While the pits might operate at all hours, only the essence users of the night fights got Lucian’s blood boiling. Magic displayed any active fights on the giant window of his viewing box, but in the early afternoon he gave only them occasional glance. This time of day had single-essence fighters, only escalating to full-blown, iron-rank fights after sundown. Lucian would have preferred to see bronze-rankers as well, but they were too valuable to risk in the pits under any but the rarest of circumstances.
Only a precious few bronze-rankers lowered themselves to work for the Big Three, and they were their most valuable assets. If they ever appeared in the pits, it was to settle grudges between the Big Three without spilling blood on the streets. Gang war meant drawing the attention of the Island authorities, which all of the Big Three knew to avoid.
Lucian’s ability to use the Fortress as his office was largely due to his deputy director. Pochard Finn maintained things at the city campus while frequently travelling to the Fortress himself. He was also an elf and a local. Both elves enjoyed the relationship, as Lucian had his workload lightened, while Pochard was the de facto director of Greenstone’s Magic Society. They had quickly moved from colleagues to friends as Pochard also came to enjoy the pleasures of the Fortress.
“Standish was looking for you,” Pochard said, pouring himself a glass of wine. He gestured with the bottle invitingly, pouring a second glass at a nod from Lucian.
“Can’t you deal with it?” Lucian asked. “He’s always up in arms about something.”
“He insisted on seeing you. Something about spirit coins, I think.”
“Tell him if he wants to see me, he can come here.”
“I did,” Pochard said, drawing a snort of laughter from Lucian.
“I would love to see that gangly moppet in the Fortress,” Lucian said, then stared out the of the window-wall. “And now I have.”
“You’re kidding,” Pochard said, following Lucian’s gaze.
“He actually came,” Lucian laughed. “Good for him.”
Pochard groaned. “I hope he doesn’t make it a regular occurrence.”
Lucian chuckled at Pochard’s reaction as they watched the long-limbed Clive Standish navigate the fighting pit’s viewing stands. It wasn’t crowded in the early afternoon, yet the awkward man in the wildly-out-of-place scholar’s robe seemed to get in the way of every person he passed. Finally he reached the viewing room, opulent in its wooden construction. Lucian and Pochard looked at each other as they heard a polite knock.
“Shove off!” Pochard yelled, prompting a belly-laugh from Lucian.
“Uh, sir?” a voice came through the door.
“Don’t just stand out there, Standish!” Lucian bellowed, and the door was pulled nervously open.
Clive Standish was rather tall, but his narrow frame and hunched posture made him seem lanky and awkward. He wore voluminous scholarly robes, possibly to make him seem less narrow, but they dangled off him like they’d been hung out to dry. In the fighting pits of the Fortress, he looked as out of place as any man Lucian had seen. This was good for Clive, as it left Lucian in a better mood than Clive normally found him.
“Pochard tells me you have some kind of spirit coin problem,” Lucian said.
“Not exactly a problem, sir,” Clive said. “More like a curiosity that I believe warrants further inquiry.”
Clive rummaged through his robes to produce an iron-rank spirit coin.
“This coin and several others like it have been found in circulation over the last couple of weeks. You’ll note the unusual embossing of a man holding up his thumb,” Clive said.
Pochard leaned over to peer at the coin in Lucian’s hand.
“On the back,” Clive continued, “there is an inscription. Thus far, we have failed to identify the language.”
“Don’t you have a translation ability?” Pochard said.
“I do,” Clive said, “although that only tells us what it says, not the language in which it says it.”
“So?” Lucian asked, impatiently. “What does it say?”
“It reads, ‘product of Jason,’ and ‘good day, friend.’ The second part is contextualised as a greeting.”
“It’s certainly odd,” Lucian said. “It’s a real coin?”
“I’ve had every coin we’ve found tested, sir,” Clive said. “They’re all real.”
“You checked it against the registry?”
Clive nodded. “It definitely didn’t come from a registered spirit coin farm.”
“You think someone’s set up an unregistered farm?” Pochard asked.
“It’s possible,” Clive said. “Certainly worth looking into. But we haven’t seen a lot of these coins, and most shady coin farms try to imitate a registered imprint. Given the idiosyncratic nature of these coins, and the fact that we’ve only found a few, I think there is an alternative explanation.”
“Oh?” Lucian asked.
“You are, of course, aware that some essence users develop an ability to loot monsters without the use of the usual harvesting rituals,” Clive said. “Usually the prosperity essence is responsible, often in conjunction with a human awakening one of their racial gifts. Such abilities are known to produce spirit coins.”
“What’s the legality of that?” Pochard asked.
“If it’s an ability, then it’s perfectly legal,” Clive said. “Fascinating, but insignificant on an economic scale. That’s just conjecture, however. If it does turn out to be an unregistered spirit coin farm, then it obviously needs to be found and shut down.”
“Alright, Clive,” Lucian said. “You came all the way here, dressed like that, so I’ll go along with it.”
“This is how I always dress,” Clive said.
“Oh, I know,” Lucian said. “Pochard, put up a contract with the Adventure Society to look into an off-the-books farm. Try and get them to put it up as a three-star contract, so we get someone who’ll actually do the work. Adventurers get lazy with open-ended contracts.”
“If it involves the spirit coin farms, the Adventure Society will make it three-star,” Pochard said.
“Good. As for you, Clive, I’ll authorise you to use Magic Society resources to pursue your other idea. If these coins are just some guy with an ability, find him, so we can put the issue to bed.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You want some wine, Clive?” Lucian asked.
“Ah, no, sir. Thank you. I’d best get back.”
“You’d better shove off, then,” Lucian said. “Anyone staying here has to drink.”
43
Nightingale
“This is nice,” Jason said.
“Certainly better than meditating in a dirty back-lot,” Farrah said.
The Island was divided in various districts, all connected by the subterranean, submarine transit line. The locals called it the loop line, or the loop, but Jason thought it deserved something more impressive. His thinking had gone as far as naming it the sub-sub way when he realised the loop wasn’t so bad a moniker.
Farrah and Jason had taken the loop to the park district, which as the name suggested was dominated by parkland. It was like someone had curated the delta, with paths and gardens winding around ponds and streams. Palm trees and vibrant tropical flowers punctuated open spaces of lush grass, while pathways vanished into shady areas of dense bushes.
Almost everywhere in the park district was open to anyone on the Island. The only private space was the walled-off residence of the city’s ruler, the Duke of Greenstone. Jason and Farrah picked out a pleasant spot for their afternoon training. Farrah had suggested a more tranquil environment for meditation than Jory’s back yard.
“I still need to go in to the clinic, though,” Jason said. “I promised I’d come in again this afternoon.”