A - Ander Lozou

Sonndey was always a perfect day to earn a few extra doses, and Ander Lozou never missed a chance to fill his pocket with coin. A break in the spring storms revealed drifts of dust in the leeward side of the path down through the storehouses. Ander felt an involuntary desperation to breathe the unexpectedly clear air without a mask, but he didn’t dare take the chance. If he was recognized anywhere near the lower Quayside warehouses, he’d have to answer to the entire Council, not just his father. Smuggling was always frowned on, but never outright punished as long as it didn’t garner attention and stayed below the attention of the Council. The son of the councilor in command of the army could not be caught moving contraband. Especially smuggling thaumatic antiquities.

Ander strolled along the wide roadway looking relaxed but purposeful. The street was designed to load carts in the ancient times when the city was rebuilt after everything outside of the wall was destroyed in the third trans-continental wars. The building faces zigged and zagged in and out with every zag making an angled spot to park a truck for loading, or a horse-driven wagon back then. Further along the row of attached stone walled warehouses, the old wharf extended at an angle to the ancient sea wall. There hadn’t been a sea in hundreds of annums, but the wall was another ancient feature that the city couldn’t be bothered to change. Like the bell towers and the occasional obelisk annoyingly blocking an intersection. Ages ago, the docks that were attached to the stone wharf bustled with trade and shipping on boats. It was never the busiest of ports, but essential to the continent with a steady supply of doses coming from the mountain-side farms. The old wharf was converted long ago into a sail-train station, and that loading area stood empty and quiet on this day of rest.

Mostly quiet.

There’s no rest for the wicked, I suppose. At least not for me, Ander thought. No one could have seen the smirk behind the military issue ventilator mask clipped to his hood.

There were always a few workers coming and going from the warehouses. Deliveries had to make it up-town even on Sonndey. Every week those song-witches leak into everyone’s mind like a poison. They had to name a day after the witch like she was dusting holy. They wouldn’t even change it after she killed half the people on Gioveda. Filthy Song-witch.

Ander was extra careful to avoid unnecessary attention on a day with so little movement in the district. The captain of the Hatra Guard could go pretty much anywhere, but even here it would raise unwanted questions. He dressed the part as he had often done, donning clothes in the style of the ‘housers. The clothes unbecoming a council-child were essential. If he was caught with forbidden Sonii artifacts, even his father couldn’t save him from ending up with his head atop a pike, staring into eternity with coins for eyes. He glanced around quickly to make sure no one was paying attention to his movements and dipped his slender, tall frame through a standard-sized door in a long row of closed loading bays.

Inside the warehouse, he quietly pushed the heavy steel door closed against the stiff resistance of the rubber seals that kept out most of the storm dust. Turning toward the large, mostly empty room, he unclipped the clasp on the left of his breather mask, letting it swing away from his mouth and nose. He lifted the old beat-up workman’s goggles he used as part of his costume to the top of his forehead. Looking more like a regular ‘houser made it less likely he would be questioned. Ander stood still for a moment while his eyes adjusted to the near darkness.

The room that drifted into focus as his vision improved was a typical, if slightly small warehouse that was six or maybe seven meters tall. Steel racks covered in shelves lined the outer walls all the way to the exposed I-beam supports for the ceiling, and framed the open floor created in the middle of the space. The large room was a dozen meters wide and twice that long. The floor was made of stone polished by centuries of traffic. The surface undulated in the high-traffic areas, where it had seen millions of crates on pallet-jacks grinding the dust and stone together with their steel wheels. Today there was no such activity. Lately, the biggest thing anyone had hauled through this room was a brass statue depicting the moment Daeliss-the-First had flattened most of Vaudikai in a burst of terrible, ancient thaumatic fury.

“Running late, this fine Sonndey? Did the songs at temple run over this morning?” Betten Daever enjoyed poking at Ander’s hatred.

“Chip off, Betten. I should ask if you’re turning into a dusting song-witch yourself. You’ve been at that oasis full of the holy heathen for what… a few annums already, isn’t that right?” Ander’s eyes had adjusted to the low light and he walked across to the table in the middle of the room. A single hanging lamp illuminated a patch of the steel-topped table, scattered with a half dozen small objects and a very worn book. Betten’s latest score.

“You know I lo-love the taste of evil and a song-witch is the sweetest evil I can think of.” Belen’s crooked smile showed a missing tooth, knocked out in a practice duel in his teens.

“That is one of the reasons you disgust me, my friend.” Ander sidled up to the table next to the shorter, thicker man. “What did you bring me this time, besides that gross image of you getting up on a nasty singing trollop, the stench of rotting mushrooms, and week-old sweat?”

“Those are the highlights, I’m sure. I found a few odd things, and one I think you’ll like-like.” He sniffed at his armpit and made a face. “I take exemption to that. My mushrooms are fre-fresh. But yeah. I do smell like a vonce farmer. You know, it’s gettin’ thin pickin’ out there. Even in the far wastelands there’s not much that hasn’t been roughed through pretty well.”

“Sounds like you brought more worthless junk. What’s the point of risking my actual neck if you’ve got nothing for me?” Ander hadn’t looked down yet. If I didn’t need him, I’d have him sliced into bits and fed to the hogs. He stood a meter away from his childhood friend and stared with cold, dark eyes.

“I didn’t say that.” The scruffy man paused for effect. “C’mon, Ander. You know I would never show up if there wasn’t something worth a dose—or ten. Gander at this and see what you think.” Betten looked down at the array on the dented and scratched steel surface.

Ander looked down with a scowl and furrowed brow, making him appear much older than his twenty-four annums. He pulled a slightly worn varnok-belly glove from his right hand and flipped the objects around in his hand—exploring their surfaces with his manicured fingers. Glyph-like symbols on a few links of crusty, broken chain. A ceremonial pewter cup scratched with the ancient, circular emblem of unity. Worthless. Every shop on the continent had a dozen of these trinkets. Not worth the effort to melt down, probably, but these will decorate the hilt of the rapier I get for my next promotion nicely.

There were three small carvings. Two were wood, and worn smooth by nervous, sweaty thumbs, so they were only recognizable as coins by one who’d seen a fresh-carved version. Those will make descent kindling. One sculpture was a fist-sized stone version of a heretical caricature of Daeliss-the-First seated in a meditation position, feet folded up beneath her with hands resting on her thighs. This I can turn over for a massage from that wench at the back of the bar. She likes junk like this. Ander pocketed the sculpture and reached for the book.

“Hold on.” Betten placed his hand on the book, blocking Ander’s reach. “Before you look at this, you should know that getting this was exceptionally difficult.”

“Oh? I see. So, you want me to cough up twice what it’s worth, then?” Ander looked up and sneered in a way that made Betten shudder visibly. The movement wafted mushroom tinted body odor out of his overcoat. Ander coughed a little and made a small show of holding his breath.

“No-no… I’m just saying it wasn’t… easy.”

“Noted. But it still could be worthless. No matter the effort.”

“No-no-noo. Definitely not.” Betten lifted his hand and Ander took the book. “This particular bit of scribbles is from the private library of none other than Borea.” Ander cocked his head and looked up at Betten. “You know, the head witch in the oasis?” Ander rolled his eyes. “Anyway, she prizes this little book. It’s one of her favorites. I’ve seen her sitting under the great tree for hours poring over the pages.”

“Well then. Let’s see what it has in it.” He carefully lifted the cover and turned the opening pages, slowly taking in each page as if memorizing the words and symbols scratched on the unlined sheets in old, faded ink. His face remained stone-like. Motionless. After a few minutes of silence, he lifted his eyes up to his old friend.

“This is a hand-transcribed copy of the dusting Jellis diary!” His voiced raised more than he wanted.

“You found a dusting JELLIS diary?”

Betten stared at him as moment with a greedy grin on his face. “What do you think it’s worth?”

Maybe he is still worth keeping around after all, Ander thought.

“So many murders.” Ander whispered. Then he took a deep breath, pulling the acrid-sweet smell of dust into his nose. He let it out slowly and spoke at a more normal volume. “The ambassadors will kill us both, Betten. Us and… probably everyone we’ve ever even pretended to love. You know that, don’t you? Even seeing these words means heads on pikes.”

“It’s goo-goo, right?”

“Better than good, man. It’s incredible. I love this so much.” Anders voice trailed off to a whisper. Even that whisper seemed to echo in the mostly empty room. “Incredible indeed.”

“So?” Betten’s eyebrows crinkled up in an excited fervor.

“Name your price."

How about twenty doses and two nights at your favorite up-town doll-factory?

Ander looked up from the book with just his eyes, then back to the book, which he caressed gently. I wonder what else that old gray witch has in that grimy mushroom farm.

“You’re an idiot. Ten. And one night at Mayonnet’s. You can pay for the other night if you can’t get enough from those girls in one.

“Pleasure doing business with you, And.

“I know. Now get lost. I’ve got calls to make.”

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#AtoZChallenge