Underkeeper

Bernt cut his lunch break short that day to make a stop at a tailor’s shop. If he was going to see the Solicitors, he needed to do everything he could to make the best possible impression. He guessed this was going to cost quite a bit of silver, but it would be worth it.

Besides, he had a debt to pay.

“You want ‘toddler-sized gray robes,’” the elderly tailor repeated back to him, peering at him over the rim of his glasses and tapping on the counter. A folded paper sign propped up on the counter read “No Dwarves!!” in even, handwritten block letters.

“And made to match yours? And you want it tonight? Do you think we just have that sort of thing lying around in the back?”

Bernt shifted his shoulders uncomfortably. He knew it was a ridiculous request, but he’d hoped they could throw something together. It wasn’t exactly a complicated garment.

“Ahem,” came a young woman’s voice from behind the old man. Bernt could barely see her as she peered over at them from around a corner. “Ehm. Pa? Wouldn’t one of those ritual robes for the Temple of Aegin work? They were sized for seven-year-old dwarves…”

The tailor scowled. “Don’t talk to me about those damned dwarves! But yes, I suppose. It’s not like they’re going to take them now. Inferior work my ass! They can make their own godsdamned robes!”

Bernt wasn’t interested in dwarven religion, but between the sign and the man’s attitude, he could guess what had happened there. Dwarves were notoriously picky customers, and taking a crafting contract from one without taking a generous up-front payment was generally considered a poor business decision. If this Aegin had anything to do with crafting, as most dwarven gods did, then taking a contract from his temple was, in gentle terms, foolish.

The old man must have really needed the business. But… it sounded like the tailor’s misfortune might work out well for Bernt. Especially if he still needed money.

“Could you adjust it for a slimmer frame? And I need two slits in the back. I have measurements,” Bernt said, holding out a scrap of paper.

***

As the sun was setting, Bernt examined a prominently displayed number next to a very expensive-looking door. It was in a dingy alley that branched off of the main street, just in front of the Upper District. He’d walked by the building twice before he realized there was no entrance at the front.

Reaching up, he knocked twice and waited. As he did, Jori came up behind him, standing straight-backed at his side. He thought she looked very professional in her new Underkeeper’s robes.

Maybe twenty seconds later, the door opened soundlessly to reveal a sharply dressed young human woman who regarded him with a stern expression, eyebrows raised.

“Can I help you?” she asked, just as her eyes flicked down, taking in Jori. “Ah. You’re the new warlock? Who referred you?”

Bernt blinked.

“Uh… hi. My name is Bernt, and this is Jori,” Bernt began, flustered. She was very pretty, and not at all what he’d been expecting. “Archmage Ed… uh, Thurdred sent me over. I’m here to report a rogue demon and probably a rogue warlock, in the city. A demon attacked us last night.”

“Ah,” she said again, with a faint note of contempt this time, as she eyed his robes. She turned on her heel. “Follow me, both of you.”

Bernt and Jori hurried after her, throwing glances left and right at the doors as they moved down the corridor. He noted a ritual room, a library, several nameless rooms, and offices labeled with the names of people he assumed were Solicitors. He spotted five of them—Bernt had no idea there were so many warlocks in the city.

The Solicitor led them up a flight of stairs and through a set of double doors, barely stopping to knock on the doorframe as she entered a large, brightly lit office dominated by a single massive desk.

“Solicitor Radast, Mage Bernard of the Underkeepers to see you about a rogue amateur, accompanied by the class 2 imp known as ‘Jori.’”

Bernt hadn’t heard his given name out loud in years and it sounded strange. What really unsettled him about it, though, was that they knew who he was. Ed had told him these people would look into him almost immediately, but it was different to hear them talk about him like this.

Behind the desk sat a man in early middle age, wearing a black suit that contrasted dramatically with his light-blonde hair and mustache. He looked up at the woman for a moment, then continued writing as he responded.

“Wonderful! Thank you, Josie. Please let me know when you’ve got the language sorted out on that contract for the Teamsters’ Union.”

Nodding, the Solicitor turned and left, not even sparing Bernt and Jori a glance before she left him alone with who he assumed was the head Solicitor in the city—the man who would be deciding Jori’s fate, and probably his.

The warlock had an unsettling air about him, and it took Bernt a moment to figure out what exactly made him so uncomfortable. When he did, he nearly backed up out of the room in horror.

The warlock’s shadow was moving, squirming from left to right independently of where the light was shining. Next to him, Jori shivered. He could feel her revulsion through the bond, and it made him wonder what kind of demon that thing was.

“Easy, relax!” the man called out as he stood up, smiling a little too widely. “It won’t bite—it’s contractually obligated to ask me first.” He circled to the front of his desk and leaned back against it casually. “So, what’s this about a rogue warlock? I thought you were our only unknown summoner in the city right now…”

Bernt held his tongue, considering his answer. The man held himself too casually and his smile was… insincere. All the while, his eyes bored into him with an unblinking intensity that made Bernt feel he might be in danger. Like if he said the wrong thing right now, he would regret it.

“I’m not actually a warlock, technically,” Bernt said. “I didn’t form a pact with Jori—I don’t know how, for one, and I’m not looking to do so either, if you don’t mind me saying. We came to a… less formal arrangement, and people drew their own conclusions when we broke a bunch of adventurers out of their cells in the dungeon. As far as the rogue warlock goes, it’s just an educated guess. We were attacked by something Jori called a blood fiend in the sewers last night, underneath the Crafters’ District.”

That wasn’t a lie, exactly.

The man stared at him for a moment, and Bernt could have sworn he heard the restless shadow whisper something. Radast nodded to himself, wearing a more professional but equally fake smile now.

“I see. And you never summoned any demons before your companion there?”

Bernt swallowed. “No. I didn’t summon Jori. I found her in the sewers two years ago…”

“You… found a rogue demon, and then neither deported it nor formed a pact with it? What were you thinking?”

“She was practically a baby!” Bernt protested. Radast was making it sound like he’d taken in a rabid dog. Sure, Jori had been hunting rats and surviving on her own in the sewers, but she wasn’t dangerous. Not then, anyway. He almost winced when he realized he’d said more than he meant to, but stopped himself. He didn’t want to look like he was hiding something.

“And you’re certain that she didn’t have any pacts formed before you met? Any that you don’t know about?” the warlock asked. “Are you even certain she’s not working for your rogue warlock? Did you check?”

“No?” Bernt said, unsure what he meant. How could you possibly know whether a demon had an existing pact? Besides, the damned blood fiend had been after Jori!

“We will look into the matter of the mysterious rogue demon.” Radast rolled his eyes. “In the meantime, I’d like to see what your companion here has to say about this situation.”

He turned, addressing Jori. “If you’ll come over here for a moment. You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t take your ‘friend’ at his word.”

Throwing a glance back at Bernt over her shoulder, Jori followed the Solicitor behind his desk. There, Radast picked up a small, straight knife—more of a sharpened letter opener than a weapon—and nicked the back of his arm.

“Your arm, please.”

Jori hesitated, but then Radast’s shadow hissed something at her, and she reached out her hand toward him. Bernt felt naked terror radiating off of her.

Gently, the Solicitor pushed the tip of the knife into the back of her hand, causing just a spark of hellfire to light up where he pricked her.

The shadow whispered something unintelligible, but Radast nodded in understanding.

“Dzhorianath—what a beautiful name,” he said, smiling his too-wide smile.

Jori shrank back fearfully and Bernt tensed. He wasn’t sure what the shadow had done, but there was no way this man should have known her full name. As far as Bernt knew, he was the only one who’d ever heard it—and she’d communicated it to him through their familiar bond. He’d never said it out loud.

“This is unusual,” Radast went on. “No pact, and no trail of bodies. You’re an uncontracted demon who’s actually managed to assimilate to some degree, and a remarkably young and weak one at that. I doubt you would have managed to stay on the material plane so long without the support of Bernard over there. However, I’m afraid we can’t allow unbound demons to wander around like this.”

“I want to stay!” Jori said. “I made an agreement with the Great Mages, the large one and the woman with the sight of Great K’thanizar. I will not make trouble!”

“The sight of… oh, you mean Archmage Iriala, the diviner.” Radast clearly understood something that escaped Bernt. He really needed to learn more about demons and the hells if he was going to have to interact with these people. If he could just get that demonology book back from Ed… but it wasn’t as though he could read Duergar, in any case. He doubted he could get access to the library here without signing on with their organization and becoming a warlock, but… well, he should probably ask, at least.

“She’s not a threat!” Bernt said. “She hasn’t hurt anyone outside the dungeon, and Archmage Thurdred said she’s not strong enough to devour a soul, so she can’t just grow out of control.”

“Not yet.” The man paused, looking thoughtful. “You say two archmages are taking responsibility for your presence here? That’s even more unusual. Interesting, even.”

Bernt tried not to let his sudden hope show through his voice, but he couldn’t resist.

“Does that mean you’ll let her stay?”

Radast shrugged. “I don’t know why you’d want her to. Demons are extremely unreliable allies, and an extreme risk to keep around you without a bond to ensure their cooperation. We normally recommend making pacts that don’t involve keeping the demon on the material plane at all. Without a pact… well, a valid guarantor is required to be orders of magnitude more powerful than their sponsored demon. You don’t qualify. The archmages, on the other hand, would. Valid guarantors for minor demons include archmages, high priests, adventurers over rank 10, and certified representatives of the crown.”

Bernt swallowed. “So, Archmage Iriala is responsible for her? Or Ed?”

Radast shook his head. “Not without a formal contract to that effect. The best and simplest way to guarantee a demon’s good behavior is always to form a pact. Specifically, you’ll want to use one that’s been vetted by us. A demonic pact is binding regardless of your personal power—both parties are bound by their own blood. It always works, making it even more secure than a guarantee of good conduct provided by someone like an archmage. Moreover, if Jori undergoes a metamorphosis of any kind or grows in power to a significant degree, we will be required to deport her immediately. At that point, no one in the city could be considered a valid guarantor.”

Trying to keep his emotions off his face, Bernt shrugged.

“That’s a very big decision. Can I at least think about it? You’re not going to… deport her right now, right?”

Radast frowned at him coldly. “I know about the professional prejudices of mages, young man. You shouldn’t let something like that hold you back from true power. An imp can’t exactly bring you to the pinnacle of power, but you can do worse for a first pact. The petty opinions of ignorant fools shouldn’t concern the likes of us—and the same goes for the unwashed masses out there in the streets. Who are they in the face of achieving your dreams?”

Bernt grunted noncommittally. He wasn’t sure what dreams Radast had, but Bernt’s did not involve burning bridges with either mages or the general public. Not any more than he already had, anyway. If he had to make a pact with Jori… well, he very much hoped it would never come to that.

“Hmph.” The warlock shook his head in disgust. “It appears that the reputation of the Underkeepers may be well-earned after all.”

Radast turned back to Jori, holding out a small packet of papers to her. “Our organization is responsible for controlling all extraplanar presences in the realm. I’ll give you a contract to confer responsibility for your actions to a third party, which you’ll need to get signed with the mana signature of a valid guarantor. I’ll give you one week to return with either that signed contract or someone willing to form a demonic pact with you. Perhaps your foolish friend there will come to his senses. There’s also a full list of the terms we require in any demonic pact in accordance with the laws of the realm and the standards of the Solicitors. If you don’t return, we will enforce the deportation protocols to send you back to your home plane until such a time as you can be summoned again and properly pacted.”

Jori looked from the warlock to the squirming shadow, and then over to Bernt. He nodded to her encouragingly. This was much better than what he’d expected. He didn’t know how Ed would feel about taking actual, legal responsibility for Jori, but it was a real chance.

“Thank you, Great One,” Jori said, accepting the packet of papers.

Bernt breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

Finally, a way out of this mess.

“We will look into the issue of the rogue warlock,” Radast said in a tone of clear dismissal. “Don’t leave the city, in case we have… questions for you.”