The Questory of Root Karbunkulus - Quill (26 page)

Oh yes, indeed.

She sat on the step and tried to work out
more possible pass-codes. Far below her she could hear the faint
buying and selling, the bartering and quibbling of customer
and…

“Squawnch!” she yelled.

A flick of something. Root stood back. The
‘V’ was shifting somehow, churning from neat grey into radiant
silver. And then the door slid open. Into blackness.

The staircase seemed to gulp before it
trundled Root in. The slate door glided silently again, closing
behind them. Standing on its threshold Root squinted and saw, way
across a bleak and wide chasm of darkness, another ‘V’. It was
glowing bright white as if it had eaten a star.

“Okay. So now what?”

At this the steps seemed to shrug.

“I see.” This time Root gulped. She pulled
out a penny and dropped it to test how long the fall was. But where
the penny should have fallen into the abyss, it decided to burst
into flames instead.

Great.

She turned to her staircase. “Can’t you,
y’know move me along, that treadmill thing you do?”

The staircase held. Root gave it an
understanding pat. “Guess they’re really screening their customers,
eh?”

It made sense. The last thing Vulcherk would
want is a bunch of curiosity mongers hanging about his nasty
business. Thus the ol’ bursting into flames deterrent.

She reasoned, however that if Vulcherk were
really the money vampire everyone said he was, he would hardly
sabotage paying customers. Obviously, this type of customer, a Dark
Arts buyer, would just have to demonstrate a certain amount of
chutzpah to be taken seriously.

Even as she thought it she could feel the
curiosity killing her. She was dying to know who, of all the Quest
contestants fit the Dark-Arts-buyer bill. Who was willing to use it
to win? Who had the know-how to actually go through with it?

She was wasting time. No point guessing when
she was so near to catching them red-handed.

So, what was it? What was Vulcherk’s game
here? How would a player get in?

Wait a minute.

Money.

Root reached in her pocket and pulled out the
coin shaped diamond she got from Haverly. Even in the darkness it
seemed to find light and sparkle.

That was it! Vulcherk wasn’t interested in
bargain finders, those who toss pennies. He was interested in the
real deal. Someone willing to put their money where their mouth
was. And a demonstration of that was needed.

Root took a chance and tossed the glittering
coin.

She stood back, half expecting a burst of
fire. But the fire never came. Instead the darkness moaned. And
before Root’s eyes, it solidified into a polished granite walkway
expanding the whole of the chasm. It was just like the one that had
glided her through the store’s front doors, except fancier. A slick
marble rail with softly glowing lamps emerged along it, leading to
the sudden appearance of a doorman with a tray of drinks in his
hand. He was in an impeccable black uniform with white gloves.

“Welcome. May I interest you in a drink,
milady?” he asked from across the distance, not needing to raise
his voice.

“Uh…sure.” Root took a hesitant step. As the
walkway carried her forward she turned back to her staircase. “Wait
here, ‘kay?”

The steps piled up against the wall with a
nod.

“I won’t be long.” Root promised, already
half way across.

The doorman waited patiently. Upon Root’s
arrival he lowered the tray, displaying several golden goblets.

“Uh, y’got any Chorm?” Root asked
tentatively.

“Of course, milady.” The doorman’s white
gloves wrapped around the centre goblet and lifted it to Root.

“Hold the Flame Dust,” she said at the last
minute. “No need to take the edge off.”

“Of course.” The doorman snuffed the flame
that danced over the goblet and handed it back to Root. She took a
full, long gulp.

Aaaaaahhh. Nothing like a refreshing boost of
Chorm to get you through the doors of Grotius Vulcherk’s notorious
Zero-th Floor of the Dark Arts.

She replaced the goblet and with a deep
breath stepped through.

Ernward was enjoying himself. He never fell
bored of his position as Curator for the Zero-th Floor. What with
so many fascinating and mysterious treasures. All the dark things
he’d heard whispered about when he was growing up; the kind of
things that, even now, after all these years made his neck hair
lift and his webbed hands zingle.

He caught himself in the mirrored eyes of a
sarcophagus. A grotesque reflection. The waxy liquefaction of skin.
Features mangled and shapeless as a candle at its quick.

The price of sacrifice.

Indeed, if one were to become Curator of the
Dark Arts Gallery, there would always be sacrifice. And though
Ernward was still young, in fact the youngest to be instated to
this position he’d already traveled a long valley of deception,
greed and power to get here.

Grotius Vulcherk himself had recognized
Ernward’s talent. Indeed, it was Ernward who’d supplied him with
rare archives from the Drowned City, the same of which had been
originally allocated to a historical museum. Tsk, tsk that they
never made it. Ernward grinned as he recounted the theft. It had
been an impressive accomplishment. Yet nothing like the coup that
had brought him the attention he sought, the respect of his mentor,
Grotius Vulcherk.

Today that coup will pay off ten-fold he
thought. Twenty fold….a hundred fold! It will bring in more money
than anything of the gallery’s history. And Ernward himself would
get half.

Vulcherk was smart to offer him partnership
and the distinction of a private auction. It was a calculating
win/win. Sure, Ernward could have sold independently but with so
much cloaking and secrecy required and nothing in the way of
reputation to back him, nothing like Vulcherk’s at any rate, not to
mention limited connections, partnership was the wiser choice.

And the bonus of Curator wasn’t too shabby
either.

Ernward surveyed his Zero-th floor
guests.

He was aware of all five bidders. Keenly
aware. Their figures reflected in the black marble ceiling and in
the moody, grey glass of Things. He followed them in the silver
shine of dark treasures and in the glaring suspicion of his own
hollow eyes. One must always be suspicious. For one thieving mind
there were always ten more. And these buyers were hungry. They’d
seen the prize and not a one could shake their eyes away. It had
been born of the Drowned City itself and out of legend its very
constitution was held responsible for the power of Kings and
Sagicians and creatures of Might. It was not surprising that such a
thing could invoke these wagging tongues. These wagging
war-mongering tongues.

Ernward shrugged. War was not necessarily a
platform he supported. But as he had learned from his mentor, it
was not his business to know the end result of his transactions,
but to ensure impartiality. Impartiality meant loyal customers,
which meant even more transactions. The primary goal.

Ernward caught a movement, a zig to the
room’s zag.

“What misery is this?” He said to himself as
the young girl trod over his black glossed floor. Another child?
That’s two in one day…neigh within hours of each other. He would
make a note to tighten security. He looked at the girl in her red
cloak. This one, he knew right away, did not belong. The other one
had, as if the cold leaden walls were home. The other had struck
into business with cunning professionalism, reminding Ernward of
himself at that age. He had humored the child despite his
schedule.

But this one, she wandered in with fear at
her heels he thought and clenched his fists.

The moment Root entered she wanted to turn
back but the door shwished behind her and the last thing she needed
was to look conspicuous. She straightened her back and tried to
present an air of authority.

In her bag, she could feel the Brotswin. She
hadn’t even thought of it since arriving at Vulcherk’s and this
moment did nothing to change that. There would be no languishing
goodbyes here. Uh uh. Sentiment did not seem welcome in this
place.

A quick scan revealed a slick enterprise
indeed on the Zero-th floor. Nothing at all like its lower
offerings. She realized immediately that those were mere facades,
that the whole building was set up as a big amusement of cheap,
convenient, bargain hunting diversion. Nothing of the real
business. The dark and dangerous and profitable business that took
place on this secret floor with its shiny turf and sleek counters
and glass encased wares. She knew instinctively that there were
other, cruder things here, too. The kind of things that were hidden
in lesser rooms. Cages more like. Dungeons. The kind of things that
were hideous in sight and sound. Reserved for the more common of
the deranged and evil Dark Arts customer.

Root shuddered then set to her task of Quest
whistle blower. The sooner she could get this over with, the
better. She tried to pinpoint recognition in the browsing
customers. There was a handful of people, all of them stinking of
secret obsessions and wealth. They kept their heads low and their
eyes darting. You could practically hear them sweating in the
silence of the room. A man, bald and pale with shredded, melted
folds of skin stood at the opening of another door. He held up a
long baton with a compact of batting at its end and rapped it
against a huge brass gong. It sent a deep-throated wave through the
air, signaling the patrons to enter. Call her superstitious but
Root knew this invite didn’t include her.

As she watched the guests, five of them plus
their attendants file in; she could see there was no one of
recognition. She sighed. Was she too late? Had the big, fat cheater
already come and gone, now harboring some sort of dark ammunition
in his or her pocket? How could Root find out?

Then it dawned on her. The till. Perhaps she
could find a receipt or something. A purchase with a name on it.
She surveyed the room, now empty. Her eyes landed on a large ‘V’
shaped counter in the back.

Not everything on the Zero-th Floor was of a
dark nature. Vulcherk seemed to collect objects of unusual
innovation as well. But, as Root waded deeper into the reserve the
scales definitely tipped in the direction of macabre with many
frightening and mysterious things vying for her attention. A
squirming tangle of whitish worms rested in the folds of a black
velvet pillow. Root leaned in for a closer look and almost cried
out as it flew at her with a bloodied mouth in its centre and
splatted against the glass. The legs squirmed and spread out
leaving the horrific mouth wide and convulsing open, shut, open,
shut. Rows of teeth labored to get through the glass, to find her
face. Root felt sick as she pulled herself away.

Some Things shared occupancy in various
cages; others were given lone status in glass casing on podiums.
One in particular had Root’s heart racing though she couldn’t turn
away. It housed a writhing mass of black feathers. She couldn’t
tell what it was doing until it was finished. And all that remained
of its dinner was the cat’s bones in a pool of red.

Root felt the bile rising into her throat.
She focused on the counter now, refusing to be unhinged. Once
arrived, a few deep breaths and a careful scan for Squawnches
and/or other such patrols was necessary before she could
concentrate on the task at hand.

She saw the till. It was unoccupied and
beside it was a large black, leather bound book of accounts. So
far, so good. She tried to crane herself over the counter to lift
the cover but could just reach the tips of her fingers. She looked
around again. The coast was still clear.

Hopefully.

She crouched down and wormed into the opening
of the counter. From here she crawled to the till and reached up.
The book was right…there. Her fingers slid over it and pulled it
down.

Her heart was thudding so loud she was sure
someone would hear it and catch her.

She opened the book.

Rats!

No names.

She closed the book and was about to rise
when an idea came to her. She flipped it open again.

Aha! Addresses! Now she had ‘em. Okay, so
should she rip the pages out? Or take the whole book?

A noise. What was that? Root held her breath
and tried to tuck herself under the counter from view. She waited,
stock-still with fear.

After a time she realized it must have been
nothing. Her body relaxed in the relief.

Until…

SNAP! The book suddenly clamped shut over her
hand.

And began to chew.

Root muffled a scream. The book remained
attached despite her desperate flailing attempt to rid herself of
it.

She immediately froze. Caught in the frigid
glare of the Curator of the Dark Arts Gallery.

“That’s enough now, Stinlet.” he said blandly
to the book.

All at once the book released its hold and
fell into Ernward’s expectant hands.

“Explain yourself,” he said with a cold
glare.

Root held her wounded hand. The tips of her
fingers had been chewed raw. Some were bleeding. “ I was…I have a…”
With her good hand she pulled out her merchandise and held it up
for the Curator.

“A Brotswin.” he said, raising his eyebrows.
“From where did you get this?”

“The Ekladian Sage Mother.”

Ernward glared at her. He snatched the
Brotswin from her and began looking for the Ekladian stamp. When he
found it, he was immediately suspicious. “How? And don’t tell me
you stole it. Your tactics are a far cry from the art of thieving,
Miss…”

Root didn’t want to tell him her name. “I
wasn’t trying to steal your book. I was…I was just looking to see
what a Brotswin had sold for…what it was worth. You don’t have
prices on anything.”