Tales from Kalgachia - 20

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It had been some time since Ryker Everstone, King of Goldshire, had fallen down Shirekeep's greasy political pole - but he had subsequently enjoyed the good fortune of contracting severe sepsis from botched facial surgery, such that nobody found it necessary to liquidate him but instead opted to let nature take its own leisurely course in the confidence that he was no longer a threat to their ambitions. By all accounts he was still clinging to life, but trapped in a deep coma. One of his last orders before slipping into realms insensible had been for the relocation of his adopted son, a simple soul by the name of Roy Stone, out of Shirerithian territory for his own safety. That the King had not chosen to send the young man to Natopia, the most obvious destination, was nonetheless unsurprising - the same dagger-wielding hands which prevailed in Shireroth invariably extended to the lands of the Caprine Throne also, indeed the noble houses of the two nations were so intertwined as to be effective duplicates and informal bets were already being offered in the usual disreputable quarters on a merger of the two empires to counter the nascent Bassarid Federation, although the divisive presence of Storish nobility in Natopia kept the odds unfavourable.

But this went no way to explaining why King Ryker had chosen Kalgachia, of all places, to squirrel away his acquired son - the country was effectively enclaved by Shireroth whose corporatist bureaucracy, almost universally in thrall to the ideology of the day, advocated so unabashedly for Kalgachia's annihilation that they seemed permanently on the edge of compromising the rather more technocratic foreign policy they were tasked with implementing. Of the few in Shireroth who were both aware and sympathetic to Roy's flight, some said King Ryker had waited too late to make his decision, when his mind was beginning to fail him; others held that he took some solace in the rumour that Kalgachia was secretly run by his ancient benefactors, the House of Yastreb. Whatever the King's motivations, Roy had been wheedled and cajoled into slipping into Kalgachia on the pretext of a business trip, quickly finding to his surprise that he was not permitted to leave again. A letter from King Ryker, which had arrived in Kalgachia before him, explained that this was entirely in accordance with his bidding; used as a letter of introduction this same document appeared to grant Roy privileges far beyond those of even a well-respected Kalgachi citizen, as repeatedly noted - not without mild irritation at times - by the Kalgachi folk with whom he had become acquainted. Those more familiar with the workings of the Kalgachi state assured Roy that he had protectors in very low places indeed ('low' indicating the more powerful end of society in this chthonically-inclined realm).

Now Roy stood on the outside deck of a bar in the city of Fort Fortitude, a place which clung perilously to a steep mountainside in the Lieutenancy of Oktavyan and might have been mistaken for little more than a large village by those unaware that most of it lay underground. The parts above the surface were pretty this time of year, if a little cold; the deck on which Roy stood was only made bearable by the glare of the heat lamps set around its edge. Beyond the deck's perimeter rail rose the Octavian mountains themselves, sky-piercing masses of icy white flecked with grey escarpments of rough, weathered granite where it was too steep to hold the snow. Within the nearest opposite mountain face were rows upon rows of small but obviously artificial holes - some kind of fortress, Roy had been told, although people seemed uncomfortable talking about it when they noticed his peculiar accent.

Not that Roy had failed to make friends; it was for their sake that Roy had come to the bar at all. His two best companions here were named Arben and Slack, although Roy had gleaned the surnames of neither. After the Prefects had unceremoniously dropped him off at the underground, church-owned residential suite procured for him by King Ryker - with several years' rent paid in advance - Arben and Slack had been the first to approach him and help him make sense of this strange mountain land. They had even tried to smarten up his haircut and wardrobe to make him presentable out on the town, although he seemed to retain the gift of looking perpetually dishevelled in spite of their efforts.

After some time Roy had realised that Arben and Slack were no mere neighbours, acquainted with him by some chance encounter - rather that someone, somewhere, had sent them to keep an eye on him. Arben's absent-minded conversational droppings of terms like "chrono-entropic feedback", "liminal unanimity" and "archonic mandate" marked him out as one of the arcanist caste they called the Troglodyti, visibly affirmed by the resigned irritation of a man who had peered through the veil at enough of the Realms Immaterial that he resented every minute he remained bonded to the physical world in a meat suit and beheld its mundane sights in duller shades of grey with each passing revelation. As for Slack, his encyclopaedic knowledge of the Kalgachi justice system and overly emphatic advice on how to avoid seditious acts or utterances suggested that he was another agent of the Prefects, sent to make sure Roy behaved himself. Neither of his two 'friends' would confirm his suspicions when he accused them directly, but nor did they make any great effort to deny them. The closest they had come was saying that they were aware of his relation to the King of Goldshire and they had his "best interests at heart" as they quaffed Stalemate Gin with him, played him at endless games of cards and pool, and took him up into the mountains for the occasional ski trip. Roy got the impression that the two men had been put out to pasture by their respective bosses, enjoying their leisurely task but simultaneously resentful that they were not deemed worthy of anything more demanding.

Now they leaned on the railings either side of him, having crept onto the deck while he was busy watching wispy rags of cloud glide over the mountains against a blue sky.

"Roy," said Arben in strained greeting.

"Arben," said Roy with a nod, turning to Slack. "...Slack."

"Roy," said Slack. "You okay for a drink?"

"Yeah I'm fine," said Roy, hoisting the small glass of Stalemate Gin which he had refrained from drinking until he had company.

"You should try the Fréamiht Ale," said Slack. "Gives you a chance to pace yourself on the hard stuff. You've only got one liver, you know."

"I thought they sold out of Fréamiht?" said Roy. "I was chatting with the barkeep just now. He said they won't get any more in until the war's over." While true, the observation concealed the fact that beer of any type tended to play havoc with Roy's delicate stomach and weak bladder. He felt a certain amount of pride that his spook friends did not yet know about his unreliable innards, the source of far too many embarrassing episodes in his life, and he had no intention of giving the game away.

"Eh, I know people," said Slack. "I could get you some."

"Okay," said Roy. By this point he knew better than to ask about Slack's 'connections'.

"Listen, Roy..." began Arben, not breaking his gaze from the mountains above. "We called you here for a reason today."

"I know," said Roy. "To have a good time. And I appreciate it, I've told you before."

"Well yeah, but it's a different reason today," said Slack. "A more serious matter."

"Oh," said Roy. "Well go on then."

There was a silence.

"Roy..." Arben finally began, "... your father's dead."

Had all three men not been gazing over the edge of the railing, Roy's two companions might have seen the subtle light disappear from behind his eyes. Nobody said anything for a full minute, nor broke their gaze from the mountains, until Roy took the other two by surprise by jerking his head both ways.

"Wait..." he said, "...which father are we talking about here?"

"Biological," said Slack. "Daniel Dravot."

Roy's face creased into a daft smile and his cheeks inflated. "Pfff...!" he said, shaking his head. "Shrub almighty, you had me going there! I thought you meant Pop Ryker!" His eyes flashed in exasperation and he downed the gin in one gulp to steady his nerves, shivering as the spirit cut through him. "Honestly, you guys..." He fished around in his pocket for handful of Millirand. "Anyway, this round's on me. What's your poison today, boys?"

"Uhh," said Slack as he downed his Schlepogorskaya vodka and handed Roy the empty glass. "Same again, double Schlep. Thanks."

"Me too," muttered Arben, offering his own empty glass. "Look, Roy... I'm not calling you a psychopath or anything, but you don't seem too affected by the news."

Roy spoke over his shoulder as he began strolling back inside. "News? Oh that... meh, barely knew him!" He swung the door open and he disappeared into the dim light and chatter of the bar.

"Well that wasn't as hard as I expected," said Arben.

"He probably knows it makes things easier, the old fossil being gone," said Slack. "Breaks some linkages which need to be broken."

"The ESB thing?"

"ESB, Mother Liv, you name it," said Slack. "I got a brief from the Tummies about it all. They say Dravot was the genetic code that turned Shireroth into the cancer cell it is today. He had his fingers in all their rotten pies. Not such a big cheese in recent times, but if you go far enough back down any of their fetid rabbit holes they all lead to him."

"Got any more metaphors to throw in there?" Arben's eyes took on a rare wrinkle of mirth; the clumsy attempts of surface dwellers to weave different realities together were one of the few things which still amused him.

"You know what I mean," snapped Slack. "Anyway, with Dravot gone, our young friend has gained... a timely degree of insulation from certain quarters. It's left a nice little gap in his life, and gaps need filling. That's where you come in."

"Does that mean I have to do some work now?" said Arben, not bothering to conceal a sigh. "Truth be told, I was happy just getting hammered and going skiing."

"Well it's not like you have to initiate him into whatever crap you do down in Lapivril. Just ease him into the basic stuff. Besides, our brother sovereigns don't want him leaned on too hard. I must say it's a little strange to hear them indulge the foibles of a Shirerithian monarch - gives credence to the Yastreb theory - but the word from below is that King Ryker never took kindly to hard ideology and wouldn't approve of such things."

"Wouldn't approve of what?" Roy had crept up behind them, carrying three glasses of spirit on a small silver tray. "You're right about Pop Ryker through... he never had time for any of those blowhards with their crazy visions. He'd have a few things to say about you guys making me go to church on a Byeday."

"I told you before, Roy," said Slack, taking up his drink with a nod of gratitude. "It looks good on... certain records that you might rely on in the future. We're not in the business of brainwashing. Just keep showing up and make sure you sign your name in the Credent's little book. How much you want to pay attention to the service is up to you."

"Ketherism loses its power when it's forced on people anyway," said Arben. "The divine spark of the Garden Ketheric can't grow within you unless willingly cultivated. If you actually listened to the Credent instead of sleeping on the back pew during his service, you'd know that. I suspect you're brighter than you let on."

"I'm as bright as I want to be, thank you very much," said Roy.

Arben knocked back his vodka and looked up at the mountains, contemplating the implications of the statement."You'll go far," he said.

Far in the valley below, an unseen person let rip with a Trembita and filled the air with a shaky, booming melody.

"Ugh, not this shit again," said Roy. "Let's go inside."