Title: Little Black Gem, Part I
"Discovery", A
Date: 2005-05-15 19:17:27
Type: Stories
Synopsis: A shady deal in a back alley leads to surprising inner revelations.
His name was Eight-Stone.
Actually, it wasn't. No one names their child Eight-Stone. It was likely Amos or Lo or Malnes or some other gutter name, the kind given to a baby in his mud-brick tenement when there's ten other kids to worry about and not even a cup of water between them.
But Eight-Stone was what he called himself. It was the name he used when dealing with Westsiders like us.
He was an elf, of course; most of those Eastsiders were. He had the long, spidery limbs and dark hair common to a sharpear, his lean frame shrouded with a grimy sandcloth cloak. In his fingers he held an obsidian dagger which he flipped every so often, sending it tumbling about in the air over his head before it fell back into his palm.
The room was barren except for two simple bone chairs, the seat and joints lashed together with leather scraps, and a desk of similar construction. The furniture seemed out-of-place in the gutted tenement, standing out amidst the filth-streaked planks of the floor and the rags and rubble strewn about.
"Sit," The elf ordered, indicating the chairs with the tip of his blade.
I glanced over toward my companion, Kali. His grey eyes were trained on the gleaming obsidian as the elf gave his dagger another flip. "I thought we agreed no weapons." Kali said evenly.
"Shut the feck up and sit, roundear."
As we sat, our host began to pace, keeping to the other side of the desk and continuing to toss that dagger like he was a juggler down in the big bazaar. By the way he moved, with his yellow sneer and slanted eyes glinting in our direction, it was clear that this feck thought he was twenty cords taller than Kali and me.
I was starting not to like our dear friend Eight-Stone.
After a beat Kali spoke up again, in soft, deliberate tones. Kali had a way with words, a strange way of talking that made everything sound like a good idea. His tongue was like a merchant's rod, pulling one thing from another without even leaving his seat. I decided to leave the talking part up to him, and concentrate on that blade as it floated through the air like solid smoke. "I'm Kali, and this is Arad, and we represent this alley. I understand your tribe wanted to speak to us about something?"
"We require more territory."
A smile creeped across Kali's sallow features. "Well, Eight-Stone, we've already granted your tribe the freedom to travel through here whenever you like."
"No," Eight-Stone snarled as he gave his weapon another flip, "we require control of the buildings as well."
"I don't understand. That wasn't part of the agreement we had with your tribe."
"We're making a new agreement." The elf plucked the blade from the air, and gave it another toss.
"But Eight-Stone, those are people's homes!"
"This isn't negotiable." He caught the dagger again. I heard his fingers tap against the leather grip.
"I'm sure we can work something out, here, Eight-Stone, if you'll just-"
"Either you give my tribe the fekking buildings, roundear, or we take them."
Flip. Catch. Flip. Catch. Eight-Stone continued his paces, and I chanced a look over towards Kali. He was sitting in his chair, straight-backed and firm, but in the missing teeth of that practiced smile, in that extra wrinkle on his forehead I sensed a seething indignation. He took a deep breath and continued, saying, "I don't think that'd be wise, Eight-Stone."
"And why not?" Flip.
"Now Eight-Stone," Kali began, rubbing his hands together. A tongue that had fooled countless vendors and militiamen flashed between his teeth as he continued, "let me just say Arad and me know what you're saying. I mean, you and your tribe are clearly in charge here. We're just people. Krath, we're not a threat to you, and if you want our alley, it's yours. What we're concerned about..." he glanced over at me, as if he expected me to add something. He shook his head as he continued. "What we're concerned about is that if you and your tribe take our alley, some of the boys deeper in the Westside might not like it."
"What do you mean?" Catch.
"Well, the Westside gangs have been gaining influence these days, you know? And this alley is pretty close to Eye territory. Feck, you might even upset the Guild. And then you've got a real spider's nest on your hands."
The dagger stopped moving.
"Are you threatening me?" Eight-Stone hissed.
Kali blinked several times, and shook his head. "No, man! Feck, no. Like I said, we're just people. But what I was saying-"
"Because my tribe won't tolerate threats. And weren't not afraid of your shortleg friends!"
I could feel Kali tensing up beside me. "Eight-Stone, you're not hearing me!"
"I've heard enough from you round-ears."
Eight-Stone stepped towards us. There was a rustle, followed by a queer little ringing noise, like some one dropping coins on a stone floor. I looked over towards Kali and saw that his face had been split open by a long, ebon spike.
Eight-Stone's dagger.
I toppled off my chair, and hit the ground, scurrying away from the horrid spectacle. Kali's mouth hung open in silent protest, his head swung backwards from the force of the blow. He'd been hit right in the eyes, and it had happened so fast I didn't even see it. From over the table I saw Eight-Stone reaching into his cloak, and a garbled string of syllables escaped my mouth in terror.
Suddenly, there was a brilliant flash, and my eyes were filled with night.
When I woke up, I smelled smoke. Lots of it. I raised myself up from the ground, and saw that the tenement was burning. Clay bricks and bone slats groaned and snapped with fire. The desk had been overturned, tendrils of flame creeping along it, but Kali's lifeless form still sat in the chair next to me, arguing with ashes. An acrid heap of cloth and flesh smoldered in the far corner- Eight-Stone, I realized. My senses were floundering in the smoke, and my groggy mind groped about for the cause of the fire. And that's when I saw my hands.
They were burning, yet they didn't burn. My hands were engulfed in flames, from the tip of my fingers to my wrists, but I felt no pain. My flesh was somehow undamaged; it was smooth and tan beneath the fires, unlike the crisp husk the elf had been reduced to. I stared at my hands for a long moment, among the falling timbers and ember rain, when suddenly a single word came to me. A word that tore through my mind, a word that was sharper and straighter and colder than any dagger.
Magicker.
Soon other words came, all of them terrible, like a volley of arrows. Suk-Krathi. Fire witch. Sun mage. Panicked, I stood and ran, escaping the smoldering tenement for the perpetual gloom of the alley. I kept running, my hands still aglow, like twin torches leading me through the Labyrinth. I couldn't go to the Eastside. They'd kill me. I couldn't go to the Westside. They'd shun me. And so I headed south, stumbling through the twisting alleys, passing beneath the cold, knowing gaze of the templar's statue. I passed beggars and orphans, who didn't look at me, but rather, the fire I carried. The fear in their eyes stoked my own, and I ran even quicker. I ran until my lungs frothed blood. I ran harder than I ever had before, with my hands flaming and my chest aching and all the fires of Suk-Krath, the great crimson sun, searing through me.