Book 5: Chapter 23 - Disguises (RAW)

A wise warrior does not burden himself with more blades than his hands can wield, nor does he train beyond the needs of his duty. To hoard weapons without purpose invites paranoia; to practice endlessly without cause wastes one’s strength. The farmer sharpens his plow, not a hundred swords, for his task is to till the earth, not wage war. The scholar refines his mind, not his spear, for wisdom, not battle, is his calling. Just as the archer does not carry more arrows than he can draw, so too must one prepare only as necessity demands, lest preparation itself become obsession.

- The Principles of Conflict by General Damien de Savant circa 234 AC.

I prepared, for war was coming to Al-Lazar, and the people of the city made sure no one could ignore it. Come sundown, the streets filled with the eerie cadence of death laments—an unsettling twist a call to prayer. In their strange logic, these “pre-grievings” supposedly purged the anguish that would otherwise cloud a man’s mind when real blood was spilled. They believed it better to get the sorrow over with before the fighting began. To prepare the mind for the possibility of death.

Yet more pressing to me personally, these endless wails were ruining my dinner. I sat in my room, trying to enjoy a meal alongside my ward Larynda. 

“They had this sort of thing back in Ansan?” I asked, setting down my spoon to glare at the curtained window where the noise droned on.

“Can’t really say,” Larynda replied with a shrug. “Never heard of it. In Ansan, Tides usually fight outside their borders, crossing the Grass Sea and all to attack them is sort of difficult. It’s quite the endeavor. So no, I don’t think they did.”

“Lucky, then,” I muttered. “You were spared this horrid caterwauling.”

Larynda cocked her head. “It’s not meant to be pleasant, I’m sure. It’s grief, after all.”

I sniffed disdainfully. “I find the whole ritual absurd. Grief isn’t something to schedule. It’s part of life’s joy—the unpredictability of it all. Yes, even the end.”

She gave me a sarcastic grin. “Oh? Death is meant to be joyful? And you’re a grief expert now?”

“I never claimed to be, and I never said that death was a happy occasion. How would you feel knowing that tomorrow you would die?” I retorted, tapping my fingers irritably on the table. “But I do know this noise is ruining what should have been a quiet meal. Enough about their odd customs. Did the libraries have what I asked for? Did you get the book?”

Larynda nodded, passing me a thick leather bound tome. “They did, though it cost me one silver piece just to get inside—and one gold for the deposit.”

I waved a hand dismissively. “Take what you need from the drawer. Keep the gold when you return the book.”

Larynda cleared her throat in a pointed, exaggerated way.

I sighed. “Fine. Take some extra for your Alchemical research. I guess there must be some advantages to having become a man of no small means. Still, quite the greedy one, aren’t you? And do not forget that it is my coin that feeds and clothes you.”

She shrugged. “Anyway… here’s what I learned from a few books and my time in the Guild: there’s an ancient city beneath the waves. Once the water recedes, the guild calls the places that open up ‘Trials.’ And…”

She began rattling off details with the proud flair of someone who reveled in their knowledge. As a Silver-Ranked adventurer, I let her have her moment. After all, even half-elves were just as prone to pride as a full-blooded human.

According to her, when the tides pulled back, the Mer clashed with the city-state of Al-Lazar for control of these Trials. The Trials closer to the sea were almost exclusively dominated by the Mer. Those nearer to the original shoreline fell under the range of Al-Lazar’s many war engines perched atop the city’s high walls, making them easy to hold. 

These Trials were distortions in reality—what another game world might call “dungeons.” They could manifest as nearly anything: a shimmering door, a twisting spatial rift, or a hidden passageway. No two Trials were the same.

It made me think. Was the Dust Dream I had experienced a more esoteric form of these Trials?

The Adventurer’s Guild in Al-Lazar held near-exclusive access to these places in exchange for pledging to defend the city in times of war. They cataloged every possible location, though not all appeared each time the sea withdrew. The guild measured a Trial’s threat level by its “resonance.” A distortion harmonizing with copper posed a low-level challenge that fresh recruits could potentially handle—if Luck was on their side—whereas one resonating with mithril heralded mortal danger, the kind that only the greatest of heroes might survive. Larynda beamed as she explained this was the basis for the guild’s ranking system.

The casualty rates, she added soberly, were off the charts. Most rewards consisted of mundane items that could be pawned off to more eccentric collectors. Fewer than one in a hundred returned with worthwhile loot—genuine magical and useful artifacts. Veteran teams sometimes killed each other over such treasures. Some Trials appeared only once and vanished forever, leaving behind more questions than answers. Scholars theorized they were twisted echoes of ancient battles, important historical events, or scenes from legend. 

Another working theory was that the Gods, despite their power, could not directly influence the world without cost. A Trial was a way they could empower their believers, albeit indirectly, with the cost of such intervention falling on the poor mortals.

Overcoming a Trial meant the rare chance of a powerful reward. Not that I needed to add another magical trinket to my growing collection, but the idea of it certainly had my interest.

Of course, I had no intention of actually stepping foot inside one. There was, however, more than one way to skin a cat. According to Larynda, the word was that more fresh adventurers were streaming into Al-Lazar by the prospect of less competition. I could easily make use of them.

So, if pushing back the Mer was the price, then so be it. Not to mention the potential experience to be earned on the battlefield.

This year, however, Al-Lazar was weaker than ever—partly because of me decimating the Adventurer’s Guild the Sultana’s Vizier had sourly pointed out. It was probably the reason that he needed every blade, offering obscene amounts of money to any who would defend the city in this most dire of straits.

“Thank you, Larynda,” I said, grateful for her explanation.

I was also grateful to see how much her manners had improved. Once upon a time, she would jab the air with her fork—or whatever utensil she had on hand—talking with a mouth full of half-chewed food. Now she simply nodded, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

She shrugged. “I live but to serve, samasa.”

I studied her for a moment. “Any word on Elwin? I recall you two were close… back when I was away.”

Her expression turned solemn. “Nothing. I’m beginning to worry.”

I offered her a small, reassuring smile. “He’s a survivor, that one. He’ll show up eventually. Probably off whoring or drinking somewhere; after everything he’s endured, he deserves a little debauchery.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’d think this city would be perfect for those pursuits.”

“Perhaps, but we have no way of finding him right now,” I replied with a weary sigh. “No sense wasting effort on a lost cause. Are you finished eating? Good. We need to address our next issue.”

She frowned, a hand drifting to one of her pointed half-elven ears. “Are you certain I have to do this?”

I met her gaze. “A wise saying goes, ‘The nail that sticks out gets hammered down.’ We’ve discussed this before.” I reached into my coat and pulled out a small, gleaming badge. “For tonight, swap badges with me.”

Her eyes flickered in hesitation. “You know that’s against Guild regulations,” she protested weakly.

I forced a laugh, its hollow echo underscoring my own unease. “Since when have you ever cared for rules, Larynda?”

“Usually,” she muttered, “when breaking them will hurt.”

My tone turned serious. “Trust me, you’ll feel nothing—or I’ll have the Doctor’s head.”

***

It was finally time to get something done that was long overdue.

Medicine in these parts was an odd beast: at rare times it rivaled even my old world, and yet in most cases it wallowed in the mire of gross malpractice and ignorance. But in a realm where healing potions—if not readily accessible to the masses—could at least be bought by those with sufficient coin, wounds knitted themselves in the span of a sigh. The marvel of modern surgery could scarce compare to that Alchemy of flesh and magic.

Even so, for the many who could not purchase the more wondrous elixirs, surgery was done by common folk wielding lesser potions. With the threat of infection all but banished, their methods were at once crude and almost miraculously effective. This evening, Larynda and I sought one such surgeon: Doctor Zahrawi, a man some called a sculptor of the flesh.

His clinic squatted on the outskirts of the Flower Quarter, at the bottom floor of a cramped old building where a solitary, dull crystal street light cast dancing shadows upon peeling walls. Zahrawi himself kept no kin, rarely ventured beyond his door, and had depended on the Bulls of Heaven for protection—so rumor said.

From the idle gossip of Niminia’s whores I had gleaned the rest: he was famed for his discretion, for the cunning of his knife, and an artistry that allowed anyone with enough gold to reforge themselves, delaying time’s ravages or conjuring new beauty from old flaws.

But on this night, we did not come for mere vanity.

I turned to Larynda, her long-lashed eyes watchful above the veil that hid her face. A silent command flickered in my gaze, and I spoke in a low voice meant only for her ears.

“Remember,” I said, “do not speak. I will handle this. If he hears you or glimpses your features…” I let the threat hover unspoken in the stale air.

She nodded, resigned, her eyes glimmering with a quiet fear.

“Good. Let’s be done with this.”

Inside the cramped clinic, a single lantern burned. Shelves overflowed with jars of foul-smelling tinctures, tools of shining steel, and stained rags that looked as though they had seen battlefields. The good Doctor Zahrawi emerged from the gloom like a pale specter of courtesy.

“Ah, a member of the esteemed Guild,” he said, offering me an ingratiating bow. “The hour grows late and I was just about to lock my doors for the evening, but should you—”

I cut him off by tossing a wad of Al-Lazarian notes onto the nearest counter. The currency was worth at least twenty gold, and the good Doctor’s eyes lit like a man glimpsing paradise.

“Well now,” he purred, rubbing his slender hands together. “One mustn’t appear lazy when a valuable patient is in need. Tell me, how might these humble skills serve you?”

Something in his tone reminded me of Vincenzio, a memory that set my jaw slightly on edge. I pulled away Larynda’s veil just enough to reveal her pointed ears.

“Her ears,” I said coldly. “They need to be cut to a human shape.”

Zahrawi sucked in a breath, his hands lifting in faint protest. “An elf? My dear patron, you realize that will reduce her worth. To take the knife to such elegance would be a travesty against my art.” His eyes flicked over Larynda. “And even so, without changes to her bone structure, the transformation will be incomplete. Any man with eyes would be able to see that she is an elf, if that is your design. My art is in revealing hidden beauty, not in—”

“I trust this will assuage any… artistic reservations,” I interrupted, flinging a smaller bundle of notes onto the first. Though my laughter was meant to sound cavalier, a certain edge sharpened the mirth. I would not endure much more haggling; if it came to it, the doctor would not survive the next few minutes.

He cleared his throat. “I see. Well, the procedure itself is straightforward enough. With Leharnum extract, she won’t have to remain conscious. Of course, there are more affordable ways—”

“Give her the extract,” I snapped back in a voice that would brook no dissent. “I have paid you well enough.”

An avaricious smile curved his lips, and he crept toward Larynda with the unctuous eagerness of a merchant who smells profit. “Of course, of course. I will prepare the sedative. Allow me to remove her veil and—”

In one swift motion, I caught his wrist. My glare fixed him to the spot. “You will not look upon her face,” I growled. “Under no condition. I will remain here for the entirety of the procedure. My payment has secured your skill and your discretion. Is that clear?”

A nervous bob of his head was all the answer he could muster, beads of sweat dotting his brow. Fear settled into his eyes then, like a rabbit cornered by a hawk.

He would not betray us, for gold’s sake if nothing else. And, if he valued his life even half so much, he would see this business through quickly.