Forgive Me Mother

“It's as if Order cried a single golden teardrop of joy. Pure magic made edible.” The Baron states with sharp clarity, the sugar rich honeydew coaxing him from his bukkehorn stupor.

Myself and Devonport now also occupy lavishly expensive chairs opposite his lord, my legs crossed awkwardly in an attempt to hide Suze’s bulge in my trousers.

“The deal of the century!” The Baron announces and stands too fast. His legs give out and the skinny man crashes into his desk, smashing crystals and vases onto the floor.

The door immediately slams open, the she-goyles fill the room with their huge frames. Their huge gauntlet fists raised like professional boxers, ready to cave mine or Devonport's head in at the first sign of trouble.

“Nell! You sexy stone woman, great timing. We are celebrating the beginning of a new enterprise. Bring me a case of Tortibay wine, a carton of ebonys, fresh bukke and have a few slaves nearby for after.” He claps his hands with impatience and waves the other guard to clean up his mess. They commence immediately, no power struggle or disrespect aired before their Lord Baron.

“I can feel my black lungs clearing already. Tell me you have another droplet? I have this tenacious itch.” He asks me.

“Unfortunately not, the forest creatures chased me out before I could gather and process anymore.”

“Tis fine. Tessy will only start it over again when I see her for breakfast.” I cringe at the image.

I hear a rough scratching noise beside me and turn to see Devonport’s giant rump bent over the now cleared desk. He furiously scribes away onto a piece of parchment, hand moving at a blurring pace.

I need to start gathering information on the Satyrs or this whole endeavour will be for nought. No way I'm pumping Honey to fill barrels of her dew or going for a stroll into the bush with any of the Guild’s sellswords. Every leaf fall means the rest of the tribe is getting further away from me and closer to being lost on a black market.

“Lord Baron, you’re bringing some of those new slaves up here to celebrate?” I ask, hoping the change in subject isn’t too obvious.

“Of course my goodman, ripe for the plucking those furry things. You interested?”

“I was hoping to buy a few from those Blackroot fellows, but missed them by a day. How many did you get and what kind of price am I looking at?”

“Numbers are Devs area. Dev answer the lad?”

“Seven in total. Paid far too much, but with the price of Bukke these days, We’ll break even by next summer.”

“Good stuff. And if I wanted to catch up to those Heroes?”

“Yorkton. Best market it for them. Order’s balls they’ll be swimming in coin for years. A whole herd of them I saw. A chain line from the Tower to the horizon when they set off. Lucky gits. Tight lipped as well, wouldn’t even hint how they caught them.”

“Yes, shame I missed them.”

“No need to fret, there were plenty of them. In fact - add this to the deal Dev - I’ll throw in a slave for good measures. Partners got to watch out for each other.”
The rhythmic scratching suddenly tears off as Devonport gasps.

“My lord, we have many indentured servants in our books. How about one of the young women or a healthy man? They owe us considerable coin from loans that’ll take a lifetime to pay off.” He pleads with genuine concern.

“You insult our new business partner with those scabby plebs. A slave to satisfy his needs. How about it Seb?” His childish smile contrasts the horror of Devonports who watches me.

“I can’t say no to that offer my lord. That is extremely generous of you and I will put them to good use supporting the Sana Syrup manufacturing. Their kind are acclimatised to the wilds more than us.”

“Oh do confess, is it the meat or horn you crave so badly?”

“Neither, Order knows I believe they’re hard workers.”

“A waste.” The obese merchant claims with disgust,

“Hmmm, so you truly only want them for labour. Maybe a few young lads' debts will be better suited to you then.”
Dam, I’m so close to saving at least one tribe member. I can’t let this opportunity go. Their observant stares bare down on me, the she-goyle guard stands by the door now and blocks the exit. The open window does little to stifle the musky room that’s beginning to feel like a dungeon cell.

“Ahaha, both. I desire both the horn and meat if truth be told.” I reveal it as if it's a dirty secret.
The Baron cheers with delight at accepting his gift. Devonport grumbles and starts crossing out lines on the contract, he then whips it over to me with an inked quill.

“Sign at the bottom and you become a partner of Watchers Co guild of the mighty Tower.” He wavers the parchment around so I can barely read it.
The scribbled characters are so densely packed and ornately scribed that an expert linguist of ancient Latin, Arabic and flamboyant calligraphy would struggle to decipher them.

I concentrate on the words and hope for my ability that translates Silva’s rune language to chime in, but eventually give up after several leaf falls. Whatever the contract says, I have no intentions of honouring it anyway and the impatient coughing of the merchants tells me they never expected me to be able to read it.
The quills point stains only half my fake name before Devonport wrenches the contract away.

“Welcome to the Guild, partner.” They offer limp hands of congratulations as a timid knock announces the returning gargoyle guard.

“Impeccable timing! Celebrations are in Orda. Nell you hard arse, get in here. Did you catch that joke, Dev?”

He fake chuckles. “A talented Baron of deals and words it seems, ahahah.”

“I am. Take note. ‘Wit with which I joke: The Lord Baron’s completion of comedy’. It’ll be a Yorkton best seller by Moon Day.”
Devonport writes it down on a scrap piece of paper, though I see the quill is dry.

Nell enters the office with all the vices requested. As the door closes behind her, I see three Satyrs chained together left on the landing. The utter depression in them nearly breaks me into a rage. Suze sharp edge against my hip brings me comfort.

I need to control my emotions like that old croon, Tessy, said. Or these monsters will chew me up. Bottles popped, glasses filled, ebonys lit and we cheers to the deal. The Baron necks his chalice and starts chugging on the bottle.

“Nell this is a time of celebration. We’ll have the stone Will masons in tomorrow to add more floors and the Tower will rise as our shillings do. Either crack a smile in that granite face or rut off.” The Baron hands both the guards a bottle. Their giant statue frames half-heartedly lean against the tapestry walls.

“Not on the art you uncultured pebbles.” He tosses two cushions for them to lounge on. Which they crush under their hefty armoured bodies. Nell visibly relaxes as she sinks into the booze, not one to be told twice to enjoy herself. The other guard strikes her palms together to emit a spray of sparks, lighting an ebony in the process. She places the blackstick between a gap in her visor, smoke streams like a boiling kettle from gaps in her helm. Why is she hiding her face?

The merchants laze back, the blue embers between their fingers adding to the already smokey room.
“Seb, let us be honest here. Who else knows about the syrup and this enchanted valley?” Devonport queries as his great bulging belly threatens to burst his garments.

“No one, I came straight to the Tower after my discovery. Well, actually the Satyr tribes in that area are aware of its existence.”

“Pah, they’re not people. And their presence will only make our enterprise more profitable. I’ll add hunters to tomorrow's party.”

“Tomorrows?”

“Of course, one can only truly relax in the shadow of his wealth. The initial expedition will start as the sun's rays touch the Towers summit. How many days of trek to the valley would you say? Let’s say, with a guard of thirty strong?”

Before I can answer, the Baron tosses his empty bottle out the window.
“Plans and numbers and details make poor entertainment Dev. Discuss it later when I'm not around.”

“But my lord, I need you to sign off on the troops and provisions. Otherwise, we’ll have to do it at dawn.”

“I have an important meeting at breakfast and you know I can’t stand sun rises. Dreadfully depressing time of day. Take my pendant to gather the muscle.” He fondles the heavy gold chains around his neck. “Business is closed tonight. The Letterman are not going to have a miracle man like Seb walk through their elm doors. Understood?” He snaps with childish impatience.

“Yes my lord, forgive my perseverando.”

The Baron waves off his comment and notices the grim mood of the room after their little spat.

“Look how your fancy vocabulary has diminished our company’s festivities. We may as well be in the cellars.” He gestures to me and then she-goyles, regardless of the helmed ones' enclosed face.

Devonport mumbles an apology.

“Only chaos’s gaze will bring us back to the top of the world. Bukke for everyone!” They all squeal with delight.

Mother be praised, this is an opportunity for me. Once they have succumbed to the drug's effects, I'll have free rein.
Nell offers an oak lockbox to the Baron. His greedy hands snatch it open and remove a dried out Satyr horn. I see the weeping wounds of the tribesmen's head who suffered from these peoples' need to get high. My heart thuds with aggressive adrenaline.

The Baron uses the metal file to grind the horn into a wooden pipe and lifts it to his mouth, then hesitates, he turns to me.

“Where are my manners? In honour of our new deal.” He offers me the pipe.

Oh no. They all watch me with hunger, longing for their chance.

“No please, I can’t go first. It's your Tower my lord. House tax.”
They all laugh like daemons except the Baron.

“I see Omnia’s itch trickling over you my goodman. I insist.” He pushes the pipe into my hand.

“Really, I can’t. It would be disrespectful.”

“For Order’s sake. Take it Seb.” Devonport snaps.

The pressure is unrelenting. If I deny the Bukke now, they’ll call me a liar and tear me down. I see Nell watching me with suspicion, my charade coming apart before them.
I smile my thanks, grasp the pipe with shaking hands and clasp my lips over the mouthpiece.
The Baron strikes a match, the shadows on his face dance with the flame like a twisted devil that’s tricked a man into offering his soul.

He ignites the horn and I breathe it in.
Mother forgive me.