The Infinite Bk. 02 Ch. 05

"Have you spoken to Madam Cyrilo?"

"Yes, she has a task for me, and then we'll be even. You can even go up to her study and check with her."

He stepped aside and let Noah pass. Upon entering the street, he heard grumbling nearby. In the alley by the brothel, he found Daniel crouching by a rain barrel and scrubbing chamber pots with the collected water. Next to him was a pot filled and left to soak. He back was turned, so Noah walked up behind him, picked up the pot, and emptied it onto Daniel's head.

"Ah! Shit! Fuck! Fuck!"

Daniel began to seize in utter shock and disgust, screaming and swearing as he tried to figure out what to do. His flailing was a deserving reaction to the situation. He rolled onto his back and tried to wipe the sewage off his face. He glared at Noah, too shocked and angry to speak. Noah usually abstained from revenge, but he was not above punishing others. He had failed to convince Daniel with words, so harsher means of teaching were clearly needed.

"I had two rules when we came here. Do you remember what they were?" Noah asked. Daniel didn't reply or even break eye contact when he spat on the ground. "My two rules were 'don't spend all your money,' the money that I gave you, and 'don't tell them my real name.' Right now, I don't care about the first, and I am pretty pissed off about the second."

Daniel wiped his face yet again, finally breaking eye contact. He stared at his hands and rubbed his fingers together. "How much cum do you think has been shat into that pot? I mean it, imagine all the women that have popped a squat in the corner of their room with that pot after some brutal anal punishment and proceeded to imitate a soft-serve ice cream machine. How many ounces do you think? Or how many liters if you want to get European? Please tell me, because I will be wondering that until the day I die. That question will haunt me, every moment of every day, until... the day... I die."

Noah carried on. "Thanks to you, I am now being blackmailed into doing something that could get me arrested or even killed. If I don't, she'll report me to the knights, and I won't be able to enter the academy, and trust me, getting my letter of recommendation was quite the ordeal."

Daniel released a long exhale. "While you were talking, all I could hear was the echo of the spray. Even now, I hear it. In ten years, I'll watch my son being delivered, and instead of his cries, I'll just hear... *pbtsbtpbsstbptpsbbs*. It's all—"

Daniel was silenced by Noah drawing his sword. "I showed you a bit of trust, and after a bit of liquor, you screwed me over. If it wasn't for our shared circumstances, I'd kill you. Perhaps I should anyway, just to make sure that's one less person who can spread my name." He put the tip to Daniel's throat. "Did you tell anyone else?"

"No! I swear! Just Cyrilo!"

Noah sighed and sheathed his sword. "Listen to me, this world is dangerous and unpredictable, and your first line of defense is deception. Depending on the situation, something as simple as whether you're left or right-handed could be the key to proving your innocence, tricking an enemy, or avoiding detection.

Whether it's your ace in the hole or your greatest weakness, the truth must be protected, shielded by lies that you can sacrifice when the moment is right. Under normal circumstances, Cyrilo would just kick me out for my actions last night, but right now, my life is in danger because she managed to find out my name, and that's on you. Think about this."

Noah didn't wait to hear a reply and walked away. Now alone, Daniel slowly rolled back onto his knees, staring down at the ground. His breathing became heavy as seconds became minutes. The stillness was broken only by the drops of filth falling from his hair. 'Block it out, block it out,' he thought, trying to stop the memories.

Angry faces, faces of disgust, chastising him, condemning him, voicing everything from disappointment to utter disdain. He was so used to their negative voices and had long since learned to block them out; at least, he should have. He gripped his skull, but the contempt in Noah's words wiggled under his fingers like parasites and burrowed into his brain. They found the holes burned into his mind by that insatiable itch, that hunger for a needle of happiness.

It would fix everything, everything that ached, both inside and out. It would let Daniel sleep and eat and make him stop thinking about his pocket knife. If he could slip back into the haze for a bit, everything would work out. He began rocking back and forth, trying to shake off the bad thoughts and distract himself from the throbbing pain migrating through his body.

"Oi, Daniel, you are done out here yet? Are you— Hey, you all right?"

Lucius, turning the corner, spotted Daniel in his disturbed state. Daniel didn't hear him. When he finally felt the hand clasp his shoulder, he jerked and threw himself at the wall of the adjacent building. He was hyperventilating and struggling to hold back tears.

"What's wrong with you?" Lucius asked.

"I'm fucking sick, man." Daniel released a cry of anguish and beat his fists against the ground and wall.

"Hey, take it easy. Come on, let's get you inside." Lucius began to lift him by the arm but stopped when Daniel leaned forward and vomited on the ground. He had also gotten a whiff of him, and whatever it was that had been poured onto his head. "On second thought, the fresh air will probably do you some good. Anything I can do to help?"

"I just need my medicine. Do you have any gonlief?"

Lucius checked his pockets and pulled out a joint that Daniel had rolled. "Here." Daniel took it with shaking hands and lit it. The lighter caught Lucius's attention. "What is that?"

Daniel took a deep drag and released a great cloud. The pain was dulling, reaching levels that could loosely be called bearable. He looked at the lighter.

"This? This is something from home, something I just picked up off the ground in an alley like this." He showed Lucius how to light it and handed it to him. It took him a few tries to ignite it, and he stared in amazement, then used it to light a joint for himself.

"I can't even count the times when I would have sold my soul for one of these."

"Where I come from, it's a piece of cheap junk."

"And where is that?"

"A place you've never heard of, a place where I can never return to."

Lucius took a drag and sat down next to him. "You feelin' homesick?" he said while sending jets of smoke from his nose.

"My life wasn't really that different, but back there, I had stuff a million times better than this. It helped block out the bad things, turned everything into a sweet dream, and the more I used it, the more I needed it. I'd do anything to get it back."

"Then perhaps it's a good thing you don't have it anymore."

"Yeah, I know. I try to tell myself that, but things aren't getting better without it. Of the few things that made me happy, getting high was a heavy loss. He really carried the team." He gave a bitter laugh. "Maybe it ruined my life, maybe my life was already ruined."

"That just sounds like an excuse to me."

"Yeah, it probably is."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"It's an excuse, but maybe it's a good excuse. I can't know if you don't tell me. Go on, try to convince me that you needed it."

"What, you want to hear my life story?"

"In my line of work, I've heard plenty. I've seen men cry into their drinks, obsess over the girls upstairs because they were shown a glimmer of affection, and rot away in despair. You're just another man trying to climb into a bottle. What chased you into it?"

Daniel took a long drag and released a column of smoke. He watched it float up to the sky to take its place among the rest of the clouds. "I hate the sound of a baby crying. It drives me nuts, cuts right through me. But there are so many different kinds, like different notes in a song. They cry when they're cranky, uncomfortable, hungry, and needy, but the worst is when they're suffering, truly in pain. She'd cry like that nonstop."

"A daughter?"

"Sister. I was just a kid, growing up in a shithole house in a shithole town. I remember when my parents brought her home for the first time, trying so hard to put on a brave face. She was born prematurely, and her lungs hadn't developed correctly. We were broke and couldn't afford the medicine or care to treat her. I can barely remember her face, just her coughing and crying, always at their worst during the night. Such a small sound, but it just chipped away at all of us.

Mom lost her mind trying to comfort her. Dad spent most of his time at a bar so he wouldn't have to come home and hear her crying. I would play my guitar all night to drown everything out. I'd play a song until I had completely memorized it, and then I'd just learn another. It was easier to ignore the pain in my fingers than my sister's coughs. She was five years old when she died, but I still heard her voice, and I kept playing to try and drown it out. It got harder and harder as I got older, so I started taking drugs. My life after that is one giant blur."

"Hmmm."

There were several silent moments, and then Daniel turned to him. "Hmmm? Is that it? Is that all you have to say?"

"What, you want me to rank your story against others or something?"

"I just spilled my guts. I was hoping more for sagely advice, or at least some sympathy."

"I only said I'd listen. I'm a good bartender, not a great one."

"Great, thanks, you've been really helpful."

"Do you hear her right now?"

"Right now, I hear something else, and I'm pretty sure I'll have to get blackout drunk so that it'll stop. But yeah, I hear her. It fades out for a while but always comes back when everything is quiet. Now I'm stuck craving, and I don't even have my guitar to drown her out."

"Maybe you're not supposed to. Maybe she's trying to tell you something."

"No, she's not." Daniel put out his cigarette on the ground and stood up on shaky feet. "She's dead. The problem is me. I'm just unfixable, same as her."

----------

It started as a whistle, deathly sharp, and seemed to rise as Foley's mind broke free of the muck of his intoxication. Then, as he became more aware, the sound deepened in pitch, even becoming intermittent, and soon he could even recognize words.

"I'll see you all hang for this!"

"Just wait until my father hears of this injustice!"

"I've been framed! Someone is out to get me!"

It was the howling noble sons, demanding their release while banging their fists against the doors of their cells. Foley opened one eye with a groan and looked around to the nearest light source.

"Yep, iron bars, shit," he muttered.

He slowly pushed himself up, sitting on a straw mattress made with no intention of comfort, and beneath that, stone. Beside him was a bowl of cold, watery porridge that a rat was going to town on. Around him were brick walls with swears, prayers, and dashes carved and smeared. Before him, a corridor lined with cells like his own. They were filled with those who were guilty or suspected of participating in the Red Revelry.

Many of the culprits were noble sons wanting to try their hand at barbarism and now suffering the punishment, something they were not used to. The arrogant ones would yell threats and orders to any guard who might hear them, not yet realizing that their powers and the power of their families had little influence in these cells.

Almost all had letters of recommendation and proclaimed that their future occupation as knight cadets gave them the same authority and freedom as graduated knights. Those who were more spineless would loudly repent, try to buy their way out, or beg for leniency because they couldn't enroll in the academy if locked away.

Then would come the yells from others in the dungeon, fellow participants in the evening violence not even enrolling in the knight academy, and the guards forced to watch over the bloodthirsty rabble. They'd demand silence from the top of their lungs and threaten those who continued to make noise. So many revelers hadn't gotten their fill of action and were simply antagonizing each other, getting into arguments like bored children. Dozens of angry voices shouting over each other brought one inevitable conclusion.

"OI! SHUT THE FUCK UP! MY HEAD'S KILLIN' ME!" Foley roared.

That bought a moment of silence, then the jeers and threats started back up, most directed toward him. Foley got to his feet and checked the bars. They were firm. Three stone walls and a set of iron bars, a scene Foley had woken up in plenty of times before, but it was rare to be in a cell with a magic barrier. A sealing spell was inscribed onto the walls, floor, and ceiling and then bricked over.

It trapped all mana within the space, making the air dense and challenging to breathe, and putting pressure on the inhabitants' bodies. Any magic used to try and destroy the walls would bounce back like the echo of a gunshot. He sat back down and groaned in anguish. He was severely hungover and had a throbbing pain in his chest.

'What the fuck happened last night? I think I got into a fight with some skinny bastard.'

"Hey, hey, hey..." It was coming from the cell across the corridor, a young man clinging to the bars with eyes as wide as dinner plates. "Hey, hey, hey, heyheyheyhey..."

"What do you want?" Foley growled.

"If your head is hurting, I'll fix it. I'm a really nice guy, I'm gonna do you a favor and find what's hurting, and I'll cut it, I'll cut it right out of there. I'll cut it out, and you will be so grateful; you'll just want to sing and dance." He was talking fast, and his eyes were swerving back and forth.

"Bother someone else, it's too early for this shit." Foley went back to lie on the straw mattress, and the man began jumping around.

"No, you're not listening. What they do here, what they do here, it's all fake, and they tell you that you did bad, but they don't tell you what you did. We shouldn't be here. You and me, we gotta escape. We'll get out of here, we'll get a boat, and we'll live off the sea!"

"Whatever you say, dear, you crazy fucker."

The man continued droning on and on, making it difficult for Foley to piece together the events of last night. He didn't know how long he lay on that dirty mattress, feeling his heart beating in his eyes. In time, a heavy door opened, and Foley heard the sudden hushing of half the prisoners and the screaming and cursing of the rest. A group of knights had entered the dungeon. Ill-informed agitators yelled insults and demands, only to be rendered silent by a howl of agony.

"Sir Gradius, that man had not been sentenced for execution!"

"These are my prisoners, dwarf. I decide their punishment. If they wish to scream within my dungeon, then I shall make them scream."

"Monster, you stand on the wrong side of the bars," a woman hissed.

Foley could hear approaching footsteps, and the deranged prisoner across from him was going wild. "Oh, there he is! There's the man who took my face! Give it back! Give it back! God can't see me without my face! He told me so! He told me to cut that guy up! Come here! Come here, and I'll tell you a story! It's about dragons and eels and so many amazing things!"

The three knights stopped at his cell. First, Gradius, venting crimson flames from the slits in his helmet. Then, beside him, an old dwarf, beardless like Foley but with white hair and a nose like a potato. Joining them was a woman, hair wound in tight braids with several crossed scars on her cheek. Two were gold-rank, while the woman was silver, all displayed on their armor. The prisoner continued to ramble until Gradius extended his hand into the cell.

"Don't!" the dwarf yelled.

There was a blinding flash and a scream of pain as the cell became a roaring forge, flames searing everything without ever passing the bars. The woman grabbed Gradius's arm and pulled it away from the cell. Snarling, the enraged goliath threw her to the side and aimed his palm at her.

Loud as thunder, a crash rang out as the dwarf struck Gradius in the back with his palm, tossing him through the air with a large dent in his armor. Hands made of moving stone burst from the floor where Gradius landed and pinned him down.

He pulled at his earthen binds and howled like a beast with flames streaming from within his armor, producing a sound like a boat horn. More hands continued to grab him and contain the fire. Throughout the dungeon, prisoners who Gradius's rage had silenced were hollering like wild chimps.

"Well done, Lady Opal," the dwarf knight said with a grimace. The female knight was crouched where Gradius had thrown her, her hands pressed to the ground and surrounded by two magic circles.

"It's bad enough dealing with these vandals without him making it worse!" She noticed his burned hand. "Sir Berholm, are you well?"

He looked at his hand and sighed. "Hmmm, my palms have gotten soft. I suppose I've fallen out of shape. He is burning far hotter than usual. That armor was made by the dwarves and enchanted to contain his power, but it appears to be reaching its limit. What little sanity he has always fades during Red Revelries. As the violence grows worse each year, it seems he does as well."

"He's gone too far this time! If he has lost all distinction between friend and foe, then he doesn't deserve to keep his title, or even his life."

"This is not the place to discuss such things, too many ears and eyes. Go find Sir Tarnas, tell him his rabid dog is in trouble. I'll lock him up in one of these cells and proceed on my own."

Opal maneuvered the stone hands to expose Gradius's hip, where a ring of heavy keys hung from his belt. She passed the ring to Berholm and then warped the stone further into a cocoon, with Gradius's enraged screams echoing through the air holes.

Foley got up and approached the bars of his cell. "Oi, while you got that key handy, you think you could let me out?"

"Be silent," Opal hissed. "While we are not as harsh as the executioner, for you to so rudely ask a favor through prison bars is worthy of punishment."

"Is this how you treat newcomers to the city? I got drunk, was thrown out of a bar, woke up in an alley, and some lunatic tried to rob me. And who should come to my aid? A lass that kicks like an ass! Planted her hoof right in my chest! Go to the Sledgepaw, near the docks. You'll find my faceprint in the mud next to a two-day-old pile of horseshit."

Berholm looked him up and down. "He might be telling the truth."

"Are you not saying that simply because he's a dwarf?"

"I'm saying it because he smells like everything that he just described."

"So does every reveler that gets drunk before fighting."

"True. Hmmm, if this place starts overflowing and they decide to let some go, I'll mention you. What's your name, boy?"

"Jim Foley."

"Foley, huh? Very well." He turned to Opal. "Tarnas might still be speaking with the king, but it's best that they both know about Gradius."

Lady Opal departed, and Berholm opened the door to the charred cell. Gradius, bound in stone, was pushed inside like he was a block of Styrofoam and left next to the charred corpse of its original noisy inhabitant.

"Thank God," Foley muttered, "that shit got old really fast."

Berholm reached the door at the end of the dungeon, his hand approaching the iron knob. He spun around, and that hand flattened into a blade aimed at the assailant behind him. His attack was stopped by a cloaked figure, but not the one he expected.

"Lady Zodiac?"

The hood was pulled back to reveal long hair, like threads of silver, and cinnamon-shaded skin. Her eyes were gentle but vibrant, displaying the strength with which she had blocked an attack that would have sent most others flying. Valia Zodiac was famous for her beauty and power and had been for decades, for, as her ears pointed out, she was a dark elf.