Elephantom
Chicken Broth Paragon
A Prelude To Events
Misery was thick in the air.
The crowds of men roiled through the cavities of the streets, shoving into and around him, threatening to fell him. They encouraged the heat instead of stifling it. Fabio paused for a few seconds to wipe the sweat from his forehead. The heat, heat! The gods are angry! he thought, squinting at the sun, at the pain as people jabbed into his back. He shrugged loose his cape, tugged at the shirt sticking to his back— all in between the shoves of the people behind him, who received his silent sneer as they hustled on.
In this city of dirt and stones, he now walked; opposite the avenue to the east road that led to the estate, his intrusion privy to two lanes of rotten trees complementing the marble-mottled apartments and watching him from both side. He observed them, their moribund hides, paled by the decay of decay. Even Litho, with its towers and turrets and gleaming spires, had its share of taint. The branches swayed with the summer winds, creaking as each wave passed, pointing and leading to the hilly lands that were secured by the noblemen and the sancti schoolmen. The lands where his building, the building of his pater familias, stood.
He frowned. Was this sojourn necessary? It was not, a corner of his mind told him, but another told him otherwise. He'd be able to cut back on the hotel rents, affirm his status, wiggle back into high society. It would be a turn of events he could appreciate. He was ready to make the most out of the visit.
The piece of estate was sequestered at the end of 13th Down's fractured trails. He'd gone the few streets up the hills of Shrinemont, in the southern depths of Litho and tucked away behind a maze of paths and houses, as far as the cab strung him along and what little distance he had to spend on foot. The fare wasn't cheap. Nothing in this city was cheap. He knew it, the city knew it, and the people he dealt with did not take much time to catch on: the dock porter spat at his feet in a fit of rage, the driver wore disgust on his face the entire ride, and the street hawker who sold him a purse of jungle nuts muttered an arcane curse when half a monad was cut from the price. They didn't like haggling. Or maybe they hated his face.
Fabio exhaled and pocketed his handkerchief as he reached front of his old house. There it was, at the left extreme of the street, the Lucii Hall. He saw a coal black manor stranded in a barren desert. He took in what remained of his inheritance: the windows were opaque with dust, some parts altogether replaced with boards of wood; above, the canopies and verandas were either shattered or close to crumbling; below, the dark stucco had long since fallen victim to nature; the surrounding lands, the walls too, were battered by neglect, with an overgrown lawn and rusting gates. There was no doubt that his father's prized manor had been sanctuary to the homeless for the past few months. The stains throughout, the broken windows, and the garbage littering the ground proved his suspicions.
Fabio clicked his tongue. How was he going to live in this private squalor? The inevitable work— he could only imagine it— did nothing to rein his grimace.
He strolled inside, careful to avoid the grime and trash on the floor— the layer of dust covering every inch of his furniture and the rotten floorboards seeming almost eager to break down on him— and then climbed the flight of stairs leading away from the mansion's parlor and to the rooms on the second floor. The critters scuttling apart as he walked through the grime-crusted halls to the master bedroom made him suck his teeth. Though he didn't expect much out of this endeavour, there was at least a semblance of hope. Only a dream now?, he mused. A futile effort. It but brings despair.
His father's bed was dirty but undisturbed, although the loose springs beneath could be heard. He set his luggage down on the cleanest spot and unpacked his clothes and sword. He remembered his last few days in the house, before he was sent to the military academy to his dismay. It was a pleasant but distorted memory. He couldn't blame himself for glorifying them. He'd been lying low in the trenches, amongst mud, grit and blood, a pistol held tight in one hand, men shouting, bleeding, cursing, for the gods knows how long. Afterwards, he'd been cleaned up, his wounds dressed, pains addressed, and sent off home amidst a flurry of paperwork that explained nothing.
In times like those, one could find refuge in memories and the past. Such was the nature of man.
He glanced outside the open bay at the right hand of the bed. There was man near the gates, waiting for him. He wore a copper green coat, black pants and shoes. His hair hung uncut, like the weeds covering the garden, over the back of his cloak and he wore a pair of tinted eyeglasses. He was tapping his foot, restless and impatient.
Fabio thought about it for a moment. Why bother? He didn't have it in him to trust a stranger— but he also knew there little aught in making oneself vulnerable. It could've been an ambush and he'd never know until he fell into it, and the same could've been said for the man below. The former officer gritted his teeth, berated himself, and went down to the ground floor, down the winding stairs, down the porch, off to the quaint stone path ushering the way to where the man was.
“Good afternoon, gentleman,” the man said. A pause later, he asked, ”I'm speaking to Fabio of the family Lucii, no?”
Fabio stopped. He gripped his cane tight. “You can guess, good man. You don't seem the sort to listlessly wander about,” he replied. “Question is, who are you?”
The stranger waved away the inquest. “A person of no consequence.” His smile grew teeth. “But you may as well regard me by the her grace.”
He blinked. “You don't mean that her, do you?”
“Who else?”
Fabio fastened his coat together, tugging it across his back. The man's oily accent— native of the city, no doubt— was annoying, but her name held weight. “This is rather abrupt,” he remarked.
“This is her city,” he said, “and a third of these streets belong to her, monsieur.”
He brushed off the comment with a wave of his hand. Boasts. “Tell me, why are you here? I assume this is not a mere greeting.”
“This is a professional matter, I assure you, but would you rather talk here or somewhere else?”
“There aren't many people here,” Fabio said, gesturing towards the isolated streets outside. “The choice is obvious.”
“You are far too paranoid, monsieur.”
Fabio was far from amused. “I have my reasons.”
“She has no love for spies and their ilk. This is one of the safer areas in Litho.”
“You can never know too much,” Fabio muttered. He fixed his eyes on the stranger's. “What's your name, man? You haven't introduced yourself.”
He gave a mock curtsy. “You, sir, may have the privilege of calling me Monte.”
Fabio sucked his teeth. “Well, Monte, I believe you're aware of my name?”
“I am.”
“That removes the need for useless banter. What does she want?”
“A book. She wants a book.”
Fabio raised a brow. “A book?”
Monte nodded.
He scratched his head, brushing the loose hair peeking out from his hairline. “Why not buy it?” he said.
“It's not for sale, see.”
Fabio grunted. “Why me? I've been a poor thief my whole life. I lack the physical finesse for it.”
“Were you not in the military?”
“I was an officer, never subjected to grunt work, never will be.” For I am an officer no more. I dare you, speak of it.
Monte tapped his chin and whistled. “Then I suppose you have connections, no? A prominent social sphere?”
“I do.”
“I bid you, exploit them, monsieur. She cares not one whit about your method. The results are what matters to her.”
“How boorish,” Fabio mumbled.
“I will vacate the premises now.” Monte handed him an envelope. It was made of vellum, tan in colour. The lid was sealed by crimson wax. He inspected the emblem embossed on it. It was a curled wyrmbrood basking in the protection of its wings.
Fabio took it, inspecting the skin with his velvet-veiled fingers, running them over the grooves of the wax insignia.
Monte observed him with that wry smile of his. “This is her assistance, her gracious aid, her mercy. Treat it carefully, monsieur.”
Fabio fingered the envelope and the wax seal. “I will.”
“Then the blessings of those gods above be with you, farewell.” He bowed and took off.
Fabio watched him walk away, disappearing off the street and into an alleyway. Once he was sure the man had ran off, he sighed.
“Are you alright?”
“Mostly,” Scaro lied. Life hadn't really done him good since he'd been conceived.
Garuda shrugged. “Truth be told, ain't nothin' much happened in the few months you'd been gone. What was you doin' around the Capital?”
“Doing nothing. What else?” he grumbled.
Garuda shrugged. “Just asking.”
Scaro took a swig. “I'll say this, Garuda, it wasn't better than what I had going on here, or what I used to have.” He paused. The ale left a bad taste in his mouth, as if he was reprimanded for his lie.
“Alright,” he continued, “it was better, but it did little to mend my heart . . .” he trailed off, staring into the reflection glaring back at him from the mug. He was one ugly fucker, that much was true. When he'd been a young kid, just another officer working up the ranks, a nail propelled by an explosion had nearly impaled his face— it took a notch off the lips and sketched a line down his jaw. He'd never been able to live it down, and while he'd appreciated the added benefit of notoriety back when he was in Scholarium, he loathed the attention it drew to him now.
He looked at Garuda. The little man was nondescript in every way save for his squarish jaw, pug nose, dark skin, and small height. At his best, he was homely, and even that was inflating the case. “How's the world turning?” he said.
Garuda casually ignored him, focusing on cleaning the counter. “I haven't seen you in a long time, and neither have your pals,” he said.
“I was busy.”
“A foreigner's in town. They say he's the son of Lucio, back in his father's old mansion.”
Scaro almost gaped at him. A sudden turn of events. “The prodigal son,” he mumbled.
“He's pretty famous, you know. His father used to work with the king and they say the young boy himself was a colourful swordsman during his days in the military.”
“The people used to call him, ‘The Grinning Edge’. He was one magnificent bastard.” Scaro swung more ale down his mouth, brandishing the mug at his friend. “So, how's he doing?”
Garuda stopped wiping, exhaled, and looked him in the eyes. “They say he's still working for her-”
“The Fiendi?” Scaro interjected.
“Who else, eh?” Garuda added, “It was no secret- no big secret- that his father used to work for them. Could've been he inherited the old man's reasons for doing so.”
Scaro tried to take another drink out of the mug, but there was none left. He shook his head. The ale was shit— more bitter than his own arse, no buzz at all. Him and this piss, they were buddies born and true. He wanted to tell the midget, Fuck this.
“The Fiendi doing anything?” he said instead. The city's getting to my head.
“They're lying real low, truth be told. You should know better.”
“I've been lying low myself.” Scaro gave a morose nod. “Well, I'm waiting for a man now. Mind if I stay around for a moment or three longer?”
“That's the least I can help you with. I owe you a lot after all.”
“You do, do you?” Scaro mumbled, then shook his head. He probably owed more to the Fiendi than this midget owed him. A lot more.
The fountain was the centrepiece of 13th Down's lower avenue, surrounded by a canopy of shops, humans, and a stone path that branched off to other roads and streets: hanging from posts jutting out from the willow abodes and the gardens in the east were a cadre of lamps, illustrating the cracked roads below; the paths were crowded with pedestrians, haggling with the peddlers, a few pausing to view the goods but making no advance to buy; the smell of incense was present, from the nearby hawkers showing samples of his wares, and mixing, to nauseating effect, with the sweat of the people. A murder of crows lined the propaganda wires that connected the buildings together, watching from the deep of those alleyways, watching, watching without respite. Their gaze was palpable. Fabio could feel them in his bones.
He fled into an abandoned crook wedged between the goldsmith's station and the local inquisitor's apartment. The crows could see him no longer— they had their limits. Inside, he opened the letter. It said:
‘A shop around the Black Circle. Owned by a man called Garuda. You'll know.’
There was no return address. Fabio grumbled a curse underneath his breath, folding the letter inside his jacket, and went outside. He looked around for the crows, but they were gone. Tightening the belt of his cloak around him, he moved back into the crowds.
