#dromag

He hit his head hard, ruffling his scarlet hair. He looked up to see a welded grate blocking the tunnel. That hadn’t been there last time he’d come this way. Damn Architects. Fine. Have it your way. Korleth backed out and started crawling farther, towards the next district over.

After another few minutes in that hot, cramped tube, Korleth found another exit side-tunnel. He turned to follow it and pushed open the vent to the outside.

And his head was almost crushed by the lumbering foot of an autotrunk.

He ducked his head back just in time and hid inside as the huge thaumechanism and its entourage of thaumechanics passed the vent, his heart pounding. Once he was sure the sounds of footsteps had passed, he pushed open the vent again and crawled out. 

As he dusted the metal shavings and dust off of his tunic, he glanced at the passersby across the street giving him brief notice. They had no connection to the district he’d just stolen the ring from, and besides, a tiny Dromag crawling out of an autorat tunnel was probably not the weirdest thing they’d seen today.

Keeping it shielded from the rest of the city, he opened his fist and made sure the ring was still intact. The dozen or so tiny jewels smiled at him with their sparkling facets, but the big one at the center all the more so – a perfectly-round carnelian thoughtstone, a vague light gently throbbing inside the dark red gem. This one would fetch a pretty penny – probably. He had no way of knowing what the thoughtstone said.

He looked up to see what district he was in. Judging by the address numbers he supposed it was Residential-Four. Kids swung from artificial brass trees in the miniscule gardens of these middle-class apartments. Tenvo tended to the bioluminescent fungal crops bursting from the transplanted soil. Others were hanging their laundry out to dry, tunics and cloaks and turban-cloths and undergarments. One of them, apparently a mother with an infant on her hip as she struggled to one-hand the clothespins, stopped a moment to wave at Korleth. He supposed that was good – he didn’t stand out as not belonging there, despite his rather drab attire. He waved back with his free hand.

Who was the local fence? In Res-Four it would be…Zrikr. A miserly old Dromag. But he might have Aajakiri connections who could appraise the thoughtstone. Korleth again examined the nearby address-markers, engraved into the brass lintels of the apartment’s front doors. Res-4-Hrem-15-22. Res-Four. Subdistrict Hrem. Area fifteen. Level twenty-two. Zrikr shouldn’t be far – in this subdistrict, at least. Korleth wracked his brain. Area six, level twenty-nine, if he recalled correct. It would take some walking up-town and an elevator ride, but nothing he couldn’t manage in a half-light. He stuffed his hands – ring carefully in fist – in his tunic’s front-pocket, and started up the street. 

He followed an autoshell for a while, head bowed like an thaumechanic, until its six skittering legs walked it into an autoshell tube, collapsing into its carapace so that it could roll on hidden wheels through the tunnel. Then he carried on alone, seamlessly switching from slow thaumechanic piety to the lazy stride of a normal citizen. Blessedly there was an elevator in area five – there were elevators in every fifth area of a subdistrict – so it only took crossing a single area after descending to level twenty-nine to arrive in Zrikr’s area.

There were signs, if you knew what to look for, that could point you towards a clan fence. Subtle etchings in the walls of the caverns. Only clan members could interpret them. Korleth had more or less been born into the clan, he was adopted so young. So he followed the signs to the seemingly abandoned apartment they indicated. 

He knocked on the door, a harsh rhythmic rap that signaled clan membership. After a minute or so the door cracked open to reveal a pair of red-flecked black eyes, Dromag eyes. The door closed for a moment, then opened all the way. A tall, stocky Dromag stood in the doorway, her beard styled like a cage around her mouth, individual braids stiffened upwards in arcs like prison bars. A Silencer – clan bruisers. Korleth took careful note of the thick, barely-tapered stone club in her hand. 

“Speak,” said the Silencer, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed with club in tow.

“Here for Zrikr,” answered Korleth. “Got something for him.”

“Delivery or merchandise?”

“Merchandise.” Korleth half-revealed the ring in his pocket to the Silencer. She nodded and went back inside, closing the door behind her.

Another minute passed until the door opened again. This time the Silencer stood to the side to let Korleth in. He gave her a curt nod as he passed, but she only returned with a puff of air from her nostrils, rattling the bars of her beard-cage.

It smelled heavily of gridc smoke in here; a filmy haze of it lingered in the air. The apartment appeared inside as it did outside – abandoned. Almost all the furniture was overturned, dusty, moldy, and cobweb-stricken. And it was not even of consistent organization, seeming to have too many of some articles, and not enough of others. There were only a few relatively clean and upright pieces: a brass cushionless couch, which the Silencer sat on when she wasn’t answering the door or Silencing, and a desk in the back with a small wheeled chair, also of brass. Its occupant sat with his back turned to the door, but when Korleth approached he swiveled around to face him.

In that chair and at that desk sat a wiry old Dromag, puffing on a claypipe. As Korleth approached, he noticed that the claypipe was ornamented with intricate brass inlays – or was it gold? The room was too dim to be able to tell for sure, and Korleth was no metallurgist. Most he ever got ahold of was silver, since the damned Temple hoarded most of the gold jealously. Zrikr played a dangerous game if he decorated something so mundane as a claypipe with the precious metal. They could send Saints after him to confiscate it, or worse.

“Aye?” said Zrikr, not removing the claypipe from his lips as he did so. 

“Venerable Zrikr,” began Korleth with the typical clan salute for elders, a spreading of the mustache with the index finger and thumb. “I come to offer merchandise.”

Zrikr slowly pulled the pipe from his mouth, put it out, and laid it down gently on the desk. “Very well. Come closer so I can take a look. Lay out your product.”

Korleth obeyed, stopping inches from the front of the desk. He removed the ring fully from his pocket and began to set it down on the desk –

Zrikr grabbed Korleth’s ring-bearing wrist. “Do my old eyes deceive me, tenv?” He squinted his eyes at Korleth’s face. Korleth managed to maintain his outward composure, but his tongue rolled across the back of his sharp teeth anxiously. “You the old Baron Cemming’s kid? That autorat he picked up off the street? Glorious prodigy of the clan?” He tightened his grip, but his eyes roamed in recollection. “Korleth, is it?”

“Yes, Venerable Zrikr,” said Korleth smoothly, but between his teeth. “Maybe not so many words are needed.”

“Maybe not, maybe not,” said Zrikr. “I knew old Cemming when we were lads. He was a whip of a tenv, but he knew his shit. Took good care of his people. Not like those gasbags in charge now.” He smiled, revealing teeth too sharp for a Dromag this old. He must sharpen them daily, Korleth thought idly. “I hope you’ve got the old tenv’s same measure.”

Zrikr released Korleth’s wrist. “Now, what have you here, young tenv?”

“Thoughstone ring,” said Korleth, finally able to lay the jewelry down on the desk. “Carnelian with orbital rubies and citrines.”

“Carnelian thoughtstone,” said Zrikr, picking up the ring and holding it close to his rheumy black eyes. “What ever will they think of next?” He examined the ring entire for a minute before setting it back down. “Gems are well cut. Silversmithing is of high quality. Couldn’t tell you shit about the ‘stone.”

“Do you have an Aajakiri associate who could appraise it?” asked Korleth.

“You take me for an amateur, tenv?” said Zrikr coldly. Korleth could hear the slap of the Silencer’s club on her palm. Zrikr glanced at her and shook his head. “Yes, yes. I have a damn Aaj on the payroll. Give me some time to ask her about it. Couple days maybe.”

“Advance?”

“Of course,” said Zrikr, his smile wicked. He reached into the desk, pulled out a wrapped parcel, and handed it to Korleth. Korleth opened it halfway to peek inside: it was a half-loaf of dense mushroom-and-nut bread, the nuts few and far between in a tight matrix of grey-green grain. It barely fit snug in Korleth’s palm. “That should keep you ‘til I hear back.”

Shellshit, Korleth thought, but he played it cool. Zrikr didn’t seem like the type of tenv you messed with – you didn’t get this old in the clan without a bodycount. And Korleth certainly didn’t want to get on the wrong side of that Silencer’s club. “Yes, Venerable Zrikr. Thank you.”

“Now off with you,” said Zrikr with a wave. He picked up his claypipe and used a thaumechanical sparker to light the bowl again. “Disturbing my smoke time.”

Two half-halberd-wielding Greshtal guards let her through with a nod. The landsaint returned the gesture curtly. Beyond the guarded brass door was a deep-dug city of stone, four stories high, stone stairs winding up and down the sides of stone buildings to stone balconies giving landing for brass doors, wooden planks from surface trees filling in gaps and forming crossings where the stone streets were narrow. Blackflame lamps kept the streets and stairs lit, but the closer to the roof, the darker it became. Up there, tall shadows danced. Only Dromag were short enough for the low ceilings in these reaches, but children of all types daredeviled from ledge to ledge.

The lower two levels were purely commercial, various shops and stores and groceries and boutiques lining the streets and dazzling passersby with brightly painted signs and intricately-woven tapestries. The two levels above were for the homes of the merchants. But not all who did business in this district lived here. Many commuted with their stalls and carts from the lower residential levels via the bigger, industrial lift by the main gates of the surface town.

The landsaint scraped past pedestrians and took in some of the shops and stalls. She saw a smithy selling blades –

– but the smith couldn’t call them blades. It was illegal in this jurisdiction of Kolqust for most tenvo to carry weapons larger than a work-knife. But many smiths circumvented this restriction by selling sharp scraps of bronze that almost looked like blades, but by the precise wording of the law couldn’t be called weapons. All it took was some string, resin, and a suitable length of wood to manufacture a “self-defense implement” at home. The landsaints politely ignored these loopholes; it was their job to enforce laws, not argue them.

– a wooden sign, painted with the words “mostly-meat sausages” (in smaller script beneath: “accepting chit only”), indicated such meats were hawked at the rickety stall where it hung by a lanky Dromag –

– those words being all the butcher needed to claim to bypass a law regulating the use of mineral additives in such products. Dromag had sturdy teeth and hardy stomachs, and could handle a little clay or limestone in their mixed meats. (During ancient times of poverty, clay was a common food source for the Dromag, earning them the now rarely-used sobriquet “clay-eaters.”) Aajakiri and Greshtal, on the other hand, could not digest these things. But when the prices were this low, a chipped tooth or a little indigestion was worth it.

– in a dim corner, lit by an array of colored paper lanterns, sat the waterpipe lounge –

– where the only smoke of griidc could be found in these times, as individual possession and consumption of the narcotic by claypipe had been outlawed by the state about a decade ago, much to the dismay of the large smoking subculture of Kolqust. Begrudgingly, tenvo would pay to smoke in these lounges for an hour, taking up their hoses around the communal waterpipe and allowing the smokemaster to supply them with their fix.

– a beautifully engraved storefront advertised “Oshr’s Fine Jewelry.” Through the open arches of the facade were rows of glass-protected counters bearing precious jewels, rings, necklaces, bracelets, anklets, torques, tiaras, and more. In the back, at a counter operated by Oshr herself, a beautiful face-painted Aajakiri, were displayed the finely cut, delicately-faceted receptacle gems for spirits, future thoughtstones –

– illegal to fill without saint sanction, but not illegal to cut and sell beforehand. Only saints or temple priests are allowed to capture spirits or sell thoughtstones.

The landsaints brow-plates flexed as she listened vaguely in the direction of the jeweler’s shop. Something tickled her brow-plates, and she focused on it.

It spoke of mastery. It spoke of a job well done, a product complete. Satisfaction – of the mind and the chit-purse. A deal. A transaction. A bargain sworn.

The landsaint squinted at Oshr. Her neck gleamed with a brilliant ruby. Personal thoughtstone. Not for sale.

The landsaint’s brow-plates resumed a neutral position as she carried on down the street. Finally she reached her destination: the town shrine. Its set of concentric walls were beautifully engraved and brightly painted, the outer ring etched with the laws of the priests of Raam. The landsaint ascended the radial stairs, passing one circular gate as she did, leaving behind the first circle, representing Uodh, the Void. The next ring depicted the victories of local saints throughout history – this circle represented Uorh, the Word. She passed its gate, leaving her one more circle to pass – Eilh, the World – displaying the triumphs and tribulations of Raam before he ascended to bring the day. Its gate had a door, which she slowly pushed open to enter the outer sanctum, where only priests and saints could pass.

A fairly reverent tenvo, the landsaint closed the door tightly behind her. She had expected to be greeted by a priest as soon as she entered, but none appeared; all that welcomed her was the floral scent of welic incense smoke wafting from censers hanging from the high rafters. Taking a left, she walked the circular corridor, lined with shelves bearing sacred scrolls, tomes, and tablets, until she came back around to the Eilh gate. She doubled back, but stopped as she met the Raam gate, a tightly shut door to the inner sanctum, halfway down.

Her brow-plates widened, and she swallowed deep. The door of the Raam gate was of plain wood, ornamented only with a single sacred symbol etched in gold in the center. Hand shaking, she reached out for the handle…

The door burst open from the inside, and a priest rushed out. It was Jark, coadjutor of the shrine’s chief priest. The landsaint’s hands were safely behind her back, but she did catch a glimpse of the black velvet curtain behind Jark shifting – the last barrier between unsanctified eyes and divinity.

“Imreb!” snapped Jark as he nearly ran into her, clutching his chest with his large Dromag hand. “What are you doing here?”

“I was waiting for you, Holy,” Imreb replied.

“You’ve been waiting?” stormed Jark as he pushed Imreb from the Raam gate. “I got so tired of waiting for you that I went ahead and joined the other Holies for evening communion!” He made a show of straightening his beard. “Where have you been?”

“Capturing a fallen spirit topside,” Imreb explained in a rush, flustered. “For young Kheloz.” She patted the collection case on her belt.

“Ah, young Kheloz…” mused Jark, still stroking his beard. “I remember being as young and curious as him…”

Imreb wondered if Jark had, in a past life, been a miner, or logger, or wrestler; he had a sturdy physique, and was tall for a Dromag, coming halfway up Imreb’s chest. He was this shrine’s first Dromag priest – they usually selected for Aajakiri with keen brow-plates. But Jark had somehow formulated a roundabout mystical way of interpreting thoughtstones; his rate of success was high enough to be dependable.

“Nevermind that,” Jark said, taking a seat at a bench wedged between two shelves. “Have a seat, landsaint.”

Imreb obeyed, sitting next to Jark. “What troubles you, Holy?”

Jark reached into a pocket of his robes and retrieved a small sapphire thoughtstone. But Imreb didn’t need to attune her brow-plates to hear it speak.

It spoke of tears. It spoke of wailing, weeping. Wet eyes and running noses too pitiful to look at, but demanding attention regardless.

“It’s leaking,” said Imreb, having to fight back her own tears from sympathetic reaction.

“As I suspected,” Jark said with a nod. He extended a massive hand to show Imreb the stone. “See the facets, here? Asymmetrical. Imperfect cut.”

“Where did you get this?” Imreb asked, her brow-plates receding into their sockets, trying to distance themselves from the pained thoughtstone.

“One of your knights confiscated it from an Aajakiri thief. Not sure the original source.”

Imreb leaned forward. “Which knight?”

“Confidential, I’m afraid,” said Jark with an apologetic smile raising the corners of his whiskers. “But it’s not the only such thoughtstone I’ve been delivered. It’s a pattern, now.”

“‘Illicit manufacture and sale for profit of thoughtstones,’” quoted Imreb from the legal code. “Could likely append ‘improper treatment of a spirit’ due to the poor gem quality.”

“Precisely,” agreed Jark. “An investigation is in order. Too delicate for a knight. You’ll handle it personally.” He handed Imreb the thoughtstone, which she quickly pocketed to silence it. “Start with talking to Oshr, the jeweler.”

“You suspect her?”

“Raam, no. Her handiwork far surpasses this. Don’t even suggest that, she’ll just be offended. Be discreet with her. Don’t let on too much.”

“With all due respect, I know how to conduct an investigation, Holy.”

“Of course, Imreb, of course,” said Jark with a gracious nod. “Go. Do what you must.”

Imreb nodded and stood to leave the shrine. “Wait,” said Jark as she was halfway to the Eilh gate. 

Imreb turned back. “Yes, Holy?”

“I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but…the knight who brought me that thoughtstone told me they suspected you. That’s why they brought it to me instead of you directly.”

Imreb’s eyes widened, her brow-plates spreading apart. “Holy, I-I…”

“Don’t worry,” said the Holy with a wave of his hand. “Mortals can be easily mistaken. Would I have discussed this with you if I believed you were the culprit?”

“I suppose not, Holy.”

“Relax, and do your duty, saint.”

Imreb nodded and left the shrine.

- - - - -

Imreb knocked on the arch bordering Oshr’s shop as the jeweler nearly finished shuttering it. Oshr spun around, eyes and brow-plates wide, clutching her chest. She exhaled sharply when she saw Imreb. “Saint! A pleasure. What can I do for you?”

“Evening, Oshr,” smiled Imreb. “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind…but first, why are you so startled? What troubles you?”

“Oh, nothing,” said the jeweler with a dismissive wave of her hand. But a flutter of her brow-plates indicated she was lying. Imreb copied the flutter to show she caught on. “Okay,” admitted Oshr. “You are my landsaint, after all…” Oshr looked around nervously before coming closer to Imreb and whispering, “Lately, I’ve noticed suspicious youths leering at my wares from a distance. I don’t see them now, but I’ve seen them the past few nights, around this time. I worry they’re planning something drastic.”

Imreb, a good, stoic landsaint, kept an even expression even at this alarming news. “Do you know these youths?”

“No, no…but…is there anything you can do?”

“I’m afraid not,” Imreb sighed, “without any hard evidence. But I’ll assign one of my knights to keep watch down here at night. Would that make you feel safer?”

“That would be wonderful, landsaint,” said Oshr, smiling wide, her hands clapping together, and her brow-plates raising. “Now, sweet landsaint, what was it you needed?”

“Let’s speak on that inside,” said Imreb, gesturing through the gap still left in the storefront’s shutters.

Oshr nodded and led Imreb inside, closing the shutter behind them. Oshr stood behind the counter at the back as Imreb leaned against it from the other side.

“Allow me to begin by showing you something,” Imreb said. From her coat pocket she retrieved the leaking sapphire thoughtstone, her brow-plates clenched so as to ignore its speech.

Oshr reacted to the thoughtstone’s wailing immediately, her brow-plates seeming to nearly pull away from her face. “Raamfire,” she moaned, “what are you showing me, saint?”

“Confiscated faulty thoughtstone, as you may have guessed.” Imreb set the sapphire on the counter between them. “What can you tell me about its manufacture?”

Oshr futilely covered her brow-plates with one slender hand and delicately plucked the sapphire between thumb and forefinger. She rolled the cut stone between her fingers, eyes scanning the facets. “Yes,” she said, squinting, “there are some obvious flaws here. Rather glaring, honestly. What novice cut this?”

“That’s what I was hoping you could tell me,” Imreb sighed. “Do you know any local…amateurs or enthusiasts?”

“Well…there’s of course the topside jeweler, Glaa’ib, but while insufficient to my skill –” she made a sour face “– he is not this bad…I believe he took on an apprentice lately, but I heard they had a falling out. Not sure what happened to him.”

“What was his name?” Imreb asked.

“Oh, I’m not sure…Something like ‘Druugam’ or ‘Mogram’ or…something. I’m sorry, saint, I only know through hearsay from customers.”

“Don’t worry, Oshr. You’ve been very helpful.” Imreb held out a hand to take back the thoughtstone. Oshr quickly thrust it forward, grateful to be rid of it. The landsaint put it back in her pocket, silencing it and pleasing the two Aajakiri’s brow-plates.

“Blest day,” concluded Imreb as she opened the shutters and passed through the gap.

“Blest day, saint,” responded Oshr, who resumed the process of closing up shop.

Outside, Imreb looked up at the shrine at the end of the street. A solemn group of the faithful gathered around the outer Uodh wall: some kneeling with small prayerbooks in hand, counting out repetitions on their rosary belts as they mumbled the words of ancient saints; some ran their fingers reverently over the gold-inscribed engraved laws of the wall’s surface; others partook in heated ritual debate over the dictates of the priests and Raam himself.