Chapter 7: Charred Dreams

Vidal joined me after an hour or two. I had lost track of the time lingering on mental manifestations of my life far gone with Santiago. Happy, smiling, youthful faces, as we together, in the prime of our third decade of Ascension, paraded through the streets of Veha as rulers of an unseen, unheard class.

In light of this obfuscation it was a greater kind of class, unhindered by the musings and collaborations of live court and the courtier’s life. It operated free from political strife and political gains, making use of our influence and power to grip the underbelly and puppeteer up the ladder.

This marionette’s dance, however, lasted only so long as was necessary to slip through legal jargon, righteous guardsmen, and unlucky, misplaced wanderers and adventurers. This kind of war, which we were now waging with late-Rodrigo’s faction, is a vice like arrogance.

“How did it go with the men?” I asked Vidal as he joined me.

“Did you not hear the shouting?” I suppose I missed it. He went on, “They wanted to string you up for the authorities to find. I promised to deliver them Santiago within the day. It was the only way, Jack.”

He looked apologetic but did not apologise, and spoke sternly. Vidal was probably frustrated, fairly and understandably so, but delivering them Santiago was an unfulfillable promise.

“When we return from late-Rodrigo’s Haven, whether we find it or not, whether we burn it down or not, we shall stop in and check on Santiago. Fitting, anyway, as I have to deliver my vita to him.”

“Your vita?” Vidal’s curiosity perked up. I ushered for him to stand with me, and we started strolling down the road from the front of the guild hall.

“My quintessence; my life essence.” I slipped my hands into my pockets as we walked, moving slow and by the sides of the houses to keep a low profile. I went on, “It is a manner of healing that supersedes the body’s natural processes with those of the Mother. In this way, she is a channel through which to impart upon Santiago my own health. In doing so, he shall heal at a greater rate and with no chance of mutation or malfunction.”

“If you are…” He paused to ponder, “…gifting him your life essence, as you said, doesn’t that mean you’ll suffer? Won't you fall ill?”

“It is unlikely here. You see, because his wounds are not fatal and in the moment, and I am not myself unhealthy, injured, or damned towards death.”

“Damned towards death? Do you mean dying?” He gave me a side-eye, suggestive of some thought like ‘why is he being so complicated?’ or ‘why is he being so pretentious?’ Fair enough.

“Yes and no. One can be dying but not damned towards death. This… this… complicated…” I twirled my wrists, searching for the words, “…description is a way to try and convey permanence, irreversibility. When I am damned towards death, it means I am set towards it, I am on my way to it but cannot not be on my way to it. Does that make sense?”

“Yes, that’s a bit clearer, Jack. Couldn’t you have just said something like ‘destiny?’”

“I could’ve, but it would have been misleading. There is no destiny here, because there is no predestination. Dying is the natural, mutually arising conclusion of life, and thus it is our finale to die, but it is not our destiny. No, destiny carries too much baggage.”

Vidal didn’t reply. His eyes were hooked by a passing troupe of performers and their entourage using this street to make way to the keep. They paid us no mind, if they even saw us, no more than a momentary glance was afforded our way.

“Are you surprised or enthralled?” I asked him once his attention re-affixed itself on the road.

“I suppose I am enthralled. Their outfits are lovely, they remind me of my sister.” Once he realised what he had said he scrunched up the muscles in his face, and lifted up his right hand to scratch at the back of his neck.

“I appreciate the jesters. They remind us not to take things so seriously wherein there is little to no seriousness to be had, inherently. Wherein the seriousness is attributed.”

“I think I’ve overheard gossip of the Duke speaking similarly, Jack.” Vidal replied quickly, eager to change the subject. He went on, “The guards, the men who wear the bulky black plate, were discussing it quietly a few hours after court let out last year. It made a big fuss around the city, because it apparently upset or worried the local nobles.”

“The guard spoke of all this?” Impossible that even the outer ducal guard had such knowledge as of the intimacies of the worries of the peerage.

“My sister, she works–” He cut himself off, cursing under tongue at himself for traipsing right back to where he had uncomfortably started.

“Works in the keep?” He nodded, and the conversation ended there. Something to raise later when, perhaps, he has thought on the matter and decides that it’s quite alright to stop being so uptight.

“We’re here.” I pointed forward, where the road forked in a Y. The right led to the wall, an indefinitely sealed gate barricaded with boards and supports thereon. The left led to the warehouses and shoppes; the left led to late-Rodrigo’s Haven, hopefully.

“Take your tunic off and stow it by that barrel.” As I commanded Vidal I led him by the arm to a break between houses, and threw my coat and waistcoat behind a stack of boxes, barrels, and construction supplies.

“Excuse me?” Taken aback, clearly.

“You look too rich to be walking around here, Vidal. Furthermore, this far cry from where I found you has led to a swagger unbefitting of one with such aesthetics.” I jabbed a finger at him and gestured to the finery he had been given. Clearly, they were from Santiago’s closet.

“Unbefitting? What do you mean by ‘unbefitting?’” Regardless of his annoyance, he complied, and thus I answered him.

“Your gait is awkward and forced. It is as though you are trying to look casual, and thus you do not look casual. You look out of place. If they see you they will report you, and all windows to the Haven will close.”

“Windows to the Haven?” He went on as he undressed down to a plain, off-white undershirt and flood pants.

“Signs of activity. If they think there’s a threat they’ll do everything they can to conceal their presence. It’s a part of our survival to operate under the watchful eyes of… well… everyone, Vidal. The point is we go unnoticed.”

He sighed in response to my points, and started ahead of me, into the district. Quite rude, too. I wasn't finished fixing my boots. I had to slam it back onto my foot by pivoting my leg back, into the ground, to kick start a jog to catch up with him. When I finally did, I gave him a friendly punch in the arm.

I intended it to be friendly, at least. He didn’t seem to take it that way and shot daggers back at me. His glare was fine and sustained, remaining as a drain on his overall demeanour even when he returned his eyes to the road ahead.

We didn’t have far to look. I could see the rear border walls of the district from the entrance, but stacked houses, structures, and other buildings made it a high density nightmare. All around my ears caught wind of chatter, working, and merrimaking.

I decided to take the lead and tugged Vidal’s sleeve, bringing him over with me to the right side of the road. There, I pointed further up and across the road, at a tall, T-shaped, outcropping building out front of which three figures stood. “What do you see?”

“What do I see? Jack, they’ve got to be two hundred yards away. What do you expect me to see?”

“I expect you to look, Vidal. Don’t fight me on this, just try looking at them, and tell me what you see.”

He sighed again, more loudly this time, and gave them his whole attention. Hopefully, this will be a learning experience for him. I suspect that the building we’re looking at is late-Rodrigo’s, and scouting out who all is loitering around the doors is a good first step.

For, for an Ascended distance is less of a problem for clarity in vision. For, alongside the many tools in our repertoire, one is like a telescope that reaches out for hundreds upon hundreds of yards beyond that normal, blurry boundary limiting Human awareness.

After about five minutes, Vidal finally replied, “Jesus, Jack.” He shuddered, and took a double-take in my direction. Having done so caused him to stir, I put my hands on his shoulders to keep him still, “How do I turn it off?”

“The same way that you turned it on, Vidal. You just do it, like you breathe. Don’t think about it; let it happen.”

Again, minutes passed, but finally Vidal responded with an exhale of exasperation and relief. He lowered himself down onto one knee, and slowed down his breathing.

“There are two men and a woman. They’re all armed, I can see faint lines of swords on the sides of their trench coats. She is brunette, they have black hair. She looks powerful, like she’s in command. When she speaks, she's confident.”

He rattled off the details rapid-fire. Again, I put a hand on his shoulder and shushed him, hoping to help calm him down.

“It’s alright, Vidal. Take it one step at a time. It’ll get easier. You did good.”

That seems reliable enough. It’s probably the building, or, at least, a front for it. If the Haven isn’t through those doors, it’s nearby. A solid start.

We sat there for another half hour, exchanging smalltalk as I waited for Vidal to ground himself and settle the lumps in his chest. He signalled his stability with a slap to my shin, pushing himself to his feet without help.

“Stay low.” I murmured before signalling for Vidal to follow whilst crouching and shuffling across the street on an angle, towards the left corner of the structure. Once there, I crept lower, almost on all fours, to avoid being seen through the ground floor windows, and moved to the entryway.

The trio had since reentered, away from view, after more chatter and a smoke. The streets remained without much action, and we were sure to look up and down the sandy flatland of that thoroughfare six times as we crossed and trekked to the doors.

They were left open, propped, so as to stay in place, by a stool and two boxes, respectively. Atop the stool sat some papers weighted down by a rock, and an inkwell missing its quill.

The corridor past the threshold was void of life, so we entered, still hugging the walls. Two doors, one right and one left, led into the equivalent sides of the building, this entryway seeming to bisect it, but neither spoke to being lived-in; each door was quiet, still, and dim.

The hallway culminated in a stairwell leading up and down. The way up was partially barricaded by miscellaneous tools, piles of wood, and other construction equipment. The way down, however, was without impediment.

I looked over at Vidal and found him looking puzzled, holding his chin tightly with one hand while the other drummed on his thigh, “What’re you thinking about?” I whispered.

“Isn’t this too obvious? The basement of a big, abandoned-looking building? Like, like they want us to think this is where it is, when really this’ll be a trap or a dead-discouraging-end.”

“That is what seems too obvious, perhaps.” I started, pausing before going on to breathe heavily, feeling the floor, dusty… dusty? Where are the trio’s footprints? “Vidal, look at the ground. What’s it missing?”

His eyes followed my call to my hands, and perused the ground. It took him a minute to finally answer, “Footprints.”

We shuffled back to the entrance and found that the footprints started where we had seen them standing, but ended just past the doors, not even a yard into the building proper. There, we knelt down together and carefully inspected the floor, finding subtle scratch-marks along a line of tile.

With our combined strength it was easy to get it open. In and back, the floor receded a few inches and then, of its own accord, set in motion by a not-so-faint click, rolled back, beneath the floor behind it, opening the way to a stairwell leading down to another set of double doors.

“Fantastic.” I said, starting my descent slowly, scanning each step so as to avoid any unexpected pressure plates, tripwires, or other precautionary measures. However, to my combined surprise and relief, none had been installed. “Cheap.”

My scorn drew Vidal’s interest, as he asked curiously, “What’s cheap, Jack?”

“Their security measures. They’re too complacent.” I replied, putting my ear up to the left of the double doors.

Beyond them I heard bickering. Some mass of people, five, six, maybe, were in the heat of an argument. It was difficult to discern exactly what they were saying, as their voices were drowned out by a combination of the weight and tightness of the door in its frame, so blockading as to even upset my heightened senses.

I tried the handle, unlocked, and turned it painstakingly slowly, easing the door open a crack once the latch fully receded. Therein I spied what I took to be a mudroom, and in an instant pushed the door open just enough for the two of us to slip through, subsequently relatching it.

The mudroom was dirty and littered with muddy and sandy shoes, boots, discarded coats, and other overclothes. We stepped around them, taking care not to kick anything over or aside in our stride, and took up posts against each pillar of an archway leading further into the Haven.

From there we located the group, six in number, gathered in the middle of a salon. Tables and chairs, lounges, loveseats, and decor in the form of artwork, bookshelves, and tall, potted plants–artificial from the looks of it–dotted the room’s edges, leaving the middle open for a large, majestic carpet.

It was there, in the centre, that they held their debate,

“Lyle and his friends didn’t see anything on the west end, nor hear anything. Rodrigo didn’t show up to verify the collections.” One voice reported,

“Which still needs to get addressed. Some cockwad wrenched the Fawn from us. The bartender threatened to have me killed if we ever came back when I confronted him about it.” The woman, this time, that confident dame from the doors,

“Look, this isn’t the first time Rodrigo’s slipped up on us. Just give it a day and we’ll keep looking around. For all we know he got caught up with some hunt or something and forgot his duties.”

Whilst they were engrossed in their discussion about their missing boss, Vidal and I crept forward and weaved between the seating arrangements to a stairwell against the right wall. It led up to a catwalk that we followed through an opening in that very same wall, nearer the back.

There we found a T-shaped hallway with multiple ajar doors leading into offices, storage spaces, and bunk bedrooms. Unoccupied, and frankly unkempt. Vidal selected what he suggested was late-Rodrigo’s office to rummage through whilst I returned to the catwalk and continued to round it. It followed the ceiling, above the conversing gang, and opened to one other such offshoot on the opposite side.

There, I nearly stumbled and spat out curses, but caught myself with a quick hand to an end table that caught my fall and allowed me to prance over a sleeping man in a chair right in front of the door. My distraction while side-eyeing the group led me to seek to enter without looking–a nearly disastrous paranoia.

Thankfully, he seemed to be deep in a slumber, furthermore pushed down into the depths of dreamland by what looked like slow-healing wounds. The room he sat dozing-sentry for looked like a workspace, with two desks stacked with books and papers, followed by a bar-wall at the far end with a gate leading into a room of crates, barrels, and chests.

A vault? I slipped back past the guard and found Vidal in the middle of the catwalk. He passed me a ledger and a set of keys before leaning into whisper,

“That office was an absolute mess. No sense of organisation. No sense of preparedness. It’s a marvel he manages to keep his cabal together.”

“It must be a marvel, then, that you managed to find this.” I commented as I flipped through the ledger. It contained notes about payment, interest on those missed, and the names and addresses of abused business owners. As well, he had side-line after side-line of chicken scratch notes in the margins and between notations.

“This is a goldmine, Vidal. I doubt he keeps it all here, but there’s an office at the other end with what looks like a vault.”

“Is it worth breaking into?”

“No.” I soundly replied. It was far, far too risky with the one at the door and this group below us. I felt their aura radiating around the emotionality of their musings and plans. At most, perhaps that one man, one of the two who were outside with the dame, was Human. The rest were Ascended.

“Why? At least we can open a few drawers?” Vidal squinted, sounding annoyed, likely thinking it would be quick and easy and worth the risk.

“Whatever minimal material gains are sitting in their for our taking via our pockets is outweighed by the fact that we are both outnumbered and your inexperience. I’m sorry Vidal, but we can pick through the ashes.”

“Fine.” He yielded, unhappily, and turned for us to walk together back down the way we’d come. Once again in the salon we made our way in a slow arc back to the door and beyond, to the other end where lay a vacant bar lined with alcohol.

We waited there together for a half hour until the speaking six dispersed. Five ascended the stairs and one, the Human, left. Another ten minutes passed before I put our plan into action.

“Pick the torch off the wall and stand by the archway into the mudroom. When I give you the command, throw it towards the carpet in the centre of the room.”

Vidal nodded, plucking a torch off of the wall whilst I turned and shut my eyes. In my head this skill was clearer; telekinesis demanded the utmost of effortlessness. To try and grab with the mind would be fruitless.

So, with meditative breathing and only my sensations as guidance, I took my time to draw the alcohol out from the glasses and barrels, and made it coalesce in the centre of the room, allowing no small amount to drip down onto the carpets, to seep into the drapery, tablecloths, chairs, and paintings.

Then, sustaining a lingering ball of liquid in the centre of the salon, I moved to Vidal, and whispered “Now!”

Once the torch was thrown, I grabbed him by the collar and we raced out the doors, up the stairs, and to the hatch. Before it was able to completely open, the roar of racing flames erupted from behind us, followed immediately by a series of differently pitched screams and hustling.

We propelled through the hatch once it widened to allow us passage, and made haste for our clothes and the exit of that district. In the distance we saw smoke and a mass of light giving life to the recent nightfall and its accompanying darkness. The screams and bustle spread to adjacent occupied houses and buildings as the fire spread, and the attention of the public moved to quashing it.

Individuals and groups streamed down stairs and out the doors of ground-floor structures with buckets, baskets, and whatever they could manage to carry water in. The flames roared up and high and streamed black smog into the air in such volume that it blocked out a great many stars.

“What the fuck was that magic, Jack?” A mixture of surprise and disdain followed the question. I figured it was a little much for Vidal who, up until this point, probably saw me as some quirky occultist damn good at fighting.

“Gifts from the Mother that follow from years and years, Vidal. Years and years. As they pass so too do the limitations of your earthbound body, your Human body, Vidal. Give it time and–”

“And I will see.” I scowled as he interrupted me, again annoyed at my putting off his need for instant answers.

“Santiago.” I said to break the tension, “Let’s go speak to Santiago.”