Two Chance Meetings

You arrive at the Pitchfork Inn minutes after midnight, booking a room there simply because it’s the first place you come across. If you venture deeper into Level One of Allider City at this time of night, you know you’ll almost certainly be mugged.

You should be fatigued, but when you lie down on your cot in the dimly lit room, your muscles are tense and your breaths come shallow and quick. Your mind races as fast as a knight in pursuit of a band of outlaws, and you force yourself up, moving stiffly, walking back to the bar.

It’s still open.

The innkeeper beckons: just you and her, alone.

She wears a hood that cloaks her face in shadows, though you can see a hint of yellow eyes and a round, impish chin. Her red-brown robe drapes flatteringly across a well-shaped body; she’s standing barely five feet tall, but it’s her voice that somehow stands out the most. It’s one that’s sweet and cloying with a dark, bubbling edge—it reminds you of alcohol.

“Tired, traveler?” she says behind the bar, rubbing a dish with a cloth.

You nod wearily.

“Can’t sleep, traveler?”

You nod again.

“Some nights are like that,” the innkeeper says, dipping a hand into the hood’s darkness as she puts her finger on her chin. “Have a seat, will you?”

She serves your favorite drink, exactly how you like it prepared. She even knew just how much you like to get drunk, whether it was lights out or not at all. Are you dreaming? How could she have possibly known? Are these thoughts even truly your own?

“The Royal Physicians say that if you can’t sleep, you should do something nice and relaxing. Read a book, perhaps… though I suppose for ordinary travelers like you, books are a luxury,” the innkeeper says. “What brings you to such a strange city?”

A carriage passes by the road outside, the light from the coachman’s lantern flickering through the window as you savor what’s in your mug.

She returns your silence with widened eyes. Then, she leans in and loosens her hood, curly, bright red hair tumbling down, and she gives a slight smirk as she scrutinizes you. Her voice loses its edge, and as she lowers it, it becomes as soothing as the softest of blankets…

“Adventurers who travel to Allider, the City of Ashes, often hear a peculiar legend—that underneath the layer of soot and dust that gives the city its name rests a slumbering dragon. When the city shakes, it’s from the dragon’s snoring, and when a heat wave casts its pall over this towering town, it’s because it’s breathing fire.

“Of course, Allider, with its sprawling black market and rough, colorful manner of living, is also known as the City of Lies, so whether there’s any truth to this story is difficult to say. Everyone here, from the nobles to the old wives playing cards to the fishermen down by the pier… we all love our stories. Each and every one of us.

“Since you can’t sleep, please, let me give you my own personal treat. Allow me to tell you one such tale that’s common among the people of Allider.”

***

Our story begins in a mansion parlor, small but extravagantly furnished, containing a lush red rug, handcrafted furniture, an easel, a working artist, and, most importantly of all, the heiress Lady Silvia. Through the window was even bright daylight, or what passed for bright under Allider’s all-consuming haze.

“I can’t believe that an artist like you could come from the lower levels. Why, I might ask Papa if we can keep you—you could live in the attic or the garden shed. Oh, Xander, it’s exquisite,” said Silvia, preening.

“It’s nothing. It’s not even done,” said Xander, peering at the canvas. While he’d painted the noble in bright, vivid pastels, something about the work seemed soulless. He sighed.

He closed his eyes, envisioned a burning candle, and…

Zap!

The portrait’s eyes now held a gentle, empathetic glow, though such a glow was hardly present in real life. Such was the work of photomancy: bewitching customers with flattering pictures, literally casting magic on artwork to give it that extra pop.

“Oh! No wonder Dr. Albion likes you! He’s usually so picky about who he recommends.”

“Actually, I was worried I’d offended him,” Xander said before coughing again. At twenty-one years old, he had a tall, lanky frame and an innocent face, though his hacks and wheezes sounded like those of an old man. Each time he hacked, he’d scratch at the linen over his chest as though to soothe it.

“I’m not surprised Dr. Albion gave that impression, but he was truly pleased with how you crafted those glimmering stars.”

“Is that so? I would appreciate it if you could clarify something,” Xander said, coughing again. “Photomancy can be tough on the body…”

“Aww…”

“And in lieu of payment, the doctor said he’d allow me to see him. But my appointment remains delayed, which is why I’d like to ask you, who knows the good doctor well—have I offended him in any way?”

Lady Silvia, who had been chattering away the whole session, suddenly went quiet. Her face paled, and then she said simply: “These are tough times for us all.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The manor requires repairs because of the constant quakes. And our staff has been coming in sick, so I’ve even had to clean,” Silvia whispered, as though she was confiding a great secret. “I don’t think there’ll be any parties where I could talk to Dr. Albion for you in these coming days, though perhaps I can call on him when the ash-quakes are done.”

“My lady, because of the shaking of ash, I’ve caught soot sickness and have lost a home,” Xander said with a tone that was still painfully friendly. But he immediately knew he had made a mistake.

Silvia’s smile stiffened and her shoulders rose. Her voice, like Xander’s, held a friendliness that was overly polite. “I’m sorry to hear that. If it were in my family’s power to clean Allider, we would do so; I hope you’re well before I see you again.”

Even her gesture toward the door was well-mannered: a waved glove, an elegant hand, a clean, routine farewell reserved for those she’d never invite back. Before he walked out, Xander looked back at the photomanced painting, its eyes still imbued with the kind, soulful warmth he had cast upon it.

To return to his rented, run-down hidey-hole on Level One, Xander would have to pass three checkpoints and traverse three sets of stairs.

“I said I’d make it in the city,” muttered Xander, as he trod away from the doorstep and onto a wide, empty street. “And I have! I absolutely ha… ha… hack! Hack! Wheeze!”

Pink spittle flecked onto the pavement and a ratty leather bag dropped on top of the spatter, his brushes and paints scattering on the road. Xander’s nails scrabbled against the cobblestones as he struggled to pick up each stick and tin. He could make the supplies glow with photomancy to make them easier to find, but it wasn’t worth burning the candle for this.

After gathering his things, he ambled forward, walking by a row of large homes, nodding at the city guardsman, and then strolling down his first set of stone steps. As soon as he made the transition from the Heights to the Middle Level of the towering city, the steps became crumbled and shattered and the mist became even denser; the road he skulked down next was packed with shops, and he nearly bumped into a clump of laughing shoppers.

The third, final set of steps had a bulky, ugly-looking brute for a guard, who glared at him before standing aside. Allider’s guards didn’t care much about those who wandered downward; they were mostly posted to stop the lower classes from going up. When Xander swallowed the words he’d been muttering to himself, he nearly choked, and he raised his hand limply to acknowledge the vigilant man.

“You doing okay, kid?” the guard remarked coarsely as Xander was about to pass.

“It isn’t easy being a photomancer, but I’m fine for the most part.”

“‘Fine’ doesn’t mean looking like you’re on death’s door,” said Michael.

“Just anxiety,” Xander dismissed.

“Ankh’s-eye-a-what?”

“I’ve got a weak heart. I knew what the city would be like, yet I thought there’d be more beauty in it, somehow,” Xander said. He knew he was lying. Something that caused him to cough blood was more than a disease of the soul. But there was some truth to what he said, too.

“Just be careful, kid. They say once you’ve got soot sickness, there’s no real cure. The ash just clogs up your lungs till you waste away.” The guard grunted, concern crinkling his coarse, scarred skin. “Have your mam take care of you if you’re pushing yourself too hard.”

“She’d laugh if I returned home,” Xander said. “That would be what would really kill me.”

He slipped past the well-meaning guard before he burst into another coughing fit.

After a stairwell so steep and ill-maintained that it at times resembled a ladder, he finally arrived at Ormund Street, the ceaselessly flowing main avenue of Level One. This road was crowded with all manner of workers, adventurers, and itinerants weaving in and out of cracked, tilted, densely packed buildings made from warded stones, rocks toughened by Royal Mages from a distant time when they cared. Anything built from wood had been destroyed in the quakes, and any other material was far too expensive to use here.

Xander’s arm ached from the weight of the equipment he’d been carrying on his journey; even now his hand grasped the bag’s handle tightly to stop his supplies from being snatched by thieves. But with the burning in his throat, and the smog attacking his eyes, the urge to let go overwhelmed him.

“I was smart to commission work from a Level One,” the doctor had grunted, when Xander had presented him the finished painting. “Good work for cheap.”

“How lovely! But it’s lacking that flashiness, you know? It needs to wow our guests when they come through the parlor.” Xander remembered the first time he painted the Ellister family matriarch, too. He remembered all the way back to when he’d first taken drawing seriously back in the village, sketching a squire-in-training practicing his fencing. The boy’s smile had felt better, somehow, than the other compliments.

Feeling the weight of his experiences, and the soot that had built up in his lungs, he wanted to throw everything away. And yet… he suddenly felt quite light.

Adrift in a sea of people clad in rags and soot-streaked clothes stood a girl in pure white. Her skin was pale, as though she’d never seen the sun, and her petite frame was covered by a long sundress; she was small enough that there were times the crowd would swallow her, and he would see only a hint of her half-lidded eyes.

Now, that was a truly good subject!

That was Xander’s first thought, as a photomancer. He wouldn’t need to embellish what he saw. While she was no prettier than many he’d already illustrated, she was worth painting from the contrast alone, how her colors stood against the others. He’d sketch this memory as soon as he returned home, and his mood would improve after the events of the day.

His second thought was of a blacker hue.

Despite its poor reputation, people on Level One kept to themselves… provided one didn’t stand out. There was a reason city guards rarely patrolled this street, and that most adventurers would avoid this neighborhood unless they trusted their sword. In fact, Moulin Hall, the most stately, pristine building on this street—a stout oak, so to speak, amongst rotten trees—was the very same place where slaves were auctioned off every week.

Xander brushed through the crowd and approached her, and her black eyes met his.

“Miss, are you lost?”

She shook her head, and the people of the city parted around them, a small gap in the human sea.

“Miss,” he wheezed, but louder. “Allow me to guide you to the upper levels of the city.”

She tilted her head quizzically and pointed her finger downward, but there was nothing underneath the walkways, unless one counted the copious piles of ash. They stared at one another for a long time, long enough that this reverie was only broken by the loud clanging of bells from Moulin Hall, and the girl stumbled as the crowd intensified, a surge of merchants and servants crowding the street for the evening sales.

Xander walked away… then heard the soft crunching of footsteps on soot.

“You’re hurt,” someone said, a whisper in the wind.

When he glanced back, he saw that the girl had followed him, though it hadn’t seemed like her lips had moved. But she grasped him firmly by his lapel, and he felt a surge of warmth burst there, as though his chest had filled with blood.

“Not tired yet?” the innkeeper interrupts, standing on her tiptoes, her loose cloak billowing as she leans forward toward you. “Huh? You’re saying I can’t end a story like that? Not every tale of Allider has an obvious ending, and that’s just the way lives are: you see someone, you learn something about them, and then before you know it, they’re gone.

“I suppose I can keep going until you’re a little drowsier,” she adds, pondering. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen someone so interested in what I’ve had to say. Besides, I think watching someone drift off is pretty cute.”