(38) Fake Happiness
Two men sat swaddled in darkness, the overcast night failing to illuminate the room, filled with long, flickering shadows cast by the fire in the hearth. One man sat forward, with his elbows resting on his knees. The other lounged in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, arms spread wide along the back.
“People are already restless. We have squeezed tightly, yet we must squeeze tighter still?” the first man asked.
The man wrung his hands, despite resting his chin atop them.
“An order from the crown is difficult to ignore, no?” the second man replied, clearly unbothered.
“The crown did not order this,” the first man retorted.
“The crown ordered information—expensive information—and offered no funds with which to obtain it. Thus, we must do what we can,” the second man replied, shrugging.
The first man, running a hand across his forehead, glanced over at the second.
“You are not bothered at all?” he asked.
“As I said, we must do what we can. I’ve never known you to be the soft sort. The count must be such a kindly lord for his chamberlain to be so concerned with the small folk. Or, could it be that you are worried about tempting the Wraith?” the second man asked, chuckling.
“What, because of the Marquis’ son? Ha, there is no mystery there, no Wraith. I would have perished long before he on even half the…substance he used.
“No, I am worried about the pressure. One can only squeeze so hard before things start breaking,” the first man explained, staring into the fire.
Curiously, neither of them noticed the bright eyes shining like white-hot embers amidst the flames, watching.
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A couple stood in knee-deep grass, a husband and wife, clinging to each other. The man had a bald head, thoroughly tanned, with gray hair ringing it. He wore a loose canvas shirt, frayed at the edges. His wife had white hair in a tight bun, flyaways lining her face, which was as tanned as her husband’s, weathered by years under the sun.
Their faces were lit by the conflagration where their barn once stood. The fire had burned past its zenith, the flames now licking blackened wood and charcoal, the structure barely recognizable.
Farm animals lay slaughtered on the ground, their corpses mangled beyond recognition in a way the pyre could never match. The reeking smell of char and death filled the field, yet the couple did nothing more than watch the flames sputter. The man had his arm around his wife, hers around his waist.
Both wore inscrutable expressions, though not from any sort of diplomatic neutrality. These were the faces of people who lost everything, the faces of people watching their lives burn down.
Neither noticed two white eyes amid the tall grass, watching, calculating.
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Two men dragged a wooden crate between them. It was beaten and battered, creaking as they walked. Drops of a foul liquid dripped from the lowest corner as the men carried it haphazardly toward a dark alley.
“Gods damn but they could’a chosen any other good to discuss the shit rather’n fish,” the man in the back spat.
“Shut yer fuckin’ mouth. We ain’t even there yet an’ yer already flappin’ yer gums like I’m a fuckin’ wench yer tryin’ to woo,” the man in the lead called back in a harsh whisper.
“What’re ya worried about? Anyone found out there’s dirt in here, heh, it’d be customers swarmin’, not the guards,” the second man chuckled.
Thud!
The front of the crate slammed into the cobblestone road, the sound echoing off the windowless walls of the buildings lining the alley.
“What the—” the second man started, setting his end down quickly.
The lead man stalked over to him, fists balled and hackles raised. He jammed a finger into the man’s chest.
“Yer talkin’ too damn much. We’s grunts, understand? We don’ make the big money, but when the gurard come down on us, we put our tails ‘tween our legs and say we ain’t know what we was movin’. We was jus’ followin’ orders. Tha’s our compensation, plausible deniabilly, understand?
“When ya come right out an’ say what we’re movin’, yer waiving that deniabilly, so the guard gon’ come down on ya hard. Now, tha’s yer choice to make, but don’ make the mistake a tryin’ to make that choice fer me, too. Yer stealin’ my compensation, if ya do, an’ I ain’t gonna take that lyin’ down, understand?
“So shut. The fuck. Up,” he finished, punctuating each word with a stab of his finger.
The man lifted his end again, dragging the box across the cobbles until the second man flinched and caught up. He lifted his end, the two carrying the box off into the alley’s dark.
“Wha’s plaus-ble deniabilly mean?” the second man asked, his voice fading away.
“Yer talkin’ too much,” came the faint reply.
Two eyes of white fire stared down at the alley, watching them pass from within a chimney’s smoke cloud. Without notice or a sound, they vanished.
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Nephthys slowly opened her eyes, the white glow fading from them as the transmogrification took over, settling back into the dull off-white of her disguise.
The scrying spell she used was called watch, and it was complicated. Unfortunately, and much to her embarrassment, Nephthys had relied on her body’s instinct from Prelude to cast it for the first time.
Future casts could be much more varied and discrete. For now, she had to hide her eyes in the smoke from a chimney, tall grass, and fire. She subtly shook her head, thinking about whoever had created the spell.
It did not literally create copies of her eyes in those locations. The magical conduit for sight and sound manifested as her eyes, which made sense if she considered someone making the spell from scratch. They would probably naturally gravitate toward replicating their own sensory organs.
Still, she would change it completely on her next cast, now that she understood it.
Nephthys frowned, considering all she had seen while scrying. This kingdom was apparently being pressured by its liege nation to obtain ‘expensive information’ at its own personal expense. Nephthys had a suspicion—but she resisted jumping to conclusions.
Then there was the farming family whose animals and property were…well, ‘vandalized’ does not do the crime justice. And crime it was, in Nephthys’ mind. No wild monster or animal would rip those animals to shreds. Whoever killed them did so to send a message, not for food, and not even for sport.
And finally, there were the two men—
“Problem?” Tara asked suddenly, only her head from her eyes up poking out from under the covers.
Nephthys must have made a face as she pondered. She had not realized that Tara was still awake.
She shifted on the bed, tightening her crossed legs, as she glanced at Tara. She felt a strange instinct to shelter Tara from whatever trouble she was poking her nose into, yet she also acknowledged that Tara was traveling with her. She would be party to whatever actions Nephthys took by association.
“Do you know much about ‘dirt’?” she asked.
Tara’s eyes widened noticeably before she smoothed her features out. Although not the most socially adept, Nephthys noted that Tara's calm was forced.
“The stuff on the ground?” she asked in reply.
“I think you know what I mean. I ask only for information—what you know, not how you know it. I have witnessed men transporting dirt and speaking of it. I have inferred it must be a drug of some kind, but any additional information would be helpful,” Nephthys responded carefully, wary of sticking her foot in her mouth once again.
Tara closed her eyes and rolled over, facing away from Nephthys. Nephthys closed her eyes as well, allowing a silence to fall between them for several long seconds. Just as Nephthys was beginning to think Tara had fallen asleep, she responded.
“It’s a drug, yeah. They call it ‘dirt’ because it’s dug up in the Gloam. ‘Spore dirt’ is what most call it. As far as I know, the spores that make people go crazy in there eventually settle into the dirt, where they…I don’t know, die or deactivate or something,” Tara said.
She fell silent once again, and Nephthys continued to sit and wait. She sensed that Tara had more to say.
“They don’t make people kill each other anymore—not immediately. It-it’s worse. Now, they start killing themselves first. They lose who they are, or were, before turning on everyone else when there’s nothing left of them to lose anymore,” Tara said with obvious heat.
“It can be eaten or snorted or drunk, and it does a lot of different things depending on how much someone takes and how long they’ve been taking it.
“It’s all the same, though, in the end. Dirt destroys their brains. Makes them live in a reality different from this one. They turn on their closest friends and family, eventually.
“I don’t know if the reality they live in is so great that it makes this one look like a worse option, but they’ll do anything to get back to their fake happiness,” Tara finished, her voice growing quiet at the end.
“I see. Thank you for the information, Tara. Please, sleep. I am merely observing tonight. You are not going to miss anything,” Nephthys assured, Aka snuggling up next to Tara, who had pulled the blankets over her head.
So, drugs from the Gloam were present and possibly being pushed by the high-ranking men she had seen in front of the fireplace. Those two men transporting it also seemed to be heading to a busy market district.
None of these were good signs.