But the half-elf monk dithered. He was changed since they’d escaped the damned city of aboleths. His eyes were unfocused, and his hands seemed uncertain. The last time she’d seen Raidon, Seren was certain she’d smelled the stink of wine on his breath.
Wine! A damn odd sign for someone who’d once impressed her with his casual temperance.
So odd, in fact, Seren had decided the half-elf was broken. He had experienced something dreadful in sanity-shredding Xxiphu, something he wouldn’t or couldn’t describe. Since they’d returned, he’d only become more tight-lipped and erratic in his behavior, and had taken to wandering the streets.
Even if Raidon finally accompanied her, she worried his mind would last only long enough to completely buckle at the worst possible moment.
So she’d begun making arrangements of her own.
Seren had in hand several detailed maps of Cimbar, a city on the southern coast of the Sea of Fallen Stars that had failed to weather the Spellplague. But she was more interested in Mulhorand, or rather, what was being called “High Imaskar.”
The land once known as Mulhorand was apparently being colonized by remnants of the ancient Imaskar empire, which was a surprise because everyone had assumed the Imaskar had been stamped out long before. But either they, or remarkably adept imposters, were laying claim to the lands west of the Plains of Purple Dust. From what Seren could gather, the newly renamed High Imaskar was mostly a blasted, twisted landscape empty of its new putative masters; the Imaskarans were pretty much restricted to a single towering city called Skyclave.
Seren was certain riches abounded in those lost Mulhorand cities, and she aimed to travel there first, before others with similar notions could arrive.
The wizard spied the building she sought-a three-story stone structure that bristled with defensive stonework like a keep. Letters carved above the lintel read, “Heltharn Depository.” Those with more coin than they could personally carry on their person could sign contracts with the depository to keep their holdings safe. Several years before, she had rented a vault in Heltharn Depository in order to save toward her goal.
She paused just before crossing the street to the structure. That was strange-Where were the two ogre guards the depository normally stationed outside the building’s entrance?
Seren’s brows furrowed. The one thing the depository stressed to its clientele over everything else was its impeccable security. Every previous time she had visited the building, the brutish guards had glared suspiciously at her as she approached.
So why were they not there?
Ogres were, of course, the least of the depository’s security. However, their stolid presence represented all the deeper, magical layers of protection the coin keepers relied upon. If the ogres were gone, did that mean other protections had also been laid bare?
Fear for the safety of her coin urged Seren to dash across the street with her wand drawn. But fear for her skin proved stronger.
Seren stepped beneath the awning of an apple seller’s booth and whispered an invocation of obscurity.
The apple vendor, who’d caught her arrival from the corner of his eye, swiveled his head left and right, searching for her. Her minor spell of concealment was working.
Seren fixed her eyes on the depository door and waited. She had all day.
Over the next hour, she saw several different people walk up to the depository, enter, then leave not long after, looking angry or confused. Something was definitely going on in there-no one who’d entered had spent nearly enough time to access the contents of their individual vaults.
She might have all day, but boredom was a foe she’d rarely bested. So when the next two customers entered and emerged hardly a few moments later, she slipped from beneath the awning and trailed them. Her spell of concealment shuddered as she approached the two, then finally shattered as she moved too quickly for the minor enchantment’s limited capacity. Neither noticed her appearance as if from nowhere.
“Excuse me, could I ask you two a question?” said Seren.
The depository’s customers glanced back. Expressions of annoyance changed to curiosity and a little concern upon seeing Seren in her red robes hurrying to catch up.
“What is it?” said one, a human woman wearing a sea green smock.
“I had a problem accessing my vault this morning,” said Seren. “I was just returning to try again when I saw both of you emerge. Before I waste my time going in and dealing with all that bother again, I thought you could just tell me if the trouble has been cleared up?”
The woman frowned. “No, they’re still dealing with it,” she said. “Some kind of security threat.”
“Security threat?”
“Yeah,” said the other customer, a man in a greasy, oil-smeared coat. “The Depository’s brought in a new master of coins. He says they got to close down the vaults for a few days while they upgrade all the wards.”
“Hmm,” replied Seren. That didn’t sound too bad. “Did he say anything else?”
“Well, sure,” said the woman. “He said they had to upgrade the wards ’cause a mad wizard had been spotted north of the city. Mad with spellplague, he said, rampaging this way. Anyone with any sense is taking precautions. He said she may try to break into the depository, so they want to be ready.”
Seren hadn’t heard anything about a rampaging wizard, but then again, her network of informants was long gone.
“That seems sensible,” Seren said. “Say … Did you find out the name of the new master of coins?”
“Uhm-,” the man said.
“Sure,” said the woman. “Morgenthel was his name.”
Japheth stared into the blank, malachite eyes of the detached iron head.
The craftsmanship was tolerable. The metal was polished, and the articulation of the jaws and lids was smooth. The lines of the iron bust even suggested a feminine subject, which was appropriate. Not that he could claim credit-he’d employed a nearby forge to craft the head, and several other pieces too. In all, he’d kept five forges busy for three solid days in order to produce all the parts he required. He didn’t have the equipment to do it himself nor the time to gather it, especially here beneath Marhana Manor.
Too bad the pseudo-golem he’d fashioned to watch over the Razorhides was in Veltalar. He could have leapfrogged all the time he’d spent assembling the new metallic body. Of course, the “driftwood golem” he’d used to frighten a gang of killers into submission was probably too sinister-looking. The driftwood scarecrow’s crown of smashed shells, body of dirt, fish teeth, and cloak of sea mist made it a terrifying presence. Plus, he’d put it together in just under a day from lakeshore detritus. Though seemingly dreadful, it had been a fragile facade.
If everything came together as he had planned, the iron one would be much less frightening to look on, and far more sturdy.
Japheth carefully lowered the head onto a metallic torso. He pressed, but the head failed to attach. The warlock held the head in place with one hand and grabbed a padded mallet from a clutter of tools laid out on the stone block next to the body.
He pounded the metallic head into place with the mallet. The clamor echoed off the stone walls of the niche-lined catacomb. Instead of moldering bones, wine bottles lay in some of the carved shelves, heavy with the dust of decades. Other shelves had been swept free of wine and dust, and now held alembics, scrolls, open tomes, and a litter of needful things useful for conducting rituals.
With another blow of the mallet, the head clicked into place. It was the portion of the creation that defined the rest. The metallic body, propped up on the block of cracked stone at the chamber’s center, was primed. It was an empty vessel, waiting only for an inhabiting spell with enough strength to animate it.