Slumrat Rising

Chapter 120: Tourist Trap

Truth was wearing what he thought of as his Desrin disguise, unwilling to acknowledge that he had gotten alarmingly comfortable wearing it over the last few weeks. The white Zeph (no tassel, keep it low key) was comfortably snug on his head, his sensible trousers and shirt clean and looking sharp, and his sword rested on his hip. Although the latter still felt odd.

The Tongue of One Who Speaks For God, and wasn’t that a mouthful, was a two-handed sword. It was on the narrower side, rigid for powerful, effective thrusting, but beefy enough and balanced to be authoritative in the cut. It was also considerably lighter than Truth expected, though he knew that was actually normal. Swords were meant to be light. You would get tired fast if they weren't. And having one bouncing off his leg as he walked through a city felt damned odd.

He had looked into a back carry, of course. It looked sharp, and he suspected it dramatically improved mobility. Merkovah’s laughter had been… unkind. It turns out, after some experimentation, that even with Truth’s remarkable flexibility, it is almost physically impossible to draw a long sword from a sheath slung over your shoulder. You can pull it out a little way, but the range of motion just isn’t there to lift it clear of the sheath. Merkovah grudgingly admitted there were scabbards, rare scabbards, designed to allow one to draw from a shoulder carry, but they were heavier and more clunky than the sword itself. Carrying the sword hanging from your waist really wasn’t all that bad, comparatively.

Truth had been getting used to it, but it still caught him by surprise sometimes. For example, when walking into a crowded store. People gave the sword plenty of space, but bumps happened. Whacking into tables and shelves happened. Not often, but often enough to make him hyperconscious of his personal space. The prerogatives of the nobility, like private service and the masses not allowed to approach without permission, suddenly made a great deal more sense.

What was stranger was the number of swords in circulation seemed to be increasing. It wasn’t just Desrin, either. He saw a cluster of middle-aged women proudly showing off their new machetes. It seemed a very odd fashion accessory, but given the way everything was headed, he saw the logic. Advertisements released by street teams would drift through the alleys, persuading people to visit a particular knife fighting school or the such-and-such swordsmanship academy. Most shooed them away, of course, but there seemed to be some takers.

Truth worked through the winding, sandstone-colored streets, admiring murals and statues and the carts loaded with fat fruits or bright flowers that seemed to spring up everywhere. Prices were high on the fruit carts, and the vendors looked a bit grim. But the path of the foodie demanded sacrifice and eating a particularly spiky-looking pink thing with vivid magenta flesh. The vendor supplied a little wooden spoon to eat it with, which proved necessary and the only thing that saved his shirt from permanent purple ruin.

Having snacked well, he finally made his way to a little shop. It sold a great deal of things, all stacked in little clusters and clumps across shelves and window displays, even hung up the sides of the walls and hanging from the ceiling. A claustrophobic blizzard of modestly priced geegaws, claptrap, and commemorative shirts. The Freedom of the Terraces had shifted colors. This was Birdie territory, apparently.

There were keychains hanging by the dozens, with little icons commemorating players on their ends. Truth found it morbidly fascinating- a mass-produced chain curtain of the martyrs of the pitch. He touched his scarf lightly. He couldn’t do what Raffe and Gionne did. He could understand it, though. In his muted, simple way, he mourned them.

He looked around at the hanging jerseys, cheap commemorative knockoffs the lot of them, and yes, right there at the front of the shop, in a carefully tasteful display, was the sole Brickies jersey in the shop. Raffe and Gionne, immortalized forever, or for as long as the display moved units.

Beyond the commemorative Pitz paraphernalia, there were little models of famous Xandre landmarks, some carved in wood or cast in brass or steel. Truth was seized with a sudden urge to buy. Some of them even had little charms on them, announcing “The Old Carriage House, Xandre,” or “Temple Bune.” A particularly grand one claimed to be the Royal Palace. He wanted to collect a few. He had the mad notion of showing them to the Sibs.

“See- I went somewhere! I lived there for a while. I met people, did things, saw things, made friends, found a lover, or, really, she found me. I have grown. I’m not just a thug with a spell- I’m a thug with a spell and all these other things. These memories, these connections, and here I have proof of it that you can hold in your hand.”

Shoved in a corner was a rather dull brass sculpture of Nag Hamadi. The artist had skipped all the inscriptions and carved only the most significant statuary. Truth grabbed it at once and marched to the front of the shop.

“Excuse me, how much is this sculpture?”

“Prices marked on the bottom. Small temple souvenirs are nine Birr or three for twenty-five.” The shopkeeper was a faded man, somewhere between fifty and the grave. Credit to him, he kept the shop clean and well-dusted. He must have had plenty of time for it. A tourist shop in a locals-only side street? It was a wonder they were still in business. Truth might well have been the morning’s only customer.

“That’s too much. Look, it’s missing the big statue of the eagle out front. Five Birr, best I can do.” Truth shook his head, pointing at the front of the sculpture.

“Prices are as marked. You want it cheaper? Buy three.” The faded man somehow faded even more, his interest in Truth visibly evaporating.

“Come on, man. Five Birr. I’m getting it for my sister. She’s three. And sick.”

The man snorted. “Save your money for the doctor, then. Buy something or scram.” He bent over to pick something up from under the counter. Truth helped him get low- he smashed the brass sculpture of Nag Hamadi on the bony edge of the back of the faded man’s skull, just above the spine. The shopkeeper collapsed like a stabbed waterbed.

Truth quickly hopped the counter, checked that the man was still breathing, and dribbled a potion in his ear. Having ensured no sudden wake-ups, he tapped the charm in his pocket twice. It faintly vibrated twice back. Apparently, a squad of heavily armored and specially trained police was on standby, ready to rush to the rescue at a moment’s notice. For reasons of operational security, it was deemed best if he and they never met.

Truth quickly checked the storeroom behind the counter- box after box of cheap tat inventory, a filing cabinet, a stool shoved under a shelf, no doubt used for taking a break while “checking in the back” for more stock. Next to it was an open, empty locker next to a jutting corner of the wall. No surprises there. Intelligence said that the cabal was entering from this shop, generally during the daytime to blend in with the occasional shoppers. There would, therefore, be a secret entrance here somewhere.

He ran through the usual search methods- blowing clouds of enchanted chalk to detect invisible or illusory doors, spell hunting charms, looking for active enchantments, spirit tracers, all the usual stuff, and it was all coming up negative.

Because you are thinking like a mage. And the anti-theists arent.

Eh? Everyone’s a mage. Everyone who isn’t a cripple.

Oh, my mistake. I guess there is a reason there is a meter square corner of the wall sticking out just behind the man-sized locker, in a cartoonishly inefficient use of limited inventory space. Probably a magical reason.

Struggling with not being a dick, huh?

It’s awful. I swear, I am doing my best. Don’t get cute, this is a raid. Smash right through the wall.

Damn right.

Truth crouched slightly, then slammed shoulder first through the thin boards. There was a deep hole behind it, but Truth’s quick reflexes let him stop and brace against the far wall. He looked down. The hole was dark. How deep, he couldn’t say, but there were metal staples driven into the wall, big enough for use as a ladder. He grabbed ahold and quickly moved down. Speed and surprise were the twin gods of forcible entry, but they had a supervisory deity called “Scout before you breech.”

This op wasn’t by the book in anybody’s book. On the other hand, Merkovah had heard the good word, and now Truth was looking at a nice little level three elixir and fifteen thousand Birr. He went faster. He only got paid five grand in advance. The thought of not collecting all of it was making him itchy.

The ladder wasn’t all that long, maybe twenty meters. He quickly landed on a stone floor. So dark, even his gifted night vision from his Rough Patron struggled to see anything. He reached for a little summoning charm, ready to snap it and get a little light sprite in here.

NO! These are not mages! Their whole technology is anti-magic! You think maybe summoning something might set off an alarm?!

Ah. A valid point. But they had to have some way to see. So presumably, they either brought something down with them, or there was something right near the ladder. And he wasn’t going to head upstairs and frisk the storekeeper unless he really had to.

Truth squinted around in the little puddle of light at the bottom of the ladder. There was nothing that would obviously be a source of light. There was mostly nothing at all, just bare stone and mortar walls. There was a little bucket hanging next to the ladder with a lid on it, and some thin, flat bits of wood in a basket next to it. There was a slot in the lid of the bucket. The sticks seemed to be the same dimension as the slot.

Seemed obvious if you were willing to accept that you had no idea what would happen. He picked up a stick and put it in the slot. Nothing happened. About half of the stick was sticking out of the bucket. Maybe you had to remove the stick afterward? He gingerly did so.

As the stick cleared the slot, the room started lighting up. A brilliant neon green glow was now emanating from the stick. The stick looked a little damp, but the glow was coming from the wood, not whatever potion it had been dipped in. He had… no idea how that worked. But he could see now, no alarms had gone off, and maybe one of the anti-theists would think he was one of their own for long enough for him to put them down.

He gave the bottom of the shaft a quick looking over and found nothing but a door. The door wasn’t even locked. Truth gingerly eased it open. There was a short hallway with three doors leading off of it. One on the left, one on the right, and one straight ahead. Generally, you would have a team breaching each room, one at a time, while a couple of the team members were covering the hall. But he didn't have that, so he just quietly walked over to the first door on the right and eased it open.

Some kind of closet. He didn’t know why it was funny the evil anti-theists had a deck broom and mops, but it was. He had seen that brand of cleaner in stores around Siphios. He gave it a last quick look, but if there was anything nefarious in there, he didn’t spot it. He went to the door opposite it. A workshop. He would definitely be doubling back to this- even the components would be very useful to study. There was a chance of finding notes and diagrams too. Still, nothing immediately nefarious lept out at him. He would come back once he had secured the area.

Truth eased up to the final door. There was a faint noise coming through it, a sort of moaning, but it kept on going when anything with lungs would have had to breathe. Air over a tube? There was something resonant about it, almost shaking his bones. He reached for Incisive. The anti-theists would know he was here in a second anyway. He made the spell form in his mind, and… it fizzled out. Anti-magic wards. Had to be. For a moment, he wondered what would happen if you lived in an environment like this. Your spell apertures would collapse, for sure.

Shit. He looked down at the Tongue. It wasn’t visibly damaged, but he certainly wasn’t going to try and use its magic. Worst case scenario, it was still a sharp, pointy stick. He drew steel, tensed himself, and eased open the door.