Underkeeper

“I’m sorry, but our supply of burning rain is extremely limited right now,” the merchant said, eyeing Therion in a manner that seemed less than friendly to Bernt. “The guild is buying up everything to produce alchemical fire grenades in anticipation of the army’s arrival. You would need to approach the guild council representative directly to acquire any, and I can tell you right now that they would refuse.”

Therion scowled at the man and gritted his teeth, but he controlled his tone. “And why would that be, exactly?”

The alchemists’ supplier rolled his eyes. “Because they need it! Also, yes, we know who you are and who your father is. The guild may not be willing to make an enemy of you, but they aren’t going to bend over to do you any favors either. Especially”—he nodded meaningfully to Bernt—“not any that involve him.”

Bernt had no idea how so many people could recognize him on sight now. Had the guild distributed pictures or a description? Or did they just recognize his robes and refuse to do business with all of the Underkeepers?

“Come on,” Bernt said. “Let’s get out of here. I have one more idea of a place I could ask.”

Grixit’s stand wasn’t set up in the same spot as before, but it was close enough that Bernt had no trouble finding the goblin merchant, who greeted him with a wave.

“Ah, the young Underkeeper! How’s the thorn skin amulet treating you?”

Bernt reached up to his neck, but he wasn’t actually wearing the uncomfortable trinket. Right, it was back home in his chest.

“It’s good!” he answered. “It probably saved my life in the dungeon a few days ago, actually, but I noticed that it started to deteriorate. Some of the thorns came off. Is that normal?”

“Sure.” Grixit shrugged. “The materials can’t hold up indefinitely, and the spirit wouldn’t stick around forever in any case. They’ve got their own business to be about, after all.”

Bernt stopped at that, glancing over to Therion, who shrugged at him, just as confused as he was.

“Uh… spirit?” Bernt prompted.

“Yes?” Grixit responded, raising one eyebrow.

“What do you mean? There’s a spirit in my amulet?”

Grixit snorted. “Of course there’s a spirit in your amulet! A bit of one, at least. How did you think it worked? If you want magic done right, you get a magical creature to do it!”

That… wouldn’t be completely insane, Bernt supposed, if it wasn’t also completely unheard of. As far as he knew, anyway.

“But isn’t that dangerous?” Therion asked, voicing Bernt’s own first question before he could. “How do you bind a spirit into an object? And how do you get it to do what you want? It has a will of its own, so couldn’t it just… not work as intended?”

Grixit put his hands on his hips, looking offended now.

“I don’t bind spirits!” he exclaimed. “What’s the matter with you? You have to cultivate a relationship, make a deal, ask what they’d like in return and honor your word!”

Ah. So that was what the thing with the blood was about. The spirit wanted it for… something. Bernt wasn’t entirely sure what a spirit might want his blood for, but he hoped it was just using it to siphon power—literally recharging itself. He was still trying to absorb the idea that a spirit could even do this.

Looking over, he saw that Therion’s mouth was hanging open a bit as he stared at the little merchant, just as stunned as Bernt. How had they never heard of this?

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Grixit grumbled, calming down a little. “It’s not my fault if you humans don’t talk to the spirits. The elves aren’t so ignorant! Look at her, she’s got one right there!”

Both of the humans turned to look at Elyn. The half-elf, who Bernt just now realized was standing two entire paces behind the two of them, moved both hands to her belt, covering her flute protectively as her face flushed in consternation.

“Hey!” she hissed at Grixit in a loud whisper. “That’s a trade secret of the Bardic League! You can’t just go trumpeting something like that around. I could get censured!”

Bernt shook his head.

“I think I’m going to need you to explain some things about my amulet to me in a minute. I have another question, first… Do you have any way to get a droplet of burning rain from the Phoenix Reaches?”

Grixit smiled. “Sure I do! Assuming, of course, that you can wait a couple of months for it. The Alchemists’ Guild bought up the only vial I had yesterday. They’re probably trying to get ready for that army that’s heading our way. I hear they use it for alchemical fire grenades or something. They’ve been scouring the whole city for all the usual war-type reagents.”

Bernt sighed. Another dead end.

“Mmh, okay. How much to tell me more about those spirits?”

Grixit smiled. “What would you like to know?”

Elyn huffed and wandered off to another stall.

***

Elyn and Therion had a list of things they wanted to buy from the market, and Bernt accompanied them from one store to the next as they bought potions, a backup focus for Therion, and an enchanted, single-use skeleton key that would open most locks. All the while, the other two flirted with each other—subtly at first, but they were more into it with every passing minute. Therion made an effort to include Bernt in the conversation regardless, but Bernt still felt uncomfortable. When they circled around to the enchanter’s shop, he excused himself, explaining that he didn’t want to repeat his last encounter with the shop’s proprietor.

As he left, he noticed for the first time just how few people were browsing the stalls and shops. He knew that many adventurers had died in the dungeon, but the market usually hummed with activity. It wasn’t just used by higher-ranking adventurers. Where were all the low-rankers?

Bernt hoped they were fighting kobolds, but he had a feeling that wasn’t it. Adventurers weren’t heroes, and few people would get into a fight if they thought there was a real chance they might be eaten by a dragon.

Still, that seemed a bit cowardly to Bernt. There was an army coming to take care of it, after all. Dismissing the thought, Bernt considered what he’d learned from Grixit instead.

According to the goblin, the spirit whose fragment was inhabiting his amulet wasn’t nefarious. In the deep past, it had preyed on travelers and animals, draining their blood to fuel its development and allow it to manifest physically. When the goblins of Goblins’ Delve encountered it, they’d given it a name—Vael. Grixit’s Clan, the Vael-Dirin, had been interacting with it for centuries, and making deals for protection and power in exchange for strictly limited amounts of blood. Bernt wasn’t sure if he understood correctly, but it almost sounded as though the goblins revered it like a god.

That brought up some very strange questions. Was the goblins’ relationship to their guardian spirit more like that of a warlock to a demon, or like a priest to their deity? It hadn’t sounded like a formal pact, so much as a simple handshake type of agreement. But one didn’t make deals with deities at all. Clerics had to prove their faith and devotion, working to gain the attention and favor of their god to grow in power. Vael, and the other lesser spirits that goblins interacted with, just wanted… stuff. While Vael apparently favored the blood of sapient beings, others would trade favors for family heirlooms, labor, food, or even a musical performance.

Strangest of all, though, was that Bernt hadn’t heard of this before. How could the Mages’ Guild not be aware of how bards gained access to sorcerous abilities? Mages studied all forms of magic intensely in hopes of gaining a greater understanding of the underlying arcane structure of the universe—so why not look into shamanistic practices? Or, if they did, why wouldn’t they teach it to their students?

He would have to ask Ed or maybe Fiora about it.

Snickering brought Bernt out of his reverie, and he looked up to discover his feet had taken him past the Academy by force of habit. It was the most direct route home from the Gateside Market, but he usually avoided it.

A group of students in acolyte’s robes were staring at him, and one was pointing. Those stares had always made him feel humiliated and angry, but now… though the students were only barely three years younger than him, they seemed like a bunch of children. They looked at his Underkeeper’s robes and saw someone who’d failed—someone who couldn’t afford the Mages’ Guild and was rejected by the military, too weak or unskilled to become a war mage.

But Bernt hadn’t tried to join the military. He didn’t want to be a soldier, forced to risk his life for someone else just to get his hands on a half-decent architecture for his ascension to magister. So, he’d applied to join the Underkeepers—apparently the first mage to do so in a generation. Why shouldn’t he? The pay was acceptable, even for a mage. It was just the stigma of the job that bothered him. Alright, the work environment wasn’t always rosy, but what did it matter?

His path was the only one that would allow him to pursue power without selling himself out along the way, short of going adventuring practically naked, anyway. He was the one who had made his choices, and as far as he was concerned, he’d made the right ones. What did it matter if these students understood him? They hadn’t even set one foot into the real world yet!

At that moment, Bernt felt a spike of alarm through his bond. Jori was far away, in the direction of the Crafters’ District. For him to have felt her at all from here meant she’d had quite a shock, and he doubted that could be the result of encountering a rat in the sewers.

Ignoring the looks he received, Bernt started running.

As far as he could tell, Jori wasn’t afraid, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t in trouble. If she hurt someone in the town, Iriala would come after her. In the worst case… Bernt couldn’t stop his overactive imagination. He tried to banish his mental image of a horde of kobolds swarming the sewers as the Underkeepers and City Guard were overwhelmed. If he wanted to be of any help, he needed to concentrate on finding the fastest route down there.

***

Jori faced her opponent, hellfire blazing in her left hand. She held it palm up, so it wouldn’t burn her. It still kind of hurt, but she needed it to establish who was boss here. And that was her. She was the boss here! That was just what you did when you met an unknown demon. The hierarchy had to be clear.

Blood fiends ate other demons to get stronger, but this one was very weak for its kind. It had nearly scared her back to the hells when she first saw it, making her think she’d been caught snooping on the alchemist woman, Theresa. She had been sitting in the sewer right under the bad woman’s shop, after all. But now, seeing who this was, she was certain the location of this encounter was just a coincidence.

She didn’t know of any innocuous reason for one of these disgusting monsters to be in the city—and she doubted it could have snuck into the city from outside… Most importantly, there were no other demons here as far as she had ever seen. None except Jori herself.

Which meant an especially weak warlock, clearly not one of the Great Ones, had most likely summoned a blood fiend to kill her. A very big, very bad man trying to cover his tracks, she would guess.

Her blood-red eyes narrowed, and the blood fiend cowered back from her flames, pressing itself against the wall with a pained hiss.

“Who is your master?” Jori demanded.