The Path of Poison: Chapter 38

After Sepp’s grimoire of medicine and hexes was stolen, he agreed to aid a paladin named Casimir in his quest to uncover who or what is behind the recent spate of thievery. Sepp now joins the paladin as they descend into the underbelly of Farhaven…

Check out The Path of Poison sub-section for all previous installments

The bell above the door jingled as Sepp entered the Finsman’s Rest, and his gaze passed over to the wall where the paladin was seated. The second the door touched the chimes above it, Casimir’s head turned and his greeting was interrupted by the rushing shape of the tavern’s barkeep, the little moustachioed Minosmirii fellow who spoke in a rapid and excited Merchant’s Tongue about getting Sepp drinks. Sepp was going to answer him with an excuse but the paladin got there before him, speaking, no less, in what Sepp assumed was the Minosmirii language. All of a sudden, the little man stopped, gave an exclamation of “Ahh!” in understanding and turned away with a hand held up and a nod. Sepp hadn’t the gold to actually buy anything anyway.

“Sepp. Before you sit, look...” his gaze darted away for a second, and he gave a sigh. “You agreed to this rather quickly. What you seek is dear to you, I understand this. But if you want to back out...”
“I don’t.” Sepp stated his words firm, his eyes never leaving the paladin’s, though a tremor passed through his chest.
Casimir gave an appreciative huff, and said “Then sit with me.” Sepp quickly pulled a chair over from an empty table beside them—apart from them and the barman, there were only two other people. The fellow probably needed the business. “Right, the basics. Tell me, what can you do, lad?”
“I’m a healer. I have medicines, things to trade and sell, I...can speak in Silverden and Voerlund dialects, and some Merchant’s Tongue-”
“Can you fight is what I ask. I see that little hatchet there,” which he gestured to.
“If...I really need to.” But it wasn’t the little hatchet he was thinking of.
“Good, or else, be fast.”
“You can fight? I’ve seen your hammer...” Sepp enquired. It seemed somehow the right thing to do. He was met with a half smirk and amused chuckle from the Baletorian.
“Been a Paladin of Imaal since I was about your age or younger. I took to the Righting of Wrongs in the ratholes of the Old City of Baletor. Needn’t worry about me, eh? But onto the business at hand! Allow me to catch you up.” The paladin began to speak in a low, swift tone.

“Farhaven is naturally, being a great center of trade, a nexus of thievery and smuggling. Ships come and go from everywhere along the coasts and from Asoliad offshoots at all hours of the day and night. Many vessels move legitimate stock, but among them are great numbers of stolen goods, dubious luxuries, arms, and narcotics. A lot passes through this place and much of the cream gets skimmed off the top by certain merchants.”
“You’ve been deep into this already, then?” Sepp said with a sort of expectancy that the investigation was further along than it seemed.
“Oh, none of this is a secret. Some here even find it exciting, at least before they end up on the wrong end of it. But it’s not the merchants we’re after. That’s a long war for Imaal and I. No, we seek the thieves who skim off these merchants, the small cells and peculiar individuals who take choice items to deeper markets, the secret markets between traders, the rumor channels of fences with odd merchandise, we seek names and places, to get an in with them.”
“Wait...I’m just some refugee, these top class thieves who steal from the already secret stuff, why target me?”
“Hmm! That is an oddity, to be sure. But I have my theories, the most likely of which is you were a mark for a new runner. Someone’s rite of passage. Nothing serious, you understand. Wrong place, right time.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Well, for one, by the look of you—no offense, you were alone, out in the open, no?”
“My friend Seva was with me, actually.”
“That leaves either someone who was desperate, or proving something. More witnesses, you know?”
“And that’s why we need to find the more...knowledgeable people?”
“Exactly, lad. The desperate will get rid of their loot quickly, the dangerous will not. So your book is either sitting in a peddler’s cart or someone with a name and address has it, and information on much more, that’s my conviction.”
“Okay…” Sepp said, similarly convinced. The paladin had clearly been into this for a while, regardless of open secrets or not. “So what’s our plan?”
Casimir leaned in.
“The plan I’ve devised, after a great deal of research with some of the more amenable elements of the city guard, is to go into a certain section of the undercity, where a number of canals converge, a popular area where smugglers are known to congregate, thieves to pass through, and where questions are asked. But let’s get a drink down us first,” said the paladin as he pulled out an oval sliver of lustre from within his red sash. “To a good hunt, eh?”

After downing two small bottles of Moldy Folger’s, Casimir led the way along the waterfront until he motioned Sepp to follow down a thin, crooked little street that led into the strange bowels of Farhaven. The interior of the city seemed constructed almost entirely along the canal network, with them as the main thoroughfares. Made sense, even though much of it veered off beyond sight where only feet could tread—which was where they went. There were signs at intersections of canals, designating different streets, Sepp assumed, and they were written in a variety of languages, and not all of them all the time. Some had Voerlund and Silverden letters, some only one, some had neither. He wondered what that meant. Lamps were hung from these, a few even had little iron bowls atop them with flames. Others like them began to appear, seemingly more at random between the stretches of old, quiet structures and slumbering alleys. At various intersections, and often in between, too, Casimir consulted a scrap of vellum, the kind of stuff that didn’t damage easy, taken from within the section of the sash wrapped around his waist as a belt. A smuggler’s map, perhaps?

Life in Farhaven, Sepp was getting the ideas, really did grow around the edges, along the water, and not much elsewhere, for the further in they went, the deeper into silence the city descended. What had been the omnipresent bustle of the port city had grown into a faint background murmur. Other sounds came then, singular sounds, like the dripping or sloshing of water, sharp little knocks on wood or stone, sounds of dragging, padding, and footsteps, and not always their own. It grew darker, too. The lanterns and braziers which lit many sections of the immediate undercity became less common, and there were lengths they passed through whose shadows were like blots of dirty water, the city seen through them covered in their murk until they emerged. The breeze kept up, though. Wind rushed at odd intervals between the piled wood and sunken stone structures, carrying dim scents of food and oils, but also the less savoury smells of the canals and middens.

There was a proliferation of little shrines everywhere, too, and these remained constant. But they didn’t remain tended. Most were free standing, made of old dark wood, but a number had been chiselled into the sides of buildings or into the vast supports of the overcity, and these were almost all uniformly coated in dust, for the dwellings about were dark and silent, or at least seemed so. Some were sunken into the ground near the canals for boat access, and these looked a little better tended. There were World Serpent half-domes and incense sticks—no landwight shrines he could recognize, he noticed that, there were stepped pillars with flickering fires, or mere embers, a lot of ash, as well as a great number of humanoid images he couldn’t put a name to. He asked the paladin if he had any idea.
“A few Minosmirii ones, I believe, but most here are aspects of Oros, god of the mountain of Baletor. I understand Farhaven houses a great many of my people.”
“I’ve heard of that one, from the merchants we travelled with.”
“Ah, the ones with the body. Mustn’t have been cheap to buy your way in there.”
“Oh, it wasn’t their caravan, it was a Dunmarrow caravan.”
“Hired guards, were they? Not cheap, either.”
“I, uh, I actually aided one of them back in Voerlund.”
“Must have been serious.”
“Saved his life, actually, he was poisoned. They gave us free passage.”
“A lot of surprises from you, lad,” Casimir said with a smirk.
“I had help,” Sepp added, something like a mild embarrassment passing him, “a Macha magician, if you can believe it.”
“And here I thought you were just some rash young man.”
“You mentioned a god, is it? Imaal. Anything here…?”
The paladin gave a low laugh.
“In this place? Doubt it.”

It was indeed a little...off colour, Sepp felt. Everything had its place, his dad had said in the past about medicines and ingredients of various kinds. Its place, or its purpose, reason, cause—Sepp couldn’t rightly recall the exact way he said it, but it was something he never fully understood. Everything had...everything had some sense about it. He supposed that worked for everything, then, everyone, too. A place in the order of things, or things were given places to do things? If that was the case, Sepp thought as they crept through impromptu little streets and courts between tottering, silent structures, what was the purpose, reason, or whatever it was, of such squalor as this? Who or what would make or leave a place like this? It stank of damp stone, thick and musty, overhangs and the ceiling far above dripped incessantly creating little rivulets that ran down the old pitted rock facades. And though it wasn’t everywhere, here in particular, more than he’d seen even on the waterfront, aqueous growths veritably plastered the ground and walls for whole spans. Bony little studs, tendril-bearing lumps, things like perforated fungus, piles of wet ragged weeds, and even multitudes of tiny skittering and slithering shapes.

It was then Casimir thrust a hand behind him and held Sepp where he stood.
“Down, Sepp, get down.”
He crouched as the paladin unslung the hammer from his belt. Not quite a mace, not quite a workman’s mallet, and not quite a proper warhammer, either. Against the leather hoop, the metal of its short, broad shaft seemed to sing lightly. Casimir was leaning forward, almost on his hands, hammer held back and low. Something rose from a slender canal ahead. It had dark grey flesh, mottled and wrinkled, and a more or less human body surmounted by a great lumpen head with a mass of wriggling feelers where a face ought to be. Slime issued from within the mass of tendrils, slopping onto the stone. The head turned, the feelers pointed towards Sepp and the paladin, and the second it didn’t see but seemed sense them, it crept forward a few steps before breaking into a loping run, and disappeared into the mess of rotten buildings. After a moment or two, Casimir stood, but didn’t replace his hammer in his belt.
“What was that?” Sepp said, unable to hold back the tremor.
“This city is half of the ocean at the best of times, we must be on our guard.”
“Why?”
“After, say, rainfalls, or areas with poor drainage, things like them and more emerge from the water.”
“Beastmen?” Sepp suppressed a shiver.
“You know of them?”
“A lot on the road here,” was all he said.
“Well, that’s what the Voerlunders call them, but I don’t think these are quite the same. Things here are loners for one, some look terribly human, others barely resemble humans at all. But come, I do not believe we are far off.”
Sepp took a look around before following, and hoped the paladin hadn’t seen his hand fall to his pack rather than his axe.

Sections of the canal widened considerably, and either the undercity streets rose up, or the canals lowered, and there were small areas to for vessels to dock. Sepp supposed these had to exist, though couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of them before. It was to one of these they came, into it fed no less then six other streams, and before it was a lone structure, this time with a light inside. The rest of this night soundless stretch was lit by one singular brazier atop a squat pillar, throwing a wide, dancing light and leaving the rest in hazy shadow. The sides of the pillar had human figures carved into them in low relief, but not all in the same style. One in particular stood, a hooded shape, looking to the side, with only a mouth and lower jaw to be seen emerging, and held up behind it was a hand, in the way one would hold up their hand to whisper in someone’s ear. He hadn’t time to check the others before Casimir spoke to him.

“This is the place, Sepp. Come, see the door?”
“I do,” answered he, wondering what he was meant to be seeing.
“This deep in, and in such an area as this, you lock your door, or you don’t even have one. That’s how we can tell.” And indeed, this one was left just ajar. “Right, Sepp, I have a plan: it’s not good for me to go around asking questions, I’ve probably been seen by whatever thieves’ networks exist here talking to the guards, rumours passing, and so on. So I need you to ask the questions, I’ll hold back and act the bodyguard.”
He could see Sepp’s reaction clear as day.
“Look, if I sense anything funny, I’ll step in. Don’t worry. But we’re just asking questions. We go to the barman, order something small,” he said as he slipped Sepp another oval of lustre, “and you mention you’re looking for a market—one, you must say, with a keen eye.”
Sepp found it hard to muster his reply. But what else was he expecting to happen? “Okay” was all he said.
“You’re a desperate refugee looking for something dear, are you not? Use that, lad. No rambling. Short words. Worry not, eh?” Casimir said as he clapped the apothecary on the shoulder. “You want this, so it will come natural.”

It was a small tavern within, nameless, and without chimes over its door. A few bare hoops of iron held candles that lit the interior, which was mostly just one long bar of old, rough wood and a few places to stand. Right now, one hooded shape nursed a drink at the end of the bar, while a bearded Voerlunder washed wooden mugs. Sepp shuffled to the counter, Casimir’s boots and scale armour vest thumping and clanking as he moved, his presence clear. The barkeep looked up and merely nodded as a question.

“Two ales, please,” Sepp said in a Silverden Merchant’s Tongue. The barkeep turned and removed two bottles, Sepp slid the lustre mark over the counter, the barman took it, tested it between his fingers, and returned to washing mugs. The shape at the end of the counter croaked out a word, probably to the barkeep, that Sepp didn’t recognize and slipped out past the two. Casimir took his ale, but didn’t drink it, Sepp did. After a moment, he looked past Casimir, cleared his throat, and spoke.
“I’m looking, ah...for a market.”
“Plenty out and above,” said the man in Voerlunder, not looking up from his mugs. S’eth, was that a test? Don’t spend too long on it.
“One with a keen eye, eh?”
The barkeep shot a glance from under his brow. “Don’t know what you’re thinking you’re asking, lad.”
“You know well enough,” Casimir rumbled in his own Merchant’s Tongue. The barkeep’s gaze darted to the paladin, he still didn’t move his head, but he did stop moving for a second, then looked back down and sighed as he kept cleaning.

“You must be new. City’s in a right state. Lots of discerning folks keeping close company, no middle men, filchers’re swarming the place, haven’t seen hide nor hair of any real business in some score of days. Why d’you think I’m so empty?”
“Filchers?” asked Sepp in Voerlunder—he may as well, he figured. “Competition?”
The barman gave a huff. “It’s across all Farhaven. Hard to miss. Reckon aught’s helping these ones.”
“City guard?”
“Guard? Nah. Something else. These lot, got the Serpent’s Coils upon them, or some god out of Baletor, or some sorcerer.”
“How do you mean?” asked Casimir, stepping closer.
“Hear things, I do.” He set his mugs and cloth down. “How things go missing right from under noses, between warehouses, or, Serpent’s Breath, right out of hands, even. So, if you’re looking for decent wares, afraid you’ll have to find someone yourself, I can’t connect you. Good luck with that. Thanks for the business, anyhow.”
“No worries,” said Sepp, looking down at his bottle, troubled. He downed another swig of it—he saw the bottle: Lunderbrew. Remember not to get that again, he thought to himself. He turned to Casimir who himself turned to leave, and back into the murky undercity did they go.

Back along the darkening streets, for night had already begun to fall, the two convened on their findings.
“Not much good there,” said Sepp, brow furrowed, looking away.
“No,” said the paladin, “and yet, interesting…very interesting. I reckon a great many like him would say the same were we to try. Aught stirs in this city, Sepp. I know not what or why, but suspicions are being confirmed.”
“Like what?”
“That this is organized, not some upheaval in a secret order. These people fight amongst themselves for rights and territory constantly, but rarely do they all get a fright unless the prince is involved. These meddling middle men, I’ve learned, are good for divining the state of affairs.”
“But sorcerers? Baletorian gods?”
“Bah, he’s a foreigner speaking of things he knows not—no offense. Oros is a strange god at time, yes, and its people have been known to do dark things in its name, but those are the actions of men, not Oros. This I know. My suspicions lie in the aid unscrupulous magicians, or...well, something I’d rather leave speaking of unless it comes to that. I doubt it will. So, what to do now, eh?”
“What to do...he said go to the source, but that’s what we were looking for.”
“Aye, troublesome, troublesome.”
They walked in silence for a minute before stopping under a roadsign’s smouldering iron bowl.
“What about prisons, Casimir? Does Farhaven have things like prisons?”
“It does, but thieves who get caught aren’t usually very good...but they might know names. Yes, they might know names.” The paladin gave a short laugh. “Could be worth trying, I like this idea. The day is not lost!”