Marc Rivers, Author

The coasts of the Inner Estéan Sea were always inviting, with their soft sand and gentle waves caressing the shore. As the rising sun broke the spell of the dark storm clouds that had come before, it was a perfect invitation for Wilbrand to go wading along the beaches, an invitation made all the more appealing with the prospect of picking his way through the remnants of a shipwreck.

A particularly vicious storm had ripped through the region the previous night, whipping the sea that dominated the interior of the continent into a fury that tested even the bravest of souls. Two of those souls commanded ships bound for the city-state of Brightstar, a bustling port situated neatly on the westernmost point of a large peninsula.

One ship, The Pride of Green Harbor, had made it heroically into the safety of the harbor, a stunning result that was sure to earn her captain free drinks and no lonely nights in the city for a few moon’s turns at least. As for the other ship, Hilde’s Comfort, she hadn’t made the harbor so much as made it to several miles’ worth of the beach north of the city proper.

It wasn’t that Wil was cold or indifferent to the loss of life – living surrounded on three sides by the sea, these things happened and were just the way of the world. Tacarros, the God of Catastrophes, was well-known in these parts. But Wil was a self-described “industrious opportunist,” a description that never seemed satisfactory to the city watch on the all-too-frequent occasions they questioned his business. And there were few opportunities for one who was “industrious” to pad their coin purse quite like foraging through the aftermath of a ship that met a premature end on the seas.

He arrived at the first traces of the wreck, already washed ashore. The bulk of it would still be half a mile or more ahead. That would be the optimal place to start looking, especially if other opportunists like himself hadn’t gotten there yet. Along the way, he kept an eye out for anything catching the light in the shallow coastal waters. Nothing stood out. When at last he reached the bulk of the wreckage, he began his search in earnest.

Nothing particularly caught his eye there, either. There was only one other scavenger looking through the bits of debris, and he was doing so with a much more disinterested air than Wil. It was as if he didn’t actually expect to find anything valuable. It could be a ruse, Wil thought. I’ll have to be clever with my questions to suss out his motives.

“A-ho!” the lad called out to the stranger. “Find anything yet?”

The man, who looked to be in his mid-twenties, just a few years Wil’s senior, looked up and nonchalantly answered, “Nothing of interest. I doubt my shirt is worth getting wet to inspect any closer, either. But what did you expect? This ship hailed from Grendúna. If it’s anything high-quality you want, those bumpkins are the wrong ones to ask.”

That was a fair point. Grendúna wasn’t exactly renowned for its master artisans or its surplus wealth of precious metals or gems. It was at the far western reach of Galtic territory and supposedly named for its most remarkable feature: green hills. That said, neither hills nor verdure were in short supply throughout Estéa, so it was really more of an indictment against the backwater kingdom that no one could think of anything more interesting to name it.

Suddenly it made more sense why there wasn’t a larger crowd picking their way through the flotsam of Hilde’s Comfort. Not only had Tacarros made his influence felt, but apparently Tennihwa, the God of Minor Inconveniences, had shown up to add insult to everything on top of it. With Wil’s luck, the biggest score he could hope to find here was a bulk collection of tunics.

Finding a large crate whose top was above the lapping waves, Wil sat down to ponder his next move. The cool water felt good on his bare feet; it helped him to think. Today doesn’t have to be a waste. I can just pop on down to see Evoric and ask if he’s heard any news.

While he was idly wondering what his next move should be, Wil caught sight of an object bobbing amongst the wreckage. He would have ignored it as just another piece of splintered hull, except that it was catching the light and glinting more than the debris around it.

Never one to ignore the call of something shinier than its surroundings, he got up to inspect it and discovered it to be a dark, wooden box of much higher quality than anything else washing ashore. Taking a quick peek at the other man on the scene and finding him more engrossed in collecting a particularly decorative starfish than in collecting valuables, Wil ventured a more thorough examination of the box.

It was made of dark cherry wood, adorned with ornate carvings depicting various natural scenes. On its front was an elaborate brass lock, finer than any he had ever before encountered. Just as notable as the masterwork craftsmanship was how the box felt in his hands – it was only mildly damp. It had to have been floating in this water for at least a couple of hours by that point, but it was not even close to being waterlogged. Maybe it just recently fell in, he reasoned.

Turning the thing over in his hand, he saw that the light danced not off the entire surface, but only parts of it. Looking closer, he saw strange markings, as if they were some sort of language, carved – or perhaps “impressed” would be the better word – into the wood.

Now, Wil was no expert in the manufacture or trade of magical items, but his first impressions of this unusual item were leading him to believe he had stumbled upon just such a find. The box’s resistance to water, its strange markings, and even the way it seemed to gleam even when it wasn’t in direct sunlight, all added up to one inescapable conclusion: he had just made the find of his life!

This box is a marvel on its own – I can’t even imagine what’s inside! Indeed, the thought of the box’s contents carried him away to all manner of fanciful daydreaming. He gave the box a quick shake, but heard nothing moving inside. Probably some magical enchantment on the box muffling the sound, he concluded.

To be certain, Wil had no concern for the precise nature of the box’s contents, but the money he could pull in from fencing them did pique his interest. Such a fortune would set him up like a king! He could have his own castle. Or maybe a harem. Or even a harem in a castle!

He was preoccupied by the possibilities, envisioning his surely comfortable future, when an inconsiderate crab chose that moment to test its pincer’s strength against one of his toes.

“Yeeow! Tennihwa’s crooked teeth!” Bringing his foot out of the water, Wil tried frantically to kick the offending creature off, but only succeeded in losing his footing and falling backward into the shallow water, losing his grip on the strange box and tossing it out toward the sea, whereupon the crab at last showed the courtesy to release its grip and go about its business.

Sitting back up in a panic, Wil cast his eyes about for the box and saw it bobbing calmly a few yards away. Trudging through waist-deep water, he made a lunging dive for it, only to have it slip through his fingers. A second attempt was equally futile, but on the third try, he finally regained control of the valuable piece of debris. Having finally retrieved the box, he afforded himself one last thought of what he would buy first with his endless riches, and made his way back toward town.

* * *

He made his way cautiously through the streets of Brightstar. Crowds of people were already going about their day and Wil was acutely aware of how conspicuous he looked, soaked from head to toe as he was, and toting an ornate box under his arm. He hadn’t brought a cloak or anything with which to hide it, and he worried that every pair of eyes that looked his way was coveting his prize. He frequently had to stop and wait in an alley for a group of people to pass, just in case. After nearly half an hour (including two detours when he found himself on the same block as the city watch), he made it back to his apartment, a cramped and stuffy one-room dwelling on the fourth floor of a block of such homes.

He didn’t intend to stay there long; it was summer, and soon the daytime heat would become oppressive, forcing him outdoors, where he would normally prefer to be throughout the day. His lockpicks were in his apartment, however, and he had tests to perform on this “treasure box” away from prying eyes.

Setting to work, he quickly discovered that this would be a harder task than he had anticipated. The lock was obviously a step or three up in quality from what he was used to, and his tools were rudimentary. He had inherited them from his uncle, in that his uncle didn’t seem to be using them anymore and Wil was fairly certain his uncle wouldn’t raise a fuss if they found themselves in Wil’s safekeeping. So far, there were no complaints.

He poked around for five minutes with no luck. His tools were completely ineffectual on the lock. He knew they weren’t of the highest quality material, but that still didn’t account for how they bent like rubber when he tried to thwart the brass mechanisms before returning to their original shape when they pulled away.

Becoming more confident in the nature of thing he was holding in his hands, he tried to circumvent this defense via the hinges on the back. No such luck there, either. When he found himself unable to remove the pins, he resorted to a hammer and chisel in an attempt to break the hinges. He offered a brief apology to no one in particular, but he felt it was a necessary sacrifice to reach whatever was contained within. His apology immediately proved unnecessary, as his chisel shattered into half a dozen pieces on the very first blow, leaving him with an empty wooden handle in his hand and a perplexed look on his face.

As annoying as this development was, it was not insurmountable. Though Wil couldn’t get to the box’s contents right now, he felt certain his network of contacts would direct him to someone who could. And he knew just where to start. Donning a traveler’s cloak, he took his prize under his arm and sprightly made his way back outside.

Deftly weaving his way through the indifferent crowds of people, Wil flitted through the streets of Brightstar with an instinctual grace. He had lived his entire life in the city and knew not only its streets, but its ways and its soul. He could move effortlessly through the crowds because he was of the crowd. The city and its nature were written on his bones.

Brightstar was old. It was a Galtic city, ostensibly having been founded centuries ago by one of the innumerable waves of Galts migrating ever-westward until they ran up against the sea and swamps that formed such formidable natural boundaries. But its full history predated the Migrations by millennia. Anthars had come and gone through the region, unrecorded and unmemorialized, longer than anyone had ever bothered to keep track of that sort of thing.

Local legends also held that the Monarian hero-deity Kamatres himself had ventured as far as the peninsula where Brightstar now sat, having reached the area after breaking through the stone giants’ defenses that had contained Estéa’s first humans to the continent’s westernmost reaches. Perhaps he did and perhaps he didn’t. Certainly enough people believed it to warrant a majestic statue of the man that was prominently situated at the intersection of three major boulevards.

But the worship of an accomplished hero who wasn’t around anymore to correct anybody could be stretched to its limits. A 20-foot-tall statue showing a jealously unattainable physique was one thing – the countless businesses and shops claiming a direct connection to him were another. Many inns sported signs brazenly proclaiming “Kamatres slept here,” including the very inn Wil was passing at that moment. It was an especially bold claim, considering Wil had a conscious memory of that very structure being built when he was a child.

At length, he reached an alley between a tailor’s shop and a block of flats that some in the snobbish class might call “disreputable.” It was really less of an alley and more of a gap between the buildings that had gotten there by the whims of construction and just so happened to reasonably accommodate a person passing through on occasion.

Wil took one last glimpse to either side to see if anybody was following him. He didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary, save for a robed figure at the end of the street. He couldn’t make out precise details in the brief glimpse he got, but the dark green robes appeared more refined than one would expect in this neighborhood. The person didn’t appear to be moving in Wil’s direction, at any rate, and they certainly weren’t a member of the watch, so he proceeded down the alley.

After a couple dozen yards, he passed a rickety wooden staircase and turned around. Hidden behind the stairs, well away from prying eyes on the road, was a very small door, no more than four feet in height, with two movable slots for peepholes.

Wil gave a quick series of knocks, not elaborate, but distinct nevertheless. Almost immediately, the lower of the two slots opened, a mere two feet off the ground. A pair of eyes framed by a grimy face peered through and a fresh, high-pitched voice asked, “What’s the password?”

“I just gave it,” Wil said, a bit nonplussed. He recognized the eyes and voice as belonging to Cass, a lad of no more than seven, precocious in many ways, yet still frustratingly dim in many others. “What is your sister doing letting you stand guard? And when did you get a second peephole?”

“One question at a time!” the tiny voice countered. “Password.”

Wil aimed a kick at the open peephole. “I told you I already gave it, you little rat turd! What do you think that knock was?”

“Is that it?”

“Yes!”

“One moment,” the voice said before swiftly closing the slot, then just as swiftly reopening it, adding “please,” and closing it again.

Pressing his ear to the door, Wil could make out a hushed debate happening on the other side, though the words weren’t distinct. As soon as the slot reopened, he snapped back to attention. Cass had a much more respectful tone as he asked, “Could you knock again, please?”

With a sigh, Wil repeated the knock he had given before. He could see Cass’s head turn around before the peephole closed. He heard the heavy bolt behind the door move and the door swung open.

On the other side was Cass, standing on the landing of a set of stairs that led down below the street. The landing itself was situated a considerable step below street level, accounting for the low positioning of the apparently newly added peephole. Behind Cass was a small ledge with a window overlooking whatever was below, whereupon was seated a young lady in perhaps her very late teens, reclining back as she sat, one leg crossed over the other and lazily bouncing it. “Sorry ‘bout that,” she said. “It’s his first day.”

Wil stepped down onto the landing, ignoring Cass and subconsciously sucking in his stomach at bit as he spoke to the young woman. “No trouble at all, miss. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. My name’s Wilbrand.” He held out his free hand in the most gentlemanly manner he could manage.

“Ogiva,” she replied, making no effort whatsoever to accept Wil’s offer for a handshake.

“And what’s your relation to this young rapscallion?” he asked, nodding in Cass’s direction.

“He’s my kid brother,” she added.

Wil was taken aback. Turning to Cass, he dropped the refined façade and leaned in to whisper, “I remember your sister looking different.”

“You’re thinking of Rosa,” he answered. “Ogiva’s my other sister.”

“Wait… You mean you have two sisters?” Wil realized. Standing back up, he licked his fingers and ran them through his hair in an incredibly futile effort to look more presentable. He then sidled up beside the young woman and said, “My apologies for my earlier harsh words toward your brother, miss. I certainly meant no disrespect. It’s just that children of his age need the occasional … correction. You understand, I’m sure.”

Giving him a quick glance up and down, Ogiva said, unimpressed, “Now I see what Rosa was talking about.”

“And what sorts of things were talked about, perchance?”

“Nothing flattering, that’s for sure.”

“Then I assure you it was all lies,” Wil defended. “Or at the very least, she was simply woefully uninformed, I suspect through no fault of her own.”

With saintly patience, Ogiva replied, “You’re not getting it, are you?”

“Come on, you’re not going to listen to what Rosa says about me, are you? Again, not that she would have a reason to say anything bad.”

“As a matter of fact, I do happen to believe my sister. So…” Ogiva made a shooing motion with her hand and gave Wil an expectant look.

“What if I told you what brought me here today? I bet I could pique your interest. Ow!” Wheeling on Cass, he gave a withering glare to the youth who had just interrupted him with a well-placed kick in the shins. The fury in Wil’s eyes could have wilted a sunflower.

Ogiva spoke up. “Cass! What do you tell the man?”

“Stay away from my sister!”

“Very good! Such a smart boy.”

Realizing his cause was lost, Wil regathered himself, and with the most indignant hmph! he could muster, he grabbed one edge of his traveler’s cloak and dramatically flung it to the side as he began to descend the stairs.

“I’ll tell Rosa you said ‘hi’!” Ogiva taunted after him. Wil was already too far down the steps for her to see the decidedly ungentlemanly gesture he gave in reply, but it brought him a modicum of consolation nonetheless.

Once at the bottom of the stone steps, Wil continued toward his destination. Brightstar was a vibrant city, home to people from all walks of life, with all the accents, fashions, and cuisines that came with them. But Wil had long felt that in order to get a true taste of the city, one had to acquaint themselves with the undercity.

There was far less planning put into the design of Brightstar’s underground than its majestic boulevards and avenues paved with flagstones decorated with artisans’ designs. The undercity was more of an accidentally connected series of warrens, sewers, a few catacombs, and the occasional wine cellar, when the lord of the house didn’t venture into the basement often enough to notice the “renovation” work.

There was a unique culture down here. Some would shy away from places such as this on the erroneous assumption that the culture was “seedy” or “dangerous” or that it was populated with “every manner of larcenous, dishonest reprobate that ever drew breath,” as one particularly sanctimonious noble had once put it. But Wil knew that such a description couldn’t be further from the truth. Surely not every manner of reprobate lived down here – there was only so much space, even in a city of this size.

Besides, Wil happened to know a few people who were quite upright, if he did say so himself. They were merely judicious about who they shared their upright character with. Sometimes a reputation as a greedy cutthroat could come in dead useful.

His first destination would be Blind Ed, a merchant with a keen eye for appraising most goods, or if he couldn’t, the business connections to send loyal customers like Wil to someone who could. In this case, that someone would need to have some passing proficiency in magic just to get the box open and know what the valuables even were.

Just as Wil was turning down the tunnel that would take him to Blind Ed’s store, he thought he heard the door at the top of the stairs close. He couldn’t see the landing from where he stood, but there was no audible conversation to speak of. He strained to listen for a few moments before continuing on his way. I need to stop being so jumpy, he reminded himself. I know whatever’s in this box is valuable, but that doesn’t mean the city watch knows I have it.

Nevertheless, he found himself being warier than usual. He frequently stole glimpses over his shoulder, doing his level best to look in every direction to disguise his unease and pass it off as casual environmental awareness. He would have relaxed sooner, except that on one occasion, he glanced a person several paces behind him wearing a well-tailored, dark green robe, one with clearly nice fabric along the hems and sporting lots of pockets and pouches, not dissimilar from the person he had espied earlier.

If he had to guess, the person looked like a mage of some kind. That in itself wasn’t particularly unusual. Brightstar was home to one of the few mage’s towers in Estéa, mysterious enclaves where spell-weavers gathered to do gods-knew-what. Of course, wizards and the like made their way to the undercity as well – some of their spell components were known to be difficult to come by on account of being “unbecoming of well-bred society and genteel sensibilities.” But they normally didn’t operate so openly down here, nor would one usually want to put so much effort into staying within line of sight of someone like Wil.

He’s not looking for me, is he? Can’t be. He doesn’t know. And besides, it came from a shipwreck. Or was it meant for him? Does he know some spell to track it? Okay, calm down, Wil. You’re reading too much into it. Don’t you know how delusional this sounds? What could the odds possibly be that—oh, I’m here!

Wil had been so caught up in his preoccupation over potentially being followed that he had reached his destination before he knew it. Tucked in among the many, many nooks and crannies of the undercity was an unassuming storefront consisting of a clumsily built wooden counter with two mismatched shutters. The whole thing was scarcely more than three feet wide, just enough for the proprietor to have some room to either side of his shoulders when he was leaning on the front counter. Customers could also get a glimpse inside of some of his stock, but the room behind was kept remarkably dimly lit. Considering most, if not all of his goods were fenced, it was hardly a surprise.

The window was open when Wil arrived. Blind Ed, the store owner, was at his usual spot, behind the counter, resting his weight on it as he leaned forward, arms nearly crossed. He shaved his head bald, making it impossible to tell just how much hair he truly had left and even what color it ought to be. His age was difficult to pin down. His face bore the lines of experience, but not so many lines that he seemed as though he ought to be bouncing a grandchild on his knee.

He found Ed engaged in conversation with another man roughly Wil’s age in appearance, if not a couple of years older, with stringy brown hair and a lean, feral build that was nearly totally swallowed up in his traveler’s cloak. This other man noticed Wil first, and a simple nod to Ed caused the shopkeeper to turn and look.

“Mornin’, Ed!” Wil called out.

“Perhaps,” Ed replied in his typical even-keeled caution. “I take it from the mystery bundle under your cloak that you’re here for business?”

“I am!” he replied, unable to conceal his growing excitement. The visions of riches untold were becoming more solid in his mind by the minute. “I, uh, hope you understand if I’m reluctant to conduct business in the company of strangers.”

“Certainly,” Ed answered. He nodded in the direction of the brown-haired man and explained, “This here is Three-Fingered Alric. Just another business associate. You two are both in the same line of work.”

Extending his free hand, Wil gave Alric an unnecessarily stiff handshake, jealous of a perceived rival. That jealousy was tempered by the satisfaction of knowing what he’d recovered that morning, however. “How do you do?” he asked in an overly professional manner that probably gave away his instant distrust of this newcomer.

The other man took Wil’s hand in a cordial fashion, ignoring the aura of animosity, and replied, “Very well, thanks. And you?”

Wil dropped his standoffish demeanor to examine Alric’s hand and noticed that it appeared to be completely intact. Dropping that hand and reaching for the other, Wil saw that it, too, had its full complement of digits.

“I distinctly remember learning to count,” Wil said. “But did I mishear him call you ‘Three-Fingered Alric’?”

“It’s just a nickname,” the man replied. “Helps with establishing business connections, you know. Can’t just go by your real name all the time. Some people expect a little style.”

“So you’re not missing any fingers? Not even so much as a fingernail that got caught in a door?” The brown-haired man simply smirked and shook his head.

Turning to Ed, Wil asked somewhat accusatorially, “Is that why people call you ‘Blind Ed’? Because I can’t help but notice that in all the years I’ve known you, your vision seems remarkably unimpaired. Better than normal, in fact, with as dark as you keep your storeroom. Or is that it? Is it that you can move around so well in the dark, people started calling you ‘Blind’?”

“Nope,” the storekeeper answered. “It’s pretty much what Alric here said. Helps people remember you better.”

“I suppose it does beat just going by ‘Ed’…”

“Yeah, that wouldn’t work as well, especially seeing as how my name’s not even Ed.”

“What?!” The shopkeeper simply nodded in affirmation. “Edward, then? Is that what it’s short for?”

“Nope.”

“Edgar?”

“No.”

“Edulf.”

“Nu uh.”

“Edelbern!”

“Still no.”

Struggling to contain his mounting embarrassment, Wil countered, “You know, between you and Alric of the Ten Fingers, I’m beginning to have doubts about the trustworthiness of your business circle.”

“Trust only gets you so far in this line of work,” Ed replied. “Shouldn’t mean we can’t still do business. I mean, it’s not like your real name is Wil, is it?”

There was a pregnant pause as Wil nervously drummed his fingers on the wooden box and glanced back and forth between Ed and Alric. Hastily, he changed the subject. “Look, can you point me to the person I need to see about this or not?”

“Sure,” Ed humored him. “Whatcha got?”

Taking one more disdainful look at Alric, Wil opened his cloak and presented the masterfully crafted box. “Retrieved just this morning from what was left of Hilde’s Comfort.”

Ed inquired, “That was the one coming from Grendúna, yeah? The one that didn’t make it through last night’s tempest?”

“I know, I know what you’re thinking: nothing good comes out of there. I thought so, too, but this was a hidden jewel. Look!” Handing the box over to Ed, he watched as the shopkeeper turned the thing over expertly in his hands and gave it detailed scrutiny, eyeing minute details. Wil happily noticed that even in this dim lighting, the box still seemed to reflect more light than was actually hitting it.

Wil proudly added, “All I need is a tiny bit of assistance getting someone to open it. And I know you’re a well-connected man, so…”

After a few moments of examination, Ed asked, “How many more of these were on the ship?”

“Well, I certainly didn’t see any more than this one. But could you imagine?”

“I could,” Alric added with a hint of smugness.

“Yes, I’ll bet,” Wil countered. “And if you can also imagine what’s inside this, and how much I can get for it, then please do. Then remember that I found it, and Blind Ed’s ‘service fees’ notwithstanding, I am going to be set up rather comfortably in no time.” This time it was Wil’s turn to smile at Alric, channeling all the smugness he could muster in the process.

“Things like this don’t come from Grendúna very often. People tend to know about it…” Looking up, Ed continued, “Did you notice anything or anyone … unusual on your way down here?”

“I saw Cass on guard duty at the top of the stairs. That was certainly unusual.”

“I meant did anyone follow you?”

Indignantly, Wil answered, “Ed! How many times have I come to see you and not once have I been tailed. I’m practically a shadow, a breath on the wind, when I move through the streets! Like a ghost I move unseen–”

“I think he’s wondering if someone like that followed you,” Alric interrupted.

“Like who?”

Alric gave a nod and Wil followed the direction indicated. Standing placidly, but purposefully, at the end of the cramped alley, was a man dressed in elaborate robes, dark green and multi-pocketed, with elaborate gold embroidery around the hems, looking altogether markedly out of place in the disreputable undercity.

Wil added, “I mean… He looks a little familiar, I suppose. I remember passing someone like him on the way down here.”

Without another word, Wil doubled over as the box was tossed forcefully into his midsection. Catching just enough of his breath to also catch the box before it hit the stone ground, he looked up to discover that Blind Ed had closed the shutters to his shop window with alarming speed and was audibly in the process of bolting them shut several times over.

Looking to his left, he also saw that Alric had disappeared around the corner with equal swiftness, the brief glimpse of the hem of his cloak being the only evidence he had even been standing there.

As though he had been waiting for just such a cue, the robed man began to walk calmly but directly toward Wil. Well, shit.

By this point, Wil could confidently say that things had officially gone sideways. Just moments ago, he was about to take a step toward learning the very expensive contents of the perfectly unattended magic box he’d recovered from a shipwreck. Now he was weaving through crowds of people while being chased by men in fine, dark green robes that most definitely identified them as mages.

One of them – and there was more than one, with a new one seemingly popping out of every corner – uttered some bizarre incantation when Wil turned a corner and found himself mere yards away from the man. Before the younger man could pull up and turn around, he smacked hard into something invisible that nevertheless felt as solid as a brick wall. Thankfully he was able to shake it off, find an alternate route, and continue his escape.

He had tried the steps leading back up to the city streets, but there was another mage stationed at the top. To Wil’s indignation, Cass and his sister Ogiva were waiting expectantly behind the man. He would have been inclined to believe that they’d been intimidated or ensorcelled into compliance, except that he saw the look on Ogiva’s face that anticipated something thoroughly entertaining to happen should Wil try to force his way up the steps, and knew that it was completely genuine.

Trying any way he could to throw off his pursuers, Wil darted into a deep recess off one of the myriad nameless paths through the undercity. The dark cranny was scarcely more than five feet wide, and much of that was taken up by stacks of crates that offered the best kind of hiding spot he could ask for.

Tucked beside the crates, just inside the narrow tunnel, was a small door, in front of which was an old, hunched-over woman sitting on a stool, idly twirling a cane in her fingers and watching the world go by. Her seating area was decorated with all manner of odds and ends that had been scavenged over the years. The patchwork curated art collection consisted of reassembled bits of old stained glass windows, iron scraps assembled and welded into some sort of roughly humanoid or perhaps even ursine shape, several half-melted candles whose own dripped wax at the base was all that was keeping them upright, and an inexplicable wind chime made from tarnished silverware.

She looked up and flashed a toothless grin Wil’s way, happy for some company, but the young urchin couldn’t indulge her in any conversation at the moment. Placing one finger over his mouth, he carefully stepped around her curious collection, taking pains not to disturb anything that would make noise and give away his position. Slowly giving her assemblage a wide berth, Wil failed to notice the old woman’s cat sleeping on the ground near one of the crates.

He had barely detected something underfoot when the cat let out a loud shriek that echoed off the grimy stones with uncanny clarity. Jumping backward in a panic, Wil clattered directly into the old lady’s silver wind chimes, making an even louder din. With the cat’s echo only just beginning to fade, and the silver chimes ringing in his ears, Wil then had to contend with the now thoroughly upset old crone repeatedly bringing her cane down on him in a fury. Wil brought one arm up to shield himself while she shouted something unintelligible at him. She got in about five good whacks before he stepped back to get out of reach of her makeshift weapon, only to find he was now back within reach of the cat’s natural weapons. The animal launched itself at his face, raking and clawing with all the indignation of an animal that had just been rudely awakened.

Finally able to use his free hand to pry the animal off him, he staggered out of the cramped hallway and was greeted by the sight of one of the mages pointing in his direction and calling to one of his nearby fellows, “There he is!” Chagrined and bleeding, Wil resumed the chase.

After another minute of frantic pursuit, Wil still had not shaken his trackers. Strangely, for all the “chasing,” he was the only one who seemed to be running. The robed men never seemed to go any faster than a brisk walk, yet somehow there was always one ahead of him at the most inopportune time. He didn’t know these labyrinthine passages quite as well as the streets above, but he still thought he would have had the advantage over anyone who wasn’t at home among Brightstar’s underbelly.

Are they casting illusions on me? Making me think I’m running in a direction I’m not? Are they herding me deeper into their web like a spider? Wait, spiders don’t ‘herd’; that’s a weird analogy. How can I get out of here? Will they keep following me if I do? How did they find– Wait! Is it something in the box? I bet that’s it! They’re divining my location that way. Something in here is calling out to them. Maybe if I just leave it… But I’ve already put in so much work. And they’ll probably turn me into something unnatural in their rage. Might as well at least get something for all my troubles, right?

Before he could settle on an answer for his internal debate, he rounded a corner and found himself face-to-face with one of the mages. He pulled up just short of the man, but was so shocked to find himself so close, he couldn’t react when the man uttered an arcane word and placed all the fingers of his right hand on Wil’s chest.

It was firm without being forceful, and clearly not meant to inflict any sort of harm, at least not in a direct way. But Wil would have preferred it if he’d met a fist when he rounded the corner – at least a punch was straightforward and understandable. Depending on who was delivering the punch, it could sometimes double as not only the final word of an argument, but also the invitation to smooth things over with a couple of beers afterward.

This was none of those things. As soon as the mage placed his fingers on Wil’s chest, the young man felt something go through his body and all his muscles went rigid in response. Just like that, he couldn’t move. Nothing worked – not his legs, his arms, nor even his neck. He was stiff as a board, still breathing, and able to turn his eyes with great strain, but nothing more. It was terrifying enough, but made even more worrisome considering he was beginning to tip backward. Well, this won’t end well.

Almost miraculously, someone caught him from behind as he was on his way to cracking his head open on the grimy cobblestones. Their grip was sure and delicate. Hooray! he thought with relief. No sooner was he laid gently on the ground than he saw that his rescuer was another of the mages. Oh. Not hooray, then.

He stared helplessly as four men, including the one who’d paralyzed him with a mere touch, gathered around him. All of them were wearing those robes unmistakably identifying them as belonging to some magical order or another. None of them were nearly as young as he was, but neither were any of them wizened and wrinkled with a beard nearly to their knees. One man did have a magnificently groomed full beard, but it was more like a sailor’s length of beard and not that of someone who’s been hermetically cloistered away for the last half of a century and misplaced their razor.

One of the mages clapped his fellow on the shoulder, the one who’d stricken Wil with paralysis, and gave him a friendly compliment on a job well done. “Scurrying little fellow, wasn’t he?”

“Felt a bit like chasing your cat, eh, Fulk?”

“And just like with the cat, none of you seem to know the trick to it,” the man called Fulk replied with a chuckle.

“Okay, let’s have a look, shall we?” said another as he leaned down and grasped the box with both hands. It was still firmly in Wil’s grip, made all the more vise-like by the spell that had robbed him of his mobility. After several seconds of vigorous pulling, the mage finally wrenched the box free and gave it a quick once-over. “Seems to be fine. Do you want the honors, Ebrim?”

He handed the box to another mage, who took it and, after inspecting the elaborate lock for a second, adjusted the box so that he could hold it with one hand. Then, taking his free hand, he traced his finger over the lock while softly whispering a spell of some kind. It lasted about three seconds, after which a soft click could be heard and Ebrim casually opened the box’s lid.

Reaching in, he pulled out a small scrap of paper, rolled and bound with simple string. He then tipped the box upside-down and gave a couple of quick shakes, as though checking for anything else that might be clinging to the inside. When nothing followed, he handed the box – now plainly devoid of gems, wands, eldritch artifacts, or anything else of value – over to one of his fellows, removed the string from the roll of paper, unfurled it, and began to read.

This is it, Wil thought. He’s going to cast a spell from that scroll and turn me into some miserable creature, to leave me to die alone and forgotten down here. Probably a toad or a newt or a cockroach. And all because I had to go and take some stupid magic box that didn’t even have anything in it I could sell! I should have known better. But no, I had to have the nerve, the HUBRIS, to believe that I could escape whatever dark fate was in store for whoever took it.

Clearing his throat, the mage read aloud, in perfectly ordinary Common speech, “Lourens, we hope your wife, Thieda, enjoys this memento box. We’re confident she will appreciate it. Tassilo put great care into it, and we’re quite proud of the results, ourselves. Give our best to your children. Sincerely, Talaren, Recimir, and Beremud. P.S., Shadow’s Edge hasn’t been quite as lively since you left. We hope your new peers at Brightstar’s mages’ tower are appreciating your company as much as we did.”

That seemed to elicit contented nods all around from the mages, one of whom said, “Good. Glad to know we didn’t go through all this trouble for nothing!”

“I think the young man deserves something for retrieving it for us, don’t you?” asked another. There were more nods of agreement, and Wil’s heart began to race. Would they show pity after all? Or was this merely false hope before they laid some baleful curse upon him?

The mage who suggested the reward fished through his pockets for a moment before producing a gold coin, one that was fairly new and unused, from the looks of it. It glinted in the meager light of the undercity’s lamps. The man leaned down and said, “Here, this is for your troubles,” gently placing the gold piece inside one of the inner pockets of Wil’s cloak. Once the mage had risen back to his feet, he added, “And this is for ours,” whereupon he gave Wil a single, well-placed kick to the young man’s ribs.

His fellows also seemed eager to give out their “rewards.” After four sturdy kicks to his side, Wil wanted to offer a sarcastic “thanks” in reply, but, still in the grips of his spellbound paralysis, he could only muster an unintelligible “mmmngmnffgnm” instead.

With their intended parcel now in hand – and their frustrations vented – the mages turned and headed back to the stairs leading up to the streets of the city surface. One of the mages stepped over Wil as he did so, not quite lifting his boot high enough to keep it from brushing roughly across the lad’s face as he passed.

With the mages all gone, Wil was left alone in a silent corner of the undercity’s maze-like tunnels and passages. Still unable to move even a finger, he forced himself to look on the bright side of things. Against all odds, the day had actually turned out to be profitable. It normally took three or four days to scrounge up the equivalent of a gold piece, and here he’d gotten one before lunch! Sure, it wouldn’t be enough for a castle, but that sort of thing tended to be more trouble than it was worth, anyway.

Now reassured that the day had been a success after all, Wil’s only remaining concern was how long it would take for this paralysis to wear off. It will probably go away on its own, right? It had to, surely – certainly before he starved to death, at least, and hopefully soon enough for him to put some salve on the cuts to his face. Yes, that’s the only rational conclusion, he reasoned. There was obviously no way the mages meant for him to die down there.

Otherwise, they’d be out a whole gold piece.