Seersucker
patreon
Ch 2: You'll owe me a favor
🕑 Added 2024-01-01 06:01:01 +0000 UTCDantes cut one of the potatoes in two using a sharp outcropping of rock in the corner, then he took a few pieces of dried meat, a bit of hardtack, and a few grapes and set to eating. He poured some water over the hardtack to soften it as he ate the rest, hearing the rat eating in the corner as they each ate their separate meals. When he was done, he went to the spot where fresh water dripped from the ceiling, and used it to rinse the blood off of his hands before drying them on his jacket. He then put his water pitcher back where it could collect water, and he stored the remaining food in a small alcove he covered with a heavy stone. No one knew where he kept his food, or where he lived for that matter, but it tended to keep better when he had it stored there, and while he’d already fed the rat, that didn’t mean it wouldn’t take more. He would do the same thing in its position.
Once he was done he found himself with the one thing he’d had in excess since he’d first been thrown down into the maw, time. The options he had to spend it were the same as always. He could check the market, which was probably nice and full now that the resupply had dropped. Those lucky enough to get goods would be trading them for booze, weed, or companionship, flooding the market. He could shoot some dice, but that’s what had forced him to risk the drop. He’d almost certainly gamble again, the boredom would give him no choice, but he’d wait for some other time. The God of Thieves had already blessed him that day, and trying to gamble again may push things a bit far with the God of Fortune. His last option would be to visit the Collared and see if they had any work.
Of the gangs, they were weakest by a wide margin, but they were also the only ones he had good relations with. A Midtown Mutt like him was always in danger from any of the race-based gangs, which were also the largest in the Pit. The other, smaller gangs were a toss-up. Depended on how much they knew about him from before he’d been thrown to the pit. He’d screwed plenty of people over, too many to know which gangs may have it out for him. Though after five years, he wasn’t certain anyone even remembered who it was. That thought stung as he parsed it, but he pushed that down.
The market was the best option, but he’d need something to trade. Either that or he’d steal, but he’d found that it was much harder to steal from paranoid hardened criminals in the Pit than it had been to do so in the backstreets of Rendhold, even on the day of the drop when the booze and goods flowed and everyone was a bit more care free. He’d done it before with no consequence of course, but he saw no reason to take the risk when he already had enough to get by.
He moved to the far corner of his cave. In that corner, was a bucket he’d gratefully scavenged quite a long time ago, and next to that was an experiment. While only the hardiest of plants could grow within the Pit, fungus didn’t have that problem. Dantes had been hoping to be able to grow a variety that he could eat in order to better tide him over, but the fat blue mushrooms he’d managed to cultivate had been poisonous. He’d tested it by slipping a small amount into a communal stew and watching the results. Humans and elves had strongly negative results, Orcs, Kobolds, and Dwarves didn’t seem to be affected by it. His own stomach was tougher than any pure humans or elves, probably thanks to a dwarven ancestor somewhere along his family tree, but he wasn’t willing to take the risk. Still, he was certain there were plenty of other prisoners who needed food, or poison, for whatever reason.
He plucked the majority of the mushrooms, leaving a handful to continue cultivating, and wrapped them in a loose cloth pouch that he’d made, which he then tucked into one of the myriad pockets in his heavy jacket. He tucked a shiv into his sleeve, had a sip of tepid water, used his bucket, and slipped back out through the crack. He looked around, his vision well attuned to the gloom that surrounded him, his ears scanned for noise, but he heard nothing and saw only a few roaches skittering in the dark. Certain no one was nearby, he began making his way toward the market.
It was smooth going until he reached Collared territory. He got a few nods from them as he walked. They had an understanding, and his face was not unfamiliar to them. The Collared was a group of former mages that had been thrown into the pit for various crimes. Some had turned their magic to thievery, others had murdered academic rivals. Dantes even had it on good authority that the leader of the Collared, Old Merle, had turned a member of the Rendhold Council into a chicken, cut off his head, and ate him. If they had their powers in the Pit, they would’ve been its undisputed rulers, unfortunately for them, they’d all been cut off from it. They were called Collared because it was the bronze collars that were wrapped around their necks that sealed them from their powers.
There had been a number of attempts by them to remove the collars, but they were bound not only by metal, but by spellcraft. Dantes didn’t fully understand it, but one of them had explained to him that the physical, and metaphysical aspects of the binding needed to be broken at once, and in order to do that, they needed a mage with active powers, and a locksmith. You needed a mage to break the lock, and needed to break the lock to have a mage.
Just as he was moving through the exit he heard a voice behind him.
“Dantes, wait up!” It was a young half-elf man, wearing tattered magus robes and a bronze collar that had been thoroughly scratched at by something metal. The man was tall and wiry, with a kind of gangly walk that reminded Dantes of the rolling gait he’d often see used by the sailors at the docks.
“What is it, Televor? Need another loan?” He kept walking as he spoke.
“No, no. My ribs are still a bit bruised since I forgot to pay you the last time.”
Dantes nodded. “Sorry about that. You know how it is, I can’t let you off for stuff like that or I put a target on my back. Nothing personal.”
“Nah, it’s fine. I didn’t know the rules then. I’m getting a grasp on it now.”
Dantes nodded, though he doubted that statement. “Alright, then what do you want?”
“You’re headed to the market right?”
He nodded.
“I heard from Micah that the changelings there… they uh.”
“You want to get your rocks off, huh?”
“Uh.”
“I don’t care Tel, no judgment from me. You won’t be the first, and you’ll hardly be the last. Not like people have a lot of options down here.”
“Well, you don’t uh, partake, so I assumed you might give me a bit of shit for it.”
“I’m not you. Who knows, maybe in five more years I’ll get to that point. I’ve no shit to give.”
“Well, I also heard that the changelings and you get along, and I’m a little short on scratch to pay them, so I was hoping you could, I dunno, maybe help me out a bit? Talk them into giving me a better rate?”
Dantes walked in silence for a little while, letting Televor simmer with embarrassment as he considered the task. The changelings did like him, and it was probable he could convince them to give Tel a good rate. They were an odd bunch though, flighty and mercurial, so it wouldn’t be guaranteed. The more important factor was why Dantes should do it. Televor didn’t have anything he wanted or needed at the moment. Besides which, he’d just admitted he was low on goods and would almost certainly blow whatever he had left on three minutes of pleasure.
“I’ll put in a word, but you’ll owe me a favor.”
“Sure, what?”
“A favor.”
Tel stopped, his expression becoming a bit strained as he considered that. Open-ended favors were dangerous in the underprison, and he already knew from experience that Dantes would definitely collect on it. Still, he wasn’t thinking with the right head. “Deal, I’ll owe you one.”
Dantes nodded, and stopped. He held out his hand, and Tel took it, giving it one firm grasp then releasing. Dantes held back a sigh. He liked Tel. In his estimation, in spite of all evidence to the contrary, Tel was actually pretty street savvy for a Collared. So many of them had been so far up their own asses when they’d been mages that they continually struggled to adapt to life in the Pit. Tel had only been down for a year, maybe a bit longer, but he was already doing what it took to stay sane, and alive. Sure, a lot of what he was doing was making mistakes, but that was better than never taking any risks at all.
They wove through the last few tunnels between the Collared and the Undermarket, both stepping widely around a particular darkened tunnel that seemed to ooze malice. It was marked with an X and an eye. There were some tunnels it just wasn’t worth going through.
There were a few prisoners selling wares just outside of the market, trying to avoid paying the Consortium fees required to sell in the undermarket itself. Tel almost walked over to one of them, who had a number of clay bowls displayed, but Dantes gave him a firm elbow to the ribs to keep him moving. Undermarket enforcers would be out to drive these sellers away soon, and anyone seen dealing with them would be given a beating.
As they passed those opportunistic sellers, the cavern began opening up, and the smell of booze and sounds of salesmen began to echo around them. Through the entrance one could see small rickety stalls spread from one wall of the cavern to the other, anchored by a few solid buildings scattered throughout. All of that served to create a network of narrow alleys and small streets littered with vomit, spilled alcohol, and the occasional corpse. They’d arrived
