Blood and Daggers Ch. 04

Chapter 4 - The Fine Art of Surfacing

Sleeping would be more comfortable in a dormitory rather than lying on the tables of a tavern, so Rook spent a few minutes creating the rooms in the areas Veslingr had prepared. The kitchen looked like an improved version of the one pictured on the room stone. A giant hearth, big enough to walk into and prepare food, held cauldrons, pots, spits and more. Racks around the walls held a variety of utensils. Barrels, boxes and sacks gave him hope that the place already contained food, which proved to be disappointingly wrong. There was even a brick oven on one side of the hearth. It was better than anything he'd ever seen outside his fantasy of what existed at the King's Crown Tavern.

Then came the dormitory. He focused on the card, looked at the cleared space and watched as a dirty room with four basic bedrolls on the floor appeared before his eyes. Trash piles stank in the corners of the room. There were flies.

"What in the infernal realms is this?" he cried out.

Lupa stepped beside him and looked. "It's the dormitory, Rook."

"I know that!" he said. "Why is it such a damn mess when the hearth and kitchen are so amazing?"

"It's what you want it to be."

"No, it's not..."

He paused in thought as he fit what she said into each room. The hearth represented his core desire, the most amazing place he could imagine, and so it became his fond memory from a blessed childhood before his parents died. The kitchen was where food would be prepared for his dungeon and appeared as the greatest kitchen he could imagine. But the dormitory? What had caused that to go wrong?

He slapped his forehead. "OF COURSE! It's the BARRACKS!"

From what Lupa had told him, it sounded like the dungeon saw minions as his army. Soldiers! Rook hated the vicious thugs who earned their living in the pay of the various nobles around the lands. Soldiers had murdered his parents to keep them quiet after his family saw them burning a farmstead to the ground and looting what remained of the farmer's possessions. Rook himself had barely escaped with his life. It was no surprise that the dungeon decided he wanted his "troops" to live in squalor.

Lupa reached for him, concern on her face.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I really screwed up on this one."

She stroked his cheek as if soothing a child. "It's fine," she said. "It doesn't matter what a room looks like, it will still work."

"How do you know that?"

"I overheard Mistress talking to other dungeon makers. Everything appears different for each Master, but they do the same thing."

He leaned against her hand, taking solace in her touch. "Still, you deserve better than this. You all do."

"As long as we have each other, it doesn't matter. And you can find trinkets and feature blueprints to change and improve rooms anyway."

Still unhappy, especially with the idea of sleeping in the smell of trash, Rook thanked her and announced it was time for bed. He lay down on top of one of the bed rolls and immediately felt the room begin to still his inner tumult. He drifted off in mere minutes.

The fears and exhaustion of his day surfaced in Rook's mind as he slept. It started with a replay of the dungeon invasion, only this time he failed to stop the intruders and was forced to watch as they killed both Lupa and Veslingr. He drew his sword and attacked them in rage, striking the dwarf down quickly before turning on the apprentice mage. Thrusting his blade forward, Rook screamed as the man turned into Lupa as the sword sank into his chest. She grasped the blade, her face a mask of terrified betrayal as she collapsed to the ground.

"You killed them," a voice hissed in his ear.

The pickpocket stood beside him, one half of her face hers and the other a skull. What skin she had clung in ragged tatters to the mildewed bone.

"I didn't mean to..."

She pointed at the bodies. When he turned, he saw not his minions but his parents, their bodies decaying as maggots ate their flesh.

He screamed, a sound ripped from every pain, every fear, every loss of his life. Guilt over those deaths clawed his soul with the eternal, internal agony of the knowledge that he had failed everyone that mattered. His parents... his minions... their deaths were his fault. And now he was killing others with his own hands.

The pickpocket grabbed his shoulder, her bony fingers digging into his body painfully. She began to shake him vigorously.

"You'll never wake up from the nightmare you caused! Never wake up! Wake up... Wake up, Rook."

He opened his eyes, shying away from the fingers that squeezed his upper arms. The monster was trying to... no... that wasn't right.

This was the dormitory.

He'd woken from a nightmare.

"Wake up, Rook."

It was Lupa. She was lying behind him on his bed roll, gently holding him as she roused him. He reached up, clutching her hand as he snuggled into her embrace.

"Are you all right, Rook?" she asked. "You were screaming."

"Nightmare," he gasped, still shaken by how vivid it had been.

He'd always felt guilty about not saving his parents from the soldiers, even though he knew there was nothing he could have done as a child. He'd sworn he'd never kill anyone himself unless he had no option, and though he'd killed yesterday to save his own and his minions' lives, it still weighed on him.

"I'll be fine."

He eased himself from her touch and got out of bed, stretching the last of the tension from his muscles.

"Thanks for waking me," he said, as he helped her to stand. "That was rough. Anyway, I think we need to get everyone together and talk about what we do today. Where are Veslingr and the new girl?"

"They're eating in the hearth," said Lupa.

"Eating what? We finished the food the place made for me."

"Some nightfish and mushrooms. I went out while you were sleeping to gather some food. It wasn't much. I'm no huntress or cook, but I know basic stuff."

Rook stared at her, wondering how she could possibly have been afraid that she'd be useless just because of her magical limitations.

"You're amazing, Lupa," he said. "Fish and mushrooms sounds great right now."

She giggled. "If you say so. Come on, they'll be done soon. Then Veslingr says he'll go bury the bodies in the woods. We've already put all their belongings in a pile. Mistress used to sell anything she took off adventurers, but these two didn't have much. The dwarf's axe was okay, but Veslingr can probably use that. It's a traditional dwarf cultural weapon. Then there was clothes, lanterns, rope..."

"You arranged all this before I even woke up?"

"We all did. I thought if you wanted us to say when we had ideas, we might as well just do what we can around here anyway. Was that wrong?"

"Umm... no. I'm just really impressed. It sounds like I might be the one who isn't needed round here."

"Don't be silly," said Lupa. "You're the dungeon maker!"

That was true, he thought bitterly. If the dungeon was to work for all of them, he still had to be the one in charge; he had to be the one who, at least as far as the dungeon itself was concerned, owned the others. He hated that. He'd heard tales of slavery in other lands, and always thought it was sickening. You couldn't just own people, treat them as property, and yet now he had to.

He was also the only one who could use dungeon treasures to expand the place. That talent eased his disgust about being slave owner a little, especially when he reminded himself it was only in name.

Veslingr and the pickpocket sat together at one of the tables in the hearth eating breakfast. The portions were fairly small, with more boiled mushrooms than fish, but it would be enough to get through the early part of the day at least. Rook sat down with them as Lupa brought him a plate of food.

"Join us," he said.

"I already ate."

"Join us anyway, I'd like to talk to you all."

She sat down next to him, waiting patiently. Veslingr and the pickpocket both put down their forks and looked at him. Rook shifted in his seat, his stomach queasy with nerves. He'd never led anything before, let alone a group that was, if things went right, destined to grow. That caveat was the other problem. He couldn't be sure things WOULD go right, especially not after the two invaders last night. He also couldn't afford to let his minions down. He cleared his throat as he tried to think of what to say.

"Okay, er, welcome to our new home, I guess." He looked around at the expectant faces and steadied himself. "I know this dungeon demands that I'm the master and you're... minions... but I want you all to know that's just a title. I'd like it if you stayed, but you can go whenever you want and if I ever ask you to do something that you think is stupid or wrong in some other way I need you to tell me..."

Veslingr was looking at him in confusion. With a sigh, Rook asked Lupa to translate, not just now, but any time a minion didn't understand what he said. He paused as she translated his words, the dwarf nodding along as he listened. Rook tried to pay attention to what she said. He didn't recognize any of the words, of course, but maybe if he got a feel for the spaces and rhythm of dwarfish he might be able to learn it over time. When she finished he continued.

"Lupa says she made breakfast, so thank you for that. And, Veslingr, thank you for agreeing to get rid of the bodies. It's gonna make everything easier for all of us if anyone who can help doesn't wait to be asked."

The pickpocket sucked in a breath through a gap in her front teeth and clicked her tongue. "Loot's crap."

"What?" asked Rook.

"Shit they 'ad on 'em. Ain't worth a damn. Rope, old clothes, 5 silver and a couple dozen coppers in their pouches. Battle-axe might get a few gold in a city, but in a market town like this it's a badly made wood axe." She shrugged and picked at the food on her plate.

"You know how to assess prices?"

"O' course. I wouldn't be any good as a thief if I didn't. Evaluation skill's 56. Not a trader or noffing, but good enough."

Rook tried to remember his own skill list. "It's great. I think mine was in the thirties. Thank you."

"Sure, whatever."

"Sorry I was so blunt with you yesterday," Rook said. "I don't even think I said welcome. Do you have a name?"

"O' course I do," she said. "What kind of question is that?"

Rook paused a moment, waiting for her to give it. When she didn't, he realized she'd answered only what he asked. "Okay, what is it?"

"Pernelle. Don't 'ave a family name. Don't 'ave a family."

Rook sat upright, surprised by the statement. Did she mean she'd run away from her family, or was she orphaned like him?

"What happened to your family?" he asked. "If you don't mind saying."

"Never 'ad one. I'm a minion."

Rook's mind fizzed with thoughts. Minions know they're minions, and they don't have families. That couldn't be though, since Lupa mentioned her sisters. He tried to fit the two ideas into one coherent frame.

"Lupa, when you said the Baroness should have got one of your more powerful sisters, did you mean actual sisters?" he said, carefully piecing together a meaning he hadn't considered.

"Yes," she said. "All drow are sisters."

"But not sisters like I'd think of them? Not family?"

"No, of course not. How could we be, Rook? Minions don't have family, unless you count other members of the dungeon we're created in."

Rook drummed his fingers on the table as he considered the implications of what he'd heard. He hadn't summoned Veslingr and Pernelle; he'd created them. They were completely real now, with lives independent of any bond to him, but they existed because he had used a minion card. At least, that's what he took from what they'd said. It would explain why other dungeon makers treated them like slaves: they thought of them just as objects they'd created like a piece of clothing, pot or tool. He thought of them more like children. No, that wasn't quite right. They were adults and not his offspring, especially with how he was feeling about Lupa, but he couldn't think of another word to show he caused their 'birth'. He put the idea aside for now, leaving it to find a place in a mind already struggling with everything else that had changed for him since yesterday, and turned back to Pernelle.

"Well, you're here now, so welcome to our family, Pernelle. Thanks for letting me know about what the invaders were holding."

He smiled at her, but she continued to face her plate. Apparently the welcome neither bothered her nor pleased her. After an awkward moment he continued.

"It's a shame they don't have more. I need to find the trader and see if we can get some more dungeon treasures. I also need to find out what kind of bounty is on my head, see how likely it is that we'll be attacked again. Pernelle. I could use your help up there if you're willing to join me.

"Yeah, sure."

"Okay. That leaves you two..." he looked from Lupa to Veslingr. "Will you be okay here by yourselves?"

After Lupa translated, they both nodded.

"I'll find some more food to make us something to eat," said Lupa. "If you have anywhere you'd like to have dug out, Veslingr can do that for you."

"Yes. That would be great. I'll point out the gold seams before I go. If the trader stays more than a day, that would be something great to have. If he doesn't, we'll still need to buy food and other things. Maybe he can dig a couple of general areas for rooms too?"

"il ne kume gonn syn gasos tumiths," said Veslingr.

"He says he can create five room areas today," translated Lupa.

"That would be amazing. I doubt we can afford anywhere near that many room stones, but I'll do what I can. Now, let's eat!"

They made it to the town of Thalathorn long before the sun reached its peak, but finding the trader proved to be even harder than Rook had guessed. He didn't know anything about dungeon traders, so he tried to reach out to his few contacts, but even that proved impossible.

He started by looking for his fence, Blacktooth, but the man wasn't in any of his usual haunts. He even checked the ruined cellar the fence used for storage. It was empty. He tried to find the few other people he knew who used Blacktooth's services, but they were also conspicuously absent.

Next, Rook headed for the river bridge where the homeless of the town gathered, hoping that Little Mili might have heard something on his rounds. For the first time since he arrived three years ago, he was met with silence. Everyone he approached turned away from him and walked off. He hadn't formed a deep friendship with many of the people there, but they'd never shut him out before. Little Mili himself was absent, and nobody would tell him where the boy had gone.

That only left the common woman, Tanisha, a friend of his for well over a year now. It was unlikely she'd know anything about a trader of strange wares, their trades simply didn't overlap. The streets seemed increasingly hostile towards him, though, and as afternoon moved towards evening, he decided some time with the friend who showed him what sex felt like just days ago would at least bring relief from a worrying day.

Tanisha lived in a hovel on the outskirts of Thalathorn and she'd likely be there now since the market day had died down and the tavern wouldn't yet be filled with the kind of drunks who would welcome a little easy company to round out the night. He explained where they were going to Pernelle, assuming she'd choose to stay away. She shrugged, as if it didn't matter at all to her.

"Well there you are, young Master," said a voice from behind him. It had the false refinement of a commoner who spent his time trying to appeal to the noble classes, full of hard consonants and extended vowels. "I must say you proved very difficult to locate."

Rook spun, his hand immediately going for his sword. A portly, middle-aged man stood in the middle of the rutted lane wearing an ermine cloak over a satin tunic. The cloth was rich, no doubt, but even as the sun lost its brightness the fraying and dirt were clear. Rook used his awareness skill to study him closely, and was rewarded with another skill point gain.

Godwin of The Dungeonrealms - Level 86 Dungeon Trader

Godwin travels the lands, trading with dungeon makers. His wares vary depending on what he has brought from the Dungeonrealms, but are generally extensive.

So this was the trader? Rook looked him over carefully, noting the large cart behind him. The dozen drawers he could see supported the great variety of wares Godwin's description stated. He put his hand on his pouch, eager to find out what he could afford to buy. With the coins from the invaders, he had almost three gold.

"Funny, I've been looking for you too," said Rook.

"Not in any of the more logical places, sir," replied the trader. "You have not been to the market square at all, nor the Wayside Tavern."

"Well, I've never seen you there before. So I figured you must go to less obvious places."

"Very wise, sir," said the trader. "And it would seem that the market, in particular, would be a truly terrible place for you to be seen right now."

"How so?" Rook wondered just what the trader knew.

"What with the Archduke having put a bounty on your head, I mean."

That confirmed what the invaders had said last night about getting a reward for killing him. It also explained why the streets were suddenly hostile to him. He may have made friends, but not many would be willing to risk the wrath of one of the most powerful nobles in the land for him.

"I must say, though, it is unusual," said the trader.

"Why?"

"Well, it is common for dungeon makers to attack one another to gain power, but that only makes sense when the dungeons are close enough to connect. The ArchDuke's is all the way down south in the capital. You are no threat whatsoever to him. I could see the baroness or one of the minor freemen or knights of the near area attacking you, but even that is strange when you have not established yourself yet."

"He's not hunting me because of the dungeon," said Rook. "But never mind that, you know I'm new to this?"

"Of course, your dungeon just lit up on our map."

"You have a map of dungeons?"

"Of course, sir."

It wasn't really a surprise that someone trading with dungeon makers would know the location of their potential customers. The more interesting thing was the fact that he'd become a dungeon maker at all.

"I never even knew about any of this until yesterday," Rook said. "If I'm a dungeon maker, how come it was hidden for so long?"

"Your parents didn't tell you about any of this?" For a moment, the trader's fake accent slipped.

"They were killed when I was a child!"

"Well, that IS a shame," said the trader. "And it explains why you know nothing about our world. Well, sir, a dungeon only becomes active when its maker becomes an adult."

"That can't be it." Rook bit his lip as he thought about it. "I'm twenty-five years old... or maybe twenty-six... or twenty-four. I kind of lost count."

"Twenty-seven, actually, sir, we keep a log of dungeon maker births, but that has nothing to do with adulthood, that's just age. No, you become an adult by doing something an adult would do."

"Such as?"

"Well, have you served in the army of one of our nobles?"

"No!" Rook spat on the ground in disgust at the idea.

"I see," said the trader. "A sore point for you. Well then, have you yourself gained a title you were not born with? Such as a noble peerage or religious position?"

Rook snorted. "Do I LOOK like it?"

"Perhaps not," conceded the trader. "Although there are some religions that encourage their priesthood to travel and live a rough life. They say it builds character."

"That's ridiculous! It builds aches, pains, hunger and disease," said Rook.

"I never said it made any sense, sir. And who am I to judge what the gods believe is 'character'? Well then, have you made profit from trading, craft or artistry? Being profitable is a mark of adulthood?"

Rook held his arms out to his sides, displaying his clothing as fully as possible. "Again, do I look like it?"

"Well... no. Perhaps that was somewhat overly optimistic. There are a few other ways. For instance, starting a family. Have you recently had a sexual encounter that caused a pregnancy?"

"No, not that eith--" Rook stopped dead as the night with Tanisha came rushing back. "Oh... shit."

"Ah." The trader beamed at him and held out his hand to shake Rook's. "It sounds like congratulations are in order, sir. I assume this is the first you have heard of the happy news since your dungeon would have become available as soon as your seed, shall we say, took seed, sir."

One time? One time! Rook looked at the future which suddenly seemed massively different than he could ever have imagined. He'd had sex exactly one time, with one person, and according to his skill rating, she probably only ACTED like she enjoyed it. Yet that had been enough to change the world. If he'd had to guess what one thing he'd succeed at on the first go, even without trying to do so, he would never have guessed becoming a father. Now it was even more important to meet up with Tanisha. First, though, there were the dungeon treasures.

"Okay, can I see what you're selling?"

"You may indeed, young sir," said the trader.

He pulled open the top drawer of his cart, revealing a number of boxes, each one in sparkling colors that seemed soaked with magic.

"These are my pride and joy," he said, opening his arms expansively towards them, a flamboyant display of showmanship. "Lucky Boxes! Each one has a mixture of room stones, minion cards, feature blueprints and trinkets. The contents are randomly selected so you will never know what you're getting, but with at least a half dozen premium treasures in each it is well worth taking a spin on the old wheel of fortune."

Rook considered the possibility. Of course, knowing what he was getting would be preferable, but given how small his dungeon was right now a sizeable random collection would make an excellent start on growing stronger.

"How much?" he asked.

"Just fifty gold per box!" The trader tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. "And don't forget, it's a MINIMUM of six pieces in each. It could be up to ten."

Rook slumped. His entire body drooped as he realized that he was going to struggle to afford anything. If six items were worth fifty, then each was probably at least eight gold. And if the random and bulk nature reduced the cost of each, then buying individually would demand an even higher price.

"Do you have anything cheaper?" he asked.

"Of course, sir. Perhaps, in your circumstances, you would rather make an individual purchase." He pulled open the second drawer in which a number of room stones sat. "Individual rooms run from a mere ten gold for a storeroom to twenty if you would like to buy a research room, such as a magic circle or elemental chamber."

Rook shook his head slowly. "Cheaper?"

"Well, sir, perhaps a minion card?" The trader opened a smaller drawer, filled with row after row of cards. "Expensive minions such as the dragon card runs over twenty gold, but even a lesser being can be useful in a new dungeon. I can offer you an orc for eight gold, or a goblin for just five?"

It was worse than he thought. Rook sighed deeply as his fingers clutched the coin purse that seemed heavy enough to be useful at the start of the day. "I've got just under three gold."

"Ah," said the trader as he began to pack his goods away. "I see sir has somewhat more meager pockets than I had assumed. I'm afraid for such a low fee I have little I can offer you. Even trinkets tend to start at four gold."

"Okay," said Rook. "Sorry I wasted your time."

He started to walk away, but as he did the trader grabbed him by the arm. Rook turned back towards him and noticed a flash of movement behind the cart. Probably an animal of some kind that had darted across the path, he guessed.

"Look, sir, I cannot let you go away with nothing. What kind of cold-hearted villain would that make me? Let me offer you this, instead."

From a small compartment in his cart, the trader pulled a long neck chain. It looked cheap and shoddy, just a leather cord attached to a simple pewter circle, but in its center, a glass bauble shone blue. It wasn't a brilliant light, but did illuminate the road close by with a dim glow.

"This, sir, is a manalight. It provides a continual light source of modest power as well as an ongoing trickle of mana. It could be of value to you and since you are a new customer, I will offer it at a discounted price of three gold."

"I don't quite have that," said Rook.

"Then how much do you have?"

Rook opened his coin purse and counted his money. "Two gold, eighty-four silver and thirteen copper."

"That's close enough for me," said the trader. "The price of good relations, as it were."

Rook wanted it. A first dungeon treasure that he'd purchased, not to mention the value of a mana source allowing him to feed treasures to the dungeon hearth and create them multiple times afterwards? He wanted that badly. Then thoughts of his minions filled his mind and he wondered if Lupa had even managed to find any more food.

"I can't," he said. "I need to feed my people."

The trader tapped his foot as he studied Rook's features. For several seconds he said nothing then, sucking in a harsh breath of air through his teeth, he nodded.

"Fine. I shouldn't do this, but I will. To welcome you to the world of dungeon ownership and to celebrate your coming child, I will give you this gift free of charge."

Level Gained: Bargaining level 20

You gain access to the skill 'goodwill'.

Skill Gained: Goodwill level 1

There is a small chance that a trader who genuinely likes you and pities you will offer a trivial item for free. This skill has a cooldown of two weeks.

As he waited for the text to clear from his vision, Rook reached out blindly to take the talisman.

"Thank you so much!" he said. "I can't believe you did that!"

"Yeah, me neither," said the trader, his fake accent dropping for a moment. "Well, sir, I must be on my way. My customers in Wallsend will be expecting me on the morrow. Fare well!"

The man shimmered briefly with a purple haze before disappearing. That, at least, explained why he'd managed to sneak up on him, thought Rook. He looked around, realizing that he was alone.

"Pernelle?"

"Right 'ere," she said, stepping out of the nearby bushes.

"Where did you go?"

"Nowhere."

Rook clenched his fists in frustration. The stakes had changed completely for him today and the last thing he had the mental strength for right now was Pernelle playing games.

"Fine," he said. "Let's go. I need to see Tanisha right now."

"Yeah," said Pernelle. "Looks like you stuck a bun in 'er oven. Never meant to do that, did ya?"

"Shut up!" He lashed out verbally, annoyed as much at the truth of what she said as the way she said it.

The street they were on turned into a mere dirt track, its muddy surface covered in fallen leaves and debris. Overgrown weeds and ragged bushes pushed in on the ever-narrowing path from both sides, hiding the hovel from view. It couldn't hide the stench though; burnt wood and thatch filled the air with warnings of disaster ahead. Finally they turned a corner and Rook stopped dead.

Tanisha's home was nothing more than a collapsed pile of scorched debris. A few embers glowed among the blackened heap like the eyes of demons in the depths of the infernal realms. What walls still stood were broken remnants of a home destroyed without mercy.

"Tani..." Rook mouthed the word as his whole body tightened.

She'd done nothing to deserve this. Nothing except be a companion to several of the men and even a few of the women of the village. Nothing except be the kindest, softest soul he'd ever met. Nothing except be his friend. His fence disappearing was worrying. The homeless turning their backs on him was terrible. None of that felt meaningful against this.

"We have to go," he said flatly.

"Where?" asked Pernelle.

"The Wayside Tavern."

Her face wrinkled with disgust. "A tavern? Right now?"

"I'm not going for a drink."

"I don't give a crap. We'll be spotted!"

"There's a back way," he said. "And if anyone knows how bad this is it'll be the tavern keeper there. He hears everything."

The Wayside Tavern sat on the crossroads outside of town and served travelers from the capital, Thalathorn, Wallsend and the Eastern farmlands. Over time it had come to incorporate all their needs. A bar served beer and wine brewed locally as well as meals three times a day, a small chapel to the gods of the land stood by the entrance gate, and even the smith and woodworker had moved their workshops there since that was where they had the best chance of finding customers. There was also a stable providing shelter to up to a dozen horses. It was far more than a market town like Thalathorn should ever have needed, but it had become the region's hub since the Baroness deposed the region's old Baron a quarter-century ago.

All the business was in the front. The back was woodlands, a vegetable garden and compost heap. It was an unlit area Rook could easily sneak through. He approached the back door, keeping a careful watch on the front of the building for any threats. He knocked on the door, striving to be heard by the staff while not arousing unwanted attention from anyone else.

It took a moment for anyone to answer, but he was glad to see the face of his friend, Wayland the tavern keeper, when they did.

"You can't be here!" said Wayland, thrusting a poster into Rook's hands. "Look!"

Rook read the words scrawled on it in horror. "Wanted, dead. Reward: 100 gold for delivery of his head within one week. By order, ArchDuke Azizi." The parchment bore a perfect image of Rook's face, a mage-captured portrait. That was something Rook had only seen once, and was only used by the wealthy for truly important works.

"A hundred gold?"

It was more than Rook could remember seeing in his entire life, but like other commoners, he mostly dealt in copper and silver. This was completely disproportionate to the attempted theft. He hadn't even succeeded! It also explained why people were avoiding him now. If someone did all this, they would certainly be willing to kidnap or murder the woman who cared about him too. How the ArchDuke had found out about Tanisha confused Rook, but now he felt utterly responsible for her fate.

"Why a week?"

"That's when he's heading back to the capital. The ArchDuke is a tyrant, but he's got the attention of a stunned trout and is as self-centered as a pinwheel. Once he's left a place, he stops caring."

"Okay," said Rook. "I have somewhere I can stay. Apparently I'm a dungeon maker now..."

He'd expected questions about what that was given he himself had only just learned of them. Instead, Wayland looked from him to Pernelle and back. "She one of yours?"

"Yes. She's a pickpocket. Her name's Pernelle."

"So she's a slave?"

Rook winced. "Only in name. I tried to free a drow who Baroness Nathari abandoned in a cave that leads to my place. Trouble is, the hearth wouldn't heal her unless I made her a minion."

"Yeah, that's right," said Wayland. "People like Nathari, Azizi and the rest think it's okay, natural even, but I hate it."

"Me too," said Rook, "but I have to protect my people. They don't have to do what I say and they can leave if they want."

"That true?" Wayland turned a sharp gaze on Pernelle.

"'S what 'e says!"

"You building up?"

Rook frowned as the strange conversation continued. "I don't really have any choice anymore."

"And you're going against the Baroness and ArchDuke?"

"They're going against me. Looks like he grabbed Tani too, or killed her. Her place is burnt to the ground."

"Come with me," said Wayland.

Without explanation, he grabbed a lantern and strode briskly away from the building. Deep in the woods at the back of the tavern, he stopped and began clearing leaves from a rough area of ground. They were covering a trap door, and once it was clear he opened it to reveal a ladder down into a lit area below.

Rook reached forward with his awareness skill and recognized it at once. It was a dungeon hearth, but he couldn't detect any other rooms attached to it.

He climbed down the ladder, following Wayland into a large stable yard. There were carts against one wall, a series of stalls against another, and in the middle, a fire gave heat and light to the room. The air was heavy with the odor of sweat and manure which made the ground slippery beneath his feet. Whoever this place belonged to valued openness and travel more than comfort.

Two humans and an elf stood around the fire talking, while an ogre, a centaur and a goblin chatted in the shadows. Rook's Awareness skill increased again as he studied the people at the fire. From their clothes, he could tell they were workers: a smith, a farrier and a carpenter. He guessed this was probably the staff of the tavern's outbuildings. He looked from one to another, trying to work out who the dungeon maker was, but his mind felt flat after each one.

The smith stepped forward to greet Wayland, glaring at Rook as he did so. "What in the demonic planes have you brought him for? We don't need the ArchDuke putting us on his kill list."

"We need him for this place," said Wayland. "Especially after Bishano took the arrow yesterday."

The name tingled in Rook's mind and he recalled the pursuit through the marketplace. He hadn't had time to stop when the ArchDuke's men shot a woman by accident; he was too busy dodging their arrows himself. Something told him she was the dungeon maker for this place, and now she was dead. Once more his awareness skill increased, this time leaping by four points instead of the normal one. He wondered if that happened with particularly impressive skill uses.

The smith spat on the ground and rubbed it into the dirt with his boot. "Bastard! I'll kill him for that one of these days."

"I know, Chuma." Wayland grasped the man's shoulder in one hand and squeezed it gently. "I know. We're all furious at that, but it leaves this place without a maker, and that's what he is."

"You brought a damn dungeon maker here?" yelled Chuma. "The whole point of the Runaway's Dungeon is we want to help minions escape until we can find a way to destroy that whole damn culture!"

"He's different," said Wayland. "His minions can do what they want, including leave. They're slaves in name only, so the dungeon hearth will recognize them as belonging there."

"He told you that?"

"Yes."

"And you're damn fool enough to believe it?"

Wayland indicated Pernelle. "She confirmed it."

"She's a minion, you fool! She'd say whatever her master wanted."

Pernelle strode forward, stomping her way across the courtyard indignantly. The men stepped back a pace as she stormed towards them.

"You shut up!" she snapped. "I do what I want. I even stole from the trader!"

Rook blinked. She'd done what? When? How? The flicker of movement he'd seen and her disappearance suddenly began to make sense.

"Prove it," said Chuma.

Sneering, she reached under her tunic and pulled out a metal box that sparkled with purple. She pulled another from her britches. This sparkled too, but the green light it gave off was muted by a slick moistness on its surface. Rook stared in disbelief. They were lucky boxes, the most expensive of the trader's wares, and they were far too big to have been concealed under Pernelle's clothing like that.

"How?" he asked, momentarily lost for words.

"Got skills, ain't I? 87 Sneak. 94 Steal Item. 98 on Secrete Item too. 'S what I do!"

Rook tried to comprehend what she was saying. Those were incredible numbers, but what she'd done seemed impossible. Was that what happened when you neared the maximum value for a skill, assuming there was such a thing? Did your skills become ungodly? Beyond normal human abilities? It seemed impossible, yet with a Safe Fall skill in the 60s he'd managed to survive a fall from a high cliff face to hard ground with just a few aches and a nasty blow to the back of his head.

"You let her do this?" asked Wayland. "You know the trader will never deal with you again once he realizes what you did, right?"

That did seem to be the most obvious result, especially since she'd stolen from Godwin while he was already doing Rook a favor by giving him the manalight pendant for free. If the trader really was connected to all the other dungeon makers in the land, he could probably call in a few favours to get revenge too.

"She... does what she wants," he said, wishing that sometimes she didn't. Or at least, that she considered the implications of her actions first.

Wayland and Chuma turned to the other members of their group and spoke briefly. Their conversation was hissed in whispers to hide it from Rook's hearing, and at first the elf in particular seemed to be objecting to everything that was said. Eventually, the tone turned friendlier, if still somewhat reserved.

Wayland stepped forward and held out his hand. "Well, lad, I guess you do still have a few allies. Welcome to the Runaway's Dungeon."