Chapter 172: Guided Focus

Chapter 172: Guided Focus

"I have been waiting much time for this meeting," the Marquesa de Wolf said, smiling like her namesake. "It is an honour, Scholar."

Ealdhere, feeling about as much out of his depth as when he was dragged out of the dungeon with his party dead around him, shook her offered hand. "The honour is all mine."

Her palm was heavily calloused, written over and over in the scars of battles past. She looked like an adventurer, certainly; a type he'd grown more than used to. Her dark skin was lit from underneath with a mana-warm glow, golden eyes flashing, an untreated wood staff resting at her side. Her accent wasn't native Calaratan, coloured by a harmonic lilt, matched by the melody in her words. Ealdhere could feel how practiced they were, how organized; whatever she was here for, it was something she had prepared for a long time.

He just wished he didn't have to be a part of it.

The Marquesa de Wolf released him, still smiling, and walked to her side of the table; a long one, spread out in the central welcoming hall of the Adventuring Guild, timber magicked from the surrounding jungle and quartz-lights glowing overhead. Four chairs, two on each side, the rest stored for later.

On one side, the Guild. The other, the petitioners.

Ealdhere sat, prim and controlled, and did not look at the man sitting next to him. Lluc.

He looked lazy, or at least relaxed, resting his elbows on the table and letting mana spark over his nail beds in a variety of colours, but Ealdhere had spent an unfortunate amount of time around the man and knew otherwise. His eyes were sharp; cold iron, hidden blades. He did not like what was happening.

And it was more concerning, honestly, that he was here—Ealdhere had lived a remarkably peaceful life the last few weeks, only seeing Lluc in the quiet hours of the morning to welcome in the newest adventuring party. The Guildmaster he was, and every group had to obtain his approval before being brought in—alongside an over-healthy dose of threats to make sure they stayed the line—but past that, he was gone. He disappeared directly after, and only next morning did he collect information and pilfered parts from Ealdhere.

But now it was nearing evening, the sun dissolving down to light the cove up in crimson-gold, and yet Lluc was here, looking across the table like a man over the lands he owned.

"Quite the trouble you've gone through," Lluc said, half a drawl, half apathetic disinterest—both were lies. "It's rare someone takes a bite out of the Silent Market just for a meeting."

Because beside the Marquesa de Wolf, stoic and straight-backed, was Gonçal.

Ealdhere'd had a devil of a time not meeting his eyes, particularly with the vantage of the last time they'd spoken being the scaled man was going to enter the dungeon and attempt to broker an alliance with the sapience within, and he hadn't returned to tell Ealdhere of his progress—except now he was here, stone-faced, sitting beside a woman who prickled every nerve Ealdhere still had to call his own. Concerning, impossibly so; he wanted answers, and reasonings, and he'd gotten neither.

He lived a life not much worth living in a gilded cage, ensnared like an exotic bird for the singing; a single pittance of a message he'd snuck to the Silent Market to barter for Gonçal's assistance, little more than a plea deal, and now the man was just... ignoring him.

It was the right choice, unfortunately, considering Lluc was not the type to take partnerships from his pet Scholar well, but it was remarkably irritating.

The Marquesa de Wolf kept smiling. "He is my friend," she said. Gonçal kept staring placidly forward. "It was only after I learned of his coalition with your Guild; and why, there is no finer place to go than here, if I wish to learn more of the dungeon. And, well; time is of the essence, particularly with the deaths," she said, rather politely.

"The deaths." Lluc's gaze was flinty, cold. "The Dead Man's Raid did Calarata no favours."

"Not those deaths," she corrected, though all with this perfectly subservient, warm-hearted tone. Like she was doing this from her own polished morality and kindness. "Those of the streets; fourteen, throats slit, no suspects. I am familiar with dungeons, and I know that to be a harbinger of a maverick."

There was something about her eyes; something about those golden depths that rose his hackles. Ealdhere was a man that scared often and endlessly, considering he was Unranked and held prisoner by a Gold, but this fear felt different; felt like thorns, burrowing into dead soil.

Her eyes flashed. "Of course, that's nothing but rumours. I apologize for taking up your valuable time with mere gossip."

"Yet you continue," Lluc snapped, drumming his nails over the table harsh enough they dug divots into the wood. "Are you going to blather on still?"

Something in her face flashed. "I only mean to inform you," she said, quiet, but mildly indignant. Likely not intended, but peeking through. A return to her softer nature in an attempt to appease, which wouldn't work, because Lluc took offense at anything and everything and she didn't have a chance for a proper conversation.

Lluc and the Marquesa were going to keep verbally sparring until it switched to actual sparring and then he died in the unfortunate crossfire. Ealdhere had played parliament through enough of the Darlington family councils to know what was needed to cut through the verbage—he shifted, settling forward, smiling with vapid stupidity. "I apologize, Marquesa de Wolf, but did you mention a maverick?"

"Ah." She crossed her arms, robe rippling—something in the dark pocket over her breast shifted, moving more than cloth, a faint rasp underneath. "Of course, good Scholar. I came here because I wish to warn you, and offer my services against them."

Maverick. The word was vaguely familiar, insofar as it meant something, but not in the way she was using it; a general noun, rather than something specific. Ealdhere tilted his head to the side. "What are they?"

Her eyes gleamed. "They are dissenters," she said, and more of this pre-planned speech came tumbling loose, each word carefully chosen. "Those who stand against Guilds and all their meanings, who wish to see dungeons as free territory to fight in without the command of Guildmasters. It is a position fed and built by greed, a want not to pay the taxes of a Guild."

Ah. Something that Calarata in particular would marinate in, even with the Dread Pirate overhead.

The Marquesa de Wolf smiled, a plume of pride settling over her face. "I am from Leóro," she said, and ah, there was her accent; the lilt of a more civilized country, though without any of the corded strength of Viejabran. "And from there, I stopped a maverick from nearly killing High Lord Thiago. Now I come to Calarata, and I see you about to suffer the same problem. I am willing to dedicate myself to your Guild to stop all attempts to dethrone you."

A smile, dagger-sharp. "I assure you, my fees are quite reasonable."

Ealdhere winced. Maybe she thought that was a fair bargaining tactic, a way to sell herself; if she did, then she didn't understand who she was dealing with. Next to her, Gonçal carefully averted his eyes.

Lluc stood. His chair screeched back over the wood, the whine of something disintegrating, and then he towered over the rest. Mana, bleeding through his eyes. The First Mate of Calarata. The Guildmaster, earned in blood and death.

"Mavericks are ghost stories," Lluc said. He was cold. He was iron. There was nothing benevolent in the gaze he fixed her with. "A fright thought up by lesser men to believe themselves superior. They are not here, and if they are, they do not threaten me."

Lluc hummed; something soft and mana-tinged floated around his mouth, trickling through his teeth. "I have no need of your services," he said, sharp. "And I will sooner slit your throat than allow you to enter my Guild and speak as if you know more than me, as if you are important. Do I know you, Marquesa de Wolf?"

She blinked. A raw kind of affront flashed over her face, though she smothered it a second later. "No, Guildmaster."

"True." He tilted his head to the side. "And I don't plan to. If I see you here again, either as a panhandler or a delver, I will make your death slow."

Ghasavâlk had mentioned sensing a human presence within the dungeon, and Ealdhere had dared to hope it was sapient enough to study humans, perhaps attempt to learn their language, not– not partnering with one! Not perfectly obtaining an ally capable of both infiltrating Calarata and serving as its voice!

Was Romei its only one? Was there an entire cabal of dungeon-sworn adventurers out in Calarata, waiting for their mission to set? How powerful was its mind, to create things not supposed to be created? An explanation for Romei's Unranked status; he was powered by a dungeon's mana, not his own. Similar to priests, in a way; his body was Unranked, but the mana he wielded came from a stronger power. The stronger the dungeon got, the more he was; and if he felt comfortable enough leading Gonçal into the dungeon, it was likely he was quite strong. And the dungeon as well; to give him power, to instruct him, to speak through him. To exist. To think.

"Gods," he breathed, impossible to wrangle back his excitement. "Gonçal, I– hells, it's true! It's possible! This is a fully sapient, fully understanding, dungeon—what did it want? What did it say to you?"

"It wanted to kill me," Gonçal said, a little tightly in face of Ealdhere's exuberance. "It was only through my offering of... gifts that it allowed me to leave." He wasn't wearing his necklace; the thin crystal held by bronze links. It was gone, and his palm sat over his throat like he regretted its absence.

Ah. Interesting. Susceptible to praise, then, or at least material goods; that implied a more... worldly consciousness in a way, rather than one fed by mere cause-and-effect. Another point for a dragon-born dungeon. Ealdhere nodded. "What did it say?"

"It said I would be allowed to speak of an alliance, and bring more gifts."

An alliance. An alliance! The dungeon was open to the idea, to the suggestion; a proper gathering of minds, one entirely alien, the rest human.

"Oh, you must have said yes," Ealdhere said, half a plea. "Have you gathered any gifts? Have you made plans to delve again?"

"I already did."

Ealdhere froze. There were no words to describe his mind, what thundered through like a herd of horses; the dreams, the possibilities.

"No," he breathed, pure awe. "Did it accept?"

Gonçal nodded.

He wanted to laugh and he did so, bright and burning. "This is– this is more than I could have hoped for, Gonçal; gods if I don't wish I could march back to its halls myself. To speak to a dungeon! To speak to a being formed of pure mana, an immortal in a mortal world; what it would think! What it would say!"

Gonçal's lips twitched. Amused, a touch peeved. "It spoke mostly of wishing to kill me."

Ealdhere flapped a hand. "It was our first attempt," he said, bullrushing on. "Our second, we will supply it with great treasures, the most I can gather; offer it a contract open and entirely affixed to it, merely in return for information. For knowledge! To speak to this– this being, learn of its mind, of its thoughts!"

Gonçal raised an eyebrow. "And how will you—the Scholar of an Adventuring Guild whose mission is to claim the dungeon's core—encourage it to speak to you of its secrets?"

Ah.

Ealdhere rocked back, frowning.

"I will come to it as Ealdhere instead," he said, though without the confidence he wanted. "Anything it tells me will be kept to myself, never to be shared with the delvers. And, well." He brushed a hand through his hair. "If it can offer me– even a chance of a way out of this Guild, to escape Lluc, then I will be able to offer complete secrecy. Its secrets will be forever locked within me, not for anyone to take or to try and claim it."

Gonçal looked away.

Something oddly... hesitant about him, even with the injury bubbling scarlet over his face. The way he'd looked at Lluc—the way he'd looked away from the Marquesa, the myriad ways he had done his best not to exist in that room despite being the reason she had an audience at all. Ealdhere sobered, looking at him. "What is it, my friend?"

Gonçal inhaled. Steadied himself.

"Were you listening to the Marquesa?"

What kind of question was that? Ealdhere had been there, eyes fixed, hungry for any scrap of information that made it past the fours walls of his existence. "Entirely so."

Gonçal looked at his hand, at the dagger-point claws and bronze scales scattered over the back of his knuckles. A feverish kind of destruction in his eyes, more than words. "She did not mention the dungeon once," he said.

Ealdhere blinked. "She did," he pointed out. "She talked of it rather a considerable amount."

"She did not mention the dungeon as a target," Gonçal stressed. "She talked of mavericks and their potential, and how they seek to destroy Guilds; but not the dungeon. She tried to draw Lluc's attention to the Guild and its weaknesses." He clenched his fist, stared at it like a world's mystery. "She wants to guide his focus."

Oh.

His mind ratcheted back; played over the conversation, one-sided though it had seemed, all the words she'd brought up with that careful, laced certainty of having practiced them before. Hells, she'd brought up fourteen deaths and bodies thrown to back alleys, of mavericks that threatened her in Leóro, all things a fresh-faced Adventuring Guild with rather a lack of charitable communications with other countries wouldn't know about. And of course Lluc would remember this, even if he didn't trust her; a man commanded by Varcís Bilaro was one who needed to perform his task, and all threats to it were threats to him.

She had only mentioned the Guild.

"I see," Ealdhere said, faintly. "Yes, I can see that now. Why?"

"Lluc insulted her," Gonçal said. "And she took offense; or looked like she did. But it was poised. It was what she wanted. She wanted to seem like she was squirreling for a position in the Guild, a defense against mavericks; and when Lluc rejected her, as he always would, she retreated like a cur with her tail between her legs. But now Lluc is thinking of mavericks, of threats to the Guild, and that pulls his attention from the dungeon."

Gonçal looked at him. His slitted pupils were blown wide. "What reason would she want Lluc to look away from the dungeon?"

Precious few. And none of them good.