Teller of Fate
Fifth Movement: The Power Under Glyph
Chapter Forty-Four
* * *
After giving it some thought, Brad decided to bite the bullet and head to the Merchants Quarter. Time to hit B, B & B.
With a light step and whistle Bradwold headed to his next destination, the box making a bulge in his purse. Dæv was going to love the gift, he was certain.
He was almost back to the Plaza of Dying Suns, two sacks of adventuring swag making his arms ache, when he first noticed the noise. Usually, there was a babble of voices from the Plaza, but this sounded more like conflict than commerce.
The adventurer was right.
As the gate from the Merchants Quarter swung open it was obvious that a great many people were quite exercised about something. It looked like almost a hundred people were being attacked by something invisible.
They were being pushed, pulled, dragged, and in some cases lifted off the ground toward the Effor Gate. The group, large, blond, and dressed in armour, were being evicted by the Garda.
The square itself seemed deserted, but that was only because everyone was crowed along the edge of it. In minutes it was over. The square was littered with an unfamiliar collection of items that had the look of weapons to Brad’s trained eye. The usual crowds returned to business, avoiding the detritus of the fight. They would be collected by the Garda and disposed of.
Thoughtfully, Bradwold made his way back to the Griffin.
The crowd was about the same as when he’d left this morning. That made sense considering the Blue Griffin was mostly full of ‘tourists’ right now.
Brad went to the room where his fellow adventurers had had their first meal on arrival. There they were—the gang.
By the looks of things, he’d missed lunch, but happy hour was in full swing. Brad was greeted warmly as Elian pushed out a chair for him. Bradwold was surprised to see the dwarf today. It was odd to see him so soon after arriving at the Griffin. The dwarf was always quite thorough with the whores he chose.
They were playing cards. The glittery brightly lacquered cards were the Syrat in form, though impotent and customized to reflect the Blue Griffin. “Where’d you get off to?” asked Quol, sipping blue wine.
“Just getting a few things,” he said, hefting the bags before setting them down. He didn’t want them to know about the Conjunxes; he’d never hear the end of their teasing. “Any chance of food? Breakfast was a while ago.”
As if in answer to his question, a server appeared. “What would you like, Brad?” said a voice from over his left shoulder.
He turned and looked up into smiling face of Darhana, one of the many women at the Griffin who made none of her money on her back. She was quite militant about that, as many a drunken patron had learned to their painful regret over the years.
The dagger at the server’s belt made any attempt to grope, fondle, or cup any part of her body a mistake not likely made twice.
That being said, Darhana was witty and charming to those who respected her boundaries—and tipped her well.
“Hey, Darhana! Think I’ll have some stew and a pint of your bitterest ale, if you would be so kind.”
“Crusty bread with that?”
“From the dark loaf, please.”
“Coming up.” She asked about refills and headed to the bar.
The drinks arrived first. Brad was deeply into his when his stew arrived. By the time he finished it, he was ready for another round.
He had Darm deal him into the next hand while he waited. Time to increase his stake by relieving some of his crew of their hard-earned swag.
An hour later Brad was up slightly, mostly at the expense of the dwarf. This was odd, as Elian usually had no trouble with the game.
“Your game ith off, thhort thtuff,” teased Darmorel, the Well-spoken as she raked in another hand.
“How’d you like to see how well you walk without kneecaps?”
“You don’t move nearly fatht enough, my bearded friend.”
“Wanna bet?” Elian rose from his chair and made to dive across the table.
“Woah!” Brad grabbed him. “That’s enough!”
Elian subsided, grumbling.
“What’s going on, Kneecapper?” Brad never used the dwarf’s soubriquet unless he was serious about something.
The dwarf sat. He apologized to Darmorel and to the table in general. “There are some problems with the local dwarf population.”
“What kind of trouble?” Brad.
“Garda trouble.”
Brad sat back, stunned.
The dwarf population in Glyph—under it, in point of fact—had been the most well-behaved of any faction in the city. If the Garda were giving them a rough time, it meant unheard of trouble in the City of Portals.
A glance at the others showed similar expressions of dismay. Darmorel placed a hand over the dwarf’s, who looked up at her then placed his hand atop hers and smiled.
Brad asked, “What’s been going on, Elian?”
“Several have been accused of interfering with the Spire.”
“That can’t be true, can it?”
The dwarf looked up at his crew member. “I don’t know for sure, but maybe.”
“Why would any dwarf touch the Spire?”
“According to those I’ve spoken to, they’ve been sensing some instability in it.”
Bradwold shuddered. Glyph rested on the Spire. The magick that sustained the city came from it. If anything were to happen to the it…
He had a cold, cold feeling in his breast. “What does that mean?”
Elian shrugged. “Regular vibrations have been felt for weeks now, apparently. Also, the stuff of the Spire seems to be workable. According to the reports, some of the Underdwellers have made pilot holes in the stuff of the Spire, looking for the reason. None of the dwarves I spoke to have any knowledge of such a thing, though.” Underdwellers were dwarves who lived their entire lives underground. A community of them had lived in Glyph almost since its construction.
“Have the Garda any suspects?”
“Have to assume so. Apparently, the Underdwellers who did the digging have vanished, but their tunnels remain. Not many, nor very deep, but there nevertheless.”
“You’re worried.”
“Of course I’m worried! Dwarves rarely run afoul of the Garda. The last time was…” He appeared unable to continue.
Brad placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right, my friend.”
After a moment, the dwarf seemed to collect himself. “The Garda may decide to declare us criminals and bar dwarfs from Glyph altogether. You know how they can get.”
Quolamin said, “Frankly, I’m more worried about what this may mean for the stability of the Spire. What are the Garda doing about that, I wonder?”
“Athk them.”
Quol turned a sour expression toward Darm but said nothing. The Garda never communicated with anyone, except by the expedient of defenestrating potential troublemakers.
* * *
They played a half dozen more hands, debating the meaning of the change in the Spire and the implications of an expulsion of residents of the city, something extraordinarily rare in their experience.
Brad had just drained his third pint and was contemplating more food when another tankard was placed at his elbow. He turned to thank Darhana and saw Dævara’s smiling face instead.
The elf leaned in. Moist lips met his. A teasing tongue just brushed his teeth before it withdrew and an audible smack. “How’s yer day so far, my Pretty Man?” She rested a hand on his shoulder, gently kneading it.
Brad placed a hand on his purse, making sure it was out of casual sight. “Interesting. Odd things have been happening this day.” He gave her a brief rundown of the Spire trouble and the forcible eviction of another group from the Plaza earlier that day.
Dæv’s brow rose, furrowing her forehead. “Greg told me most of the groups coming today are refugees, they are. Worlds are being attacked, some destroyed, so say the rumours.”
“Did he thay anything about the Thpire, or the dwarveth?”
She shook her head, but said, “He’s worried o’ somethin’, he is. But he’d not be tellin’ me. He keeps his worries to himself, does that man.”
“That he does,” Brad replied.
A short exchange on what was known or suspected about the goings-on led to no conclusion but did increase the general anxiety. For the first time any of them could remember, the Garda seemed to be letting events get ahead of them. The notion was close to panic inducing.
Brad knew that much more than Glyph’s peace depended on the unseen guardians. A problem with them could spell the city’s doom.
They sat for a moment in gloomy contemplation.
Dævara’s soothing hand on Bradwold’s shoulder descended as she slipped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. Finally, he said, “I think a talk with Gregarrt is in order.”
Quolamin asked, “Will he tell you anything he wouldn’t tell Dævara?” Bright blue fingernails galloped on the table.
“I think so. Remember, we adventured together for a bit, he and I. I think I can get him to open up about whatever’s bothering him. Who knows, maybe we can help. Would you guys be up for a little under city adventure?”
Nods all around. Action, it seemed, was just the thing to calm nerves unused to any worry they couldn’t beat to death.
“That’s settled, then.”
“When will you go, Brad?” asked Dæv.
“No point waiting, is there?”
“C’mon, then. I’ll take you to him, I will.”
Brad and Dæv made their farewells, leaving the others to their cards and liquor.
— Gideon Jagged
Innsmouth, August 2026
© Gideon Jagged
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