Psilocybin Fifteen |
I was in the Brasslight Ventures, Limited headquarters, which was a surprisingly busy place for such a late hour in the evening. The man I was talking to was hanging out behind a counter that ran the length of the room.
The place was a little strange. I had expected something more formal. A sort of office, maybe? With a reception area then workspaces at the back, and maybe a larger area for the delvers to congregate in and do their things.
Instead, the Brasslight headquarters felt more like... well, it reminded me vaguely of an automotive parts store? Not a garage, but one of those places you could go to and order a new set of wipers, some parts for your engine and a pint of blinker fluid. Maybe it was the smell of the place? Some sort of detergent mixed with oils.
The gear on sale here was all delver stuff. Grapples, pole arms, shields, a rack at the back had armour of all sorts, then there were shelves behind glass doors with tinctures, powders and potions.
It wasn’t exactly an apothecary shop back there. It looked like they only really sold five or six different kinds of medicines, and they were all very specifically designed to tackle problems in the Wendell-Smith Dungeon.
The tools section was larger. Picks and spades, secateurs and other material-gathering implements. They even had wheelbarrows stacked up to one side.
“What was that, lad?” the man behind the counter asked.
“I’m looking for work,” I said. “In the dungeon.”
“My da started at the same age I am now,” I said. “I’m thirteen. I’m old enough. Just a bit thin, is all.”
That was a few lies all lined up in a neat row, but I’d done what I could to make them believable. My family name ‘McDiver’ was one of those delver families. It was like meeting a smith called Smith. Some names came with the profession, and delver was a decently lucrative job for someone without a deep education to pick up.
The McDivers of City Nineteen were pretty damned big. There were at least two of them working for Brasslight at the moment, and three at Whitmore & Hale. That wasn’t including all of the retired members, those that had quit on account of injuries, and the long list of dead McDivers.
“You have any idea how tough it is for a normal delver to find work nowadays, kid?” the man asked.
“I know, sir,” I said. “But I need the work, ever since pa... Sir, trust me. I’m a hard worker. Give me a chance? Don’t even need full pay. I just want some skills my uncles said would be mighty useful. I can train them up, be quiet in the back, and in a few years I’ll be the best damned delver you’ve ever seen.”
The man snorted.
I was walking a fine line here. Enthusiasm, a believable sob story, a healthy sprinkling of naivety.
He bought it.
The rest of the chat was quick and dirty, but I negotiated a price for my labour and an agreement to come back the next day to do a bit of training.
I showed up bright and early, wearing the same disguise. The headquarters had a decently large courtyard in the back that I discovered was used as a staging ground and training area. There was a spot with hay on the ground for people to spar in, and a modest stable with a few old donkeys within.
Stolen novel; please report.
Someone met me, a middle-aged man, with greying hair and a lithe build. He looked me up and down, then shrugged and pointed to some crates that needed moving into a cart.
So I did just that. They were damned heavy, and I found myself sweating soon enough even as I forced as hard as I could to get things into place. Eventually an older teen came and gave me a hand and I made small talk as we worked. He was a nice enough fellow, even if I instantly forgot his name. Also a second generation delver.
I listened to how he talked, poked him with innocent enough questions, and while I easily forgot about him I kept his background in mind. A few little details were going to become part of my own background.
The day was spent around the headquarters. Moving crates and mucking the stables and basically doing a long, honest day’s work.
I got a few half-pennies an hour for the effort. Half of what I’d have made in a factory. When I came back the next day and repeated a similar routine, I asked about that. Turned out that a lot of delvers got paid in cuts of the work, and since my work was... well, menial tasks, I got none of that cut. The amount I earned was a gesture of goodwill.
I did that for another week before hatching a scheme. It wasn’t complicated. I just didn’t bring food, and when I complained about the hunger and grew more lethargic... well, it wasn’t hard to cook up a little story about giving what I’d earned to ‘Ma’ and not having quite enough to bring a lunch over.
From there, I wheedled my way into getting some of the higher ups to agree to let me at least come to the dungeon and do some deliveries. Cargo and materials were often shipped around, and they definitely needed people to pull crates on and off the wagons.
It was another couple of days before I was on that task, but that was fine. I was patient. Plus the work was sometimes a little engaging.
It took a while before I was considered a regular, and that’s when I started to poison people.
It wasn’t anything extreme. If I wanted to be on the delver team, even as a supporter and someone carrying things at the back, then there needed to be room for me. One of the deliveries we sometimes did was food, from the headquarters to the dungeon.
It was a simple matter to sprinkle a little powder onto the containers. Delvers were tough men, but not the cleanest sorts. They didn’t wash their hands before handling their food. A tiny bit of powder from contact to the food boxes would get into their meal, and voila. Men with the runs, stomach cramps, a bit of sweat and light fever.
Nothing lethal, of course. I wasn’t here to kill people, mostly because that would raise suspicions. A few people calling it a day early? That was more reasonable.
The next day, a quarter of the shift was missing, and a quarter of those who had come looked pale and a little drawn. The foreman called out for some replacements from the headquarters and a few more folk showed up.
They managed, but it was more work for all involved.
And when there were a couple more guys with the runs the next day? Well, they needed workers, and would you look at that? I was right there, practically begging for the opportunity to prove myself.
The first day of actual work at the dungeon wasn’t anything special. I was one of the people pushing carts around the entrance. But one day became two, then three, and then I was a normal sight, knew some names, recognized faces, and I was trying my best to look like a hard working go-getter.
I was starting to worry, however, that this was taking too long. I was spending days away from the farm and home, and this wasn’t exactly next door. I was actually losing money as well, mostly on transportation to and from this part of the city. Not so much that I was worried, but still, it bothered me.
A few days later, however, I hit paydirt. Three men were injured deeper in the dungeon when something went wrong. A normal workplace injury.
“Hey, Davy!” the foreman shouted as I was pulling along a wheelbarrow. It was only half full compared to the other’s, but I did twice as many trips as them.
“Yeah, boss?” I called back.
“You ready to go a bit deeper? We could use some hands on the third floor.”
“What happened?” I asked, playing innocent.
“Don’t you worry about that. Just need a few strong arms down there to carry things back up,” he said. “You down for it?”
I grinned, wide and happy, and it wasn’t a ploy or a faked emotion. “I’d love that,” I replied. “When do you need me down there, and how far in can I go?”
🍄︎🍄️🍄︎