Private Tales Fire: The Spark of Civilization

[Gerra]

The emperor arrived at the mausoleum without any fanfare or guards. He hardly needed them here. He craned his neck, looking up at the top of the structure, then back down to the black, gaping entrance.

Necromancers. He hated necromancers.

With a grimace and a shudder, he entered the mausoleum and was immediately assailed by cold, fetid air and... oddly... the scent of cinnamon.

Frowning, he walked on ahead, eyes like embers sweeping the interior.

“Gaheris?”

 

[Gaheris]

The Great Mausoleum housed the mummified remains of at least a century's worth of Annuakat's old leadership. Sultans and warlords, merchant princes, a long list of viziers - at the end of their storied reigns, all had wound up on the same stone slab for the same pre-internment procedures.​

​

The slab's current occupant was no-one in particular. Split open down the middle, the flaps of skin were peeled back and pinned down to reveal a cavernous interior - vacant except for the ribs and heart.​

​

Two men in beaked, wooden half-masks attended to the corpse. One was wrapping the upper half of the head in coarse, linen bandages. And the other, Gaheris, sewed something to the interior - small cloth patches, bearing inscrutable Runes written in an oily, black substance.​

​

It was a process that was outlawed in most civilized countries and more than a few of the uncivilized ones. But for now, it had a home here in Amol-Kalit.​

​

The sound of a smoldering baritone caused the Imperial Mortician to knit his brows together. The Emperor had come to visit. As if this sort of thing were not already difficult without the presence of an audience.​

​

"Your Eminence," he said, tone as flat and dreadful as the mausoleum's air. The Imperial Mortician did not look up from his needlework.​

​

"Apologies, but if these are not sewn in before the ink dries, they will need to be re-inscribed..."​

​

Ink was not the right term, but there was no need to litigate details with the uninitiated.​

 

[Gerra]

Stepping forward with soft, slippered footfalls, Gerra peered over Gaheris’ shoulder, though perhaps “peer” would be more accurately described as “loomed,” in the way only those with giants blood are capable of looming.

As he watched the mortician’s dexterous fingers at work, he nodded to himself.

“Ah yes, the end of every mortal journey, no matter how poor. No matter how proud. They all end up,” he looked into the gaping hole in the corpse, “Empty. And alone. Tell me, Gaheris... do you ever wonder when it will be you on this slab?”

 

[Gaheris]

It was good that Gerra could not see the mortician's face from such an angle. The rolling of his eyes might have been considered offensive.​

​

"No. I cannot say I do," Gaheris replied, "My schedule does not permit time to speculate."​

​

Of course, this topic of conversation did make him wonder if he should anticipate an early appointment with his successor.​

 

[Gerra]

“A man devoured by his work.”

The smell of cinnamon was quite strong now. Not an unpleasant smell, perhaps used to mask the stench of death. Gaheris possessed some measure of social graces then, which pleased Gerra. Too often had he met gravediggers and spirit walkers more comfortable speaking to the dead than the living.

“Strange. The Red Guild speaks so highly of you. I did not expect to meet a man so addicted to his work. Unless there’s a roguish interior you hide behind this mask of banal disinterest.”

 

[Gaheris]

About as devoured as anyone else with a profession. Gaheris retrieved a small pair of scissors from where they were on the slab, using them to cut off a few rogue strands before moving to the next Rune.​

​

It was debatable whether it was truly strange for the Red Guild to speak highly of a diligent employee. Particularly when the Red Guild was, doubtlessly trying to sell the Emperor a service in whatever conversation he had with his colleagues.​

​

"The Red Guild was started by artisans," Gaheris said, "I suppose they appreciate a sense of industry for that reason."​

​

​

 

[Gerra]

“You suppose.”

The emperor rested a large, heavy hand on Gaheris’ shoulder.

“Thank you for agreeing to train Kailyn. How might I reward your service?”

 

[Gaheris]

The mortician paused in his work, feeling the weight of the half-Giant on his shoulder. Not enjoyable. Not in the least. He breathed in and exhaled, either for courage or patience. It was difficult to tell.​

​

"I serve at your pleasure, your Eminence," he warily replied. "The stipend negotiated by the Red Guild is more than sufficient..."​

 

[Gerra]

Tension seized the mortician’s shoulder, like a rope wound too tight. Gerra felt the inhalation, the man’s shoulder rising then falling under his hand.

“Gaheris,” he rumbled, voice a rich and smooth timbre, like dripping molasses, “please. I do not mean to frighten you, but do not speak such lies to me.”

He placed his other hand on Gaheris’ other shoulder, now standing behind him like some proud tutor, staring down at his apprentice’s work.

“Tell me what you desire and I shall grant it, if it is within my power.”

 

[Gaheris]

If one hand had made him nervous, then two had him mad with terror. The mortician very slowly abandoned his tools and let his hands hang at his side - probably to obscure the tremors.​

​

"I suppose," he began, rather slowly, trying to come up with something. Anything.​

​

Typical that he could go the whole day complaining to himself about the things he needed, and now that the Emperor of all Amol-Kalit was practically on top of him demanding to give him a gift, he was drawing all blanks.​

​

Time to fall back on the classics.​

​

"...I could use some... More... Money..."​

​

Necromancer or mortician: whatever Gaheris' profession was, imagination had apparently never been a requirement.​

 

[Gerra]

“More money.”

The emperor removed his hands from Gaheris, disappointment etched into his dark features.

“Very well. And what will you do with this new windfall?”

If the mortician’s current theme of being incredibly uninspiring continued, then Gerra would imagine he would spend all of his coin on whores and ale. He looked the little white-haired man up and down again. No, that wasn’t quite right. He would probably buy a new set of mortician’s tools.

 

[Gaheris]

The pressure withdrew from his shoulders, and Gaheris cleared his throat to avoid sighing with relief. Perhaps this would all be over soon, and he could get back to dealing with corpses. The dead had little interest in questioning him, which made them much more preferable to deal with.​

​

"I intend to establish my own... Guildhall. And there are some... Fees involved, in addition to general costs..."​

​

And new tools, of course. But that was so obvious it nearly went without saying.​

 

[Gerra]

“Here? In Annuakat?”

Gerra stroked an earlobe, fingering the ruby earring embedded there.

“Your sewing,” he remarked after a moment, “The ink will dry.”

 

[Gaheris]

"There are already two Guildhalls in Annuakat," he replied, somewhat hesitantly. "I would have to look elsewhere."​

​

Gaso and Lugh were hardly the kind of men predisposed to sharing. Gaheris had it in mind to move to the Cortosi Coast and set up in one of the more roguish island city states. But you don't mention your intentions to skip town to the Emperor of Amol-Kalit.​

​

Gerra mentioned the sewing, and Gaheris blinked. "Ah, of course."​

​

As if this hadn't been his second-most concern since the Emperor had swaggered in and started patting him down. He returned to his laborious sewing, hoping to finish the second patch quickly.​

 

[Gerra]

“Might I recommend Tyria? Trade there flourishes and the Queen is a reasonable woman.”

Gerra neglected to mention the late pirate menace. He watched Gaheris pick up his implements again.

“Although, I must admit my reasons are not wholly selfless. I’d like you to train me, as you have Kailyn.”

 

[Gaheris]

"I shall certainly look into it," was the perfectly neutral response, the diplomatic non-committal that Gaheris wielded as expertly as his embalming tools.​

​

His speed got the better of him when Gerra asked to be trained. The needle slipped, and Gaheris poked himself, piercing his glove and poking a finger. The mortician sucked in air, which quickly transitioned to, once again, clearing his throat.​

​

"Your Eminence," he said, abandoning his implements to squeeze the wounded digit. "You do me a great honor, but I am a mere undertaker - unfit to formally train one such as yourself..."​

​

The pain was sharp, but not unbearable. He finally turned to face the Half-Giant, his work suitably interrupted.​

​

"My work here already takes a great deal of time, and I have not yet trained suitable replacements..."​

​

His assistant had long-since finished wrapping the head in bandages and now stood idly, awkwardly, averting his gaze. Was it rude to stay? Was it rude to leave? The indecision had spawned rueful hovering.​

 

[Gerra]

Gerra glanced at the underling.

“You, finish the sewing.” Eyes like embers returned to Gaheris. “Follow me.”

Long, easy strides carried him down the hall. Along the walls were the tombs of kings and princes, their names inscribed with various epitaphs.

“So many have gone before me,” murmured Gerra, “Yet few have accomplished as much in as short a time. But my work is not yet finished.”

He stopped and turned to face Gaheris.

“I need your help. With the money I give you, you can have as many assistants as you need. But do not take me for a fool who cannot see past these trappings to your true worth.”

Gerra poked him in the chest with an oversized finger.

“You will train me. And you will think of some better reward than mere coin for compensation.”

 

[Gaheris]

Gaheris felt like groaning, the kind of death rattle he often heard while scavenging battlefields. But he kept his mouth shut beneath the beaked mask and followed dutifully. The attendant replaced him, glancing with uncertainty at the runes and needles before beginning.​

​

He followed Gerra with a clipped, nervous step. This was it. Any moment now, the Emperor would turn, and crush his skull with his huge, ridiculous hands-​

​

The Emperor stopped dead in his tracks and turned. And while speaking, prodded Gaheris in the chest.​

​

The mortician flinched.​

​

"Ah," he said. "If this is your command, Your Eminence, then I am, of course, bound to obey."​

​

Gaheris was grimacing beneath his mask. And it certainly reached his eyes.​

​

​

 

[Gerra]

The emperor frowned in irritation.

“Do you know how many would jump for a chance like this? There are archmages who would kill for a position as Imperial Tutor. Yet you seem almost afraid of it...”

Gerra glanced back down the hall, toward the stone slab.

“What are you really doing here, Gaheris? And do not feed me some inane drivel about a mortician’s lifestyle or Guild affairs.”

 

[Gaheris]

"Your Eminence, I am, regretfully, not an archmage, and so to blindly accept the duties of one seems ill-advised," Gaheris replied, glancing nervously to the side, "Nevertheless, as it is your command, I am obligated to do so..."​

​

And then, in all likelihood, be killed for his inadequate and unimpressive tutoring. But that was only if his escape attempt failed, which he doubted. He'd go to, where was it? Tyria. And then back to the Black Bay. Where he would crawl under his bed and wait for the accumulated trauma of his flight to sink back into the earth so he could go forth and do it all again.​

​

That was Red Guild business for you. Speaking of which...​

​

He blinked in apparent confusion, "I was asked here by the Red Guild to serve as your court necromancer. Is there something else you suspect me of doing, Your Eminence..?"​

​