Letter Eleven

Dear Sneffles,
I was preparing to hit the sack when Szechuan raided the Keep’s spirits room and proceeded to tie one on. Preferring to stay alert I took some ale and climbed back up the top of the tower, watching the evening dusk accumulate. Outside the wall life went on as normal, albeit carefully. I watched the children playing hide and seek in the street, and fight mock-battles using the helmets and regalia of the men we’d slaughtered. I suppose they’d had dreams of glory, too, when they were children. Now they were fit only to feed the hogs.

Down below Szechuan was singing lustily and grabbing at the wenches who slipped away with practiced ease. One or two offered to pleasure him but he was too drunk to comply, so he roared instead, like a toothless old bear in a circus.

I woke at dawn, my Cloak of Resistance protecting me from the morning’s damp chill, and watched the sun rising, wondering as always if I would see the end of the day or glimpse your shining face.

When I finally climbed down I found that Szechuan could not be budged. Quite honestly, I was glad because nothing is worse than entering battle with a hung-over barbarian (even though they usually are). Finarfin was staring into space, eating a radish. After wishing me good morrow, he asked if I was ready to leave for House Arkona. “Why not,” I shrugged, watching PJ going through his bag of tricks in preparation and Driar nearby practicing prayerful breathing while stretching his hamstrings.

Collecting King Piltsy (who didn’t seem to recognize me, BTW) we put a sack over his head and walked him through the untypical quiet streets of Bridgefront. Aye, the times we had there! I was eleven and it was the happiest bit of my life for maybe three months. Then Lamm took my mother away and I learned the opposite lesson.

Castle Arkona, of course, sat brooding on the hill atop Old Korvosa, as a fat man sits on the chest of his withered old Pap—not wanting to smother him completely, of course, just to make him more tractable.

The Arkonans there were definitely interested in what we were trading. One-eyed Carnochan greeted us at the door, showing us to the public room where we sat on plush red couches among the giant ferns waiting for an audience with one of the family. Driar sat whispering prayers by the fireplace while PJ stared with mouth agape at the luminescent paintings on the walls. Nothing by Salvatore Scream here, I noticed. Finarfin, nervous as a cat, rudely cast a spell of invisibility on himself. The halfling must think the perfect way to begin negotiations is to insult your host.

That’s when Glorio Arkona swept into the room, wearing silk robes and smoking a stogie. You may remember him as one of those dangerous characters you never wanted to work for because so many of his mistresses end up in the canal. He noticed immediately that Finarfin was gone, of course, and waited until his spell wore off and he reappeared with a “pop.” If Halflings could blush, he would have, especially as his fly was unbuttoned.

Arkona smiled unctuously, thanking us for our little gift of King Piltsy and offering in return the “opportunity to find your friend” by searching for him in the labyrinth beneath the Castle. Yeah, it’s never easy. Glorio Arkona, as you remember, was always a twist, who loved to pull the wings off flies and teach cats to swim. He’s a big boy now and big boys have bigger concerns. Oh, he was going to enjoy toying with us and there was nothing we could do if we hoped to see Master Orisini alive.

In the garden was a jade oliphant. Underneath, a small switch allowed entrance to the cellars as one chanted the incantation “shamadu is blind,” which seems unnecessary, but you know how rich men love their toys.

I took my sweet time searching for traps as the statue's base slid shut above us. For once even Finarfin was subdued. At the bottom was an outlet to the river where, I suppose, the Arkonans could smuggle anything in or out. It was dark but I was beginning to get a sense of the place when three trolls shambled out of a nearby tunnel below the mansion. Their smell was sharper than their weaponry. I performed a trifecta by landing the killing blow on all three of them.

I wondered what Burns would have said of my performance that morning as we painstakingly inched through the corridors and rooms of that elaborate puzzle. He wasn’t the kind of guy to hand out compliments cheaply but I think even he would have appreciated the methodical way I dealt with traps and kept my more volatile compatriots from ripping down doors and farting acid spray at every wavering shadow. But I really owe it all to Driar’s sage counsel and PJ’s steadying presence.

It was weird but somehow we made all the right choices. We ran a gauntlet of tigers, restrained only by a magical trap that I left unsprung! We found Orisini, who had the "good" news for us that Arkona was not a man, but a rakshasa called Bahor. (The statue of Arkona wearing a cat’s head that we’d found suddenly made sense.) As goes the song:

“Rakshasa are tough mother …”
“Hush your mouth!”
“Just talkin’ ’bout Bahor!”

The more the Master talked the less sense he made. He argued with PJ for awhile as I watched him closely. His face seemed liquid somehow, and his movements where not that of a fighter, even one as injured as himself. Finally, with a snort of frustration, the shapeshifter emerged from what had seemed the Master, unfolding as a beautiful origami reveals its hidden shape. You guessed it, it was sister Vimana Arkona, the woman with a thousand faces. She carried even better news, that to find Squarehead and the Master we’d have to go through a Dark Sphinx, which was lurking nearby. Attacking with a guttural roar the creature charged towards us, brutally slavering over Finarfin's new shoes. Surprised, Finarfin sort of annihilated it. I felt for both of them but it turns out these sphinxes are overrated.

I freed the Master, who was chained behind the monster with a leather plug stuck up his ass and down his throat. They’d worked him over pretty well. I found him changed by his abasement, and not for the better. For the first time he was merely human to me, old—a great man still, don’t get me wrong—but a man nonetheless. Of course, you took his measure when you were just thirteen, but it was a revelation to me.

He looked sad when Finarfin pulled the “Black Jack” outfit from his bag of holding, fingering the scuffed leather tiredly. “I guess now you know the truth.”

I laughed, “Yes, Master, you fight for what you believe despite the consequences. I knew you were a good man before; I think you’re a great man now. I wish you were my real father.”

“I might be,” he winked, a sad tear rolling down his cheek.

“Oh, please,” snorted Finarfin as the clerics tried not to laugh. “This crap is more lethal than the sphinx!”

Much love,
Your ’Dobles

Finarfin's Thirteenth Report be next.