Jackal Among Snakes, Book 3: A GameLit Fantasy, page 4
“They smell of… nothing,” he said in concern.
“They probably smell like water,” Argrave commented quietly. “These people wouldn’t have any of the functions to generate the smells—no oils, no sweats, no tears. They’ve transcended a physical form.”
Galamon looked back, gesturing for Argrave to continue. They carried on, heading toward an open entryway, where purple cloth fell down. People pushed it aside and moved to and from. As they neared, the sounds of revelry started to become apparent.
“About… thirty or so,” Galamon said to Argrave.
“Manageable, I think.” Argrave nodded. “Remember what I said earlier. Allow no one to touch your skin,” Argrave warned, stepping forth to push aside the purple cloth serving as the doorway.
Chapter 5
The first thing that Argrave noticed when entering the palatial estate of Mistress Tatia was neither a sound, nor a sight, nor a smell. Instead, it was a sensation.
The air around them felt incredibly dry. It was strange, then, that the second thing he processed was the presence of rushing water.
Argrave stepped past the purple cloth blocking the entrance, staring into the room. A decadent marble table inlaid with gold at the corners had been arrayed before them. It was low set, falling just short of Argrave’s knees. The top of it had been covered with purple felt. In each corner of the room, there were small waterfalls pouring from golden horns into small pools.
People sat around the table, though instead of chairs, they sat atop mounds of pillows in very casual positions. As Argrave entered, most of them came to attention, sitting straighter and casting curious glances at the newly arrived three. They all wore very bright, eye-catching colors. Argrave recognized them to be Vessels.
Each and every Vessel had a strange, almost aquatic quality to their dark skin. It glistened as though fresh out of a pool, yet not a drop of liquid could be seen anywhere on them. Their hair had a silken quality to it, almost oily, and it seemed to move about, spurred by an unfelt wind.
Argrave recognized some. Most prominently, he recognized the woman at the head of the table—Mistress Tatia. She rested amidst a pile of red and gold pillows, wearing a purple dress studded with gemstones. The dress was loose and exposed much of her dark olive skin. She was a robust woman—not fat, exactly, but certainly fleshy.
Argrave locked eyes with her, and she sat up amidst her pillows. She raised both hands in the air. Her actions had a sort of flowing grace to them, each moving to the next without ceasing.
“Greetings, wanderers from the distant north!” she greeted, her voice smooth and pleasant. “My invitation, it seems, was well-received. I am pleased to see you elected to dine with us.”
Argrave stepped forward, allowing room for Anneliese and Galamon to follow him in. Their eyes wandered around the room while the Vessels sitting watched them.
Placing a hand to his chest, Argrave lowered his head a little. “Thank you for welcoming us into your home, Mistress Tatia,” Argrave returned her greeting.
She beamed, showing perfect white teeth. She gestured toward an empty mound of pillows beside her. “Please, come and sit. You and your companions have been arranged a place at the seat of honor. What may we call you?”
“I am Argrave, and these two are Galamon and Anneliese,” he introduced as he took slow, steady steps into the room, somewhat overwhelmed by the sense of hospitality all were projecting. The sense of consideration and kindness was intense enough to feel feigned. Argrave possessed knowledge enough of these people’s characters to believe he was safe, but recent events had proven he was not all-knowing. His guard remained up.
“Most suspected our invitation would be rebuffed,” a Vessel said—a man with a clean-shaven face. “It is not often that northerners pass through here. The people of the north fear this place—they deem it a land of barbarians and heat, nothing more. But we have quelled things, don’t you agree? That time has passed.”
“I made it here without issue,” Argrave replied, finally making to the end of the table. Mistress Tatia fluidly gestured for them to sit, and Argrave lowered himself onto the pillows. He found that the closer he grew to the Vessels, the moister the air became, as though they were isolated in a bubble of wetness.
“My chefs are still preparing our meal,” Tatia explained as Argrave looked about. “And tell me, gentleman Argrave, how does this town of mine treat you?”
Argrave shrugged while nodding. “Having marble beneath my feet is like walking on clouds compared to that heavy black sand outside the walls. And the food’s been nice. Part of the reason I was swayed to come, in fact.”
“And the two northern elves?” Tatia smiled, turning to Galamon and Anneliese as if prompting them for their answer.
Galamon crossed his arms and nodded, while Anneliese added, “This place cannot have been easy to build, isolated as it is.”
Mistress Tatia sunk back into her pillows and placed a hand on the top of her chest. “Indeed. My predecessor spent his life completing this place, passing away at two hundred and twelve.” She nodded as if in peace. “It is a shame you had to see it sullied by the presence of the tribals. My guards told me you passed by them.” She gestured.
“We did,” said Argrave quickly, hoping to move on.
“There is something I was curious about… regarding the tribals,” Anneliese questioned, leaning forward and moving some pillows aside.
Argrave looked to her, hoping to warn her away from asking an offensive question. She stared at Mistress Tatia undaunted.
“Please, I’d be happy to answer your questions,” Mistress Tatia beckoned with a smile.
“Why starve and deprive the southern tribals instead of killing them outright?” She tilted her head.
Argrave straightened his back and scratched the top of his lip, casting a miffed glance at Anneliese. She did not seem to lack confidence in her question, though.
“Ah. I suspect it may be difficult for a foreigner to understand.” Mistress Tatia nodded.
“The eternal downpour of Fellhorn rains only water, never blood,” a Vessel said zealously. “If they are to die, let them die in the cool embrace of Fellhorn… or at their own hand, in a pool of misery. Either way, His eternal rain will someday welcome them into His Vessels.”
“Indeed.” Mistress Tatia pointed to the one who’d spoken. “We would not truly be the faithful if we bent His decrees for rote practicality. What is practical is often not what is right. Though the southern tribals waged war unending, we Vessels are but humble servants of Fellhorn. He is the unceasing rain and the constant flood. His will is our will. Ours is a different conquest—a conquest of the mind. And of faith.”
Mistress Tatia held out her hand, and the skin on her palm seemed to liquify before bursting up into the air in a steady spout. It was but a small show of the power of a Vessel, no more than a party trick, but it served to illustrate their power. They embodied the water, taking it in and expelling it at will. Though, perhaps ‘at will’ was incorrect—it was at the will of their god, Fellhorn. Their power was, in many ways, similar to Argrave’s Blessing of Supersession vested in him by Erlebnis.
“Each and every living person can be made a follower. Some of these followers will eventually give birth to Vessels. Like this, we bring a peace to this land—that is but one aspect of the great eternal rain of Fellhorn we hope to bring to this desolate land.” The waterspout coming from her hand rose, and then she closed her hand and it dissipated.
Argrave digested those words in silence. They were convincing, almost noble. Had Argrave only seen Delphasium, he might’ve even agreed with them entirely. But the rest of the Burnt Desert was not the same as this place. Argrave looked at Anneliese, grateful at least that she did not seem especially moved.
“Well,” Argrave said, settling back into the pillows now that things had resolved themselves without aggravating their hosts. “I am thankful for both your generous invitation and the beautiful sights within Delphasium.”
“The pleasure is ours,” Mistress Tatia returned.
“If you worry for your safety, fear not the tribals,” one man said from the corner of the table. “Their numbers dwindle by the day. Rats feast upon their corpses, and they feast upon the rats, growing diseased from it. They drink blood for sustenance… all of this hardship merely because they refuse to recognize Him, submit to Him.”
“Indeed,” a woman agreed. “Fellhorn renders all equal beneath Him. The hardships of an uncivilized life—theft, violence, blasphemy… All transgressors are Drained, and society is at peace.”
“Drained?” repeated Galamon.
“It is Fellhorn’s gift,” a man explained. “The transgressor has violated Fellhorn’s laws, and in doing so, they must surrender all within themselves to a Vessel. We Vessels absorb their souls, offering them to our lord Fellhorn. In return, He vests more of His power upon us. Like this, Fellhorn’s eternal rain spreads, and we Vessels grow to accommodate more of His blessing.”
Argrave scratched the back of his neck to hide his expression while Mistress Tatia hurriedly added, “Let us not speak of grim things just before a meal.”
As if summoned by her words, people walked through the purple cloth marking the doorway to the room. They held silver trays of food, and the Vessels clamored happily when the servants came into view.
As the servants continued to lay decadent meals before each and every person present at the table, Mistress Tatia spoke to Argrave.
“Argrave, was it?” Tatia asked, and when Argrave nodded, she continued, “Now that we have told you of our home, I wish to hear of yours, if it pleases you.”
Argrave rubbed his gloved hands together. “Do you want to hear of Veiden, land of the snow elves, or the lands north of Vasquer?”
Mistress Tatia mused, leaning forward as food was placed before her. “You passed through Vasquer, did you not?” she questioned. “Because, truly, what is occurring there at present intrigues me the most. Tumult can spread beyond borders.”
“There’s a civil war,” Argrave stated plainly. “House Parbon intends to combat the royal House Vasquer. Their spheres of influence largely constitute the south and the north, respectively.”
“Tell me more,” Mistress Tatia urged.
***
“This was an enlightening conversation,” Mistress Tatia said, placing her fork down on the table.
“Glad I could help,” Argrave returned, having left much of his grand steak unfinished. It had tasted delicious, but it was far too large for someone like him.
“Perhaps this is the time to forge a relationship with House Parbon,” Mistress Tatia suggested, hoping for counsel. “Doubtless they will be amenable to the people that have quelled the southern barbarian menace that has plagued their Margravate for centuries.”
“I cannot be the judge of that.” Argrave shook his head.
“Well, I am pleased that you came to my palace.” Mistress Tatia smiled. “I am told you had intended to go to Argent.”
“Yes, but at present, a sandstorm blocks the road south.” Argrave clicked his tongue. “Unfortunate thing, that.”
“Indeed it is,” Mistress Tatia sympathized. “There seem to be many more of those, lately, for reasons I cannot begin to surmise.”
Perhaps it’s because things have dried up to a ridiculous point, Argrave wished to say, but wisely refrained.
Argrave paused for a bit, and then discreetly added, “We had intended to travel with a merchant caravan, but many proved unreceptive to outsiders…”
Mistress Tatia raised a brow. “Truly? Now that is a sad thing, indeed. Perhaps I can help out some on that front,” she suggested.
Argrave smiled. Now, those words taste much better than the meal I just ate…
***
“That was a little too tense for my tastes,” Argrave mused, stretching as they walked down the path.
“Those people…” Anneliese looked back at the golden gate.
“Not exactly paragons, I know,” Argrave finished, stopping to speak to her.
Anneliese turned her head back to Argrave. “What you say is true, but I refer to their deadened emotions. They experience less of everything—joy, happiness, rage, sorrow. It is all muted.”
“Drowned out,” Argrave posited. “It’s why I called them inhuman. They aren’t called ‘Vessels’ because they’re full. They’re called so because they’re empty.”
“Are they powerful?” Galamon questioned.
“Yeah,” Argrave said. “Hard to quantify or qualify as it is standard magic. That little trick she demonstrated, spouting water—it can propel fast enough to tear off limbs, and travel for miles. The stronger ones can do that, anyway. And every moment they touch you, they can Drain you. Steal every bit of liquid inside you. It’s so painful that it’s difficult to stop once it’s started… or so went the lore. Never experienced it.” Argrave shook his head. “Never hope to.”
“Is it prudent to accept a favor from that woman?” Anneliese questioned.
“Being friendly with these people is for the best.” Argrave nodded, resuming their walk back to the inn. “We have to use whatever we can against Gerechtigkeit. Don’t forget this.”
Chapter 6
Argrave blinked open his eyes, staring up at the white ceiling above. He took a deep breath. His lungs felt back to working order, finally. He started to move and found his body happy to obey. He sat up, his head clear and everything in working order. He touched his chest, putting on a pondering expression.
Anneliese looked at him from where she sat at a table, reading a book. “You slept well,” she remarked.
Argrave ran his hand over his face. “Yeah… I guess I did. I feel pretty good, actually.” He turned to look at her. “Had a dream. Went to this barbecue place I always used to go to. You were there. Then it got weird.” Argrave shook his head.
“And you felt this was worth sharing?” Garm remarked.
Argrave turned his gaze to him. He had many choice retorts in mind, but what Anneliese had told him yesterday still stuck with him. He didn’t wish to be unduly prejudiced against Garm. Argrave clasped his hands together and asked cheerily, “How are you doing, Garm?”
Garm could not move, but Argrave veritably saw him shrink away. “I’m… fine,” he responded awkwardly.
“That’s good. Sorry we couldn’t take you with last night,” he apologized. “I hope you understand why, at least.”
“…It’s fine,” he dismissed, closing his eyes so as not to look at Argrave. “Bunch of people eating, smacking their lips—wouldn’t want to be there, anyway.”
“Even still.” Argrave shook his head, then stood, setting aside the woolen blanket and grabbing his duster off a chair. “Where’s—”
The door opened, and Galamon ducked through.
“Speak of the devil,” Argrave said, throwing his duster on quickly.
“The sandstorm has cleared,” Galamon reported, and then slammed the door especially loudly.
Argrave furrowed his brows. “That’s good news, no? Something wrong?”
“…Nothing,” he answered after a time.
Argrave looked to Anneliese, who returned his glance with an unspoken confirmation that something was indeed wrong.
“Right,” Argrave continued. “Well… we should find that merchant Tatia referred me to… His name was Titus, I believe.”
Anneliese shut her book, then came to her feet. “I shall get my things together.”
***
Though Argrave didn’t wish to press Galamon as to what was bothering him, believing it might have something to do with his vampirism, Argrave found later that they did not need to ask.
When they made it to the central square, Argrave noticed there was a particularly large crowd around there. His first instinct was to avoid it, but curiosity drove him to see what they were gathering around. When he grew close alongside Anneliese and Galamon, he found it easy to look over the crowd of people ahead.
Chairs had been arranged in a circle around the fountain statue depicting Fellhorn. Argrave saw strange dark lumps on them but couldn’t immediately recognize what they were. They were many, numbering near fifty. He stared for a while, failing to discern what they might be. Gradually, though, he made sense of it.
They were corpses.
They looked like husks, in truth—the skin had become so dry it cracked at every point, curling inwards to reveal what lay within. Their mouths had not a hint of saliva, and they had shrunk so small that they could not weigh more than fifty pounds, even the largest of them. The skin and bone fell away at points, revealing petrified organs and dried bone. Wind carried bits of them away as little more than dust.
It smelled of nothing. Argrave supposed that without liquids in them, it had no reason to smell of anything. It was a vaguely disconcerting sight, but Argrave had been through the Low Way, and was not as fazed as badly as he might’ve been months ago. To think that could be his fate disquieted him.
He looked to Galamon, understanding what had made the elven vampire bothered so.
“They were executing them, earlier,” Galamon said. “I see, now, why you warned us against touching others’ skin.”
Argrave said nothing, turning his head back. He intended to look for only a bit longer and then move on, but he spotted someone standing by the chairs, and they locked eyes.
Mistress Tatia smiled when she saw Argrave and moved forward. The crowd parted for her, and she came to stand before Argrave.
“Hello!” she greeted happily. “A pleasant surprise, seeing you again.”
Her tone was jarring in the wake of the husks on the chairs, but Argrave managed to return her greeting, saying, “Yes. Hello, Mistress Tatia.”
“Titus will depart soon, I suspect. He sells much of the dye we use for clothes, so we interact on occasion,” she noted, touching her purple dress. “You were on his way to meet him, I suspect?”
“That’s right,” Argrave answered quietly with a nod. He looked past her. “What happened here?”
“This?” She looked around, as though it wasn’t immediately obvious what he was referring to. “Ah. The jails were beginning to grow full. I decided to clear them out, stop procrastinating. A terrible habit of mine, you see.” Tatia laughed lightly.
