant’s whereabouts.

“He dwells in there.” The beggar arched an arm toward the gloom of Erebus. Lakif and Bael exchanged concerned glances. Clearly, the Kulthean shared Lakif’s fear.

“We are not entering Erebus,” Bael replied resolutely. “Bring your master
here
. We will reward him handsomely for any inconvenience.”

“Eyre Rasp has no use for coin,” the derelict hissed.

“We would appreciate his guidance,” Lakif stated, trying to sound sympathetic.

“
Appreciate
? Please!” Janus now pulled his mouth wide, as if allowing space for his words to escape. His mouth was a horror show of ulcers. “But I’m sure my master would part with the Bard’s whereabouts, in return for a simple favor.”

Quid pro quo! Lakif sighed. The wage of a service was as often measured in favors as it was for hard currency.

“Then we don’t need your help,” Lakif scoffed. The discussion sounded like it was bending toward trouble. The beggar transfixed Lakif with fierce, bloodied eyes.

“You feel that the Bard is in the Fornix, no?” Janus paused amid labored breaths. “The Fornix spans the entire girth of Grimpkin, the cracks in the classical vase that is our district! You would do well to weigh the odds of stumbling across him accidentally.”

Lakif paused to consider the advice but still wasn’t swayed.

“What favor?” Bael asked.

The reprobate mouthed something, which sounded like a sneeze.

“Horses?” Bael clarified.

The pariah nodded with a greedy insistency.

“You want horses?” Lakif stammered.

“How many?” The Kulthean persisted.

“As there are three of you, bring an equal number,” the beggar commanded. He held up three fingers, which Lakif suspected was all he still possessed. “Preferably alive.”

Lakif was surprised at the quote. Three of them? The beggar knew that Torkoth was part of the company. Clearly, he had been spying on them from the beginning.

“Where are we to deliver them?” Bael asked. Lakif was studying her companion in an effort to evaluate his take on the offer.

“I will be here for another day collecting flies,” Janus explained and held up a glass jar. Lakif could interpret his comment in different ways. “If and when you return with the horses, we’ll go together to see my master.”

“In there?” Lakif’s voice trembled.

“Yes. The rendezvous with my liege is at the Dead Moon Lake.”

Lakif glared at the beggar with extreme skepticism. His offer was highly suspicious. Her main doubt was whether the beggar was in fact genuine in his offer and that he in fact had a master who could shed light on the Bard’s location. But assuming he was speaking the truth, which was doubtful, the token gift was problematic. Three horses to give up the Bard? On the surface, the offer sounded simple enough. Deceptively simple, Lakif thought. The Acaanan had never owned a horse. In fact, she had never even known someone who owned one. On top of that, horses were frightfully expensive. It would be cheaper to purchase a slave. Irrespective of the cost, the greatest challenge was finding them. Such beasts were unheard of in Grimpkin. They would be forced to travel to the edge of the district just to acquire them, a prospect that would take them far afield from their goal. Then, even if they succeeded in somehow getting three steeds and managed to return in the stated time frame, they would have to face the troubling prospect of venturing into Erebus.

But the converse held as little appeal. They could spend untold days combing the Fornix, facing a host of dangers with no guarantee of ever finding the elusive quarry.

“I don’t think so,” Lakif refused.

“It’s a deal.” Bael stepped forward. “I hope you understand if we don’t shake on it.”

Lakif threw her friend a stunned look. Bael’s confidence reassured her that he had already formulated a plan. Nodding his satisfaction, the leper lurched off into the gloom amid an explosion of hacking coughs. He swung the open jar wildly about in a miserable attempt to catch the flies that orbited him. Given the sight, Lakif seriously doubted the disintegrating servant could weather another day.