Chapter 9: Inquest (Patreon)

Elliot woke early to an empty house. The walls had ceased their soft blue glow, replaced by a steady light shining from a shard of quartz embedded in the ceiling. [Detailed Appraisal] identified it as a glowstone fragment, worth several clips. The light was harsh compared to the ambient flickering of the night before, but it certainly provided better illumination.

It didn’t surprise him to wake alone. Breka had told him to make himself at home the night before, as she had plans to head out early. Hadrian had just said he’d be hunting. Elliot got the impression the man spent the vast majority of his time either in the wilds or practicing with his little iron box.

He stuck a hand into his new spatial pocket. The navigation skill had been so tempting, but in the end it had seemed unforgivably stupid to ignore advice from a native. He’d tried to make the placement as useful as possible, picking one of the rear pockets of his jeans that had barely enough space for a thin wallet. Now he could keep a small box’s worth of gear on him, and the pocket would still look flat and empty. The jeans needed to be washed, but better to attach it to his own clothing rather than something borrowed, even if it meant he wouldn’t be able to use it right away. The pocket could be moved, but he hadn’t yet figured out how difficult the process was.

Rising, he gathered up the toiletries that had been gifted to him the night before. Hadrian had shown him the outhouse, miraculously equipped with a wooden bowl that constantly refilled itself with fresh water. It smelled of rosemary and lemon, and a discreet glance down the shaft under the toilet revealed a drop that seemed impossibly deep. Elliot had not inquired further.

After refreshing himself and changing into the thick cotton shirt and pants Hadrian had left folded on the table, he walked outside to get his bearings. A stone thoroughfare separated the buildings pressed against the mountain from the edge of the tier. This particular layer of the city was about thirty feet deep, leaving only the path itself for space once he exited the house.

Looking out he saw an expanse of green, constantly shifting in the ever-present wind, and the horizon painted with the forms of the massive trees Hadrian had called the border of the Quelling sea. The smell of pine was thick on the breeze. Elliot frowned. It was a view that should have made him feel excitement, awe, even thirst for adventure. Today, he only felt frustration. How many miles of wilderness was he going to have to traverse? He had to find a map.

As he turned to go back his eyes caught on a very faint blue shimmer. It was the same glow from last night, emanating from one small patch of granite at the edge of the tier. Elliot paused, then used [Detailed Appraisal]. It would be good practice, and he was curious.

His inspection last night produced the name lichalis, a substance mixed into the stone to make the glow, with no other details. The same information came to him again, and he narrowed his eyes. How was he supposed to get more information about something that wasn’t even physical? The rock was granite, and he’d inspected plenty of it. It didn’t help that only this one small patch had somehow survived the snuffing that came with morning.

Changing course, he used [Detailed Appraisal] again. This time, instead of focusing on the stone or the light, he tried to feel the ability itself as it worked. There wasn’t much, just a diffuse pulling sensation and an extremely light drain on his core. There’s something, though. I can feel more than just energy loss. It’s like my brain is giving the object I target a very light yank.

That was something to chase. Was it like a muscle, where he could squeeze harder with effort? He used the ability again, over and over. Gradually, he began to perceive some kind of spinning force at the back of his head, like a vortex. It wasn’t quite part of [Detailed Appraisal] itself, but was involved in gathering the energy. 

Crouching down, he stared intently at the glow and tried to fix the vortex in his mind’s eye. It operated almost completely outside of his conscious control, but as he repeated the inspection over and over again, it began to feel like the process could be adjusted. 

Elliot imagined pressing against the force, leaning into its spin. His metaphysical weight seemed, at first, to do nothing, but after a few seconds of tension the thing’s speed increased fractionally. This, in turn, widened its radius, and strengthened its pull. Something new popped into his mind.

Lichalis helped repel monsters. Not reliably, especially not if a strong creature had reason to approach, but with enough efficacy to reduce the incidence of dangerous predators in town.

Jackpot, he thought with a grin. It was still hard to believe magic was real, and it was his. But reality was beginning to sink in.

Standing, he stared out at the seemingly endless forest below. The mountains to each side framed an uninterrupted expanse of wilderness. Maybe a future here was really possible. Once he found Rowan they could explore the world together, master their magic, do anything.

His stomach twisted. First he had to find her. As far south as south can go.

“Move,” someone grunted from behind, and Elliot spun around, coming face to face with a heavily muscled man pushing a handcart. He wore a thick, dirty apron, and his ferocious scowl pierced through a salt-and-pepper beard.

“I’m so sorry,” Elliot replied, backing up quickly until the cart had space to pass. The man snorted, loudly, before continuing on. As he went, Elliot saw the cart was full of mixed black and silver stones.

You could have said ‘excuse me’. Although to be fair, he had to have been pretty out of it to miss the trundle of the heavy cart. And he was in the middle of the path.

A glance around was enough to tell him the encounter would be a one-off. This tier was quiet, seeming mostly residential, although peering over the edge of the walkway he could see there was some kind of market happening several levels further down the mountain.

Returning inside, he set about skinning the marsh drake’s arm. It had begun to smell, so he’d asked last night to borrow a knife and Hadrian had left a skinning blade out on the table this morning.

Setting to it, he cleared fifteen scales quickly. It was disgusting work, especially with the meat starting to go off, but the knife was sharp and it didn’t take more than ten minutes to finish.

Elliot wrinkled his nose, sighing. An inglorious start to his merchant career, but cash was cash, and the more the better if he had a long journey ahead. He had to start figuring out roughly what things cost. Would his scales buy a loaf of bread, or a night at a nice inn?

He had just finished wrapping the remains back up in oilcloth when there was a firm knock on the door.

“Anyone in there?” a deep voice called from outside. “It’s morning, and I’m here for those answers.”

Damn it that’s right, how could I forget about the guard?

Breka had only been back very briefly last night before disappearing behind the curtains of the four-poster bed, but she’d taken the time to give him a few names and places that would make his story more believable. His shoulders were knotted with tension. Hopefully the questions would stay simple.

He scooped up the scales and tucked them into the expanded pocket of his jeans—still lying in the corner—then walked to the door. It had taken him a few moments to gather them up, and by the time he reached the entrance the knocking had become more insistent.

The door opened, revealing Baird’s frowning face. “What took so long? Haven’t you had enough time to get your story straight?”

In the light of day it was much easier to make out his features. A strong, mostly-shaven jaw contrasted a sweeping moustache that looked freshly oiled. He wore a somewhat unkempt set of black and orange leathers, presumably a uniform, and his hair was tied back into a thick snarl at the base of his neck. The overall dirty frontiersman aesthetic made the beautifully tended mustache more startling.

“Sorry,” Elliot said, suppressing his own frown. No need to antagonize the local law enforcement. “I forgot you were coming, and I was in the middle of something.”

Baird grunted, pushing his way past Elliot and into the house. “Where are the other two?”

“Out,” Elliot replied, “I don’t know for how long, they were both gone when I woke up.”

“Well,” the guard said, “in that case, you’re coming with me.”

Elliot’s eyes widened. “What? I don’t—“

Baird grabbed him by the shoulder before he could finish, marching him outside. “It wasn’t a request, son. Just a few questions at the guardhouse, then I’ll have you back in a flash.”

Before Elliot could really come to grips with this change they were already moving down the walkway, passing stone dwellings and a few locals. The people kept to themselves aside from a few curious looks. Baird’s grip wasn’t painful, but it was firm enough to make it obvious an attempt to pull away would fail.

It took five minutes to reach the guardhouse, two tiers up and only twenty feet from the last set of stairs. The building was, unsurprisingly, solid stone. 

His stomach sank as they drew closer. Maybe he was projecting, but the structure seemed threatening as it loomed above. What did it mean to be taken by guards here? It was amazing how much he’d taken basic civil rights for granted.

Baird whisked him inside and straight to a small room on the first floor. It boasted a modest desk with one well-worn chair behind it and a solitary stool at the center of the otherwise open floor.

“Have a seat,” Baird said, gesturing to the stool. He himself walked over to the desk, turned, and leaned his weight back on its surface, demeanor shifting abruptly from harried to congenial. “Let’s talk.”

“You’ll have to tell me what you want to know,” Elliot replied guardedly.

“Well, that’s a great question. There are so many places we could start. The name of the caravan you travelled with, its last stop, where were you headed next. How come you didn’t end up on my list. Any of those would be good. But really, I think we should start with the fact that my associate from last night has a tracking ability, and he followed your trail right up until a random spot in the woods where it fully disappeared. No sign of a caravan having passed at all, and no sign of where you’d come from before that.”

Elliot’s breath caught.

“Now, a lost merchant in the Gerrwood is already suspicious. A lying merchant moreso. But my friend, he’s a really excellent tracker. Knows his business. And a merchant who was able to somehow hide his trail so completely that he seemed to pop out of thin air is trouble.”

Someone walked through the door behind Elliot, making him flinch. He looked back, expecting it to be the guard who’d been with Baird last night, presumably the tracker, but it was someone new.

The man was dressed like a knight. Full chainmail, thick, metal-studded boots and gloves, and a longsword at the waist all gave him the look of someone ready for the battlefield. A freshly-laundered tabard emblazoned with a white sun sat over the armor, shining like it was newly sewn. He was clean shaven, wore his black hair tightly cropped, and looked grim.

“Sir,” Baird said, nodding his head respectfully, but without overt deference. “I appreciate your support.”

“Freely offered, goodman.”

“The Sunsguard do good work. I hope I can count on you to serve the best interests of my folk, regardless of what mess is brewing.”

“Rely on it, sir.”

All this was going on over Elliot’s head as he tried to crane his neck back and forth between the two of them. This could be serious trouble. As an outsider he wouldn’t have anyone in his corner, and they seemed to be building up to significantly more serious accusations than he’d planned for. Also, the man’s garb and the name Sunsguard were concerningly close to what he imagined Breka might have meant when she listed ‘knight orders’ as people to specifically keep from learning about his past. He didn’t know whether they were into burning or stopped at imprisonment, but he didn’t want anything to do with them either way.

Have to be careful. Very, very careful. His answers from Breka had been designed to fend off a few routine questions, not a full-on criminal investigation.

“This is the merchant I told you about,” Baird said.

The man in chainmail looked down at Elliot, brows drawing together. “The one who lied about the caravan attack, and who came from nowhere.”

“Yes indeed.”

He crouched in front of Elliot, his frame large enough—and the stool short enough—to put him at eye level. “My name is Royce of Sumeris, knight-lieutenant of the Sunsguard. This is an official inquest into your nature, with an inquisition to follow if your answers are unsound. Do you understand?”

“No,” Elliot replied, twisting to look at the door. An inquisition sounds like it leads to burning. Definitely the people I needed to avoid. If I run, would he use the sword? Probably. Shit. He felt lightheaded. “I have no idea what’s going on here.” He twisted back to look at Baird. “Why did you tell me this was just going to be a few casual questions?”

“Oh,” Baird replied, waving a hand vaguely, “the inquest is pretty casual. If you’re as simple as you say, that’ll be the end of it. The inquisition is for if you aren’t so simple.”

“What was the name of your caravan?” The knight asked bluntly.

“It was sponsored by the Blackbriar group, out of Hornby,” Elliot replied, desperately hoping Breka’s information had been good.

“Who was the caravan head?”

“Jacob Moore.”

“Why did you wander away from the caravan while in the deep wilds?”

Elliot gulped, heart racing. “Um, I was having an argument with a friend. I got upset, and made a stupid decision.”

“How large was the thune?”

Thinking back, he pictured the hyena-jawed monstrosity. It had been somewhere between a bear and an elephant. “Maybe seven foot tall at the shoulder, and long.”

“Name four other members of the convoy.”

“Ahh, Melinda Grace, Robert…Grace, um…John Adams, Thomas Jefferson.” He’d begun to feel a constricting panic, and the more he panicked the more he worried about looking guilty, making the panic worse.

“What was the name of the caravan head?”

“Jacob…” 

Oh no, what was the name? I just said it.

“Jacob…Morris.” That wasn’t right!

The knight leaned back on his haunches, a glint in his eyes. “You said his name was Jacob Moss.” 

“That’s right!” Elliot said, trying desperately to control his breathing. “Jacob Moss. I’m sorry, I’m feeling really stressed, I misspoke.”

“Hmm. So not Jacob Moore?”

“What? Um, was that what I said? I—”

“Were you sent to the Gerrwood through magical means?”

Elliot’s eyes widened involuntarily. “I…the caravan…”

“Enough,” the knight spoke sharply. “This is almost insulting. Did the Talessi think they would face no opposition? This base incompetence could only be explained by the assumption that you would go completely unquestioned.”

“I’m not a spy! I don’t know what the Talessi are, I admit my story is suspicious but I don’t mean any of you any harm, and—”

He was interrupted by the slap of the knight’s armored glove on the stone floor. “I said that was enough. You are a liar, and it is distressingly obvious that you have been placed here by our enemies to work against the Broken March and against the common good of its citizens. I hereby indict you, and call a formal inquisition.”

“Excellent,” Baird said with a wide smile, fiddling with his mustache, “now maybe there’ll be some answers.”

“Goodman, I appreciate your support in this, but I’m afraid I’m bound by my oaths. You won’t be able to be present for the questioning.”

“I figured,” the guard replied, “but I’ll take action I can’t be a part of over the complete brick-headedness I’ve faced so far.”

“And the matter we discussed…?”

Baird’s smile widened. “Taken care of.”

A shadow crossed the knight’s face. “Yes, well, thank you. I must admit to some shame at the request, but the stakes are dire enough, and no progress has been made.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Baird replied, looking at Elliot. “This one’s rotten, my word on that. Do you want me to fetch the lady?”

The knight’s expression hardened. “If you would be so kind, goodman. Then we can begin.”