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(Seven) ◀◀◀◀◀ Chapter Eight ▶▶▶▶▶ (Nine)
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"…I really can't believe it. Just cannot fathom it, really."
"Alright, I'll bite," sighed Mortegro. "What is it that you can neither believe nor fathom?"
Alongside him strolled Stefano, as full of the usual moxie as he was full of lunch, which the two had just enjoyed while sitting on the steps of Pothos's shop, in view of Moonshade's centerpiece Lake of Illusion. That morning's dealings with Torrissio left the two of them frustrated and famished but with some faint hope for the future, for Mortegro—through a mouthful of raisin roll (Petra's own recipe)—claimed that the solution to their seemingly impossible predicament rested squarely in the hands of one of their own:
"Sethys," he'd said, his jaws a-roiling. "If that text is indeed Ophidian, at the very least he should be able to explain its foibles to Torrissio, if not translate it outright."
"I say, old friend. Didn't anybody ever tell you to chew with your mouth closed?" said Stefano, who had already sated himself with a nice panzerotti (Petra's own recipe) and felt content enough to nip from a miniature bottle of kirsch that he mysteriously produced from his coat pocket, while picking off bits of his roll and tossing them into the lake for the ducks. Ducks were a rare sight in the lake these days, displaced by a growing population of crocodiles whom neither Stefano nor Mortegro could recall ever living there before but they seemed to appreciate the bread just the same.
Mortegro ignored him and the crocodiles. "He may be Petra's only hope," he chewed on. "Hopefully he will understand the gravity of that. I say this not to offend, but he does tend to leave one with the impression that he is not used to being useful…"
Anyway, anyway. Lunch was now over and digesting comfortably, whether those stomachs were human or avian or reptilian, and now the two men meandered westward along Viale Montegrappa, towards the ocean where a snowy marble manor lorded over the dunes, where they'd last left their would-be accomplice.
Stefano shrugged as he replied to the earlier question of beliefs and fathoms: "I can neither believe nor fathom that you're the same age as Torrissio. It defies credulity."
"What's so unbelievable about—oh, never mind," groaned Mortegro. "But it is true. We were classmates, even."
"Indeed. Sounds like you had a bit of a rivalry too, and not of the friendly variety."
"I suppose that is one way of putting it—the year we graduated was the same year Erstam finally went 'round the twist and raved himself off the Isle entirely, if that is any indication."
"Troublemakers?" Stefano arched an eyebrow.
"We were both very serious students of our respective fields," he replied after some mulling. "Sorry to say so now, but I was not beyond cultivating that sort of ruthlessness that one tends to cultivate during the final years of novice study. As a teenage novitiate, you think you can simply disdain and dismiss everything about the so-called Mundane world and everyone in it. Then, when you begin studying at the Initiate's College, you either outgrow that attitude or you do not, and the mages who do not, well…"
"Say no more, dear Morty. I think we've had a generous enough demonstration of that point for one day. Woof!"
"Life Mage, Death Mage… There is something quite poetic about our strife. In a way." Mortegro directed his wistful stare towards the sky as they walked on. "And yet, he was the one who ended up in cahoots with Vasculio."
"Hello! Are you serious? An upright adept like Milord Torrissio, consorting with a lowborn hedge mage like that, really?"
"Really. I suppose this would have been some time before you were even born—this happened more in your father's time. Nearly sixty years ago if I had to put a finer point on it."
"Hmmph. Ancient history for me, I'm afraid."
"Well, not for me. I remember all that nonsense as lucidly as if it'd happened at breakfast," said Mortegro, easing into a frown. "And I can't even remember what I ate this morning."
"I remember! You had cold oatmeal because we broke fast back on The Arabella and there was virtually nothing else in the hold, save for Hawk's old supply of hooch. Then Gwenno warned us how she's not nearly as good a cook as Petra and sure enough the old tart bungled the whole thing up, so then I heroically suggested we all head into town and stay at my luxurious oceanfront manor because my faithful automaton valet, at the very least, knows how to incinerate an egg."
Incinerate indeed. Any and all memories of cold oatmeal had been duly obliterated by the show provided by Marvello VIII and his multitudinous egg-destruction capabilities, which allowed for an equally spectacular demonstration of Marvello VIII's mopping-egg-off-the-kitchen-ceiling capabilities.
"Well, that is beside the point, I suppose," Mortegro concluded. "This may also be difficult for you to believe, but back when the Vasculio scandal first broke, the Council concluded—officially Stefano, they issued an official statement of conclusion that the man had to have had an accomplice. An adept accomplice, someone who provided not only the strictly scheduled reagents, but his own perverted mastery of Life Magic. And at the time, there was only one man in Moonshade who could've filled those specific boots. But! Beyond making that statement, the Council did nothing about it."
"What ho! You're trying to tell me your sainted Council of Mages would've rather sat on their thumbs than implicate one of your own?" Stefano gasped, mocking shock. "But that said, weren't you the one who lagged on Vasculio in the first place?"
"Lagged on…?" Unlike his companion, Mortegro lacked the specific life experience to become entirely au fait with prison lingo.
"Oh, you know what I mean! However you want to say it, you were the one who informed the Council about him! You dobbed him in, ratted him out, blew the whistle—surely you must've known that Torrissio was involved as well."
Mortegro nodded. "I did, and I implicated him just the same. But unlike Vasculio, Torrissio had the social wherewithal to conceal his involvement. Neither Gustacio nor I could gather enough evidence against him to present a solid case to the Council. Ultimately, the other members forced us to let it go. I believe what they really wanted was for us to forget about the whole thing. After all, Filbercio got his hedge mage and that was good enough for him."
"I can't believe I'm saying this, but that almost seems unfair to the old vampire."
"It was unfair. But," Mortegro shrugged, "Moonshade is an unfair place. Unfortunately for the others, I do not forget such things so easily. Now, I may not be able to recall this morning's cold oatmeal, but I will always remember just how dangerous Torrissio truly is. You would do well to remember the same."
Stefano spat out a laugh. "Are you seriously going to try to lecture me on the dangers of Torrissio? Me? It would seem you've already forgotten the bloody Death Knight he and Columna summoned to chop my head off—"
"Well, to be fair my friend, you were foolish enough to try blackmailing him."
"It wasn't my idea! I just got caught up in things, that's all, on account of my highly desirable talents. Bloody Filbercio, can't keep it in his trousers," groused Stefano. "If he'd just left the old ratbag alone like I told him, none of this would've—say, Morty!"
"Hm?"
"Well, if Torrissio truly is as dangerous as you say, why ever would you agree to his request to have that thing translated for him? Do you not think he would only abuse whatever powers it may possess?"
"I doubt that moldy old scrap of ex-goat holds any power of that nature, if any at all," said Mortegro. "Call it a mage's hunch. Besides, as you said, this is for Petra. We've got to do right by her."
"And normally I'd agree with you! Wholeheartedly!" Stefano insisted. "But what if it does hold some power? What if it is some remnant of some evil ancient Ophidian death magic? Then what?"
"Then what? Well, that Sethys seems to have a good head on his shoulders. Centuries of going slowly insane in an isolated time prism aside, he was an acolyte of Balance. By all accounts those fellows were comprehensively educated. He may not be a mage himself, but I am confident that he should be able to recognize a dangerous scrap of magic if he sees one."
"But say he does then, and say he rejects the job, then what?"
"Then what…?"
"Why, then we'd be back at square one! No deal, no dice!"
"Perhaps, but—"
"And we all know about Torrissio's vicious temperament and the moral turpitude that informs his behavior. Who knows what horrific, bloody, painful, puncture-wounding tortures he might impose on that lad if he should refuse to play nice?
"I… I really don't think—"
"And poor Petra! Stars, spare a thought for her, Morty! Forever a slave to the Blister of Moonshade and his infinitely disgusting whims! Ugh!" Stefano cringed at whatever turgid scenario he now imagined. "Never to see the light of day, never to bake us another trout or fry us up some breakfast, eggs and sausages and maybe some mushrooms or tomatoes or even rashers! Think of the rashers, Morty! And never again shall we savor the delicately flakey crust of one of her perfectly composed apple pies, or reward ourselves for a hard day's subterfuge with one of her award-winning honey cakes! Never again will she chuck me out of the Blue Boar Inn for dancing on the tables, or call me a gudgeon for letting young Freli swindle me out of forty Guilders! Stars alive, I can't bear the thought!"
"Enough! You are panicking, Stefano. Stop gibbering, take a deep breath."
Now well and thoroughly booted, the thief did as Mortegro said and paused to inhale; he exhaled with a long, satisfying splutter. "Hah! Suppose I did lose my head for a bit there. Well, who could blame me? I mislike dealing with Torrissio, and I really mislike the look of that brass-brained bouncer he's got stomping around the place."
"I understand, but we do need to keep our heads firmly attached until this ordeal is over and Petra is returned to us," said Mortegro. "And worry not about Sethys. I've no doubt that he too will, at the very least, try to do whatever he can to help," adding, with a wry smile, "and call it another hunch, but I don't think he's above a little hard day's subterfuge himself."
"Better warn him about Torrissio beforehand though, just to be sure, eh?"
"I intend to."
"Oh! And Morty, you should really consid—"
"Arf! Arf!"
"No Grosvenor, come back! It's only Stefano!"
Stefano's doubtlessly valuable suggestion to his friend (which would've doubtlessly included the words comb, your, and hair arranged in some meaningful sequence) got cut off by the enthusiastic arf!-ing of a white ball of fluff—presumably canine—skittering towards him on four truncated legs.
And those four wee legs were being pursued by two much longer ones, belonging to the woman whom both men knew as Bucia Merlo, the day manager of Moonshade's premier provisioner, the Capessi Canton. Despite the massive advantage provided by her height, it was the dog, a little beribboned Bichon of some breed, who had the edge in this footrace; Bucia could only move so quickly while burdened with a full bucket of well water.
"Arf! Arf!" she barked (the dog, not Bucia), leaping onto Stefano's ankle as if it was a sizzling plate of fresh-fried sausage. "Arrrr—!"
"Grosvenor! Stop eating Stefano's boots!" scolded Bucia, at last catching up to the two men but not without a struggle. "Dear me! Naughty girl!"
"Oh, no worries Bucia! Dogs love me! They especially love my boots, though I couldn't tell you why," Stefano said, trying not to sound too pained as he rifled through the pocket at his coat's lapel. "Here, maybe he would prefer this."
To his relief, Grosvenor happily snatched the offered sliver of dried meat—"Arf!"—and trotted back to Bucia's side with the prize clenched between her jaws.
"You keep beef jerky in your coat?" Mortegro whispered.
"You don't? Besides, it's not beef, it's mongbat," Stefano told him.
"Mongbat? Where would one even—hold a moment. I say, that's Frigidazzi's dog, is it not?"
"Yes Morty, it is! After Anarchy came and everyone started…" Bucia frowned. "Well, her dog must've gotten loose again too. Oh, you know how she used to escape her manor all the time! Golly, I remember how she was always getting chased out of the Blue Boar, running up and down the street with a little string of sausages in her mouth! Naughty girl! Anyway, she must've been running around town for days, getting into everything, even the sewers because she was absolutely filthy when we finally caught her! You wouldn't believe how dirty she was, I thought she was one of Mosh's giant rats at first! Completely covered in soot! But I felt so very sad for the poor little pup, so I offered to adopt her straight away. And would you believe, that blister Torrissio threatened to have her turned into glue because she broke into his house and chewed up his favorite slippers—"
"Did you, now?" Stefano grinned and bent to pat the dog's head. "Good lad!"
"Arrrr!" growled Grosvenor, still working on her snack.
"Grosvenor! It's not nice to snarl at Stefano! Naughty girl! Very, very naughty! No!" Bucia waggled her finger. "Well, she can get a little possessive, especially with food. Perhaps she thought you intended to take it back."
"Who, me? Never!"
"Anyway, I'm sorry but I really can't stay and chat! I think my arms might fall off if I have to lug this bucket for a minute longer than I need to!" Bucia huffed. "I know you two arrived with the Avatar and Miss Gwenno, so if you see Miss Gwenno again please tell her thanks again for helping me move my gopher scare into my garden, and that I really am really very very sorry for what happened to her foot! She really is such a nice lady, just an absolute angel, I feel so terrible for what happened! I'm so grateful but also so so so very sorry!"
Stefano's jaw fell open. "Oh!" The words gopher scare and foot only semi-registered in his brain. He had no other idea what to say, besides "Sure."
"Oh! Also my dear Morty, I didn't know you had a cousin! Why didn't you ever tell us about him?"
It was Mortegro's turn for some light bewilderment. He snapped to attention: "P-Pardon?"
Bucia smiled with a sweetness as bland as the oatmeal Mortegro had that morning. "You know! Your cousin Seth, the Xenkan scholar-monk from an obscure cloister who's never been off the mainland before so it's likely we've never seen nor heard of him! And such a peculiar fella too! Seems to know an awful lot about snails."
Mortegro blinked, blank. "Oh! Sure."
"Arf!"
"Alright Grosvenor, we're going! It was so nice seeing you two again!" said Bucia as she hefted up her bucket for the second wind. "Sorry I haven't a single shred of news for you today, Stefano. The grapevine's been pretty bare lately, if you know what I mean."
"I do, love. I wouldn't have expected much—not even from my favorite informant, what with most of the interesting people in this town having retired to the old bone orchard as it were," he replied. "You just worry about taking care of yourself and that pup of yours. He looks like a real handful."
"Oh, she is! She really is! Such a naughty girl! Well, ta-tah! Maybe I'll drop by your house later, maybe for supper!" she forewarned. "I want to hear all about your journey, I really do!"
"Arf! Arf!"
"Come on, Grosvenor…!"
Mortegro waited until the last audible bark echoed into the distance; with eyebrows tightly knitted, he grasped Stefano's shoulder before the two could resume their own journey.
"What cousin?" he demanded.
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