The Orb of Xoriat

11 Gentle Touches of Discomfort

Praxle and Jeffers walked down the hallway toward their second-class room. The sleeping berths were on their right side, and on their left a long bank of windows allowed them to view the landscape of central Aundair. The cloud-dotted sky was stained in reds and blues in the wake of the sunset.

Wrapped in an ever-shifting cocoon of magical energy that constantly fought against gravity and inertia to keep the lightning rail on its plotted course, the coach trembled beneath their feet. They reached their door, and Jeffers cut around Praxle in the narrow hallway. Jeffers pulled the key from his pocket—for security’s sake, he had two of the three copies and Praxle had the third—and undid the lock.

Jeffers opened the door and scented the air with his keen nose. Smelling nothing amiss, he entered and turned the everbright lantern mounted in the wall by the door from a bare glow to full brightness. Praxle followed close behind, shutting and locking the door behind them.

Jeffers raised one hand. “Hsst!”

Praxle raised his hands preparatory to a spell. “What is it?”

“Someone has intruded upon our cabin,” said Jeffers, “via the window.”

Praxle glanced at the window and saw nothing amiss. “How do you know?”

“I placed a piece of down near the window for just this purpose,” said Jeffers as he turned to scan the cabin. “Someone pried open the window, and the breeze blew the down.” He checked the ceiling and beneath the bottom bunk that served as their table. Satisfied, he retrieved his sword and swept the room again, seeking anything invisible.

“I am unable to locate any manner of intruders, master,” said Jeffers.

“Can you tell what they were doing here?” asked Praxle.

“No, I cannot,” said Jeffers. “It appears that whoever it is was able to spend no short time here, as they were able to return everything they touched to its original state. Nothing save the down appears to have been disturbed. They accomplished whatever they desired then left the cabin again, either by the window or by the door.”

“Did they steal anything?” asked Praxle, his hands still raised.

“Allow me to check our inventory, master. I suggest that you search for any lingering magical effects.”

Jeffers investigated their bags, while Praxle cast a spell and scanned the room with his arcane sight. “I find nothing amiss, master,” said Jeffers at last. “How did you fare?”

“Nothing at all,” said Praxle. He sighed in frustration.

“I take it, master, that you do not surmise this to be a common burglary.”

“Naturally,” said Praxle. “A common burglar would not have cared for leaving evidence of his passage. These people knew that we were going to the dining coach and how much time we were likely to spend there. They used that time to search our room.” He paused, hands on hips, licking his lips and tapping one fool in irritation, “Now how will we figure out who dared to invade our room?”

A loud knock sounded at the door.

Jeffers raised one eyebrow. “Answering the door sounds like one option, master,” he said.

Praxle’s face scrunched up in confusion. “It can’t be them. It makes no sense. Why take all the time to sneak in only to come knocking at the front door?”

“Perhaps it is someone with information?”

“That could be,” said Praxle. “Nonetheless, be ready for anything.”

The knock sounded again, and a firm baritone voice said, “Open up.”

Jeffers picked up his sword from the bed and moved to the door. Praxle stood against the back wall away from the window, Jeffers opened the door with his left hand, then pulled it open with a finger of his right hand so that it concealed the sword while giving the impression his right hand was empty.

Standing in the hallway was a smallish human with short, dark hair, simple pants, an oversized peasant shirt, and a gray cat on his shoulder. The cat leaped down as the human stepped into the room. “Praxle d’Sivis,” the man said and closed the door.

At the mention of his master’s name, Jeffers sprang into action. He grabbed the human’s wrist and cocked his sword arm for a thrust through the kidneys. But as he pulled the human’s arm toward him, the stranger twisted his wrist and yanked his hand through Jeffers’s grip, leaving the half-orc with nothing but sleeve. The human stepped sideways, pulling the half-orc’s arm to the right, spoiling the aim of his thrust, then he flipped his arm around and bound Jeffers’s hand with the excess sleeve. He stepped in, lifting the surprised half-orc’s arm and striking him hard in the ribs with an open palm.

The man stepped back, freeing his hands and sleeve. The half-orc opened his mouth then slumped to the floor and gasped for breath.

Praxle’s eyes widened at the brutally efficient dispatch of his bodyguard. His hands flew into motion, and he intoned the words for the quickest combat spell he knew as the human stalked across the all-too-small cabin, Praxle formed his hands into a circle, and a magical light shimmered between his fingers, glowing like a still pond at sunrise. Then the pond rippled, and a winged serpent with rainbow-hued scales slithered its way through and took flight, aglide on broad, feathered wings and baring its long, poisonous fangs.

The human spun in place as the bright serpent circled the room, its scales glinting as the lamplight played across its surface. Then, to Praxle’s extreme displeasure, the intruder stopped and faced Praxle. Praxle guided the serpent to intercede, but the human closed his eyes. Praxle drew a breath between his teeth in anger and fear. The couatl illusion was a fast-casting spell in part because it had no aural component.

Although the lightning rail had a constant background noise of crackling energy and creaking linkages, the human turned his head at the small noise Praxle made. One hand shot out and grabbed Praxle’s lapel, and before the gnome could react, the second hand clamped around his windpipe, restricting but not entirely blocking his breath.

“Praxle,” said the human, opening his eyes, “My name is Teron.” He glanced over at Jeffers, slumped in the corner, a serrated sword unattended on the floor. “I see that you were expecting me.”

Praxle shrugged as best he could with a huge hand clamped over his neck.

“Here’s what we’re going to do, Praxle,” said Teron. “First you dispel your illusion, then we’re going to sit and talk. I’m going to hold your right hand, and any time you lie to me, I’m going to break one joint of one finger. If you try to cast a spell or do anything else untoward, I’ll break your finger joints one after another until you stop. Is that clear?”

Praxle’s eyes narrowed. “You can’t do anything to me that they didn’t already do at the monastery,” he spat.

“Actually, I can,” said Teron. “The brothers used the Biting Thumb techniques to cause you pain in such a manner that it would leave no bruises, because Quardov didn’t want to create an incident between Aundair and Zilargo. I have no such qualms. In fact, I am expected to use every means necessary to accomplish my task. Therefore, you should consider how many spells you could cast, and how many scrolls you could scribe if you had fifteen dislocated joints on your right hand.”

Praxle opened his mouth to answer, but no clever remarks came. Rather than sound boorish, he closed his mouth again.

“And,” added Teron, “after such a painful trial, do you think that you could convince your masters that you didn’t spill every secret you know?”

Praxle shook his head.

“Very good. I’m glad we’re in accord. Shall we begin?”

“Do I have a choice?” asked Praxle.

“Of course you have a choice. You may choose how many fingers I break before you cooperate.”

Praxle grimaced. “That will end up being all of them if you only want to ask me where it is,” he said.

“Oh, I am very clear that the Thrane Sphere is not here with you. But … I wish to better understand the situation. First let’s talk about your visit to the monastery. Why did you come?”

Praxle looked into Teron’s eyes to gauge the young monk’s resolve. He saw nothing but a blank slate—no hatred, no firmness, nothing. He considered his options, then opened his mouth to answer. Teron immediately started flexing his little finger backward, and Praxle’s face pinched in pain. He gritted his teeth, and his eyes found the resolve behind Teron’s empty gaze.

“All right, monk!” he said. “You win. In part because you seem more reasonable than those black-hooded thugs of yours at the monastery.”

“They were just ordinary acolytes, Praxle. It’s customary to wear black when using the Biting Thumb.”

“They wore black, and they were thugs. If you have difficulty accepting that, then let me hold your little finger.”

Teron nodded. “Continue,” he said.

“You have probably been told that I stole the, er, the item you call the Thrane Sphere. Unfortunately, that is a fallacious assumption based on spurious deductions.”

Teron frowned in disappointment and started flexing the gnome’s finger again.

“Wait!” grimaced Praxle. “Hear me out, then break as many fingers as you want! If your ‘brothers’ had been that patient, I could have told you everything yesterday!”

Teron paused, looking askance at Praxle. At last he relented and released the pressure on the gnome’s finger, although he maintained the grip. Jeffers began to stir in the corner, still clawing for breath. “If you want proof,” said Praxle, desperate to be believed and to maintain the sanctity of his hand, “wait until Jeffers rises, then send him from the cabin. I will tell you everything I know, and you can question him separately. He will tell you the exact same story! I swear!”

Teron considered this for a moment then nodded. “Jeffers! First, breathe all the way out then take a deep breath in—as much as you can.” The half-orc did so. “Now get up, leave your sword, and walk to the very rear coach. Then come back here.”

The half-orc climbed to his feet, using the door latch and the walls to keep himself from falling over. He glowered at the monk with hatred and shame, then opened the door and let himself out.

“Leave it open,” Teron said.

Jeffers lurched off, right hand tightly holding his left side. As he went, the cat glided out of the room, hopped up onto the sill of the long windows in the hallway, settled down, and napped.

Praxle drew a deep breath and blew it out noisily, puffing his cheeks. “You can let go of my finger, now,” he said.

“I know,” said Teron. “And I might. After you talk.”

Praxle’s nostrils flared. “As you wish,” he said. “As I am sure you are aware, I have been accused of stealing the Orb of Xo— the, er, Thrane Sphere from the monastery. This I did not do, though I did consider it.” Praxle glowered at his interrogator through narrowed eyes. “I hope you understand how hard this is for me. I deal in information, which means that I acquire it instead of dispense it. On those rare occasions that I give knowledge to others, I charge my clients dearly for the privilege.”

Teron tilted his head slightly. “I deal in death. No charge.” He reflected for a moment, then added, “Pain is just a hobby.”

Praxle drew a deep breath and abandoned all hope of building a false history of events. “Well, then,” he said. “The Orb—that’s what we call it—is originally the properly of the University of Korranberg, recovered during an expedition to Droaam over two millennia ago. It was … lost during the Last War, due in part to a gross blunder on the part of my forebears. We located it at last in your monastery. I came to recover it on behalf of the University. When I met with Prelate Quardov to broach the subject, he would have none of it.”

“You asked him about it?” asked Teron.

Praxle shook his head. “I had no need to. He was most uncooperative. He had the very aura of an ice mephit.”

“That sounds like Quardov,” said Teron.

“That put me in a bit of a quandary, so I retired to my rooms to reconsider, I shall admit that I used some”—Praxle winced with shame as he confessed—“sleight of eye, if you will, to acquire some additional information for my own use. With the information I managed to glean, I had a fair idea where the Orb was secreted. Keiftal mentioned the catacombs, and Quardov was happy to give me details of where previous heroes of the faith were buried. At that point, I was sorely tempted to steal the Orb and bring it back home to its rightful owners. My intent was to send Jeffers into the catacombs that night to explore. I might well have joined him, depending on what demands the prelate or your master placed upon my time. However, I never had the chance to follow through on that.”

Teron flexed Praxle’s finger. He rolled his head toward the gnome in weary disbelief. “Stop spinning this yarn,” he said, “and speak the truth. Do you seriously expect me to believe that someone else just happened to steal this Orb of yours the same day you arrived at its location?”

“No,” said Praxle, breathing hard to resist the pain, “I don’t expect you to believe that. Not without the rest of the story.”

“Proceed,” said Teron, an untrusting look in his eye. “But just so you know, you’re running a ledger of five breaks thus far.”

Praxle tugged at his collar and cleared his throat before continuing. “About a week ago I met with someone in Wroat.”

“A friend?”

“No,” said Praxle, “not in the slightest. I only befriend a very select sort of person, monk. He was merely a contractor.” He coughed in a vain attempt to clear the nervous tremor from his voice. “A freelance investigator. Our meeting was disrupted. My associate was killed, and someone stole the information he had for me. To the best of my knowledge, this person is called the Shadow Fox and is a notorious Cyran thief.”

“Really?” Teron leaned forward.

“There were others,” continued Praxle, “and the story is rather convoluted, but it appears that my associate had leaked his information to a Cyran who tipped off this Shadow Fox person. The stolen information pointed to your monastery as the place where the Orb was hidden. This I learned from my associate’s dying breath. I made to reach the monastery as soon as I could, hoping to beat the Cyrans there, I could afford the lightning rail. I hoped they couldn’t.” Praxle paused a moment and marshaled his thoughts. Now that he had warmed to his subject, he was quite oblivious to the fact that Teron still held his hand in a grip that could easily break several fingers. “I don’t know how much detail was in my associate’s report. Perhaps everything. Perhaps not much, and the Cyrans were spying on me at the same time that I was prying secrets out of your people. Perhaps both. There’s no way to know. Now let me tell you what I don’t know, monk.” He looked Teron square in the eye. “I don’t know who stole the Orb, nor how, nor even when, other than the loss was discovered while I was at the monastery. I don’t know how they escaped. I do know that I was arrested, tortured, and then I escaped, and I do know that you followed me, which means that you monks don’t know who actually stole the Orb, either.”

Teron leaned back against the wooden wall. “I do,” he said, “I was there.”

Across the border in Thrane, the lightning rail accelerated into the waning day to Thaliost. Oargesha basked in the success of their ploy, her feet straddling the bag that held the Black Globe. She wished to talk, to joke, to celebrate their minor victory (and the answer to her prayer), but after waiting so long on the platform, Fox excused herself to use the privy as soon as the lightning rail got underway again.

Oargesha looked down at the large, leather bag and relived the moment in her mind. The easy glide the bag made, thanks to the curious counterintuitive properties of the Globe within. Fox’s perfect aim. Her flawless movement as she gathered the bag along with her other luggage.

She started to play with the bag between her feet. She pressed against it with one foot, hard, then as soon as it started to move, released the pressure. The bag glided across the floor to her other foot, and she had to apply counterpressure for a few seconds before it slowed its progress. She batted it back and forth several times, trying to apply just the right amount of pressure to negate its momentum, without reversing the direction of its travel. Eventually she tired of the little game—or, more accurately, the muscles on the inside of her legs tired of it, and she pressed the bag to the floor until it stopped moving.

Her mood darkened as she remembered those who had given their lives for this artifact. Rander, Roon, and Gram, all killed by that monk in the catacombs. The once-fine team had dwindled to Fox and herself, but if the Globe was as powerful an artifact as the Fox said it was, it would be worth the sacrifice for the rebirth of Cyre. Or so she told herself as the tears welled up once more.

Just a few more hours until they reached the rail stop at Daskaran Ferry. Then it was across the sound and off to Fox’s safe house in Flamekeep.

Oargesha swayed to the right as the rail line turned. At her feet, the bag drifted to the wall, carried by its own peculiar inertia. Its unnatural motion piqued her interest. Slightly bored from the long day, and looking for anything to distract herself from replaying the deaths of her friends over and over in her mind, Oargesha studied the bag on the floor.

It looked so ordinary. Just a black leather bag, neither polished like new nor worn as if old. The straps were heavy and sturdily attached. It bulged slightly with the valuable relic inside. Oargesha leaned forward and undid the snaps that held the bag shut, one by one. As the last snap opened, the bag opened slightly, like the inviting lips of a lover … or the mouth of a hungry black toad.

Oargesha pushed the bag open wider, curious about the mail lining that Fox had mentioned. The sides of the bag were indeed lined with fine-mesh chainmail. The rest of the bag was filled with the heavily swaddled Globe as well as padding to fill the empty portions.

Oargesha ran her finger inside the bag, near the top edge, feeling the soft rippling sensation of the chain links passing her fingertip, one by one. As her hand passed close to the Globe, she felt the little hairs on the back of her wrist start to stand on end. She held her hand closer to the Globe, not daring to touch its pale shroud. Her palm felt alternately cold and rashy.

Her hand seemed to move unbidden, and her fingernail traced a fold on the drab fabric that swaddled the Globe. She felt a tugging, as of a whirlpool, drawing the tip of her finger closer. Her chin began to tremble as though she might cry.

She caressed her fingers across the fabric then spread her hand like a claw and clutched at the Globe’s wrappings. She gasped, although she did not know if it was a gasp of surprise, revulsion, or ecstasy. Despite the fact that the material was clearly dry, it felt greasy to her touch and seemed to move beneath her fingers.

Fearful, she pulled her hand back, but despite her intent her curling fingers clutched at the fabric, undressing the Globe, pulling away its mask. All light seemed to fall into the ebon surface of the ancient artifact as it was exposed, devouring the coach, the countryside, evert her own hand, leaving her with nothing else to see. Her eyes were drawn in fascination and anguish to the ancient creation, lacquered so deep a black that it seemed to swim with colors. Her hand reached out, and she gently stroked one of the many curved, sliding segments that covered the surface of the Globe. It started to move ….