“Like Omax?” she asked.
“No,” Tristam said uncomfortably. “Well, sort of. They’re based on the same principles, but a homunculus isn’t like a warforged. It’s not alive.”
“How can you tell Omax is alive and the homunculus isn’t?” she asked.
He looked at her silently for a moment. “How can you tell that you’re alive?” he said, shrugging. “Listen, Seren, is there anything else? I really am sort of busy.”
Seren nodded and turned to leave, but paused in the doorway. “Tristam, why were you so angry when you learned we were going to Black Pit?” she said.
“Because Black Pit is dangerous,” he said, not looking up from his book. “I don’t think we should risk Karia Naille in a place like that.”
“You were angry about Zed Arthen becoming involved,” she said.
“You don’t know Arthen,” he said. “We don’t need him.”
“Is he untrustworthy?” she asked.
“It’s not that,” Tristam answered evasively. “He’s good in a crisis. The rest of the time he’s only as reliable as he chooses to be.”
“Then is it because the lens is the first real clue you’ve found, and Dalan doesn’t trust you with it?”
Tristam’s eyes widened. “I don’t need your analysis, Seren,” he said. “Why don’t you go find something to steal?”
Seren glared at Tristam. A dozen scathing replies came to mind, but it wasn’t worth the trouble. She stalked out of the room toward her cabin.
“Seren, wait,” Tristam said.
She slammed the door of his room, leaving him alone with his homunculus and the smoke.
CHAPTER 10
Zed Arthen was not what you might traditionally consider an imposing figure. Short and stocky with bland features, he had a face that did not stand out in memory. Overall, he didn’t mind much. Anonymity was a useful tool. Only fools became an inquisitive to be famous.
Arthen walked at an unhurried pace through the dank streets of Black Pit, his cane heavily stumping the cobbles beside him. The village was crowded this late afternoon, as crowded as Black Pit ever got. Most intelligent citizens knew to conclude what business they could before the sun went down. That was simple practicality. In a place like this, you avoided the shadows. The streets were slick with fouled water. A constant stream of sickly gasses roiled up out of Khyber, mixing with the clouds above and producing a chunky, oily black rain that stank like rotting meat. The puddles lingered for days without evaporating, much longer than normal water should. It was disgusting, but relatively harmless.
The people here claimed that you’d get used to the slime after a while, just like they claimed you got used to the shrieks that reverberated from the depths of the pit. It wasn’t true. Nobody could ever really get used to this place, not if they were sane. All but the boldest citizens sought shelter when the clouds gathered and said a brief prayer to whatever gods they still believed in when the shrieking began. After all this time, even Zed gave the puddles a wide berth and felt a sense of nausea whenever he heard thunder approaching.
The flow of the crowd parted around a member of the Cleaners Guild. The solitary man knelt near an alleyway, shoveling some of the more offensive leavings of yesterday’s storm into a large pail. He wore his guild’s traditional apron, mask, and thick leather gloves. The cleaners wore the masks both to protect them from the stench of the rains and to hide their identities, for few citizens would willingly associate with someone who shoveled Khyber’s offal for a living. Despite the cleaners’ reviled status, there were brass bells on every street corner to summon them. Nobody really knew what the garbage that seeped out of the Black Pit really was, but someone had to deal with it.
Zed did not step aside as the others did, but strode directly toward the man, nodding in respect and dropping a few silver coins on the street. The cleaner looked up with surprise, probably more shocked by Zed’s acknowledgment than his donation. The inquisitive couldn’t help but respect the cleaners. Living in a forsaken village populated by deserters, murderers, smugglers, and opportunists, they spent their lives trying to make things better. In a few days, the rains would come again and undo all their work, and the cleaners would start over.
In a way, Zed considered them kindred spirits.
Zed turned down a side street, away from the flow of the crowd. He had entered a court lined with small shops. Some bore small signs, advertising themselves as herbalists or apothecaries. Most bore no signs at all, offering wares better left unadvertised. Zed stopped in the shadows of a doorway and propped his cane against the wall. He drew a long pipe, tobacco pouch, and small box of matches from his coat as he studied the streets and windows. Cupping his hand around the pipe to block the wind, he struck a match and inhaled deeply, wincing at the bitter aftertaste. Confident that he was not followed or watched, Zed limped across the court and entered Ein’s Apothecary Shop, leaving a thin trail of smoke in his wake. The pungent smell of dried herbs drove away the stink of the rain. Shelves lined the walls, crowded with neatly labeled glass vials or paper packets filled with herbal remedies. A scrawny, nervous-looking little man sat behind a counter, crushing blue flowers with a mortar and pestle. He looked up at Zed suspiciously.
“Arthen,” he said. “It has been some time.” He looked curiously at Zed’s cane.
“It was a strange trip, Neril,” Zed said, exhaling a cloud of smoke.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” the apothecary asked.
Zed set a small clay bottle on the counter with a clack. The apothecary looked mildly confused when he saw the label.
“I hired you to remove our problems, not increase them,” Neril whispered in a low voice.
“Koathil sap,” Zed said in a loud, clear voice. “I understand that your boss is interested in purchasing this?”
“Of course, of course,” Neril said with a sigh. The apothecary glanced behind him nervously and reached for the bottle. “Just let me collect this, and I will obtain your payment from Master Ein immediately.”
Zed cupped his hand over the bottle and gave a tight smile. “I’d rather deliver it myself,” he said. “Just to be sure.”
“You’ll have your payment, Arthen,” Neril said, a hint of anger in his voice. “Master Ein is a man who repays his debts.”
“I’ve heard differently,” Zed said, tapping his pipe out on the floor and tucking it back into his coat. “Indulge me, or I take my business elsewhere.” He picked up the small bottle, cupping it in one hand.
The apothecary looked at Zed with a disappointed frown. He sadly shook his head at the inquisitive. “Very well,” he said. “This way.”
The apothecary led Zed through the back room of the shop and up a narrow flight of stairs. The second floor was a narrow hall lined with doors. Zed had the distinct feeling as he followed Neril down the hall that he was being watched from behind more than one door. A large man in black leather armor stood before the door at the end of the hall. He glanced at Neril dismissively, then gave Zed a stern, appraising look.
“Zed Arthen,” Neril said. “He has business with …”
“We know,” the guard said. He gestured impatiently, signaling for Zed to raise his arms. Zed leaned his cane against the wall and complied. The guard patted Zed down thoroughly, pausing to inspect his pipe before returning it to his coat. The guard snatched up the cane with a suspicious frown, inspecting it for any hidden weapons. Satisfied Zed bore none, he handed back the cane and nodded toward the door. Neril shot Zed a final, betrayed scowl and returned to the stairs.
Within was a large office, dominated by a rich mahogany desk. The man who sat behind it might have been handsome once, but his face was pale and slick with sweat. Dark rings hung below his eyes. He looked up from his ledgers with an irritated scowl. Behind him, another guard placed one hand casually on his sword. A pretty young girl sat on an overstuffed chair in the corner, glancing up from the book she was reading with a coy smile.