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(Nine) ◀◀◀◀◀ Chapter Ten ▶▶▶▶▶ (Eleven)
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"So that's all I have to do?" asked Sethys, tagging a few strides behind Mortegro's clipped, anxious gait. Their westward walk down Viale Montegrappa blazed a trail right into the sun as it slowly arced across its firmament. Sethys couldn't hide from it anymore, though a measly knit cap would've provided little shade at any hour. All he could do was batter his eyelids and try to get used to the light; more than ever he felt the sorry little mouldywarp, just as Ernesto said—so rudely unearthed after 87 centuries of burrowing around beneath some Time Lord's cosmic turnip patch.
His pace waned to the point where he now faltered alongside Stefano's leisurely saunter, but Mortegro had yet to notice. "Yes, that's all. Simply look at the document and see if it's readable," he said. "Then read it if he asks you to read it for him. I'm sure it's nothing that our so-called Xenkan scholar-monk from an obscure cloister could not handle. What concerns me is that Torrissio will not find this plausible enough to even allow you the chance to look at the thing."
"Plausible?" Stefano snorted. "What's not to believe? This is Seth! He's a Xenkan scholar-monk from an obscure cloister!"
Sethys went crimson in silence while Mortegro muttered a single word: "Twaddle."
"Twaddle! None such! It's simply that he's never been off the mainland before so it's likely you've never seen nor heard of him," Stefano went on. "I say, who came up with that whopper? Sethys, it wasn't you, was it?"
"No, it was Miss Gwenno," he said. "She told me that people here would ask fewer questions about me if I presented myself as having some relation to one of the Avatar's companions. But then, she also came up with the backstory herself."
"Yes, well, perhaps Miss Gwenno should have consulted the companion in question first, if only to give him some advance notice of the twaddle he would be dealing with throughout the day—oh! Wait! Stop a moment!" As if struck by a bolt (of realization, no worries), Mortegro halted mid-stride and whipped around, first divesting Sethys of that ridiculous bobble hat, then unraveling the generous length of knit wool enrobing his shoulders.
"Oh no, but it's so cold!" he complained as he felt the banishment of comfort from his body. "Please don't! Aren't you cold too?"
"No? Quite warm to me," said Stefano. "Middle of summer, isn't it? Reckon I might take off my morning coat." But when he moved to do so, it clinked suspiciously with the sound of more than a few forgotten miniature bottles, forcing the man to rethink the decision.
"I am sorry my friend, but it's simply too conspicuous," said Mortegro. "And strange. You look too much like you've something to hide."
"But he does, doesn't he?" Stefano could only watch in detached amusement as Mortegro wadded up the sorry things and attempted to hurl them over Columna and Melino's tall garden fence; the hat snagged the top of a metal pike while the scarf slid halfway down the posts and started to flag in the light breeze.
"There! Much better now, hm?" Mortegro gave Sethys a dust-off and straightened the lapels of his loam-colored morning coat—a generous donation from the Monk Isle charity box. It fit adequately enough and the style was only slightly outdated, especially when compared to the museum piece Sethys was wearing before his rescue.
"I'll say! Sethys, you look like a million…" Stefano hastily recalculated. "…a hundred Guilders! Eh?"
But Sethys could only gawk at the skewered scarf and the hanging hat; he sighed mournfully. "Ahh, no. One of the Xenkans gave those to me. Reminded me of the old days. See, sometimes we acolytes would wear hats and scarves as a show of philosophical solidarity with the Great Earth Serpent. It was written in the Kódeks de Prí Klí Sarp that we could—"
"But that's precisely the problem! Look. It's vitally important—at least for the duration of the impending ordeal—that you pass yourself off as a modern scholar," urged Mortegro. "Whatever you do, whatever you say, you cannot let adept Torrissio know that you are Ophidian."
"Alright, but you didn't have to bung my kit over the fence!"
Mortegro couldn't argue with that. In fact, when coupled with such a strong word as "bung" the action did seem a little mean-spirited, and no doubt he would feel even worse about it later on. He could only hope that, at the end of the day, Sethys would appreciate that he did it out of exigency (with respect to the high risk factor of the impending ordeal) and not the senseless cruelty of, say, a man who gets his jollies throwing other people's kit over other people's fences.
Besides, they could always get another scarf or hat; the Isles had no shortage of grubby mushroom-colored sheep to produce grubby mushroom-colored yarn. A living Ophidian, on the other hand…
"Perhaps I did go too far with that one. I apologize," he said, moodily picking up the pace right where he'd left it idling. "Come along, you two. It's not far now."
"You'll forgive our dear Mortegro if it seems like he has a bug up his backside," Stefano told Sethys as they tailed the mage in tandem. "I can promise you that it's nothing personal. He is a gentleman through and through, if a little flighty at times."
Sethys squinted. "Flighty?"
No response from Mortegro.
"Also he's been dealing with Torrissio for the better part of the day, you understand," Stefano went on, low. "That would put even the sunniest among us into a most stormy frame of mind."
"Those boys kept referring to him as a blister."
"Pah! A blister indeed! And a swindler to boot; coming from me that ought to mean something! Eh, Morty?"
No response from Mortegro.
"I suppose I can understand that." Sethys hesitated. "What I don't understand is, uh, well, what is it about this specific town that makes it so important for me to not be me? I mean, just me, just Sethys? Sethys Esshalshamesh, acolyte of Harmony. I wasn't anybody special. I didn't know anybody important. I didn't do anything of historical note, or at least I don't think I did. That's simple enough for others to understand, isn't it? Alright, so they might not believe it at first, but I don't think anyone here believes the story Gwenno's been handing them either. I mean, imagine me, being anyone's cousin!"
"What a strange thing to say!" Stefano noted. "Surely you had cousins."
"Neither of my parents had any siblings. I had two sisters, though. One older and one younger. Does that help?"
"Help what?"
Sethys shrugged. "Anything?"
"Hmm. I'm afraid not."
No response from Mortegro.
"I would like to be of some help, very much," Sethys sadly professed. "I just don't understand why it has to be like this."
"Well, fret no more. Your best friend Stefano Pavone is going to tell you why, in a single word: Torrissio! That's why! Would you not agree, Morty?"
Mortegro huffed in mild exasperation but uttered nothing resembling a word.
"In short, blame Torrissio. Right, well, a select coterie of the mages in this city harbored an intense and occasionally self-destructive interest in the Ophidian people," Stefano explained. "Specifically, their mastery of the arcane and their purported laissez faire attitude towards common decency."
Sethys briefly reflected on his experience as a street medic during numerous riots and raids, and found that he could not dispute the latter item. "What do you mean by arcane?" he asked instead.
"Magic, Sethys. Spells! Or whatever else passes for arcana around here, enchanted wands or slippers or brooms or doorknobs or what have you. Mostly the adepts would get completely fixated on rediscovering all those horrible Ophidian mind control spells, blessedly lost to time and ruin."
"Mind control?"
"Oh, you know! Like all that horrible daemon summoning you lot used to do all the time, enslaving them to do one's bidding—"
"Daemon summoning!" Sethys repeated incredulously. "Is that even real?"
"Hah! You tell me, Ophidian!"
"Oh no! Now I really wouldn't know anything about that! Though, that isn't to say…"
"That isn't to say what…?"
"Well, I mean, I'm hardly an expert in any school of magic, much less conjury. But, perhaps if you asked a first rank mage you might get a different answer?" said Sethys. "All I can say for sure is, if anyone actually was summoning daemons back then, they were not doing it at the Temple of Harmony while I was an acolyte. I mean, it certainly wasn't an all the time kind of practice, if any kind of practice at all. Does that help?"
Stefano chuckled; the kid really was a bit of a basket-case, but damned if he wasn't trying. "No, but good thing Rotoluncia is no longer around to hear all that, eh Morty?"
"Or Vasculio," Mortegro added under his breath. To his knowledge—as imparted by Giselle, who witnessed this for herself—the old ghoul still haunted the derelict halls of Skullcrusher, drinking Gwani blood and depleting whatever reserves of sanity he had left for the sake of collecting stoneheart and prolonging his wretched unlife, for the greater sake of unearthing the (poorly understood, and no doubt buried-for-a-reason) secrets of the Ophidians.
The whole thing hit a little too close to home, save for the difference in Torrissio's aqua vitae of choice.
"Anyway, daemons or no daemons, this Torrissio chap remains something of an Ophidian, er, enthusiast, shall we say," resumed Stefano.
"Fanatic, more like."
"Yes, Morty! A fanatic, if you please. See, Torrissio and Mortegro were bitter arch-rivals in the Seminarium—Life Mage versus Death Mage, eh? Adversaries in a cutthroat race to the top of the crab bucket, to the point where their constant dueling drove the former headmaster completely—"
"Alright, alright! We were academic rivals, that's all." Mortegro cleared his throat and continued. "The only real pith of the matter is that Torrissio has devoted decades of his life to studying, recovering, and ultimately abusing the magical remnants of the Ophidians. It was he who revived the automatons, Petra included. However, his plans for her were and presumably remain most unkind. He sees her as his property, whom he may use and misuse as he pleases." He paused. "I shan't go into further detail, but I would wager that he would not be above doing the same to a living Ophidian."
"So! Do you see now, Sethys? Torrissio must never wise up to the fact that you are a For Real Ophidian, simply because the old blister's liable to have you stuffed and mounted in his curio cabinet as some kind of Ophidian death device."
The For Real Ophidian nodded gravely. "I see. Though I still think you're being a little overwrought about the whole thing," he admitted. "Even if he did somehow find out the truth about myself, I doubt he would believe it."
Mortegro sighed. "Even so, we cannot take that chance."
"Those boys didn't even believe it," Sethys went on. "I told them everything and they just sort of stared at me all slack-jawed, like I had gremlins crawling out of my ears."
"What boys?" Stefano gasped. "Oh no! Not Andrio and Freli! Sethys, you didn't!"
"I did—I-I'm sorry!" he cried. "They heavied me into it! They could tell straight away I was lying about being a Xenkan monk so they squeezed the truth out of me like they were juicing potatoes…"
"Crumbs! A little nibble to the ankles and he collapses like a house of cards! Morty, what should we do?"
"Nothing," he replied, coolly.
"Nothing?" Stefano and Sethys repeated, united in surprise.
"Nothing, because nothing won't arouse further questions. Besides, coming from them, Sethys's story will resound as little more than a tall tale told by two troublesome teenagers—oh, stars in hell, you've got me talking like Stefano now."
"I suppose you've a point there, though," agreed the thief himself. "Our magelings are prone to, shall we say, exaggeration. Stretching the truth a little. Misdirection."
Sethys raised an eyebrow. "Like you?"
"Like me? Pft!" Stefano bristled, and bristled again. "Pft! I say! No no, not at all like me! Morty, tell him!"
No response from Mortegro.
"Pft. I look like an angel compared to those future felons—especially the little one." He lowered his voice, leaning in conspiratorially. "Now Sethys, this is vitally important, but so long as you're going to allow yourself to be browbeaten by a bundle of bantlings, it would behoove you to never ever allow that Freli imp to goad you into giving away your Guilders, not a single one!"
"Simple enough, I've no idea what a Guilder is."
"In that case miladdo, it would behoove you to never find out! Hah hah!" Stefano cackled generously. "If only I'd done the same, eh? Imagine the trouble I could've saved myself with—"
"Oh! Trouble! Yes! And another thing!"
"What is it now, Morty?"
"Hush, Stefano," said Mortegro, halting their stroll once more to address Sethys directly. "This is also vitally important."
"As important as the bit about bunging my hat and scarf over the fence?" he returned.
"More. Now listen. If Torrissio does allow you to see this relic of his and you actually can read what it says…" The mage deliberated. "In the incredibly probably improbable event that something seems, uh, troublesome about its contents, if it strikes you as legitimately dangerous, say a component or formula for a spell or a rite that he really does not need to know, or rather really shouldn't know…"
"Say no more!" Sethys tapped a finger against his lips. "I may not be a very convincing liar, but I'm sure I can think of something suitable."
"I wouldn't think of it as telling a lie in this case. Perhaps it might help if you thought of it as keeping its actual contents a secret. And I mean a secret Sethys," he emphasized. "The kind of secret you would never tell another soul, not even one of us, no matter what."
"Oh, poppycock, Morty! I seriously doubt he would need to go that far—"
"But he might, Stefano. Besides, do you not agree that sometimes it is better to let sleeping dogs lie? The dogs in this case being the potentially—though I stress, incredibly probably improbably so, but nevertheless potentially—cataclysmic magical meanderings of an extirpated civilization." Mortegro tried once more to look Sethys in the eyes. "That is why I must ask: Can you keep a secret like that? An important secret?"
"I… I can keep a secret."
"Hmm."
"Really! Really, I can! I mean, if it's important, yes. If it's a secret worth keeping," Sethys maintained. "If it would help, I can do it."
"This one could help us immensely, depending." For the sake of everyone's nerves, Mortegro would elide any language suggesting that the purely figurative ball that Sethys now held in his hands potentially—though we stress, incredibly probably improbably so, but nevertheless potentially—represented the very literal Fate of the Universe.
"Then, I can but try."
"That's all I ask. Just try." Mortegro tentatively closed the issue while making a sweeping gesture with his arms. "Well gentlemen, we've arrived at last. That old stone manse lying in a ditch to the left of us is Torrissio's abode. Shall we pay him a visit?"
Perhaps the phrase "lying in a ditch" was a bit uncharitable. Moonshade's Viale Montegrappa ran from west to east, with Stefano's beachfront manor serving as a glittering landmark for the avenue's eastern terminus. Meanwhile, Torrissio's home anchored the western end, where stagnated the Lake of Illusion and its ducks and crocodiles. To contrast, Torrissio preferred a relatively modest single-story bungalow. He cared not for parties or entertaining or spilling champagne and biscuit crumbs all over the furniture. Over the entire course of his life he sought to impress only one person, who now rested forever within a little crock of ashes on his mantelpiece.
As if to communicate to the world that his home was not a public showroom, he had it constructed at the bottom of a hill—well below street level, where the land sloped downward to meet the shores of the lake. However, access to this location necessitated the installation of a downhill footpath branching off the avenue. To weed out all but the most necessary of visitors, Torrissio employed a treacherously winding mixture of narrow stone stairwells and steep gravel walks.
To its credit, this walkway once bloomed with a carefully curated collection of the Isle of Beyond's most attractive native flora. It was at least nice to look at, though Anarchy left it overgrown, unmaintained. The remains of Torrissio's gardener, Marvello VI, rusted in pieces strewn about the path. His decapitated head nestled beside a sprawling patch of flame-colored calendulas, his skull ripped open at the crown and stuffed to the ears with twigs and catkins. In death, he provided life for a newborn clutch of wrens.
"Having to call on Torrissio twice in one day," Stefano grumbled; to avoid slipping his way down to the front door he had taken to a strange sideways sidle. "I reckon we deserve extra compensation for this."
"Should our efforts to liberate Petra bear fruit, I'm sure she would be more than happy to bake you something with it," said Mortegro.
"Say, a hot apple pie? With that buttery, flaky crust she does so well? Hmmm…"
Where Stefano felt free to fantasize, Sethys could only focus on trying to remain upright while his ancient boots skidded beneath him with every step. "This Torrissio fellow must hold a lot of sway if he's got your feathers this ruffled," he said, wobbly. "Should we be kneeling when we meet? I mean, is he some kind of lord here?"
"Oh, my stars, no!" Mortegro looked uncharacteristically horrified at a mote of a thought streaked across his imagination: Torrissio De Vitis, Life Mage AND Magelord of Moonshade.
Improbable, yes, but not improbable enough for comfort.
"Still, better him than you, eh?" said Stefano. "I mean, that whole rhubarb you cooked up with him earlier is what produced this jam in the first place, is it not? Morty?"
"Not another word, pignut…" he muttered, raising his finger to the doorbell.
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