2.8 The Party Trick

The Cathedral of Dust was rather dusty. Perched atop a desolate crag in the misty peaks of Ardour in the far south-west of Oldeburgh, it had never become a valuable time-efficient customer for the myriad cleaning services of the kingdom. Worse still, its eastern wall had completely collapsed, leaving the Fellowship of the Glitch no other option than to labour upon a complicated office rotation based on time, temperature and weather, so that its top dogs could enjoy a refreshing sun-room on nice mornings whenever it was acceptable to said dogs.

This, however, was not the reason for the name of the imposing, angular structure. That originated, as Wilborn made clear, from the hope that its hopeless and nameless prisoners would return to nothing long before they had the chance of a face to recognise or a window from which to see the world.

“What have they done?” wondered Silven aloud as Wilborn led his guests from a dusty antechamber into a dusty chamber.

“Nothing,” said Wilborn simply. “They had no choice. The Glitch had chosen them, and, for the sake of you and me and this entire world, we had to remove them.” They passed into a dusty passageway and down onto a dusty stairwell. “There will, it is acknowledged, likely come a time when our eternal foe finds a way to infect the very essence of existence itself. That will be the end; we are doomed to defeat. But, until then, we can combat its vessels.”

“Is that what we have consigned those people to in that village?” demanded Olgred, suddenly at Wilborn’s shoulder.

“Not necessarily. Some can be cured. We shall do all we can to help. That includes yourselves. Your report may save lives.”

Soon, they emerged into a glowing hall. It was, Silven noticed, remarkably undusty. Red-hot coals sizzled in pits along the centre of the expanse. Arranged in neat rectangles around these pits were dozens of old stone writing tables, covered in tottering towers of manuscripts and tables. At each and every one, red-faced officials clutched at pens and tore at hair in equal measure.

Wilborn noticed Olgred’s interest. “Another setback,” he uttered sadly. “The last Master tried to pull in some extra influence through a sponsorship from the king. Two years later, we’re a royal office and thus subject to the royal paperwork. I’m sorry, this is too distressing. This way, and quickly, please.”

The visitors were quickly ushered into a small side-room, furnished with scrolls bearing cheerful likenesses of ‘clients’ of the keep. Silven assumed those likenesses were now a little out of date.

They sat themselves in cosy armchairs against one wall, facing a dusty table stretching almost across the length of the chamber. Wilborn disappeared and almost immediately returned with half a dozen men. They were all old, all robed, and yes, all clean-shaven. Eagerly, they arranged themselves behind the table and leant forward to regard their helpers.

“No elbows on the desk please, Lorborn,” said an old, robed, clean-shaven man sternly. He met Silven’s eyes and smiled warmly. “Greetings, travellers. I am Colborn, chief researcher for the fellowship. Our work is threefold: to save the lives of those afflicted by the great enemy; to prevent those afflictions passing to others; and thirdly...” He trailed off, confused. He looked to his brothers, who only shrugged and stared at the table. “Err, there is a third thing, I’m sure. Anyway, I suppose you’re eager to be off adventuring again. I shall be dispatching a team to the Nameless Village as soon as I secure a Permit to Battle a World-Threatening Enemy from the Order of Defence.” He turned again to his colleagues. “Or is it the Order of Investigation now? I rarely have time to keep up with politics.”

Silven shuffled his chair. “You were saying we could help?”

“Ah, yes.” Colborn regarded them as if for the first time. “We just wanted to ask a few quick questions regarding your involvement with the Glitch, in case our own agent missed anything. A different perspective is always good, you know.”

“Tea or coffee?” offered Wilborn.

“Questions, please,” replied Silven as politely as he could. “I’ve had an insightful day. I am eager to return to work myself.”

Colborn blinked. “Well.... what was it like out there?”

“Sorry?” said Silven.

“You know, what did you see? Smell? Hear? What were your personal impressions of the Glitch?”

Silven stared. “Does your interview have direction, sir? I’m a busy man.”

“And an impatient one,” Olgred muttered under his breath.

Colborn straightened in his chair, his face grim. “I know I have my doubters here, but I tell you all, my qualitative profiling will save the day.”

The man by his side bristled. “Fine; if you must go on, I’m sure it smelt of fish and chips. What we need is some blood samples from the affected. And until our permit comes...” He glanced sideways at Silven.

The businessman laughed too loudly. He patted Olgred’s shoulder too hard. “Hoho! I knew it would get to this. Ever since we stepped through that portal I’ve had my suspicions about this wild dragon chase. This is just another quest for just another fighter. Listen, I work for a big company. If this Glitch is really as bad as you say, I’m sure I could pull a few strings. Get you some support without all that ‘transparency’, if you know what I mean.”

There was a rustle across the table. One man practically rolled onto the table in his effort to lean more forward than the rest. “A big company. Which one?”

“Silverlink. Send a letter over to PR. Or if you find any giant man-goats heading straight for Overwall, just give me, Gary, or.... Gaz here, a call at HQ. You know, so we can rescue the boss.”

The room grew cold. Eyes bored into Silven’s flesh. The men sat in stony silence. Finally, Colborn opened his snarling mouth. “Gentlemen, you should have told us before. It is an honour to work with the kingdom’s greatest venture. So, on with the interview.”

Several men stood. “A little tea,” said one, and made quickly for the door.

“No time now. Deadlines. The supervisor’s a real dick,” laughed Silven, eyes roving the room.

Colborn ignored him. “Have you ever worked in the Instant Messaging Department?”

“No,” said Silven and Olgred at the same time.

“I see. Where is the principle Expertminerium mine?” said Colborn coolly.

“You’d have to ask an expert miner,” replied Silven immediately.

Two figures circled behind Silven. Before they could reach him, he stood, dragged Olgred up, and headed for the door, coughing. “Phew! Terrible dust in here. Need... a break.”

“Just a quick one,” droned Wilborn. “We’ll show you the bathroom.” He strode quickly for the exit, but the visitors were already through.

Silven pushed his friend towards the door in the far side of the admin hall. Robed men hailed them and trotted towards the entrances. Crossing the room at top speed, they closed the door behind them just as a servant stretched out a helping hand inches from the frame. “Lamb or pork tonight, chaps? I trust you’re staying for dinner,” called the muffled voice through the wood.

“Just a sandwich. We don’t want to be too much trouble,” Silven answered. He pressed a finger hopefully to the Silverview and cursed. “Remind me later, top priority to the escape project,” he muttered, and strode off down the corridor. Olgred followed closely. “What’s going on?” he hissed. Silven pressed him down a turn off as more brothers clattered along from ahead. He opened the door at the end to reveal a very worn set of stone steps descending into a wide tunnel. “Hmmm, not very hopeful, but we’ve got no choice. What was that, Olgy? Who knows!”

They hurried past what looked like a thankfully deserted guard checkpoint spanning the path. Beyond, the tunnel widened even more. By the weak torchlight, Silven made out huge dark circles set into the walls on either side. There were little plaques fastened between each one. He approached the closest on the left and read aloud. “Sally Sidley, quarantined 14/8/1456, ghosting.” He stood back and looked at the circle again. Finally, he saw them for what they really were – gigantic vault doors. “This must be part of the prison. That poor woman’s been in there eleven years, and I don’t intend on joining her. Let’s get out of here.” They trotted on along the tunnel, but it only grew darker and more foreboding as they went. Beyond another dozen or so vaults, however, the hint of a light began to waver ahead. Then came the voices.

“Rats! They’re cutting us off,” he whispered to Olgred. He approached the nearest door and tugged at an unmoving iron bar. He moved on to the next with identical results. Up ahead, the light grew brighter.

“Well, are we going in then?” said Olgred impatiently.

“What?”

“Now’s not the time for research. We need to go,” urged Olgred, and pointed up.

Silven couldn’t help but cry out at what he saw. Above each and every cell, a ragged hole had been torn into the thick stone wall. From down on the floor, twenty feet below, they looked just about the right size for a man to slip inside. Silven looked at Olgred and mumbled something incoherent. His friend was quick to push him over to the barred door and get his feet started on the ascent. “You’ve got to have some way to get in.”

“Thats... not the point,” puffed Silven as he wriggled upwards.

“It’s a room, Silven?” said Olgred, clearly annoyed. “Everywhere must be explorable. We can’t expect to open those heavy things every time we want to be in.”

Silven only shook his head in reply. Then, he hopped back to the floor and pointed down the corridor towards the growing torchlight. “Pushing all obvious questions aside until a safer time, we should head for that one there. It’s got a grate with a padlock across the hole, so surely that’s more important.”

“Ah!” said Olgred. “A signpost, if ever there was one. That’s our escape – away we go.”

A minute later, Silven had scrambled up, removed the polite attempt at blocking the way, and hauled Olgred to the gap in which he had wedged himself. Just then, two robed brothers appeared at the head of a squadron of chainmailed guards. One pointed straight up to the visitors and turned angrily to a soldier. “How did they make it this far?”

“Funding cuts, Brother Gunborn. If you halve our hours....”

“Oh, moan groan whine. Get the keys!”

Without a word, Silven and Olgred scrambled down the rough-cut inner wall of the cell. It was only then that Silven thought about what might be lying in wait for them. He whirled, drew his sword and stood poised for action.

There was a high stone slab for a bed, a ledge or two set into the corners, and a thin, leering silhouette which bounded out from the right towards the warrior. Silven whipped round and pressed the point of his blade against a wheezing chest.

"What ho! Visitors, and at my age, too!” cackled the dirtiest man Silven had ever laid eyes on. His clothes were no more; he was completely naked save for an insulating layer of grime. Olgred choked on the fumes and hung back against the wall. The man waved unkempt mats of hair from his face and smiled a crooked smile. “Well, how’s the world? Still crazy? Still deadly? Goody good good. As long as my Delia’s doing well. She must be....woooo.... a hundred last Tuesday. Anyway, I’d give you a present save for I’m not allowed things. Not since I started my party trick.”

Silven sheathed his sword and did his best to look pleasant. “That’s okay, sir. We’re just passing through anyway. And Delia’s doing fine.”

A sudden tear welled in the old man’s eye. “Did she mention me?”

Silven looked the prisoner straight in the eye. “She misses you.”

Olgred took an unsteady step into the stench. “What’s your party trick, mister....?”

The man cocked his head like a dog. “Do you know, I can’t quite remember. My name, that is. Only Delia. Say, I could do my party trick for Delia. Do you have anything for a young girl?”

The three men jumped as a horrid shriek rocked through the circular door. Olgred took a few steps away, then paused and rummaged purposefully through his pockets. “I have...this,” he said, holding out a crude wooden doll towards the old man.

“Why?” came Silven’s voice behind him.

“I actually have seventy two,” muttered Olgred. “10% chance from any chest in a northern house. The people never seem to mind.”

The man snatched the toy desperately from the outstretched hand. He rubbed the painted head lovingly against his curled beard. “This will do. For Delia!”

He opened up his fist and the doll clattered to the ground. The door lurched, but Silven and Olgred stood transfixed. They had the strangest of feelings that something amazing was going to happen. Something in the air just didn’t feel... normal.

The man dropped painfully to his knees, held up the doll, placed it back on the ground, and then raised it fully and dropped it once again. All at once, there were two. Silven blinked. They were really there, and, as the man raised and dropped them again, another two appeared by their side. Mindlessly, even as the door creaked open, he crouched and took up a doll. He dropped it. He held it. He laid it down. He picked it up. He dropped it. He clutched incredulously at its sudden twin and cried out inarticulately into the musty air of the cell.

A louder clank brought him back to semi-reality. Stamping feet heralded the entry of four guards through the opened door. Behind them, Brother Gunborn glowered silently. The guards halted. There was a moment of terrible silence. At long last, Gunborn spoke. His voice was like death. “They are afflicted. Quarantine them. Secure the area. Cover up the trail. I have things to discuss with the Master.” He swept back out into the tunnel as the guards raised maces and spears and advanced. Silven and Olgred scrabbled deeper into the cell and almost tripped over the prisoner as he mumbled and laughed. By now, he had made dozens more dolls, and, oblivious to the danger, he was cheerfully lining them up in pretty little rows along the crumbling floor.

The guards scurried after their targets and clattered to a halt, horror in their eyes as they fixed their gaze on the creations. “Stand guard,” ordered their leader uncertainly, arms out to protect his men. One prodded at a doll with his spear and shuddered.

The remaining brother poked his head into the cell and barked at his minions. “No, we want them quarantined. As in, their own vaults. Forward!”

One man turned angrily to his superior. “You go in!” he spat. “I tell yer now, I’ll be buggered if I’m touching little dollies in front of me mates.”

Another kicked nervously at the tiny barrier. “Quite literally, back at the tavern,” he added.

The brother roared. The old man cackled and grabbed armfuls of new wooden friends. The guards shrank back with howls of alarm. Silven patted Olgred discretely on the shoulder and pulled him towards a wall. He reached out, touched a brick, and shoved Olgred roughly into the tunnel which emerged from the stone. A moment later, they were sprinting along a shadowy tunnel towards a pale natural light. “How did you know?” panted Olgred, as they emerged into a frigid breeze.

Silven waved dismissively. “That prison cell looked almost identical to an establishment I visited just before I met you. Same architect, I reckon, and a lazy one at that.” He looked out at the staggering view that awaited them from their little balcony high on the side of the mountain. All around, peaks wreathed in conifers rose up towards the cathedral just above them. “Please....” he pleaded, and touched a finger randomly to his Silverview. He sighed and eased forward to look down onto a dizzying drop. He closed his eyes and opened his jacket pocket. “What was your max survivable fall again?”

“Sixty-seven feet,” chattered Olgred immediately.

“Thought so. Doc said mine’s up to eighty-one.” He fished out a coil of rope and dangled it into the air. Olgred joined him at the edge of the ledge. “Oh, grats to Mighty Megamuscle Man. There’s something moving down there.”

Silven tensed and followed the finger. “It’s just some monster,” he puffed, relieved by the absence of skulls and horses. He lowered the rope and peered desperately into the mist swirling about the outcrops below. “Yes!” he said after a minute. “If we aim for that razor-sharp spike pointing up to the right of that bridge, we’ll be okay.” He reached into his pocket and offered Olgred an apple. “Make sure you’re healthy first.”

Olgred munched. Silven lined up and plunged off into nothingness. He landed neatly on the tip of the jagged rock, rubbed his legs, and steadied Olgred as he appeared from up the mountain. Beneath, a shaggy beast with snow-white fur bared its teeth and roared. “Oh, shut up!” Silven snapped. He raised the Silverview and looked up worriedly as a wooden spear whistled past. “If we’re halfway between....” He pressed his finger to the parchment and sped away into the wind.

It was a jolly evening in Overwall. Men and women skipped and laughed down the street with tankards in their hands. Someone had a barbecue going on the old village green. Thunderstring, a supergroup of Solmond City’s most famous bards, was just getting started in the private tavern. And this was only the start of the surprise festivities. Everyone was talking about Olgred’s unprecedented announcement of a full week off for all Silverlink’s hard-working employees, in celebration of a year of success, and, more importantly, in preparation of an even busier year to come.

Back at the silent mansion, where only demons now toiled, Silven was not joining in. He raised a glass of port as Olgred entered and returned his attention to the four gold coins neatly lined up on the table in front of him. Five minutes ago, there had been only one. Olgred sat down quietly and said nothing. Finally, their eyes met and a wealth of confusion passed between them. Silven laughed. Olgred smirked. Wordlessly, they sat and gulped at their beverages.

Silven thought of the old man. He thought of Folborn. For the first time in a long, long time, he thought of Professor Grennel.