I guess this means a job opening
Posted: Tue Aug 05, 2008 1:16 am
"Duke Yvain, I apologize for being late. I was killed on my way to your castle."
It was enough of a non sequitur to make Yvain Wintersong Brookshire look up from the paper he had been studying. He covertly slipped it into a drawer before the figure in front of him could so much as read the title.
"You have my attention," he said.
Olave Ly'Piscator nodded, the black wide-brimmed hat on his head bobbing up and down. "Three masked men. They used knives. No markings, no obvious gris. One was in the back of my neck before I could even scream. Another went through my back. The last one pierced my left kidney."
"Would you like some wine?" Duke Yvain asked him. "It sounds like you've had a bad day."
"In my condition? I probably shouldn't."
"No," said Yvain, "I suppose not. How much time do you have?"
"Thirty minutes, at most." He gestured to an exquisite little rock crystal bottle that hung on a chain around his neck. It was about half-full of a luscious gold liquid. Even as he spoke, the level of the liquid dropped perceptibly. Exterior soul, useful as hell when the interior one left the body due to conditions beyond the occupant's control. Trouble was, consciousness guzzled life-essence like a Hummer guzzling petrol, and carrying around more than the tiniest quantity was a good way to go insane.
"Well then. Say what you came here to say."
"Lord Rhodondra and Lord Caverden are in the palm of the Hand," said Olave. "You must kill them and burn the bodies. Lord Negrixnaht supports them. Talk to Yardistan and find a way to have him killed and cremated."
Yvain sighed. Ordering his vassals killed was always a chore. There were the inevitable complaints from their friends and family, sometimes even a few minor rebellions that had to be put down. No one ever wanted to believe that his brother-in-law or business partner or liege lord was part of the Hand of Rrakanychan. And they would always object to unceremoniously burning the bodies, as if those events in Kingsgate so long ago had never happened. "Anything else?," he asked, dreading the answer.
"A village near Cerce was attacked by an Unspeakable Horror."
Yvain drew in his breath, sat up very straight. "Come now. Are they sure?"
Olave Ly'Piscator nodded grimly, with a look of infinite pain on his stretched features. "They're sure." It was not a comment that invited doubt.
"Let me guess," said Yvain, cradling his face in his palms. "The bodies had no eyes."
"No. Well, yes. Sort of. The eyes had no bodies. They were all just piled up in a pyramid in the village square, one pair for every inhabitant. The rest of the bodies had vanished."
"It still needn't be an Unspeakable Horror. Something else, maybe a deep abyss dweller."
"The Piscator who investigated swears that the eyes were following him."
"All right," said Yvain. "Unspeakable Horror. I'll send in the militia and the priests, same as we did in Erinamor."
"Then that is your report," said the dead man. "I have only one other thing to discuss, and it will have to be fast. In fifteen minutes you will be needing a new Arx-Piscator. I served you, and Duke Erik Mortis, and Duke Erik's father, so listen well. You can screw up the economy, screw up in the Landsraad, or screw up during wartime, but you cannot screw up the Piscatores. Because we are the gate that holds back the night. We are all that stands between the peace of Brookshire and the advent of a Hell so dire it puts that beneath our feet to shame."
"I understand," said Yvain.
"Do you? Twenty two hundred years ago, Kaiser Marcus Alexander died under mysterious circumstances, an oily serpentine knife lodged in his throat. Twenty one hundred years ago, his son, Kaiser Marcus Alexander II, died in exactly the same way. His son, Kaiser Marcus Alexander III, didn't wait around. He knew the legends of the Hand of Rrakanychan, the group of necromancers sworn to free Shireroth's most terrible demon from its captivity and enact the will of the terrible Demon Fish of Balgurd. He knew some things were more important than the Golden Mango Throne. So he vanished. Even we do not know his fate, but we do know that a century after his reign, the records begin to speak of the Piscatores Alexandrii, the Fishermen of the Alexanders. Men who fight back against the demons and cultists. After Alexander's disappearance, we never again hear of a Kaiser killed by a serpent knife. But make no mistake. That serpent knife is only inches away from the throat of the entire world."
"I understand," said Yvain.
"Do you? The Piscatores became institutionalized, complete with a budget from the Duke of Brookshire's purse. The Arx-Piscator became yet another corrupt appointee, to be hired or fired according to the political whims of the time. During those times, anarchy reigned, Kaiser Letifer the Unprepared was confined to Shirekeep, and bandits and invaders moved around freely through the Shirelands. Do you think that was a coincidence? Do you think that you could remove the last doorjamb on the portal to hell and not live to regret it? Do you think there weren't supernatural forces...fish!...working behind the scenes, holding every natural force that led to the Empire's demise in place?"
"I understand," said Yvain.
"DO YOU? When Duke Erik Mortis' father made me Arx-Piscator, for a year it was all I could do to survive. Then we started getting lucky. The bait was dangled, the fish lured onto our hooks. The ether of Shireroth began to clear, and with it, its monarchy and its people. But never forget that the Demon Fish are out there. The Unspeakable Horrors are out there. Rrakanychan himself is out there, somewhere. Give them one opening, and they will flood through it like water through a burst dam. Here, take this."
He handed Yvain a scroll.
"My successor. You need to test all the nobles of the land. Promise me you'll do that. Promise me you'll test them and offer treasure to anyone who passes, and not give the job to some political appointee."
"It's your dying wish. I promise."
There were still a few drops of golden liquid sloshing around the bottom of Olave's bottle. "I have five minutes," he said. "Is there a chapel in this castle, where I can pray to Mors for my soul? I have seen Hell, and I have no wish to see it again."
"Down the hallway, to the right," said Yvain. "Thank you for your service. May the gods open the doors of the Celestial Temple unto your soul, and may you remain as strong an advocate for us above as you have been here below."
Without a word, the dead man turned around and walked out. Yvain had to stifle a gasp when the Arx-Piscator turned his back to him. Sticking out of it were three knives, each with the sinuous curves of a serpent.
Yvain waited a bit, lost in thought. Then he summoned a maid. "There will be a body over in the chapel. Please see that it gets removed."
It was enough of a non sequitur to make Yvain Wintersong Brookshire look up from the paper he had been studying. He covertly slipped it into a drawer before the figure in front of him could so much as read the title.
"You have my attention," he said.
Olave Ly'Piscator nodded, the black wide-brimmed hat on his head bobbing up and down. "Three masked men. They used knives. No markings, no obvious gris. One was in the back of my neck before I could even scream. Another went through my back. The last one pierced my left kidney."
"Would you like some wine?" Duke Yvain asked him. "It sounds like you've had a bad day."
"In my condition? I probably shouldn't."
"No," said Yvain, "I suppose not. How much time do you have?"
"Thirty minutes, at most." He gestured to an exquisite little rock crystal bottle that hung on a chain around his neck. It was about half-full of a luscious gold liquid. Even as he spoke, the level of the liquid dropped perceptibly. Exterior soul, useful as hell when the interior one left the body due to conditions beyond the occupant's control. Trouble was, consciousness guzzled life-essence like a Hummer guzzling petrol, and carrying around more than the tiniest quantity was a good way to go insane.
"Well then. Say what you came here to say."
"Lord Rhodondra and Lord Caverden are in the palm of the Hand," said Olave. "You must kill them and burn the bodies. Lord Negrixnaht supports them. Talk to Yardistan and find a way to have him killed and cremated."
Yvain sighed. Ordering his vassals killed was always a chore. There were the inevitable complaints from their friends and family, sometimes even a few minor rebellions that had to be put down. No one ever wanted to believe that his brother-in-law or business partner or liege lord was part of the Hand of Rrakanychan. And they would always object to unceremoniously burning the bodies, as if those events in Kingsgate so long ago had never happened. "Anything else?," he asked, dreading the answer.
"A village near Cerce was attacked by an Unspeakable Horror."
Yvain drew in his breath, sat up very straight. "Come now. Are they sure?"
Olave Ly'Piscator nodded grimly, with a look of infinite pain on his stretched features. "They're sure." It was not a comment that invited doubt.
"Let me guess," said Yvain, cradling his face in his palms. "The bodies had no eyes."
"No. Well, yes. Sort of. The eyes had no bodies. They were all just piled up in a pyramid in the village square, one pair for every inhabitant. The rest of the bodies had vanished."
"It still needn't be an Unspeakable Horror. Something else, maybe a deep abyss dweller."
"The Piscator who investigated swears that the eyes were following him."
"All right," said Yvain. "Unspeakable Horror. I'll send in the militia and the priests, same as we did in Erinamor."
"Then that is your report," said the dead man. "I have only one other thing to discuss, and it will have to be fast. In fifteen minutes you will be needing a new Arx-Piscator. I served you, and Duke Erik Mortis, and Duke Erik's father, so listen well. You can screw up the economy, screw up in the Landsraad, or screw up during wartime, but you cannot screw up the Piscatores. Because we are the gate that holds back the night. We are all that stands between the peace of Brookshire and the advent of a Hell so dire it puts that beneath our feet to shame."
"I understand," said Yvain.
"Do you? Twenty two hundred years ago, Kaiser Marcus Alexander died under mysterious circumstances, an oily serpentine knife lodged in his throat. Twenty one hundred years ago, his son, Kaiser Marcus Alexander II, died in exactly the same way. His son, Kaiser Marcus Alexander III, didn't wait around. He knew the legends of the Hand of Rrakanychan, the group of necromancers sworn to free Shireroth's most terrible demon from its captivity and enact the will of the terrible Demon Fish of Balgurd. He knew some things were more important than the Golden Mango Throne. So he vanished. Even we do not know his fate, but we do know that a century after his reign, the records begin to speak of the Piscatores Alexandrii, the Fishermen of the Alexanders. Men who fight back against the demons and cultists. After Alexander's disappearance, we never again hear of a Kaiser killed by a serpent knife. But make no mistake. That serpent knife is only inches away from the throat of the entire world."
"I understand," said Yvain.
"Do you? The Piscatores became institutionalized, complete with a budget from the Duke of Brookshire's purse. The Arx-Piscator became yet another corrupt appointee, to be hired or fired according to the political whims of the time. During those times, anarchy reigned, Kaiser Letifer the Unprepared was confined to Shirekeep, and bandits and invaders moved around freely through the Shirelands. Do you think that was a coincidence? Do you think that you could remove the last doorjamb on the portal to hell and not live to regret it? Do you think there weren't supernatural forces...fish!...working behind the scenes, holding every natural force that led to the Empire's demise in place?"
"I understand," said Yvain.
"DO YOU? When Duke Erik Mortis' father made me Arx-Piscator, for a year it was all I could do to survive. Then we started getting lucky. The bait was dangled, the fish lured onto our hooks. The ether of Shireroth began to clear, and with it, its monarchy and its people. But never forget that the Demon Fish are out there. The Unspeakable Horrors are out there. Rrakanychan himself is out there, somewhere. Give them one opening, and they will flood through it like water through a burst dam. Here, take this."
He handed Yvain a scroll.
"My successor. You need to test all the nobles of the land. Promise me you'll do that. Promise me you'll test them and offer treasure to anyone who passes, and not give the job to some political appointee."
"It's your dying wish. I promise."
There were still a few drops of golden liquid sloshing around the bottom of Olave's bottle. "I have five minutes," he said. "Is there a chapel in this castle, where I can pray to Mors for my soul? I have seen Hell, and I have no wish to see it again."
"Down the hallway, to the right," said Yvain. "Thank you for your service. May the gods open the doors of the Celestial Temple unto your soul, and may you remain as strong an advocate for us above as you have been here below."
Without a word, the dead man turned around and walked out. Yvain had to stifle a gasp when the Arx-Piscator turned his back to him. Sticking out of it were three knives, each with the sinuous curves of a serpent.
Yvain waited a bit, lost in thought. Then he summoned a maid. "There will be a body over in the chapel. Please see that it gets removed."
Nifty indeed.
