STALKER7

An ongoing story about professional dungeon delvers.

PART ONE

PART TWO

3 – OLD LEGEND ON NEW SKIN

Mikal woke hungover.

The run-in on the stairs had sent him into The Basilisk’s Arse. There, in the cool dark of the pub’s back corner, he spent the rest of the day trying not to obsess over the huge amount of money he owed, the fact that Stein at the Union had sicced collectors on him, or Lomer Jon’s jagged little parting shot. Especially that.

A surveyor’s watering hole, the Arse was full of familiar faces willing to stand him a round in memory of his crew, even after a month, and he’d taken full advantage of that sympathy to forget most everything for a short time. 

In fact, the entire evening was a bit hazy. He remembered several rounds of Picks and Pints, and singing that song about the hunched miner who worked the seam face with candles ‘fore and aft’; on his crown and in his crack. He had no memory of how he got back to his apartments though. Still, his bladder dragged him out of his own bed the next morning. Fur-tongued, wobbly, stained and stinking. Hurting, but in one piece.

There, swaying over the chamber pot, Mikal swore two things: the first was to only drink good whiskey from now on – a vow that sounded suspiciously familiar – and second, to stab that long-shank bastard, Lomer Jon, next chance he got.

Mikal stood for a long time, taking deep breaths, waiting for the throbbing in his skull to subside. The sun in the gable window didn’t help, appearing particularly bright and disapproving. He stared right back, equal parts queasy because his guts were in knots and angry because something was scratching at the back of his mind like a frantic hound. It was a good five minutes before he remembered the High Town meeting.

Edna’s job!

Another five minutes of frantic stumbling as he slapped cold-water sense into himself and scrambled into cleaner clothes. He bolted out the door, praying to the ‘oh god’ of hangovers he wouldn’t throw up. Or if he did, he did it before he reached High Town.   

***

Low Town was cobbled stone and hewn beams; grays and browns daubed with faded colors. It had a well-worn feeling, cramped but sturdy, bustling with noise most hours of the day. On the other hand, Edna’s address was High Town typical; a marble mansion of sharp corners, gilt, and limewash sitting primly on a crypt-quiet street. Even the trees were straight and proper. The only people Mikal saw on his way there were servants, clerks, and the High Town Watch who were cleaner, better-fed, and far more suspicious of him than their Low Town counterparts.

The Willows was a stretch of summer estates on the north bank of the Trond, a monied neighborhood where the kingdom’s wealthiest citizens spent a few weeks each year in the cool mountain air, far from the sweltering cities and sun-baked plains. Empty the rest of the time, more silver was spent to maintain seasonal gardens than most people in Low Town or Bottom Docks made in a lifetime. It was late autumn, so the street was deserted except for the pair of footmen flanking the gates at Mikal’s destination.   

They straightened as he approached and it was immediately clear they were too large and too scarred to be common domestics. Mercenaries, he guessed, or veterans who’d swapped the rigors of army life for cushy work guarding high-born persons and property from the unwashed masses. From people like Mikal. Military swords at their sides confirmed it, as did the tailored leather jerkins.

Apparently, they were expecting him. Mikal passed through with only a cursory search and the slightest hint of contempt. He couldn’t help but notice the conspicuous absence of insignia on their jackets. There wasn’t even a coat of arms to mark the house.     

Well, Edna did say the client was ‘anonymous.’

Up the steps, through the grand entrance, Mikal found a high-ceiling foyer. The door to a drawing room was open on the right and he heard murmured voices, the rustle of clothing. Entering, he found three others; a young man and an older woman in the subdued crimson of Stralla and Savoy, and another ‘footman’. The woman was straight and severe, with ice-blue eyes and short hair the color of straw silk. The young man, short and puffy-faced, had the permanent squint of someone who spent too much time peering at fine print. The guard was even thicker and more scarred than the two at the gate. All of them turned toward Mikal when he entered.   

“Have a seat, Mr. Shiver,” the woman said straightaway, and gestured to a kitchen stool beside an ornate side table. Every other piece of furniture in the room was covered with white linen.  “My name is Alarise Mescebran, counsellor for Stralla and Savoy. This is my clerk, Per Vokra.”

The guard didn’t speak and he wasn’t introduced. He simply put his back to the wall and stared straight ahead, still as a suit of armor. 

“Pleased,” Mikal replied. “Anyone else joining us?”

“No.”

The clerk stepped up to the opposite side of the table and pulled a folio from a black leather satchel. Alarise Mescebran remained where she was, slightly out of arm’s reach, as if Mikal would grope her. Or was contagious.  “I take it the hiring agent informed you of my client’s desire to commission a survey?” she asked. 

“You mean Edna? All she said was someone needed an Inspection and Appraisal. Nothing more.” 

The woman nodded, pleased. “That is correct – to a point. My client does require a cursory inspection of the property. But they are more concerned with the procurement of specific items located on site.”

Mikal nodded and sighed inside. Grave robbing for the rich. Same old story.

Polite society didn’t admit it but that was the real motive behind the Surveyor’s Law – the Writ – two decades prior; there was too much wealth in the ruins and tombs of this land to leave there. Or to leave laying around for just anyone to get. After all, one can’t have regular people getting filthy rich. Trouble was, the powers that be didn’t want to get their hands dirty either – which was where Mikal and others like him came in. Hunt treasure in the wilds or pilfer an ancient crypt, you’ll hang from the nearest tree for the high crime of ‘desecration.’ Scour the same ruins with an official license for a wealthy patron… well, that was a different matter. You were a ‘salvor and surveyor’ then. Mikal figured this anonymous client was no more than a shifty uncle or an outcast bastard who wanted the jewels out of the old family keep before the inheritance was officially divided up in the courts.  

Both the lawyer and the clerk were watching Mikal expectantly. “Well…” Alarise said. “Are you interested in this task?”

“Depends,” Mikal said. “Where is the property and what are the items? In general terms, of course. Big load or small? I need an idea of how many hands to bring.”

“I can’t divulge that information unless you agree to the job.” 

Mikal shook his head. “That’s not how this works.”

The big guard tensed ever so slightly. The clerk, Per Vokra, took half a step back. Alarise Mescebran smiled tightly. “That’s how this job works, Mr. Shiver.”

For a hair’s breadth, everything in the room seemed to stop – sound, his heartbeat, the motes floating in the sunbeams, the wind outside the tall windows. Like a hitch in the day’s stitching. One of those moments that was too weird to be real but too real to be ignored. 

‘Smells like trouble,’ Edna had said. If anyone had a nose for calamity…

Vera would walk out. Mikal was certain of that, down to his marrow. She’d walk out that door right now and not give this shiny, oversized out-house a second glance. Right after she punched the guard in the face.

Then Mikal remembered Lomer Jon and the quarrymen on the landing. Pictured Auditor Stein behind his desk at the Union, frowning over Mikal’s note and calling for the bailiffs.

“I’m empowered to offer a payment of fifteen hundred crowns to a surveyor of your experience and discretion,” the lawyer said quickly. “Half upfront. The balance paid on return and successful completion.”   

Mikal managed to keep his composure. “Where do I sign?”

The clerk had the folio on the table and open to the contract page before Mikal could blink. Pen and ink materialized an instant later. “Initial here, here, and here,” he pointed. ‘And put your full name at the bottom on the right.” 

Mikal ignored the warning bells in his head and scratched away. When he finished, he set down the quill. Per Vokra made the folio vanish just as quickly then stepped back to stand beside the guard.

“There,” Mikal said firmly.

The lawyer afforded him another smile, a hair more genuine this time. “Thank you, Mr. Shiver. My client will be pleased you have undertaken the task on their behalf.”

Mikal nodded automatically. A job was a job. Scruples were for the rich, after all. And fifteen hundred for an I-and-A was twice the going rate. “Happy to help. Now where’s the client’s property?” 

The woman hesitated ever so slightly before answering. “In the Kermir March, north of the Fekete Ver.”

Mikal laughed, then stopped when he realized she was serious. “That can’t be. That’s Dominion land.” 

“It can and it is,” Mescebran replied smoothly. “The North Marches from the river to the Burning Hills are to be integrated into the Confederacy under the aegis of its member kingdoms and their respective royal families.”

“How?” Mikal asked, astonished. “Since when?”  

“As of the twentieth of Netent, the close of the last Grand Council meeting. The proscription was lifted by unanimous decision.”

“Twentieth of… That’s a month ago.” Mikal still couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He looked at the clerk and the guard for some kind of reaction, a hint that this was a bad joke, but they were stone-faced as fasting clerics.      

“Of course, the decree hasn’t been announced to the general populace,” Mescebran explained. “King Galleg and the Council recognize the need to be sensitive in these matters.”

“Sensitive?” Mikal said. “The Black Line has been in effect for a hundred years. Since Ekion and the Shackled killed the Tyrant Zael, scattered his army, and burned Horiach Tien to the ground.”

The lawyer nodded. “And that history will be respected. That was the foundation of our proud confederacy, after all. However, the Council agreed that the danger of the Ur’Gench Dominion has been over and buried for a century. Ruins and ash. It makes no sense to ignore valuable land and resources because of ghost stories and myths.”

Mikal stammered. “The Founding War isn’t a myth. It’s history,” he protested. “The plagues, the dark spawn, the desecrations… Cursed ground, cursed magic is the reason it’s forbidden to cross the Fekete Ver.”

“Was forbidden,” Mescebran corrected. “Perfectly legal now, by royal consensus.”  

“What about the Border stations? The Rangers?”  

“My clerk has all the documents you’ll need, including the writ of expedition and travel passes for your crew.” She paused. “You should be honored. You’ll be one of the first Confederation citizens in a hundred years to walk the lands of our former enemy. In a way, you’re making history yourself, Mr. Shiver.”

‘Honored’ was definitely not what Mikal was feeling right then. A hundred questions swirled in his head. It was a long moment before he spoke. “Have you ever seen a skode, Madam Mescebran?”   

Mikal saw the guard’s eyes tighten, but the lawyer’s brow furrowed, puzzled. “A skode, Mr. Shiver? I’m not familiar.” 

“An Ur’Gench war beast. Bred unnatural by alchemy and blood magic. Histories describe them as rats the size of bears. Faster than a starving wolf. They ranged at the front of the tyrant legions, attacking in waves, hundreds at a time.” Mikal suppressed a shudder.  

Alarise Mescebran was openly skeptical. “And you’ve seen one? A giant rat creature from the pages of ancient history, alive today?”

Mikal bit his tongue to keep from tossing the fancy table through the window. He wanted to shake her by the shoulders, shatter her smug certainty. He wanted to scream his friends’ names in her face and storm out. Some of that suppressed rage must have leaked through, because the guard’s hand went to his sword hilt. 

“I’ve run into half-breeds, madam,” Mikal answered, tightly. “The ones that survived the war disappeared into the wilds, went feral. Over the decades, they diluted the bloodline by interbreeding with normal animals. Bears, mountain cats, wolves. Now, their mongrel offspring live in packs and make their dens underground. In caves, basements, catacombs, tombs.” 

“Rats, bears, wolves,” she said dismissively “You’re telling me the famous Mikal Shiver is worried about overgrown vermin?”

The guard caught Mikal’s eye and shot him a warning glance. Mikal glared right back.

Per Vokra coughed and broke the tension. He stepped up to the table once more and pulled a large piece of folded vellum from the black satchel. Smoothing it onto the table, he turned it around for Mikal to read, then stood back.

“What is this?”

“A map of the property’s location,” the clerk explained. “It’s a larger scale than we’d like but the principle’s acquisition is clearly marked, and possible locations of the items in question are annotated there and there, in those structures.”

Vokra’s map looked straight out of a museum archive or the Annals of the Founding. It wasn’t the usual rich man’s cartography with delicate coloring, calligraphy, and decorative flourishes. The contours and landmarks – ridges and ravines, woods, roads, and bridges – were all drawn in sparse and efficient lines. Distances were marked in the old system of chains, furlongs, and leagues, and there were troop positions, fortified encampments, and a host of arcane notations Mikal didn’t recognize.

He scanned the image to get his bearings and quickly realized the sinuous line along the lower edge was a portion of the Fekete Ver river, the southernmost border of the Ur’Gench homeland. He was looking a section of the Kermir March.

Mikal’s brain guttered like a candle then bloomed full-flame: this was an army field map from the time of the Founding War. A relic of the final, desperate campaign to overthrow Ur’Gench tyranny, and the last days of the long, terrible struggle that finally freed the southern kingdoms. It even showed Olo Ekion’s famous regiment, the Shackled. It was positioned with a host of others atop a rise outside a walled city that looked more like a barbed spiderweb than a fortified stronghold. The notation below read ‘Yash Vyat’. That was the mystery client’s new property.

The name rang a bell in the back of Mikal’s mind, but right then wasn’t the time to think on it. “Where did you get this?” he asked.

“It’s a copy,” the clerk replied. 

 Mikal saw that the instant the clerk spoke: the crisp, black lines on fresh vellum, not a cracked and faded artifact. An old legend on new skin. “I got that,” he lied. “Is it an accurate copy?”

Per Vokra sniffed. “Every jot, hatch, scratch, and smear.”

“And this is the whole map?” Mikal pressed. “A faithful reproduction?”

The clerk glared at him like he was a bug on a pastry. 

“Fine.” Mikal raised his hands. “This fancy copy is mine then? I can take it?”

Vokra opened his mouth to reply but Alarise Mescebran spoke up. “Of course.”

She gestured to Vokra, who fished an oilcloth-wrapped bundle from the satchel, along with a large coin pouch, and placed them beside the map. “Everything you need to cross the border is there, along with details on the items you’re recovering.”   

Mikal chewed his lip. “Not everything. Considering the unique situation here, I need another one hundred crowns. Upfront.”

Per Vokra bristled but the lawyer put a hand on his shoulder. “Why?”

“Exigent circumstances.” Mikal had heard Edna deploy that phrase with annoying or overbearing clients. Right then, Alarise Mescebran qualified as both.

A tiny nod from her, and a second, smaller purse appeared on the table.

“Excellent,” Mikal said, and scooped them both into his jacket pocket.

He’d gathered the documents and was folding the map when the lawyer spoke again. “My client would like this task finished in thirty days.”

“Tight, but do-able. Anything else?” Mikal asked.

“Discretion is essential.”

“Always is,” he replied.

Alarise Mescebran straightened her shoulders and put a hint of steel in her tone. “And Mr. Shiver, don’t think of ducking out of this contract. The benefactor is a person of manifold resources, an exacting memory, and singular determination. We can find you, no matter where you run.”

Again, with the running…  Mikal looked at the guard, the clerk, then at her. “No need for threats, Madam. I’ve agreed to the job. Tell your client I’ll see it done – or I won’t be coming back at all.”

She rewarded him with a curt nod. He was dismissed.

Mikal forced a smile onto his face and inclined his head. I should have squeezed her for an extra two hundred, he thought, as he walked out the door.

***

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