The descending lift was claustrophobic. The landsaint was becoming an under-landsaint with every jagged tug towards the bowels of the earth. She kept her breath steady and long so as not to panic. A Dromag attendant in the opposite corner of the lift had his arms crossed, and she could feel his hot breath, and smell its pungent spiciness.
The light approached from beneath, piece-by-piece with each pull of the chains. (The bigger cities had automatic lift mechanisms, but these were still hand-cranked.) The landsaint must have begun to hold her breath when the light first appeared, because it escaped in a single burst once they reached the lift’s landing below.
The attendant opened the brass-barred door, letting in more light from the landing. “This floor,” he mumbled, well-practiced but bored, “Market. Shrine.” He stood on his tiptoes to check the landsaint’s irises. “You know this. Blest day, saint.”
The landsaint stepped out of the lift, which immediately began to ascend to pick up more visitors to the city’s belly.
She hated the air down here. Dry and stuffy. Even when the air was cool, it felt hot. She was going to finish her work here and return topside, as soon as possible.
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.
Imreb gazed down the rings of the gates and tried to imagine what lay beyond the last, the Raam gate, that she almost caught a glimpse of earlier. She offered a prayer to that vague image and made her way topside to return home for the night.
