Casing the Scribe's Guild and other Problems, Chapter 8
►Casing the Scribe's Guild, Chapter 8
The Scribe's Guild Library is a nondescript building on an anonymous Sharn street. House Sivis and the Scribe's Guild may or may not be one and the same. It depends who one asks and where one looks. Only a long and exhaustive paper search will reveal the truth, however, Sivis never seems to grant permission. The Guild is so very boring than few would make the link. A Guild stamp never calls as much attention as a House of Sivis sigil.
Moro Taller hurried to make the first bell. Since his wife was taken he's had to depend on a private nurse. Even with her help, he has trouble getting his kids ready for school. He is trying very hard to keep up appearances, but the strain is starting to show. He can't live without his wife. He must get her back before the House acts. The gnome adjusted his cap and hurried up the stairs. Tardiness will draw attention to him, he can't have that.
“Moro Taller, Librarian, 2nd class, 1st shift.” He announced as he crossed over the threshold. He's never seen whatever guards the doors. The waves of heat and the dark, oily stain in front of the doors attests to it's never ending vigilance.
Siff watched the gnome enter the building. He did not think it would be so hard. The security is ridiculous. He thought he had run into a local gang until he saw they were watching the street not the people. He made his rounds hawking his wares and counting the watchers. The real hawker is still sleeping at his dingy room three levels down. The pretty girl he brought home last night slipped him a potion. He won't complain on either count. There are three pieces of gold, and a jeweled pearl earing under his rose scented pillow. In the absence of a clear memory he will imagine whatever is most convenient.
Ivor and Patter are waiting in the sewers below. Siff has no way of warning them, not for at least a half-hour. He can't give his act away by doing something the hawker wouldn't normally do. Siff pulled off his dingy leather cap and wiped his sweating forehead within a greasy handkerchief. He replaced the cap and smiled stupidly. He grunted as he lifted and pushed the cart in front of him. There are 15 bags of charcoal that he has to sell. He moved on to the next house and did his best to play a low-born idiot. The customers expect it.
Patter made a warding gesture as he stepped over the bony remains of a human. It is surprising that the sewers aren't choked with bones. Ivor watched his partner and shook his head. This is the third passage they try. It seems that all of the underground approaches to the Scribe's Guild Library are warded. He can barely understand the squiggly lines of magical script cut into the walls, but the danger is obvious. They are both experienced in dealing with traps magical or otherwise. This however is beyond their expertise. There are two more places they can try. Siff is on the surface scouting the front and only entrance. They hope he has better luck.
Elsewhere in the Sewers...........
Paragon 152 to 3 hollered down the sewer tunnel. The war-forged is angry. A great stony tentacle is holding his body aloft, resisting all the warrior's efforts to escape. Theodyl slid beneath the tentacle and touched it with a large colorless gem. The tentacle promptly dropped its captive and shrank back into the featureless tunnel. Theodyl looked to see if his companion was injured. Paragon made a growling sound and punched the wall. The half-elf decided to move on.
“Did you know that would happen!?” Demanded the war-forged.
“My master's map indicated a trap and how to deactivate it, but he didn't explain what exactly it was. He liked to keep me on my toes. I did tell you he liked to play games.” Theodyl answered while looking for another trap. “It occurs to me that he counted on testing me even after his death.”
“Are ye sure he liked you at all, Lad?” The beer stein asked sarcastically.
Theodyl ignored the dwarven spirit. Deciphering his master's maps had been easier than finding the place. Stargazer purposedly garbled his directions. Paragon is losing patience. The traps, hidden doors, illusions, and riddles are driving him to violence. He felt the tug of magic. Good news at last. The iron bound door in front of him was entirely too clean, it looked almost new. He lifted his bow harp and strummed the strings in a complicated sequence. His eyes filled with color as the magical aura surrounding the entryway was revealed. He continued to play the harp adding his voice to the magical spell and slowly coaxing information from the portal.
“What are you doing? This is no time to sing.” Paragon spoke as he approached.
The half-elf put his body between Paragon and the iron-bound door. He won't waste the spell by letting his companion interrupt. It seems that the door isn't just trapped and sealed. According to the shining sigils revealed by his song, it isn't a door at all. His master must have been paranoid indeed. Theodyl reached out with his hand and tapped a series of letters spelling out is master's True name. The door detached from the wall and traveled down to the mouth of the tunnel from which they entered. He heard a hard clicking sound as it came to rest. The spot where the door had been, turned out to be an unpleasant, tightly compacted, bone filled niche. The map indicates there should be a long corridor behind the door. It is quite a graveyard now.
“Come on Sergeant, our door awaits.” Theodyl beckoned the war-forged.
“Harrumph! I don't like any of this!” Paragon complained. “Did you see? Our footsteps are gone! The dust just swallowed them up.”
The door awaited them at the mouth of the tunnel. They have to use it, they can't leave otherwise. Paragon cursed every step he took back the way he came. It opened at Theodyl's touch to reveal a polished marvel hallway. The two strode in ready for anything. The door shut and locked itself. Theodyl expected this. He had to stand in front of Paragon's mace to convince him, though. The door to his master's tower often did the same. He sat on the cool floor and re-examined the map his master had given him. The various places on the map were not individual hide-outs, they were doors leading to the same place. The coded numbers on the map are dates and astrological calculations. Each door functions only at certain times of the month or year. He picked the right door in, yet he doesn't know how to get out. He can't tell whether or not he is in Sharn anymore. The magic is beyond anything he has ever read about. Theodyl cursed, and threw the map down. He looked around, counted the doors and noted that most of them had ornate wax seals on them. His master used seals like that to keep him out of dangerous places in his tower. It seems that he expected him to find this hallway.
“Paragon, I will need you to keep alert. I am supposed to be here but I don't know why.” He said. “The other doors are sealed, please don't touch.”
Theodyl retrieved the map and suddenly noticed that instead of depicting Sharn and his master's hide-outs it now seemed to show the plans to a large mansion. Theodyl cursed again. He recognized many of its features. It is an amalgamation of all the different places his master had lived in. They never moved at all and his master magicked his senses to think he did. He found his bearings, identified his entry at the Hall of Ways, and quickly found a route to a room labeled Master's Study. His master proved trickier than he had ever suspected.
“Seneschal!” Theodyl shouted he set out with a very paranoid Paragon in tow. “Seneschal, where are you?”
<What do you want?> A voice demanded seemingly out of thin air. Paragon 152 to 3 started to poke his cutlass about, looking for invisible lurkers. The beer stein announced that there is no one about. Paragon ignored the cup.
“I want to know if Master Stargazer left me a message!”
<No need to be cross, there's a note in the study for you.>
“Fine, get me some biscuits and tea. My companions will require beer and Cannith Oil.”
“Beer!” the beer stein cheered.
“Harrumph!” Paragon said as he followed Theodyl.
<Very well, young Master.>
They traveled in silence. Theodyl could feel Paragon's eyes boring angrily into his back. He is very annoyed. The halls sprang to life as they walked. Torches lit and cool clean air stirred and refreshed the environment. There is art and treasure expertly and tastefully decorating every inch of space they can see. Stargazer's Hoard, the old man had taste, he never stopped at a few tonnes of gold. Theodyl wants explore. Maybe he will later. For now, he has to read his master's note. Then, he needs to find out what the hell is bothering Paragon. The war-forged can't expect an explanation every two steps they take. It would be silly.
<Welcome, sirs, I must apologize. I really was not expecting you so soon.>
The short gleaming figure bowed and led them into the finely appointed study. It is an autognome constructed of mithril and gold. Theodyl looked at it's familiar features and wondered if the thing had even missed him. His master had constructed the thing to serve him and take care of his various lodgings. For a short time the autognome was his ever watchful task master. Theodyl frowned, he never pictured returning home under these circumstances. Home isn't home at all.
The desk lay directly across from a massive fireplace. There is a scroll atop three very large books. Theodyl asked for the fireplace to be lit and took a seat. The scroll unrolled itself at his touch. He recognized his masters neat cursive script. He sighed and started to read. Forgotten, Paragon struck up a conversation with the autognome. The beer stein joined in. Theodyl didn't even hear them.
An hour later, Theodyl cut their animated conversation off. His face is caught somewhere between a frown and a bitter scowl. He thanked the Seneschal and asked Paragon to shoulder the heavy books. They made their way to the Hall of Ways and waited while the autognome found a safe exit. Paragon was in Wait and See mode. Theodyl could feel the war-forged looking at him again. He can't explain anything just yet. The gnome at the Scribe's Guild is due to disappear in just under 2 hours.
“This place isn't for us, Paragon.” Theodyl told his friend.
“I could have told you that! You just don't listen. I tell you.....”
“Paragon, we must see to your Lads,” Theodyl interrupted as he stepped onto an obscure section of the sewers, “we will talk on the way. There's a couple of things you should know.”
“Harrumph, its about time.”
“Whatever, just givme some more beer.” The beer stein piped in.
The two had a very long conversation. The beer stein served as a sort of referee. By the time they reached their meeting place, Paragon had a good idea of what was going on. Theodyl felt his head spinning from what Paragon had to say. Either way, they are a team again. He doesn't look forward to hanging from his companion's fist again.
Siff, Ivar, and Patter waited nervously at the rusty, abandoned pump house. It is as close as they want to get to the trapped tunnels leading to the Scribe's Guild. They found a way in. It is just too unpleasant.
“Well, boys, what's new?” Theodyl asked as he made his entry and struck a dashing pose.
The changelings drew their weapons and spread out. The bard pouted, he was expecting awe, not blades. The changelings don't care. Theodyl and Paragon are not usually this quiet, they are very paranoid. The war-forged spoke the password. The changelings relaxed, but only for a bit. They barricaded the doors like experts. Theodyl set a minor ward and the group sat down to talk. When they drew back their hoods, the changelings all wore Theodyl's face. Paragon started to laugh. Theodyl made a face and quickly avenged his pride with a fake mustache and a set of wax teeth. While they spoke the changelings each tried their hand at making Theodyl's borrowed face look as stupid and ill-bred as possible.