Thoughts from the bath
11
MAY/21
This takes place in the days preceding the party’s exodus to Gulg
Vashir stripped out of his purple armor, dropping it unceremoniously into a pile on the ground while a Gardiward slave girl poured another pitcher of steaming water into the bathtub. When a second girl moved to his side to help him out of his silks, he dismissed them both with an idle wave of his hand; he needed no diversion. No matter how pleasant the distraction might seem, he needed time to think.
When the door to his quarters clicked shut, he discarded his silks and slid into the hot bath with a contented sigh. He exulted in the sensation of watery fingers going to work massaging away his aches and pains and gingerly scraping away the coatings of dirt and grime and dried blood that he had accumulated from weeks of travel in the harsh desert. His back still throbbed from where the boy’s dagger had bit into him – what was his name? Niki? Even from beyond the grave, he marveled at Artellius Quintus’ shadowy reach, striking out at him half a world away and using his grandson as the implement of his vengeance. Thankfully the boy had been too overwhelmed with grief and fury to make his strike count and he had stabbed into Vashir with wild ferocity instead of deadly precision. Distracted as he had been in that moment, a more skilled assassin could have felled him with a single, well-positioned attack. Though Vashir had used his psionic energies to mend the wound, it would take some time for the pain to subside; nerves took longer to forget their grievances than flesh, lest the lessons of how the wound was earned be forgotten too quickly. The insistent throbbing in his side would serve as a reminder to keep his guard up at all times, as his time as a Templar in Balic had earned him a lifetime worth of enemies, and their current mission to overthrow a Goddess had even turned the very heavens against him.
This was certainly not the time to relax, but the soothing waters of the tub had called to him like a harpy’s song, and he had felt helpless to resist its seductive call. He sank down in the tub until the water rose up above his chin and he closed his eyes and allowed his mind to wander. The grandson of Artellius Quintus had teamed up with Arnia, the serving girl with the blood of heroes flowing through her veins; the very girl who was the spitting image of the avatar that had saved their lives within the Pyramid of Amun’Re in what seemed like a lifetime ago, now. What were the odds of that? It was incalculable. It was as if the very strands of Fate had bundled themselves into a tangled knot, with past and present and impossibility all commingled into one twisted mess.
Arnia had taken the money that Oni had given to her and had indeed used it to escape from House Gardiward; but instead of fleeing to the relative safety of the countryside, she had instead teamed up with a ragtag group of “heroes” and had actually somehow discovered the wielder of the green Star Gem. Without this bit of information, Vashir, Oni, and David’s current mission would have completely stagnated. They had destroyed two of the gems, but had no idea where the others might be hidden, and now at least they had a clue as to where one might be. Was this yet another incalculable fortuitous synchronicity or were the very Fates themselves pressing their thumb upon their golden scale and offering aid?
Arnia had teamed up with an interesting cast of characters following her liberation from House Gardiward. In addition to joining forces with the grandson of Artellius, the girl had also found herself traveling with a gold-scaled dragonborn. Vashir had always assumed that these beasts were just creatures of legend, existing only in forbidden history books or in the lies passing through the lips of the insecure aristocracy. The most powerful families always claimed to have one these creatures as a personal slave, but Vashir had never actually seen one in the flesh. Unscrupulous slavers were said to sometimes buff and polish the scales of lowly bronze or copper dragonborn slaves and claim that they were of the golden hue. Vashir remembered one old sodder back in Balic who had claimed to have had one for sale, saying something along the lines of “behold, the rarest and most profane of all the dragonborn, with their treachery and greed imprinted upon their very flesh.” The creature had looked kind of golden, especially in the bright sunlight, but only the most gullible or foolish would actually fall for the ruse. In short time, the golden luster would fade and the anger of the spurned noble at being conned would then be turned towards the slaver – had they foolishly not skipped town with their bounty already – and also upon the hapless slave itself.
The other member of Arnia’s small war band was a young waif named Wink…Vashir grimaced at the thought of her. This tiny girl had had the audacity to steal from him, lifting the last remaining platinum coin from the pouch upon his hip after colliding with him in front of the Gardiward Manor House. The pinch had been very smooth though her impact with him was a touch harder than it should have been, which was probably what aroused suspicion as to the true intent behind their collision. She had scowled daggers at him during the interaction, a brazen and bold act which Vashir had initially chalked up to her connection with the Quintus boy. As she passed by him, he had read her thoughts out of an abundance of caution and had seen the storm of emotions roiling around in her mind: waves of fury, bravado, and fear all competed for dominance within, but the overarching emotion was pride in the accomplishment at stealing something so valuable from the enemy of her dear friend. The impudence of this tiny girl created within him a fiery storm of rage, and he drew upon the reservoir of power stored within the recesses of his subconscious. His eyes crackled with glowing energy as he turned to face her as the tiny girl darted off down the path, trying to blend in with the small crowd of merchants and citizens that were milling about in the streets. Vashir raised his hand and manifested a giant ghostly psionic fist with which to grab her and drag her screaming back to him so he could reclaim what was rightfully his…
He wasn’t sure why he had stopped himself.
He had instead allowed the invisible fist to dissipate into nothingness. Part of him was impressed at the courage that it must have taken for the girl to cross him like she had; to lift the coin purse off of a Templar? Vashir couldn’t imagine the level of bravery – or suicidal foolhardiness – that such an act would require. Part of him also admired the loyalty she shown to her friend Niki, to risk her life to punish the man who had so hurt him. But, sitting here in the rapidly cooling bath waters, Vashir knew that the real reason that he had spared her life was because of the guilt he still felt in the role he had played in Artellius’ interrogation and execution. The old blasphemer’s heresies paled in comparison with the ones Vashir and his companions had committed in the past weeks alone, and Artellius had been immolated upon a pyre of sacrilegious tomes for his crimes. Vashir had watched as the small girl ducked down a nearby alleyway and darted off to safety with her prize, and he allowed himself the luxury of rationalizing his decision not to punish her: he had paid a platinum coin each to free David and Arnia from the bondage of servitude, he could afford one more such coin in order to free himself from the bondage of guilt.
Vashir rang the small bell next to the bath and the two serving girls returned shortly, each precariously balancing a large pitcher of steaming water on their shoulders which they dutifully poured into the tub. When they finished, he waved them away again and they gratefully obliged, perhaps a bit too eager to be sent off. But Vashir did not notice their relief; he was again lost in thought. The surprise attack by Niki had distracted him from the realization that the self-proclaimed “Savior of Raam” was actually his brother, and that all three of the triplets had been killed in the past day in what was yet another impossible coincidence. What did this mean? Was Tiamat sending his own blood after him in a ruse to draw him out into the open, or were there other dark forces at work? Had his own father sent them? His mother? He did not seem to be the focus of their attention, but how could their fates have converged like this, in a bloody spectacle upon the streets of Raam? And what had happened to Valdar to mutate him like that? Had he found a new source of power, or was this some dark gift of the Dark Goddess Herself? Vashir sank further down in the tub and wished he had had the forethought to have one of the serving girls bring him some plum wine; he really felt like he needed a drink right now. He eyed the small bell and thought about summoning them back, but thought the better of it. He needed a clear head to work through this new puzzle…
Vashir had not been particularly close with the three boys, as they were the product of a union between his father and one of the many mistresses that his mother procured for Kareem. Only Vashir and his elder sister Vlaska were actually born to Audrey and Kareem, and as such they held higher status than the rest of the children. Audrey would spend her time seeking out women with prodigious psionic abilities, paying little attention to any other attributes – beauty, age, social status, education, or personality – that the women might possess. At any given time, Kareem had three or four of these women in his harem, all secured by Audrey after an intensive study of their psionic prowess. Each woman would typically give birth to a child or two – or triplets in the case of Valdar’s mother – and they would stick around for a few years and then one day they would just be gone. Children that displayed powerful psionic abilities would be trained by Kareem in the dark arts as a part of his Brotherhood of the Veil, while children who were less gifted would disappear as readily as their mothers had. Vashir did not ask any questions about the fates of these women and children, it was just the way things always were.
The three boys, Valdar, Varis, and Voramir, had all excelled in their training under the tutelage of the Veiled Lord, and they had also grown cocky and arrogant as a result – even going so far as to repeatedly challenge Vashir in spite of his status as the heir-apparent to the Tenewrath household. Vashir had trained under his father, just as the triplets had, and he had also had the added benefit of attending the elite Ecclesiastarium, whose strict taskmasters honed, sharpened, and expanded his psionic abilities to deadly effect. While Vashir normally scoffed at the boys’ attempts to challenge the primacy of his station, he occasionally had to fight to maintain his position at the top; and the challenges had gotten more difficult over the years. In spite of his superior education, stronger psionic abilities, and an additional dozen years or so of training under his belt, the boys were competent, capable, and deadly. And there were three of them.
Vashir smiled wryly as he recalled a particularly nasty encounter between himself and the triplets following a challenge that had been orchestrated by his sister Vlaska, who had begun to oversee much of the training for the Brotherhood as Kareem’s advancing years had begun to slow the Veiled Lord down. The game had been one of Predator and Prey, and Vashir was to act as the quarry while the three brothers hunted and harried him as he snuck his way through the streets of Balic. It was to be an exercise in stealth and patience, and designed to take most of the night; but that was not the way things had worked out at all…
Following the “disaster” in the streets, Vashir and two of the triplets were summoned before the Shrouded Council, a tribunal of the seven highest ranking members of the Brotherhood that was overseen by Kareem and Vlaska. The Shrouded were all seated upon black high-backed chairs set upon a raised dais, and were all clothed in their trademark black and maroon silks which covered everything but their eyes; eyes which flashed with anger, or mirth, or discomfort, depending on where the person stood in reference to the recent infraction. One of the seven seats was empty as this would have been Vashir’s, but since he was the reason the Council had been called in the first place, he, Valdar and Varis all stood in judgement on the ground before the Shrouded. Voramir should also have stood here before them as well, but he was being treated by the house physicker for a concussion and some badly shattered ribs that he earned during the recent scuffle.
Kareem was seated upon the chair directly in front of the three of them, staring sternly down at Vashir, his eyes narrowed to slits. “What in Tiamat’s name was that?” the Veiled Lord hissed in a sibilating whisper; his words were daggers laced with venom. All in attendance shifted uncomfortably, except for Vlaska, whose dark eyes shone with merriment, and Vashir, who bowed his head in mock deference, his cocky grin thankfully hidden from view behind his sheer cloth veil.
“That was victory, my Lord,” Vashir replied, braving a sideways glance at Valdar, who glared at him in response; the boy still clutching a tender spot on his side.
“The mission was one of stealth and subterfuge. You were to evade capture and gather information on the Wazir defenses. You were to be the prey, not the predator,” the Veiled Lord replied coldly.
Vashir’s grin widened behind his veil. “Does not the prey have the means to defend itself? A kivit has its claws; a camel, its toxic spew. Even the lowly desert mouse has a bite when cornered. Should I not have likewise defended myself?”
Kareem’s shoulders tightened and he stood up out of his chair and stared down at his eldest son. “You transformed into a beast and ripped through the neighborhood, nearly killing two of your brothers as well as a handful of noncombatants.”
That part was true, Vashir had transformed himself into a giant rhynox, but everything after that was a bit hazy. An unfortunate part of the bestial transformation process was the loss of one’s mental capacity, as you also assumed the mental faculties of the creature whose form you assumed. Vashir had just learned this particular trick in the Ecclesiastarium and had been especially anxious to try it out. Plus, as trained as he was in the veiled arts, the triplet’s skill in stealth and subterfuge was the stuff of legend, and he needed to do something dramatic in order to lure them out of hiding.
“My lord, that was out of necessity. I was well aware that I had been spotted and it was only a matter of time before the three of them descended upon me. Rather than walk into an ambush of their choosing, I chose instead to draw them into mine. I knew the other two would come running to the aid of the third, linked as they are. And so, when I closed in on Voramir, I simply made it impossible for them to remain hidden.”
I didn’t know you could do that Valdar spoke into Vashir’s mind, the words conveying a sense of begrudging respect. Vashir braved a wink at his brother in response.
Kareem was not amused, however. “You made a spectacle of yourself, drawing unnecessary attention to yourself and endangering citizens not in the game, which can bring unwanted attention to our House.” That part was true, it had taken the brothers some time to break Vashir free of the mighty rhynox form, and he had wreaked a great deal of havoc during his rampage through the city. Fortunately the streets were relatively empty at that time of night, and so the collateral damage had mostly been kept to a minimum, and Vashir had been able to flee the scene before the redcloaks arrived. Kareem continued, “And you failed at the secondary quest, learning information about House Wazir.”
“Begging your pardon, my Lord,” Vashir responded obsequiously, “but that bit is not true. We learned about their defensive protocols for when there is a commotion upon the streets. I also paid a few ceramic to several beggars in the area after the…incident…and ordered them to count heads in windows and upon the walls of House Wazir and to keep a tally as to how long the guards stay on alert. I will retrieve this information on the morrow.” It wasn’t likely to be incredibly useful information, but at least it was something.
Kareem’s anger waned a bit and he sat back down upon his chair with an exasperated sigh. “You risk this House with your brash actions. We exist in secrecy, in the shadow of the other great Houses and this secrecy is the source of our power. The other Houses wield obvious power, with varying degrees of hard power and soft power, a tangible combination of military and monetary might and bolstered by diplomacy and trade. That is not our path; we instead wield secret power. We let them waste resources competing and fighting with one another, while we grow ever stronger in their wake.”
“How secret are we truly if our name is upon the tongue of every House when some young lordling goes missing or turns up dead?” Vashir replied. “They all use us to do their dirty work, and in so doing keep their own hands clean. Our power may exist in the shadows, but as a result there is nothing to keep us safe once light is shone upon us. Our secret power affords us no allies or protections should the other Houses decide that we have finally grown too powerful.”
There was an uncomfortable silence in the hall, and Vashir wondered if he may have finally crossed the line with his father. After a moment, Kareem stood back up and was about to speak when a slight breeze moved throughout the hall, carrying with it a wispy cloud of iridescent smoke. This kaleidoscopic cloud swirled around Vashir before it finally coalesced into the form of the matriarch of House Tenewrath. Unlike the rest of the Brotherhood, Audrey was not dressed in veils and silks, but instead wore a yellow and green gown of simple finery, looking like a proper noble lady and not the head of a family of assassins.
“What my son speaks is truth,” she said, addressing everyone in the room. ”The Brotherhood has afforded us power and privilege, but our House is not built atop a bedrock of legitimacy, and as such we are vulnerable to the whims of the other Great Houses. They engage us while we are useful to them, but as soon as our usefulness wanes or threatens their position, they can remove us at their pleasure and none will stand by our side nor mourn our passing.”
Audrey walked up the steps to the dais and stood beside the Veiled Lord, placing her hand gently upon his shoulder and addressed the rest of the Council. “We have grown powerful in the shadows, but now we need to also grow powerful in the light.”
Kareem placed his hand upon his wife’s as he looked up at her, and bowed his head slightly to her. “I see. There is wisdom in this. What is your plan?” he asked in a deferential tone.
Audrey smiled down at her husband and then slowly turned her attention to Vashir. “There are elections for Templars coming up this summer, and we have enough spare coin in our coffers to put one of our own up in the running. With some well-placed bribes and by calling in some favors, I believe we have more than enough of a chance at gaining a seat. Counting a Templar among our number will be a good step towards true and lasting legitimacy.”
Vashir smiled behind his veil and nodded his head. “I will do as you command, Mother.” His heart raced with excitement. He was to become a Templar in the service of Balic; to become a hunter to be venerated and feared; to become a weapon in the hand of the Thir-King himself. Vashir felt a sense of pride swell within him as he felt emboldened by a renewed sense of purpose. “This will be the start of grand tidings for the Tenewrath name. I will do our family proud.”
Those fateful words echoed in his head as he stood up out of tub. He allowed most of the excess water to drip off of his naked form before toweling off with a small square of cotton. When he was mostly dry, he slipped into a light jerkin and trousers that Meshah had graciously left for him and beheld himself in the small silver mirror that hung on the wall. He looked more like a wet rat, than the haughty lord and the mighty Templar and the pride of his family name. The face he now wore had skin burned to a copper hue hard-earned by months of travel under the summer sun. The once smooth lines of his face were now inset with cavernous wrinkles; lines initiated by his advancing years but greatly accelerated by his tenure in the relentless desert heat. His thinning hair was now streaked with so much grey that it now competed with black as the dominant hue, and eyes were sunken and hollow and still not quite back to their original vibrant blue after the Thir-king had ruthlessly burned all of the pigmentation from them.
“This will be the start of grand tidings for the Tenewrath name. I will do our family proud.”
Since being ignobly deposited in the desert to die, Vashir had been fighting for his very life virtually every day since. He looked over his body in the cloudy mirror and winced. It was a map of bruises, cuts and scars; each injury telling the tale of a blade or a betrayal or a bad decision. He looked down at his hands, at one time they were impeccably manicured and untouched by manual labor, where now they were weathered and calloused by months of hard-living, the ring finger completely missing from his left hand; a finger which he knew now adorned a grisly necklace worn by the Thir-king himself, a macabre trophy to his utter subjugation over Vashir that one fateful day in his palace.
“This will be the start of grand tidings for the Tenewrath name. I will do our family proud.”
The Tenewrath name? Three members of his family were now dead in the streets of Raam; once the pride of the Brotherhood of the Veil, they now fed the rats with their wasted promise. He did not know what befell his father, mother, or sister, nor any of the other members of his family, nor even the fate of the Brotherhood itself. Did they still stand, striking out defiantly from the shadows, or had the Thir-King fulfilled his promise and erased them all from the ledger of the living? Vashir’s words before the Council that day had driven his family from the safety of the shadows, and his actions – though he was still uncertain exactly what he had done – had drawn the attention and ire of the Ruler of Balic.
“This will be the start of grand tidings for the Tenewrath name. I will do our family proud.”
Those words were now laced with vicious barbs which tore into Vashir with their razor sharp irony, as he had never been more wrong about anything in his life.