◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
(Index) ◀◀◀◀◀ Chapter One ▶▶▶▶▶ (Two)
◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
"What part of my offer could possibly be troubling you, Mortegro? Thus far our exchange has been fairly straightforward, has it not?"
"Oh, rather."
"Then why do you look so flummoxed? You asked me if I could repair the automaton and I said why yes, of course, I am the Life Mage of Moonshade, this is my speciality, thank you very much."
"Yes, you did."
"Then you asked me if I would return the automaton to the Avatar's employ afterwards. So I gave you my offer. My price, if you will."
"You did, indeed, state a price, yes."
"Surely you know that I do not bargain with others so readily," continued the other mage, his voice low as he dug his heels as deeply as one could dig the soft heel of a house slipper into a granite terrazzo floor. "And surely you, of all people, should know better than to complain about my terms. You ought to be thankful I bothered to humor you at all."
"Of course, Torrissio," Mortegro replied, coolly. "I usually do know better."
The city of Moonshade requires the services of the Death Mage from time to time, for the Death Mage provides a most practical array of services to the city of Moonshade. Barring certain exceptions here and there (usually involving rare and dubiously legal phenomena such as Time Prisms or Soul Gems), wherever Life exists, so too must Death. Thus, wherever a Death Mage hangs his shingle, so too must a Life Mage—not so much for his own practical array of services regarding municipal welfare and sanitation, but rather more for the ruddy philosophy of the whole thing, really.
Such a poetic rivalry never fails to inspire; for example, this particular author has already managed to squeeze a whole paragraph out of it.
Torrissio De Vitis filled the role competently, at least by some definition of the word, which is to say that his title should not imply any particular fondness for any particular living thing. True, the epithet "Life Mage" might bring to mind a talent for restorative magic, and yes, technically Torrissio did specialize in this wonderful and complex and occasionally miraculous field. However, he wielded his craft much in the same way the dreaded Metamorphosing Motorway Services Mimic of Skullcrusher Valley might wield a sign reading "Toilets: 1m". Those who crossed him always regretted it one way or another, whether the penalty arrived in the form of a stern dressing-down over merely existing in the same ecosystem as him at an inopportune time (which was all the time), or the kind of form that really drives in the point of the old adage about how Life is a fate worse than Death indeed.
Then, sometimes Torrissio dealt in forms that that not even his Death Mage counterpart would dare entertain; unlike Torrissio, Mortegro was a decent man, and decent men simply do not do like that, full stop. Decades of mutual rancor meant that Mortegro understood the modus operandi of the Life Mage better than anyone else on the Isles. He even anticipated that Torrissio's conduct would prove its typically appalling self with a matter as mundane as the payment for Petra's repair work. Any other mage would be satisfied with a fistful of Guilders, but not Torrissio. Mortegro had no doubt in his mind that the old blister would cook up some dreadful monkey's paw of a deal, such that he felt the ghostly snare of simian fingers clasping his wrist long before he and the others even set foot on the Isle of Beyond.
He was right, of course.
And Petra! Spare a thought for our poor Petra. Broken, defenseless, splayed out across Torrissio's laboratory workbench like a freshly plucked and dressed spatchcock goose, her lower arms and legs removed, her chest plates prised apart, her inner clockworks—her soul gem, even—exposed to the world and all its dust. The very least a decent man would've done was cover her body with a tarp, for pity's sake…
"Now now! Look here, lads. There's no need to work ourselves into a whole lather about this. Besides, this is for Petra! Let's try to think about what the little lady might want, eh?"
It was the one and only Stefano Pavone who stepped in this time—something else Mortegro had not only anticipated but outright hoped for when the dandy bandit invited himself to the meeting. After all, he already knew he was in for one hell of a haggle, and when words could make or break its outcome, an extra mouth never hurt.
On second thought… Mortegro reconsidered that last passage while, to his burgeoning horror, Stefano's mouth actually started moving again:
"I mean, mistake us not, Lord Torrissio. We do appreciate that the vaunted likes of yourself would stoop—er—deign—er, bother to humor us, the malingering cockroaches of society as you put so kindly," he said. "It's only that…"
Ire crackled at the corners of Torrissio's pitiless eyes, but the curl of his nether lip held steady. "Only what?"
"Well. Well!" Stefano huffed. "It's just that Mortegro here thinks your offer is unreasonable."
"If Mortegro thinks the offer is unreasonable, Mortegro is free to say so for himself."
"And I do say so. Your offer is totally unreasonable," said Mortegro. "Furthermore, I think that Anarchy must've addled your brain to no small degree. Open your eyes, man. Pull your head out of your—hmmph." He stopped himself before saying something a decent man would not. "Our fair city now lies in ruins, with naught but a handful of survivors. You're running out of food—"
"We're adept mages, Mortegro, we can create food—"
"You're running out of reagents and you've nobody left to grow or gather them, and I certainly don't see you donning the swamp boots any time soon." Mortegro sighed. "If you intend to survive, you need to work hard and take care of each other. You've got to focus and organize what few resources you have left, but it would seem that all you intend to do is potter around your workshop in your pyjamas and fret about becoming the next Magelord."
"As I said, I don't really care who becomes the next Magelord. So long as it isn't me."
"Yet you seem to have no qualms about sleeping in the Magelord's palace?"
"Temporarily, my friend. I am only looking after the place and the automatons until we have installed a permanent replacement. Meanwhile, I'm allowing the Seminarium's two remaining students to stay in my manor, out of the goodness of my heart," Torrissio said while a wooden grin strained across his face, painful and devoid of warmth. "I consider this sufficient enough fulfillment of my social obligations to this miserable city. Even as it circles the drain of oblivion, Moonshade shall always expect great things of my bloodline. Yes, I could become the next Magelord, easily. I daresay the people expect it of me."
"Do they really?"
"Oh yes, Mortegro! They always have, even before Filbercio's ancestors first occupied the position! But alas! I refuse! My only wish is to be left alone here, in my own laboratory, with my own work."
Torrissio directed his attention towards that morning's object of contention, the automaton barmaid lying atop his table. He stroked her cheek, almost tenderly, an artifice of care.
Mortegro narrowed his eyes. "Then it would seem that we have encountered a insurmountable conflict of interest."
"Have we? Even though you must know that besides myself, and despite your status as a non-native, you are the only one left alive who's even remotely qualified to handle the job? Unless you'd rather we all start consulting old Fedabiblio's stony countenance on civic matters instead?" Torrissio laughed to himself. "Perhaps we could turn him into an Oracle, like the one they have in Fawn."
"What about me, then?" Stefano hoped. "Talk about bloodlines! Alright, so I'm no adept like my old man but I do know a spell or two, eh? And I know how to keep people in line, do I not? I mean, you've all been to my parties, yes?"
At the mention of the word party, any and all traces of mirth vanished from Torrissio's countenance, along with the tender stroking of any and all cheeks. "Ugh. The less said about your vile debaucheries, the better. And what are you even doing in here, anyway? Have you not tormented me enough for one lifetime, to say nothing of your own stepmother, whose ashes now slumber forever in a little crock on top of the mantelpiece in my sitting room?"
"A crock of ashes, you say?" Stefano raised his eyebrows. "Dear me, that rather sounds like an improvement, doesn't it? Surely you knew my stepmother, didn't you, Morty?"
"We all knew the lady Columna, yes. Some of us better than others."
"Then you'll agree that being decanted into a little chamber pot makes a fitting end for the old bag," said Stefano, nodding vigorously. "Perfection in pottery—"
"Hold your tongue, knave!" Torrissio belted. "Such animus for your own flesh and blood!"
"Hardly! I was a man fully grown when she poached my father, and we all know why she went after him—and Melino." Stefano contemplated this for a moment. "So I cannot imagine what she could've possibly seen in you, unless she mistook your boil-brained brand of baseness for simple senectitude."
The villain launched a veritable volley of vituperations, but Torrissio's contemptible confidence held fast under fire, even as his face started to purple like a picked egg. "Mortegro! Why ever do you allow yourself to continue being seen in public with this treacherous excuse for a fop?" he spat.
"He insisted on coming with, and I say anyone willing to venture into your lion's den of a laboratory is someone to ride the river with anywhere," said Mortegro. He picked at his fingers and pretended to study a stubborn bit of cuticle. "Anyway, your personal affairs are none of my concern."
"He's right. Your personal—and mind you, utterly revolting affair with the town strumpet has sweet Fanny Adams to do with the matter at hand," Stefano resumed: "Petra's restoration, and your unreasonable demand that my friend here should take your place as the city's Magelord in return for it."
"I still don't understand the objection. Who wouldn't want to be the Magelord? Besides me, of course," said Torrissio, "for those compelling reasons I outlined earlier."
Mortegro nodded. "Indeed. You enjoy having power and lording it over others, but you want no part of the accountability that comes with it."
"All the more reason why you should carry the torch instead! Between the two of us, you were always the more responsible one. Erstam liked that about you."
"You are dredging up ancient history, old man."
"I can't help myself. We go back such a long way, do we not?" Torrissio grumbled something unsavory beneath his breath and ambled towards an elegantly lacquered hutch, its glass windows showcasing an impressive array of spirits—wantonly arranged neck and neck amid his bottled supply of caustic chemicals and obscure reagents.
Indeed, the Life Mage of Moonshade enjoyed a spot of gambling as much as he enjoyed a fine local whiskey, which he was now (hopefully) pouring into a leaded crystal rocks glass.
"Drink?" he offered.
"It's ten o'clock in the morning."
Torrissio snorted while he sipped. "No? Perhaps the girl might like one."
"I think we had better come up with a new deal quickly, or Stefano and I shall collect her body as is and leave."
"Ah. You really do mean business, don't you? My my," Torrissio sighed. "And here I was, thinking that lording over a ghost town would've been right in your wheelhouse, Necromage."
"As well, I did generously offer my services," Stefano reminded them. "You know, to become the next Magelord myself! What do you say?"
Torrissio's tidy mustache distorted with his sneer. "I say I wouldn't put you in charge of the roses on my wallpaper. Either of you, now that I think about it. Imagine, a Fawnish yokel of the likes of Morton Shumway lording over Moonshade. Frankly we'd do better with Anarchy back in the palace."
"Shumway...?" Stefano repeated to himself.
Mortegro ignored him. "So the deal's off, then?"
"Why is this so important to you, anyway? Why don't you simply leave us in peace and get on with your sad little lives? Our time in this world is fast coming to an end. Do you really want to spend one more fleeting moment of it desperately haggling for something so precious to me? How undignified." Torrissio drew another measure of (what he still hoped was) whiskey from his glass. "Besides, now that Rocco is dead and the Blue Boar demolished, what purpose has she but to serve the one to whom she owes her existence?"
"She's no slave! She is the Avatar's companion, and our dear friend besides," Mortegro sputtered in disbelief. "Have you no honor at all? No decency?"
"Decency! Mortegro, honestly! Such a weak appeal hardly befits an adept and council member such as yourself, and I will certainly need something stronger than that if you intend to change my mind. But tell me true. Do you really do want your supposed dear friend back that badly? If so, perhaps we can still work out an equitable exchange, even though you so firmly rejected my best offer. Do you know what equitable means?"
"I can tell you what it doesn't mean," Mortegro fumed. "It does not mean treating another living soul like property, like chattel! The fact that you are putting a price on her freedom at all is absolutely loathsome, even for you."
Torrissio dismissed the charge with a wave of his hand. "What can I say? You've always been cheap."
"I say, this man is a snake, Morty! A cold-hearted snake," noted Stefano. "Of all the people to survive an apocalypse!"
"And yet, here I am, an irrefutable testament of my importance to this world. I don't deny being cold-hearted but Mortegro knows that I can be reasonable when it suits me. Ultimately I am a man of my word. Usually," Torrissio said before draining his glass. "Ahhh. Now. If my previous offer did not tempt you, surely we can come up with a new one, something you may find more agreeable. A more simple bargain for a more simple man—a simp, if you will. Hm? Come Mortegro, let us settle on a price that should better agree with the both of us."
Mortegro groaned and swore beneath his breath, realizing that he too would require something a little stronger than decency to make it through the rest of the morning.
◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
(Back) ◀◀◀ (Story Index) ▶▶▶ (Next)
◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆