Godsword: A Deckbuilding LitRPG (Goblin Summoner Book 3), page 14
“Here we are, sir,” Sigmund said as he reappeared through the curtain. “Try these on. I think you’ll find them to your liking. I will be back once you’ve put the outfit on, I need to help my brother with your friend. He is being rather…exacting in his requests.”
“That sounds about right,” Gareth said. He could imagine Sarkuran fretting about every single detail of his outfit. “Go, I’ll be fine here.” The clothing might have looked strange to him, but a shirt and trousers went on the same way no matter their style.
***
Magda put her hand on the bottom of her chin, thinking carefully about what to say about the outfit that Gareth was modelling before her. The delay in answering wasn’t doing anything to help his nerves, and Magda wanted to be as reassuring as possible.
“It’s…nice,” she said, choosing the least controversial answer she could. “It fits you well.” The words had spilt out of her mouth, Magda’s brain recognising she needed to say more.
“It’s not too much?” Gareth said. The breeches felt tight in places he hadn’t expected but the shirt was remarkably comfortable. The coat had a waxy finish to it, and despite its formal appearance, Gareth suspected it would keep out the worst of the weather. “I feel
like I’m dressed up for someone’s wedding. The quicker we’re done here the better.”
“I think this is rather more suitable than our previous attire, for one of my station anyway,” Sarkuran said. He was admiring himself in a mirror, his arms stretching as he inspected the tailoring of his new suit. “Much more my style, I think.”
“Sounds about right,” Gareth said. “We’re missing one person though. Where’s Imelda?”
“Getting her dress adjusted,” Magda said. She had swapped her cloak for a long woollen floor-length coat, one that covered her outfit from prying eyes. When the shopkeepers had seen her clothing their demeanour had changed, becoming somehow even more subservient. It had been a more dramatic impact than the gold. “They need to expand it around the…you know,” Maga said, miming Imelda’s curves.
“I can hear you; you know!” Imelda shouted from behind a curtain. “Not happy with being talked about behind my back.”
“If you can hear us, how is it behind your back?” Magda shouted in reply.
“It’s…you know what I mean!”
“Just get it over with. If I had to show you all this outfit, the least you can do is come and show us yours.”
The curtain parted to reveal a sight none of the party even expected to see. The shopkeepers had put Imelda into a long linen dress that had been dyed a light pastel shade of peach and paired with a matching bonnet. The hat sat unevenly on Imelda’s head, her horns turning up the sides.
“I hate it,” she said, gesturing downwards at herself. “It’s just so airy, and I can imagine it getting in my way if I run. How are you even supposed to climb in this as well?”
“Generally, madam,” said Sigmund appearing from behind a manakin, his presence having been hidden better than any assassin,
“one doesn’t.”
“In my line of work, it comes up all the time.”
“Ah yes,” Sigmund said glancing at the belt around Imelda’s waist. Deck boxes were bound to their owner once they had been
picked up, normally manifesting a magically created leather belt on which to hold themselves. They could be removed so the owner could change clothes or bathe and putting it back in place was simply a case of thinking about it. Deck boxes could never be handled by another unless handed over willingly. In Imelda’s case, the deck had created a delicate belt made of white cord, the perfect accompaniment to her outfit. Fashion sense was just another strange facet of the magical device. “I imagine the life of a duellist is one fraught with danger. I suppose that would explain the state of your previous clothing.”
“Clothes I would like to keep, thank you,” Imelda said. The shopkeeper had offered to destroy them many times already.
“Nothing a good soak won’t sort, and I’m loathed to waste a good pair of trousers and boots.”
“You’re not wearing boots?” Gareth said. That was perhaps the most shocking revelation about Imelda’s new outfit. She was always such a rough and tumble woman that it was impossible to imagine her without them. Gareth’s own new suit had come with a brand-new pair of ankle boots that were remarkably comfortable.
“Apparently those aren’t ladylike,” she said, casting Sigmund a disapproving glance.
“I simply stated that they did not match your new ensemble,” the shopkeeper protested.
“Look what he made me wear!” A pale leg shot out from under the dress, causing both of the brothers to turn away in shock. Imelda was wearing a soft-soled shoe that was held to her feet with ribbons wrapped around her ankle. It looked a little like a ballet shoe to Gareth. “I will admit they’re comfortable, but I wouldn’t want to bring them anywhere there might be something dangerous. I can imagine some loose glass or something going right through them.”
“Please, madam, cover your modesty,” Sigmund said, gesturing at the tiny amount of leg Imelda had exposed. “These shoes have a sole made of toughened beryax leather. You’ll be hard-pressed to find anything tougher. It’ll turn away even the sharpest of knives.”
“Really?” Imelda said, tucking away the offending limb. “Can I just get a whole outfit made out of that then?”
“Sadly, it’s rather difficult and expensive to come by. Whilst it’s certainly possible I suspect that it might be out of even your considerable price range. Creatures of such considerable toughness don’t lend themselves well to being hunted or farmed. Especially with…well, things of late.”
“Yeah, about that. We’ve been away for a while adventuring,”
Gareth said, sensing an opportunity. “You know, fighting monsters, completing quests, that kind of thing. What exactly is going on here?
Things feel…different somehow.”
“I shouldn’t say.” Sigmund leant in closer. “You never know who’s listening,” he said in a whisper.
“Maybe, this might help?” Gareth said taking a gold coin from the purse in his pocket.
The shopkeeper snatched it eagerly, stepping towards the large glass window at the front of the store and drawing the curtains. If he was going to say something that could be troublesome, he was determined not to do it before prying eyes.
“People are saying that reanis have been going wild all over the city, thought parliament denies it, of course. No one knows why.
Some think that maybe a batch of control rods are wrong, or that someone tampered with them perhaps. I’ve even heard rumours it's down to some cult looking to destroy the city, crazy as that sounds.”
“Not as crazy as you think,” Imelda said, memories of the destruction of Wildermount flooding back.
“Personally, the most believable reason is that the Godsword is cracked, and that’s somehow to blame. Considering that it’s been closed off from the public since the first stories started circulating it’s a very strange coincidence.”
“The Godsword, eh?” Gareth said, as though he knew what one of those was. “That is a weird coincidence.” He was fishing for information, trying to get the merchant to elaborate without asking outright and giving away his status as a foreigner.
“Yeah. I mean no offence to her holiness, but I’ve heard that the oracles are upset at being kept from it. It is in the heart of their temple after all.”
“We’re not happy about it, no,” Magda said.
“I can imagine. You know…” Sigmund crouched slightly like he was unearthing a dark secret from beneath the floor of the shop. “If the Magdalenians protested about it, I don’t think even the secret police could break that up. They’ve got a lot of clout. I know you probably consider than uncouth, my lady, but it’s true.”
“Oh, I’m certain we do, there’s nothing to be ashamed of.” Magda put a hand on Sigmund’s shoulder. “You can’t help anyone without some degree of power. It’s about what you do with it.” Magda just shrugged at her friends nervously. Sigmund had closed his eyes upon being touched, his hands clasped together as though in prayer.
Magda had just said what she thought he wanted to hear.
“Very wise, blessed oracle,” Sigmund said. “Very wise indeed.”
“That’s enough now, she’ll get a bigger head than she already has,” Gareth said, rolling his eyes hard enough to see the back of his skull.
“You should be grateful. The oracle blesses you with her presence. Not many have the honour of accompanying them on their journeys and seeing their triumphs in the name of the people,”
Sigmund said, standing up straight.
“Oh, you must excuse my companion,” Magda said. Her voice had changed a little like she was trying to put on a suitably regal accent. “It’s hard not to get overly familiar when out on the road.
Nothing forges bonds quite like being in danger.”
“I suppose not. Would you like me to bag up your old clothes?”
“If you could, that would be excellent, yes.”
Sigmund nodded happily. “I’ll make sure to use multiple bags, we wouldn’t want your fabulous new outfits to be tainted by the smell.”
Chapter Twelve
The party simply wandered the streets for a while, trying in vain to squeeze a lifetimes familiarity with a city into a few hours. Thot-Ankor was a massive place—far bigger than Wildermount—and its streets were labyrinthine and unending. Everywhere they travelled teemed with people, vast crowds making their way through the city, swarms of people and carts thundering over the cobblestone. The sea of living people was interspersed on occasion with the sporadic shambling undead and it was still a strange thing to see. The residents of Thot-Ankor paid them no mind, the presence of reanimated corpses a day-to-day occurrence for them.
On their travels, the party passed a large factory, one of the many smokestacks of the city nestled within. The factory had been shut down temporarily for a reason they couldn’t determine, and its entire workforce had been assembled outside. It was a strange thing to see, easily a few hundred or so undead standing in a perfect row.
The collection of zombies and skeletons had been adapted for their tasks, arms replaced with oddly shaped tools of unknown purpose.
It was easy to see how the cities industry was based on the free unending labour of the living dead. Unceasing never complaining workers had to be a capitalist’s dream. The recent spate of them breaking loose and eating faces was probably considered an acceptable cost. The people of the city seemed to use them for everything, the party had witnessed undead doing everything from sweeping the streets to repairing walls. If it was manual labour, it was being done by what the locals called reanis.
“So,” Gareth said, gripping the lapels of his new coat and tugging on them slightly. “We’ve no idea where we’re going, right?”
“This quest is looking like it will take far longer than we expected.
The only lead we have is a spurious rumour about whatever this Godsword thing might be,” Sarkuran said. His chest was puffed out slightly, his slight frame trying to do its best to display his new outfit to the world. “It sounded like a temple of some description.”
“Yeah, a temple to me, I think,” Magda said. “It didn’t shock that tailor guy that I was a priestess and a duellist, or by his reckoning anyway. I’ve got to admit the thought that my priests here might be going out into the world and putting things right, defeating monsters and stuff like that, that feels right.”
“So, like clerics then? The video game ones,” Gareth said.
“If you say so,” Magda said with a shrug. “I’m not familiar myself.
I do wish they had picked a better outfit to go adventuring in though. I guess it makes sense that this is one of the few humans that the elementals have come into contact with.”
“You know, I wonder if that yeti we killed is up and wandering around as a corpse now?”
“Probably,” Imelda said. “Though I have to imagine any local wildlife probably has ways of dealing with it. The fungus stuff is the key, right? You can probably burn a body to stop it, or I guess toss them in a ravine or something.”
Gareth nodded. From the mountain peak they had seen enormous globs of the fungus, massive tumours on the world that he suspected now was some kind of controlled farm. The guardians had wandered between them, and the crowds at their feet were probably farmers of a sort, collecting the fungus for use as the colossal skeletons watched over them.
“Hmm,” Sarkuran said, coming to a stop suddenly, his thought overriding the use of his legs. “I have an idea.”
Gareth pivoted on one heel, his boot squeaking on the cobbles as he spun. “Well then, what is it?”
“It was something Magda said, mentioning her priests were duellists. If duellists are as common here as they are in Wildermount, then it’s likely there’s some kind of duellist organisation or governing body.”
“Just like the guild.” Gareth found he was nodding along with Sarkuran’s words, catching onto his companion’s train of thought and leaping ten steps ahead.
“Exactly. And if there’s one thing I know to be eternally true, no matter if it's here, Wildermount or my own empire, is that duellists gossip. If you’re looking to hear rumour or find possible leads, then the guild is the place to be.”
“Slight problem there.” Magda had a sinister smile across her face. She had found a flaw in Sarkuran’s plan and couldn’t wait to point it out. “We don’t know where the city’s equivalent of the guild is.
We don’t know where anything is.”
“A problem easily solved,” Sarkuran said, his eyes scanning the crowd. “Excuse me, sir!” He stomped forward, bringing himself before a man wearing a suit somehow even more expensive than the ones the party had bought. It was the kind of thing that wasn’t made in any store, ownership of the garment possible by direct invitation of the designer only.
“I’m terribly sorry, but I’m in a rush. Do I know you?” the stranger said.
“No, sir. I simply wished to ask you a question. Do you know where we can register as duellists? My siblings and I have recently inherited our decks and honestly, we’ve gotten rather lost trying to find where we need to go.”
“You don’t look like siblings,” the man said, eyeing the party suspiciously. “You’re not even the same species for one.”
“Some of us are adopted,” Sarkuran said with a shrug. “Our father always wanted to give back to society.”
“Oh? Can’t say I’m a fan of charity myself. If we coddle the lower classes how are they ever going to improve themselves? All they do is sit around all day complaining about the reanis taking jobs that could be theirs. Hogwash I say. They’re blessed enough to live in a society where menial work is taken care of. They simply need to use the free time they’ve been given to improve their lot.”
“Yes, well, did you know the way?” Sarkuran wasn’t comfortable with the way the conversation had gone.
“Of course. You’re not that far really. Go to the end of this street and take a left. From there you should be able to see the Werner and Werner mill, a great tall thing with gaudy red brickwork. Go past that and take a left, then the first left again. The nearest guildhall is there, next to the Stool and Skeleton tavern,” the stranger said.
“Thank you, kind sir,” Sarkuran said. The way he had effortlessly interacted with the man had been impressive. It was like Sarkuran had lived in Thot-Ankor all his life, the slightly haughty manner of the people fitting him well. “Have a good day.”
The stranger nodded and resumed their journey. At his belt was a deck box, one made of gleaming silver.
“Well spotted,” Gareth said. “Not sure approaching people in the street is a good idea if we’re trying to stay low profile, but there was some quick thinking there…brother.” A chuckle left Gareth’s lips at the thought. He had never had siblings, though that was probably for the best. As far as everyone on Earth was concerned, he was dead, and more loved ones would have meant more anguish. For the first time, Gareth wondered what his funeral was like. When Magda had resurrected him, it had been in a new body, one that was an exact replica of his old one. That meant that back on Earth was Garth’s old one, rotting beneath the ground. That seemed better than it wandering the streets doing menial work.
He wondered what it was like for the people of Thot-Ankor when someone they loved passed away. As a society, they seemed remarkable blasé about the bodies about them, but it still had to be hard. Gareth was curious to find out how they decided which bodies got brought back. There were probably some rules around the state of the corpse, some deaths being inherently more gruesome or more damaging to the integrity of the body. From what he understood about the necromantic energy that filled the region it was probably the case that some had to be disposed of more permanently lest they rise on their own without control. He suspected cremation was likely a popular and extremely expensive choice of funeral, likely making the bulk of the reani workers from the lower social classes. From what the stranger had said they struggled to find work when competing
against their own bodies and there was an unsettling irony to it that Gareth didn’t like.
“Well, it seemed like the easiest answer. We should get moving, if…uh, anyone remembers the directions he gave us.”
“Left at the end, past the mill, left then left again, next to the inn,”
Imelda said. She shrugged at the looks the others gave her.
