Chapter 85: Cheep!? 84

Cheep!?

Chapter 84

Guildmaster Orson Maul was a busy man. His many duties consisted of, but were not limited to, being the Guildmaster of Greenleaf, assuming temporary guardianship duties over Greenleaf, assuming temporary management of the–thankfully few–duties left behind in the place of the Baron, assigning quests, rewarding adventurers, and a few other more mundane tasks that he could sum up under the banner of being a Guildmaster, although he privately doubted other Guildmasters had as much work as he did. Beyond all of that were his less public and less mundane roles; he was also head of the Shadow Guild in Greenleaf, as well as one of the higher authorities in the Neutral faction in the Kingdom and thereby a prime counterweight against the Noble and Loyalist factions. The disaster his public persona was dealing with regarding the Massacre Hornets aside, Orson would have had his hands full with any one of the matters that had landed in his lap in the last month or so.

Still, he refrained from sighing aloud, instead he only took the stack of papers he’d finished signing and, holding all of them together, tapped them against his desk to straighten them up. “Mary, would you?” 

“Of course.” His assistant in both the Adventurer’s Guild and Shadow Guild nodded before gesturing through the air. Strings, these ones fully real, pulled themselves out of a drawer next to her and flew across the gap to the bundle of papers. As skillfully as if she were tying them with her own hands, the strings wrapped themselves around the paper bundle at the corners and across the middle, enabling them to be picked up easily from the neat loop  that now protruded from the top of the bundle.

Orson then tossed said bundle into the air, where it gently landed on a stack of twelve other such sheaths of paper. 

“I believe that sums up the last of the Orders and Requests to the Guilds,” Mary announced, “Both sides of it.”

Orson’s face twinged with a smile at the inside joke. It was true that most of the Adventuring Guilds in the Kingdom were also Shadow Guilds, but ironically not every guildmaster was simultaneously a Shadowmaster. Then again, plausible deniability was a useful tool when needed. 

Every Guildmaster had their own shadow, though, whether they knew it or not. Not everyone had someone like Mary Alepsis, however. “Good work, Mary. What’s the next order on the docket?”

She glanced down at an actual itinerant list of tasks, “The request for assistance with the Hornets is complete, the full reports are finished and ready to be sent to all relevant parties. Information regarding the Baron has been sent to the Neutral, Noble, and Loyalist factions… It would seem that now is the time to visit Oscar Mardeux, Sir.”

Orson sighed tiredly at that, wishing that the problem with Oscar was the worst thing he had to deal with. As the man was a member of the Thorned Gauntlets, Orson had mistakenly believed that Oscar would be more than willing to be forthcoming with information about the mercenary company for the right price. Instead, Oscar was at best silent, and at worst outright sarcastic and recalcitrant. The Guildmaster had no intention of torturing the man, but now that the Baron was firmly in hand, perhaps Oscar would be more willing to turncoat. As far as Orson was concerned, he could eventually learn anything he needed to know from other sources, but he had a feeling that Oscar had information that might be crucial for his party to know.

“Very well, I’ll go see him once more. See that these are sent off today?” Orson gestured to the many piles of paper. 

Mary didn’t so much as grimace, but even her professional demeanor dimmed ever so slightly as she answered, “Of course, Sir.”

The Guildmaster smiled apologetically before getting up. They were deep in the archives, but instead of leaving the area altogether, he turned and went further into the official documents section. These were all dry, drab recordings and penned ledgers that, ultimately, were meaningless. They were hard copy backups to crystal based recordings that every Guild used for their recordkeeping.

Orson lifted a book, then pressed another book down by his feet into the wall. The shelf they belonged to ‘clicked’ quietly, and the Guildmaster simply pulled on the book still in his hand. The entire shelf of wood smoothly glided out on oiled hinges, revealing an empty corridor half the size of the book shelf. Just a few meters in, an iron banded stone door greeted his attention, locked tight and snug in its portal.

With practiced motions, Orson retrieved a key from his pocket and then stood on two particular bricks, one slightly ahead of the other. He inserted the key into the door, turning it twice, before pushing the door inwards. A soft ‘woosh’ of displaced air announced the opening of the stairwell, well-lit by orange, crystal cast, light. Orson stepped inside after taking care to close the book-shelf behind him, followed by the inner door. 

Down the stairwell he went, his eyes taking note of the lights as he continued on. From herein, there were far fewer cloak and dagger mechanisms, but they weren’t completely absent. Orson counted out the lights, noting every third for any change in their brightness. They stayed consistent as he neared them, giving him some peace of mind. If they dimmed even slightly, that would indicate one of the silent alarms had been tripped somewhere in the Underguild, though that information wasn’t prevalent among any of the members of the guild.

Orson entered through a small, welcoming hall, not unlike the main lobby of the building above, before making note of the gathered assortment of people therein. 

One of whom waved to him, “Evenin’ Guildmaster. Anything new topside?”

Orson rolled his eyes at Oum, “I would hope that you would know before me.”

“Ah, paperwork got you all crabby?” Oum responded with a lopsided grin, before it faded fractionally, “Really, though, what’s this business about a hole into the underground? And Dawr Goblins?”

“Non issue, as of yet,” Orson freely spoke before the gathering of individuals, each of them was trusted to handle discrete information quite regularly, “The Wyldwalkers explored the underground briefly. An apparent tunnel from an Earth Wyrm is parallel to one of the waterway tunnels, and a wall caved in. They found nothing of note beyond a Kotyuk and what might be a scouting band of Dawr Goblins, but with them all dead, I doubt the tribe behind them knows where to go. Or wants to go, they are cowardly, afterall.”

Oum and the others listened, some nodding, some stoically listening. “Sounds good. Want me to take some of the boys and girls out to make sure? Y’know, considering everything else happening.”

Orson smiled at the bemoaning murmurs of the shadow guild members, and was about to refuse before he reconsidered. Things were more complicated than he’d like, so perhaps it wasn’t a bad idea to get confirmation.

“Do it in moderation, the last thing Greenleaf needs is an incursion from below right now.” Orson nodded, and unlike before, no one muttered any complaints. They knew when to have fun and when to get serious, and Orson was thankful that threats to Greenleaf ranked chiefest among those moments.

“Got it, boss. We’ll be done quick.” Oum started, before pausing, “Oh, right, before I forget, Crowe was checking in on your guests downstairs, do you want me to call him up?”

Orson shook his head, “I’ll go down to him. It’s a visitation day.”

Some of the others snorted at that, amused, “You know, I’ll bet we could get him to talk real quick by strapping him to a tree branch out in the forest right about now.”

“Slather ‘im up in something sweet for the Hornets,” Another woman chuckled.

“Maybe let that big arse bird at him again,” Said a man in a colorful russet brigandine.

“We want him alive, though, right?” A woman with pale gray eyes at his table asked jokingly.

“Oh. I just wanted a show, nevermind then,” The russet armored man exaggeratedly scoffed and took a deep drink of his drink.

“Now now, no torture.” Orson reminded them sternly, then amended, “Well, nothing too over the top, anyways.”

Chuckles and jesting ‘booing’ echoed around the room before Orson’s countenance shifted. They sat up a little straighter at the feeling of his aura against their own as he declared, “Greenleaf is going to be going under lockdown tonight. Anyone who wants to leave can, but only if they are traveling away from Greenleaf, and not towards known Hornet risk zones. Keep tabs on them if you can, because if someone ends up getting tracked by the Hornets, I’d rather try to lure them into a trap, instead of straight to the city.” 

“Yes, Guildmaster.” The roomful of people responded as one, and the relaxed atmosphere that they’d enjoyed previously seemed a distant memory. Orson was glad to have them all here, even if he felt mildly bad for having them so active as of late. 

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“Report to Mary later, she’ll have individual assignments for all of you. Remember to keep yourselves safe first and foremost.” Orson spoke, “That is all, at ease.”

The room relaxed fractionally, but they didn’t return to the state they’d been in before. They were wound up and ready to go, Orson knew that many of them wouldn’t still be in this room by the time he was done with Oscar.

Orson moved past the gathering and deeper into the underground complex. He passed by modest common areas, individual rooms for the shadow guild members, and into more particular facilities. Armories that were furnished with a larger variety of items, some of which were of more questionable legality. Murk rooms, of which many were rigged to destroy their contents, held sensitive information about ongoing missions that required more particular record keeping. These were scattered about with clear warnings posted on their doors regarding their designation and the potential danger of said rooms.

It took him less than a minute to navigate down another floor, this one dedicated to partitioned cells, a handful of which currently saw use. They were all recent inductees–Greenleaf had little need for these cells under normal circumstances, given that the Guard were trustworthy, something that Orson couldn’t help but endlessly praise them for internally, given what his cohorts in other cities reported at times.

A pair of jailers stopped him at the entrance, and only after having him place his hand against a hanging icon of a half-lidded, draconian eye, did they let him pass. “Any changes with our guests?”

The first of the two, a lean man who wore banded steel armor and had a pair of hand-crossbows, nodded, “The Baron complains regularly, and has divulged much information in return for certain rewards.”

“Anything that requires clearance?” Orson asked, though he knew the answer the moment the man smirked.

“Nothing particular. Just an increase in his general amenities has been sufficient.” The jailor answered, “As for the others, there has been one other change. That Oscar fellow said that he wanted to speak with you.”

The Guildmaster paused at that, his eyebrow cocked questioningly, “That is news. What brought this on?”

The other guard spoke up, this man much larger and with several throwing axes hanging from his heavy armor via leather loops. “He said it’s been enough time. Nothing else to us, though.”

Orson nodded, no less perplexed than the guards were. ‘Perhaps it is an agreement, or self-imposed rule, to give the rest of the company time to escape or mount a rescue in the event of capture. A double edged sword, considering I don’t know how much information he can really give me at this point.’ 

In all honesty, the things that he’d had on his person at the time of his capture had been more important to Orson than the man himself. “Show me to him, I’ll talk to the man.”

The pair nodded, and the larger one stayed by the exit. The shorter of the two guided Orson to a cell on the left hand side, halfway down the hall, before he pulled out a key ring and slotted the key into the door. Sygaldry flashed over the door jamb as he did so, before dimming to nothing over the course of a few seconds. Once they were gone, the man unlocked the door and opened it for the Guildmaster. 

Orson walked in, seeing a relatively plain, modestly furnished room. In all honesty, some of these rooms could look very nice, though that was generally dependent upon their ‘Guest’s’ willingness to play by the rules and offer information. More information gave better living conditions. Oscar had been willing to give up just the bare minimum of information, being his name, his mercenary company, who his commanders were, and what brought them this far. That much had bought him a bed, some light reading materials, a little bit of color in the room, and circulating air.

The name of his employer for his mission out into the Evergreen forest had bought him use of the bathroom, though Orson wasn’t so much of a savage as to force the man to pick a corner. A bucket at least would have been provided.

“Guildmaster,” Oscar spoke without so much as a trace of the mocking tone he’d carried every other time he’d said the words, “I was hoping to get a hold of you.”

The door closed behind Orson before he spoke, “Is that so?” 

“It’s been… what, at least a month since my capture?” The man frowned, “Or… no, maybe less. But, whatever, it’s close enough.”

“I assume you’re referring to the minimum time for freely giving information imposed by the Iron Gauntlets?” Orson said so confidently, in spite of only guessing.

Oscar’s countenance seemed to deflate ever so slightly, “Leave a man with some of his fun, yeah? I was getting there.”

Orson sighed, for once allowing some emotion on his face. The display surprised Oscar, who, for the entire duration, had never so much as seen Orson frown. “Allow me to warn you that we are in the middle of a crisis. Your local employer, the Baron, is under arrest for various crimes, not the least of which could be considered treason.” 

Oscar, for his part, only frowned with confusion, before Orson led on with, “And we’re currently preparing for an extermination war with a local Massacre Hornet hive that is growing rapidly.” Orson said, and took no small pleasure in observing Oscar’s expression crack into something that finally seemed like genuine concern. 

“All of that said, I would hope that the information you’re offering is worth my while.” Orson’s voice carried a warning tone that, accompanied with the touch of his aura, sent the air to crackling with essence and tension.

Oscar took several long seconds to answer, but when he finally did, there was a look in his eyes that told Orson that he was confident in his cards. “I can give you the identity behind the alias of Nobleman Karsk, but I want guaranteed passage to the Republic.”

The guildmaster stared hard at the man, the energy in the air only increasing by the second. ‘What is your angle, here? Why are you willing to give up such information now, when you know that it’ll paint a target on your back. Are you leaving the Iron Gauntlets? No, that wouldn’t make sense, you’re going to the last known whereabouts of August, I doubt that’s to tender your resignation. So, then are the Iron Gauntlets as a group not planning on operating in the Kingdom? That might make sense, but why specifically? Why move all the way through Imperial lands, past the Kingdom, and then only settle on the far side of the continent?’ Orson’s frown deepened with every question he wanted to ask, and firmed when he contemplated possible answers.

However, before the air could become even more suffocating, Orson reigned in his aura. Oscar couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief, even as the guildmaster said, “Tell me as much information as you can, and if it’s as valuable as you think it is, I can get you out as soon as the Hornet crisis is over.”

Oscar opened his mouth to object, if Orson’s reading of his expression was anything to go by, before he thought better of going out into a forest full of hungry, flying insects. “Alright. I can work with that.”

—----------------------------

Hundreds of kilometers away, a Bishop of the Advarican church moved unseen through a village near the northern edge of the Empire. He felt the warmth of a jewel embedded in one of the amulets on his person, said amulet had been specially made and empowered to work over vast distances. A tendril of thought connected him to the artifact, which directed him through the dilapidated huts and past the dreary eyed townsfolk of this frontier. 

Dynus Verde, secretly a follower of The Great Mother, the Primordial, regarded the scene with wariness. He felt pity for the people he passed by, but an even greater concern had begun to nibble at him.

‘This village is missing much of its youth,’ He contemplated to himself, before gritting his teeth. Much of his journey had been delayed at every pass, with obstructions ranging from sudden monster attacks to the more mundane issues of traversing dangerous terrain. Dynus felt that he was personally failing Alterra in his quest to find Her Chosen, but he simultaneously knew that he could not change the world around him. If anything, perhaps Alterra herself was slowing him down, though to what end he did not know. Whether or not that was the case, his task wasn’t to complain about what happened inbetween. Only finding Her Chosen mattered, and he would eventually find them.

The amulet urged him onwards, onwards through the village, until he fully left it. ‘Not here, then.’ The vague hope died in his chest as he cast one look back at the dilapidated walls that protected what was left of the place. Dynus didn’t like the look of it all, and he had a feeling he knew why it had felt like that. In order to be sure, though, he would need to make detours into other villages in the area, perhaps even to the nearest city. It would take time, but… Dynus hadn’t selected Advarica as his cover for no reason.

‘To a village or two, then, no need to get too terribly sidetracked.’ He offered a quick apology to Alterra, but hoped that his dalliance would be viewed favorably. These people were her children first, after all, not the gods. He only hoped that Her Chosen wouldn’t get into too much trouble before he could find them…

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