Chapter 457: Monitor Duty Gets Exciting |
Some time ago, after a battle in the myconian city...
Ur-Khemyst two-hundred and forty-seven sighed in boredom as he sat in a patched chair and began yet another game of Pyramid Alchemy. The simple but catchy card game was introduced to all children at an early age to introduce them to the concepts of binding and hierarchy in the alchemical pyramid. Cards were placed on a table and removed as more cards were dealt, one by one, and matched to other cards to form compounds and effects. To a fully trained alchemist, the game was barely entertaining and only the luck of the draw gave it any variability. It was so boring, that it was even allowed in the monitor chamber.
Two-hundred and forty-seven had to remind himself once again that he should feel honored to have the title of Ur-Khemyst and be in the Ur-Khemysts Guild of Blothbezmadan. It was the oldest and most prestigious of the guilds and all of the oldest families prepared their sons and daughters for initiation. Depending upon your family's reputation, political power, wealth, or the new Ur-Khemyst's talent, promotion could be very swift. Or, as two-hundred and forty-seven had found, glacially slow. His family name was old and prestigious, that was true. But the wealth of House Delurch, and its power, had waned over the years. At one time, when their Alchemical Tower produced over a thousand Draconic Tonics a month, the gold had poured into the family. Their ties to the Regal Dragon, Prince Goldscales had given them both a ready supply of ingredients from his cast off skins, and access to his Golden Pyramid of Wealth. They had reinvested the gold they earned into their patron's pyramid, and watched their wealth grow to astronomical levels.
On paper, at least. And very nice paper. The monthly reports were printed on fine velum and hand decorated by Elvish Scribes. Each was a work of art, showing the upward trend of the family's value. They were framed and mounted in the hallways of the family castle, a constant reminder to everyone of their position at the top of the wealthy families of Bloth. Keeping their wealth in the Pyramid also kept it safe from thieves, something that was stressed in the prospectus. But nefarious forces had targeted their Patron and his hoard of gold. Thieves and bandits from the dastardly Order of Heracles had first stolen much of the hoard in a single night while Goldscales was wooing Lady Fairwing in her silken lair. He emerged in the morning exhausted, and sore, only to see reports reports that 90% of his hoard was gone, and the tally dropping even as he flew quickly to his lair.
His panic and exhaustion may have played a role in his demise, but so did the spells from twenty-seven mages, thirteen arrows, and the halfling that dropped from above and cleaved his skull with an axe.
With Prince Goldscales death, and the disappearance of his hoard, the Golden Pyramid became shaky. An investigation showed that embezzlement had robbed it of most of its assets. The Draconik Council placed the blame on an unnamed Mystic Bookkeeper from the Order of Heracles, but nothing was ever proven. House Delurch saw its fortunes change quickly. They laid claim to the Prince's body as compensation, hoping that the tons of precious dragon parts would revive their fortunes, but even that had been taken by the cursed thieves. Despite each member of the family putting in nearly 30 hours a week overseeing the work at their Alchemical Tower, times became hard. They were forced to cut back on their weekly balls and parades, exotic 'Ingredient Gathering' vacations were cancelled except for those skilled enough to actually gather exotic ingredients, and the youngest members of the family were forced to excel without access to grade-enhancements. No money meant no bribes, and many were forced into the shameful habit of studying alchemy instead of high finance.
The family was not dislodged from their lofty tier in high society entirely, but their position dropped to the bare minimum needed to keep their people in the Guild, maintaining personal prestige, even if their position in the guild was low. Number two-hundred and forty-seven had started higher, but a the years went on and he failed to produce any new recipes, his number dropped. Currently, he wasn't even in a laboratory, holding the temporary-but permanent position as Head of the Monitoring Department. Being only one of two in the department, he worked half the day in this room, then tagged out and allowed his younger brother, Number two-hundred and forty-nine. to take over. The cards they played with had grown faded and thin over the last two years. Two-hundred and forty-nine still had hopes of regaining a lab position and studied part of the day. Two-hundred and forty-seven knew the harsher truth: He wasn't going back to a lab unless he dropped from the Guild and joined a lesser society. Both the Alchemical Brotherhood and the Yancy Street Potion Slingers had made him offers, but he was holding out for now. After all, he still had his family allowance. That would certainly go away if he broke ranks.
The small click of the board changing went almost unnoticed as he played cards. A number had gone dark. Excitement surged through him. People did die, after all, but usually not when active. Retired numbers kept their rank and were replaced by younger people who assumed the active number. Number Sixty-Four had gone dark. A sure sign of an accident somewhere. He was trying to find an alchemical pen to write his report when a second number, Forty-One, also went dark. He wondered if they were in the same lab and something had exploded? How anything could actually kill a high number Ur-Khemyst was beyond his knowledge. His own armor was meagre, but anyone above 100 was certainly outfitted with the best that they could afford.
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The guards were on duty, but also playing cards. He imbibed both a Hasty Flight potion, and another that strengthened his Aura of Command. He was past the guards before they noticed him and gave chase, bursting into the Parlor where he was stunned senseless by the auras of the high numbers there. Someone scowled, but Number Seven recognized him, a miracle.
"Spit it out, two-hundred and forty-seven. Who croaked?"
"Three of them, sir. Sixty-Four, then Forty-One, and finally, number Twenty-Seven!"
"Zounds! Three at once! This calls for an investigation. To the Executive Council Chamber, at once. I want to see anyone above Twenty-Seven there. We need to do work, not have potential brown-nosers vying for position. You as well, two-hundred and forty-seven, and I'm sure I don't have to remind you that lose lips can be sealed forever."
All two-hundred and forty-seven could do was nod, and follow them out of the room. He knew better than to utter a peep. Watch his cousin, One-Hundred and Sixty-Three turned into a gelatinous squidling when they were younger had impressed upon him the need for discretion. He found a low stool in a corner and crouched down while the high numbers of the Ur-Khemysts Guild of Blothbezmadan settled into their overstuffed chairs and lost no time sending down their orders for drinks and dinner, before spending an hour on rollcall and opening ceremonies. The discussion of what might have happened to the three missing members started over desert.
The mood in the parlor was muted as the high numbers left. Everyone there would vie for the position of twenty-seven, suddenly vacated. Several people left to report to their families and begin the political infighting. Number thirty-one, a more practical man with dozens of unique formula discovered, headed to his room where he wrote out a note, attached it to the leg of an enslaved pixie, and sent her out the window. Pixies made good messengers, able to fly fast and turn invisible. This one came from a line bred for obedience and elemental resistance. The journey was quick, but he was taking no chances. The news arrived at the office of the Supreme Council within seconds and the message brought to Number Two who looked at it and also wondered what had happened. But unlike the Guild the deceased came from, he had ways of finding out.
"Bring me the files on numbers Twenty-Seven, Forty-One, and Sixty-Four, of the Ur-Khemysts Guild of Blothbezmadan. Those old money idiots may not be the strongest acids on the shelf, but the high numbers should be powerful enough to deal with anything they run into on the Deep Roads. I believe they were on an expedition to the Council of Mycenians and doing business there. Also bring the Myconian file, and the files of our spies there. They ran into something there, or along the way that they couldn't handle, and couldn't run from. I need to know what that was. And gather Two through Ten, we need to talk about our actions, if any."
"And number one, sir?"
"I will inform number one, later. He is indisposed at the moment. His gout is acting up. How can we not have a cure for gout after all these years?" He knew though, that he would have to involve number one. Twenty Seven had carried an ancient relic of his family, a Sphere of Voidal Protection. Anything that could kill him when he carried that was a skilled and powerful assassin, and could be a threat to Blothbezmadan, and himself.
Messengers with Potions of Pure Speed burning in their veins quickly gathered the other members of the highest committee in Bloth, and the meeting began. Nothing much would be accomplished today other than a bit of posturing and long, boring details about the backgrounds of those missing. But Number Two knew this was important. Someone had killed three Ur-Khemysts, and that person must be found and destroyed, along with anyone connected to them. Bloth did not tolerate such rebellion, at least not with a high profit margin.