Chapter 47: Roven (Patreon)

Elliot felt like he’d been punched in the chest. “What?”

“Yes,” the man said, intensity growing by the second. “For three days I have beaten my head against the brutal bulwark of local bureaucracy, with the best option for translation being a cook’s nephew who knows less than fifty words of Marakeen. You were sent to me by the Gods to aid in my quest.”

“How did you get this information?” Elliot asked.

“You will hear the whole story at the council chambers. Come.” He strode for the door, not looking back.

“What is he saying?” Holly asked.

“Um, he says he has some information he needs to share with the council.” He called after the man in red, “I have a table out back with my stuff, you need to wait if you want my help.”

“Be quick then,” the man said, his expression grim. “We deal in the lives of everyone who calls this city home.”

Elliot let out a frustrated sigh, but he started to jog back out to his seat. This was likely going to end up as several hours placating a crazy man, but what if it wasn’t? Breka had said the Talessi were planning something big. He sped up.

It was a brisk walk to the council chambers, a large building built deeply into Mother Yarba’s trunk. It was tall, arching, and gilded. Not the most tasteful construction in the city.

The man walked into the front lobby like it was his family’s living room, eyeing the small crowd of functionaries, petitioners, and miscellaneous passers-through with something that approached disdain. He walked up to the long desk at the back—manned by several clerks—and cut right in front of the line of people waiting patiently to be seen. Elliot followed behind, feeling the deep discomfort only possible with powerful secondhand embarrassment.

Stopping at the desk, the foreigner slammed both hands down on the wood, and smiled. “Tell this man I have returned, and I have brought a translator.” 

Feeling the heat of many disgruntled eyes on his back, Elliot eased forward to stand beside the man in red. “Hello. My deepest apologies for the interruption. This man says he’s back, and he’s brought a translator.”

Looking more resigned than affronted, the clerk glanced down at his ledger. “The Watchmaster is currently occupied. Please tell Master Roven that I can pass a message along, but another meeting won’t be possible.”

Roven. Well that’s at least a last name. “Friend is a strong word, but I’ll tell him.” Turning to the man in red, Elliot said, “The Watchmaster is occupied, and the clerk says he can pass along a message, but you won’t get another meeting.”

Cracking his neck once, the man leaned forward, his smile widening into something predatory. “Tell him to pass this along. The messages which I intercepted in the field were not, as everyone has been assuming, passed through normal channels. The mobilization is not, as they are hoping, a feint. A contingent of husks is heading in this direction, with an expected arrival time between one and two days from now. Tell him I intercepted the message from a Witness, and I have the credentials to prove it.”

Elliot felt a sinking sensation, but he turned and repeated the message. The clerk’s eyes grew progressively wider with each sentence.

“I’ll pass that along,” he said, a slight catch in his voice. “Just give me a moment, gentlemen.” Rising to his feet, he strode off toward a staircase set into the wall to their left, and ascended at a jog.

“You were fighting Talessi out there?” Elliot asked.

“Yes. I came to this region hoping to start my own enterprise, a family tradition, and I found nothing but chaos and incomprehensible scheming. I have been liaising with the Greenguard, who have several rangers with a semi-functional grasp of Marakeen. My skillset is valuable for the current conflict.”

“I see.” Elliot bit his lower lip, trying to decide how to ask his next question. “Do you think the attack will be bad?”

The man in red, Roven, turned to look at Elliot with an incredulous expression. “Do I think it will be bad? I think more than twenty husks, and who knows how many operatives, are going to go through this city like maggots through a carcass. I had intended to leave tomorrow morning if no one was willing to listen. There must be an emergent call for aid, or the death toll will be monstrous. Would you characterize that as bad?”

“Alright, I hear you. No need to be snippy,” Elliot said, tightening his lips.

It was only a few minutes before the clerk came back down, moving even quicker than before. He maintained a calm expression as he hurried over, although it was ragged at the edges. “Good sirs, if you’ll come with me, the Watchmaster will see you now.”

They were led up the stairs, down a relatively bare hallway, and then through a set of beautiful red doors. The office was functional, with the only nod to comfort a well-padded chair sitting behind the wide desk.

Occupying that chair was a man who had to be the Watchmaster. He was large, bald, and wearing what looked like a military uniform complete with several bronze medals. The only hair on his face was a thick black moustache. As they entered, he rose to his feet. “Master Roven. I have been assured that you possess a more competent translator, and would like to make your case again.”

Elliot quickly converted the statement to Marakeen, and Roven snorted. “Tell him that his obstinance nearly cost him the city.”

Sighing, Elliot turned to the Watchmaster. “He says the attack is imminent, and any more delays could mean the loss of the city.”

The Watchmaster’s face was impassive. “He claims to have intercepted the message of a Witness. That strikes me as unlikely, but I’m willing to listen.”

Roven, after hearing the translation, turned to Elliot. “Tell him this. I served with the Quartz Baron in Syreen during the last two border wars. I was an information specialist, and I have contested with Witnesses in the past, successfully. The messages I intercepted were from the Talessi command, and they do not know that I received them. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Turning back to the Watchmaster, Elliot relayed the message, taking care to not change a single word.

There was an immediate tightening of the Watchmaster’s face at the words ‘Quartz Baron’, and he reached up to straighten the points of his moustache. “Ask him for the name of his direct commander.”

“He wants to know your direct commander,” Elliot passed on dutifully.

Roven smiled. “Tell him I rode under the immediate command of Gavin Dunehand, and it was for him that I worked on signal interception.”

That message was the first to elicit a reaction of true surprise from the Watchmaster. “Dante, call my captains, and alert Lady Alys.”

The clerk gave a swift, short bow, and practically ran from the room.

“It appears that I may have misunderstood the gravity of the situation,” the Watchmaster continued, pulling out a sheet of paper and beginning to write as he spoke. “If this is a credible threat, then obviously we need to act immediately. Please ask Master Roven to give me everything he has.”

For the next five minutes, Elliot did nothing but pass direct messages back and forth, with Roven laying out his information and its level of reliability point by point and the Watchmaster writing what appeared to be dozens of messages while simultaneously engaging with the man in red.

“Does he think the husks will be ordered to skirmish, or dive?”

“Sorry,” Elliot interjected, “I don’t know what that means, do you want me to just convert the words directly, or is there some kind of specific meaning I should be passing on?”

“Just translate directly,” the Watchmaster said, waving a hand impatiently. “It will be clear.”

Roven, hearing the message, frowned. “I am concerned that dive orders are a possibility, based on the value-designation of the target.”

The Watchmaster scowled at Elliot’s translation. “Gods damn Remmir for their hesitance.” He put aside the note he was in the middle of writing, scrawled a few lines on a fresh piece of paper, and stood abruptly. “I need to pass this myself. That will be all for now, gentlemen. My thanks for your service. Please tell Master Roven to pass along the location of his abode to the guard up front, in case I need to pull him back. May fate be with us all.”

A soft click from the door to the room came just as he finished talking, and Dante walked back in. “They are on their way, sir.”

“Speak to the council and get permission to sound the general alarm,” the Watchmaster said, already striding for the door.

“What pattern?” The clerk asked, outwardly calm except for a slight twitch in his hands.

“Beast horde. I want people to shelter in place.” The large man’s boots clicked on the wood floor as he crossed the threshold to the corridor, and then he was gone.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” the clerk said, gesturing to the door. “Our thanks for your warning.”

Roven walked out without acknowledging the man, and Elliot gave a brief smile and nod. “Of course. Good luck out there.”

As he stepped into the corridor, Elliot realized that the man in red was already practically around the next corner, and he sprinted to catch up. “Wait! I don’t even know your first name.”

The man smiled, but didn’t slow. “An introduction is a fair request for one who has done me a significant service. My name is Hart Roven, of Clan Roven.”

“My name’s Elliot, Elliot Field.”

“Well met, Elliot. I hope that we will live to tell this story in exchange for fine drinks someday, somewhere considerably grander than that rat’s nest I found you in. For now, follow the Watchmaster’s advice and shelter in your home. Even with the city forewarned, there will be no true security.”

“Will you fight?” Elliot asked, feeling a pang of worry. He barely knew the man, and he seemed like a bit of an ass, but he’d chosen to stay and work to get the warning out despite how much safer it would have been to leave.

“Of course I will,” Hart replied. “I am a Roven. Best of luck, Elliot.”

As his new acquaintance strode away, Elliot paused, looking around the thoroughfare he stood beside. People were wandering by every few seconds, without a hint of panic anywhere. That was about to change if a city-wide alarm was imminent. Was there anything he should pick up before running back to check on the slim chance of either Hadrian or Breka being at the inn? Nothing immediately came to mind. Just get back. Hope that one of them is there.

The room was empty when he arrived. Even though he’d expected it, the sight made his stomach drop. He took three slow breaths. Breka would find out in time. She was a Fury, one of the great powers of the northern continent. It would be fine. Totally fine.

He gathered up his staff, delving pack, and an oiled overcloak in case the weather turned. Opening one of the desk drawers where Breka kept the minor enchantments he used to train, he ran a hand across the mess and tried to decide if any were worth taking. His eyes caught on an irregular blob of what looked like steel. Its enchantment was controlled deformation, with the egg-sized lump able to be slowly adjusted to whatever shape its owner desired. Elliot put it and the dowsing rod in his spatial pocket, along with the small belt knife, coins, and taming potion already in there. He’d also snuck in a few hard candies that were made from local sugar cane, and had become a guilty pleasure. The space had to be contorted into a slightly curved taper to fit everything—like a horn, or a large tooth—but he got it done.

For a second he considered getting rid of the taming potion since it had no use at all in an emergency, but it had been expensive, and there was nothing else he particularly wanted to put in its place. The main value of storing it in the spatial pocket was the lack of transferable momentum inside. Elliot could be thrown off a cliff, and by the time someone came to search his body the contents of the extradimensional space would all still be perfectly intact.

[Esoteric Storage] was currently attached to his rear pants pocket, which had become his favorite location to place the anchor. It looked flat at rest, like it could barely fit a few coins, and so it was one of the most incongruous places he could possibly pull a large item from.

Looking around, he tried to think if there was anything else he could need, should the worst come and he had to run. Maybe extra water.

As he gathered up two canteens and a smaller flask, planning to bring them down to the kitchen which had some kind of magically-generated fresh water, he froze. Yehi. 

His friend had been busy with her project for days now. She might not understand the alarm. She’d rented a small house and lived there alone—would part of her be tempted to ignore the unspecified danger if she needed to run out and grab a reagent?

He had to warn her. 

Elliot dropped the canteens, swung his pack over his back, and grabbed his staff on his way out the door.