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IF DREAMS WERE COIN, coin would cease to have worth.
—merchant’s proverb
* * *
"THIS WAY," SAID CARIS. "Watch your step. Some of the spots around here will be slick with refuse."
The friends didn’t doubt his words to be true, based on the odors of the underbelly. The seemingly endless corridors wound in every direction, with staircases cut from the stone leading up or down to other levels, and the passageways sometimes doubling back on themselves, or emptying into cavernous chambers. The chambers were filled with makeshift tent communities, like so many refugees fleeing war-torn lands. Cooking fires dotted the large chambers and contributed to the haze of the air around them. The inhabitants were filthy, disheveled, and sickly. Many of them exhibited symptoms of disease, from racking coughs to boils. Onin would not have believed people could live this way had he not seen it with his own eyes.
"By the gods," said Fargin, his voice heavy with emotion. "These people." He was obviously having the same thoughts as Onin.
Caris the watchman turned the light of his hooded lantern on them. While the three friends could not see his face, his tone betrayed his lack of compassion for the unfortunates around them. "Beware the pity you feel," said the watchman. "Despicable wretches they may be, but they would cut your throat for the boots you’re wearing now." He turned back and continued to lead them further into the recesses of the great mountain.
Onin rankled at his words; they went against all he had been taught to believe. Yet looking at the faces hovering over the meager cooking fires in the underbelly, Onin sensed the danger for himself. He could see the inhabitants were watching the small band travel by as a predator would watch potential prey. No hint of goodwill lay in those faces. Onin was thankful for the simple sword and dagger belted to his waist.
"What in the world would bring Rabbash here?" asked Hangric. Each of them had asked the question more than once, and none of them had a plausible notion.
One blessing was that running water was common. Many of the chambers and rooms had a series of fountains and channels allowing clean, cold mountain water to flow throughout the underbelly. Many inhabitants could be seen filling pots, pans, or even old boots, anything that could hold water to carry back to whatever hovel they camped in. Hangric stopped to drink from one of the fountains they passed, but Caris stopped him.
"The water is fouled," said the watchman. "It contains the waste of the people from the upper city. Every watchman who has ever drunk the water here has gotten sick, and many have died."
Hangric backed away from the fountain slowly.
"Best to keep moving," said Caris. "We’re close now, but Demitus is shifty. He doesn’t like to stay in one place for long. He might disappear before we get there."
"Are you sure this man is reliable?" asked Onin.
"As reliable as anyone down here," replied Caris. "He knows something about everything that happens in the underbelly, it seems. If your friend came this way, Demitus is bound to know about it. Ah, here’s the place." They stopped outside a nondescript door. Onin couldn't tell what was different about this one from the last dozen or so they had passed.
Caris opened the door and stepped into the room on the other side, and the friends filed in after him. The room had two other doors on the opposite wall, and the place was lit by a few flickering candles set in crude wooden sconces. They found a grimy, fat man waiting for them. He wore a sleeveless tunic, his exposed arms and face covered with boils. Onin was repulsed at the sight of him.
"Demitus," said Caris by way of greeting. Judging by his tone, the watchman felt much the same way about Demitus as Onin did.
"Caris," wheezed Demitus. Onin could see he lacked most of his teeth; this didn’t surprise him. "I was about to leave. You know it isn’t healthy for me to be seen talking with a watchman. People will get suspicious."
"What a shame, you being a soul of integrity and all," said Caris drolly. The big watchman jabbed a finger at the informant’s chest. "You go wherever the coin is, and my friends have coin to spend if you’ve got information they want to hear."
For the first time, Demitus seemed to look over the three friends. His eyes were shrewd and greedy, and Onin felt dirty from his gaze alone.
"What are you looking to know?" said the greasy man.
"Our friend came down here some weeks ago," said Onin. "He hasn’t been seen since. We want to find him."
"He must owe you a lot of money," said Demitus.
"What do you mean?" he said, his tone indignant.
"Well, he’s lost himself in the underbelly," said Demitus. "And you're here looking for him. The only thing that makes sense is money—lots of it."
"Here it comes," groaned Caris.
"What?” said Demitus. It seemed like his turn to act indignant. "You expect me to believe they’re down here because they’re such good friends? Don’t take me for a fool."
"It makes no difference why we’re here," said Fargin. "Do you have the information we need?"
"Perhaps," said the dirty man evasively.
"Then perhaps we have coin for you," said Fargin. Onin was a little surprised at the exchange. Fargin rarely took the initiative in such a way.
"I’ll need some time to ask around," said Demitus. "What does your friend look like? Would he have any sort of clothing or jewelry which would make him recognizable?"
The friends did their best to describe Rabbash. They often spoke over one another to add details or correct a statement. After a few minutes, Demitus seemed to have an idea of whom he would be looking for.
"Meet me back at this place in a week," said the scruffy man. "I’ll have something for you then." Demitus held his hand out, palm up. "I’ll need my retainer before I begin working."
Fargin dropped a pouch of coins in the outstretched hand. Demitus hefted it and shot a glance at Fargin which implied he thought it light.
"You’ll get more if your information is good," said Fargin. "One week."
Demitus locked eyes with him for a long moment.
"One week," said Demitus. Then he left through one of the other doors in the room.
Caris led them away from the meeting place, presumably in the same direction they had come. Onin found it impossible to know for certain. The twisting corridors and scattered chambers of the underbelly made an inscrutable maze. They seemed to climb stairs more than descend them, so Onin could only conclude they were heading for the surface. It made sense to him; wherever you might be down here, if you kept heading up, you would find yourself under open sky eventually.
The band hadn’t reached the more populated sections of the underbelly when they found the way ahead obstructed by a group of unsavory-looking men. Onin guessed there were at least ten of them, probably more. They were filthy and covered in tattered rags, but each also held a naked blade in hand, whether a crude short-bladed sword or a rusty knife.
Onin brought up the rear and glanced behind them to plan an escape route. To his chagrin, he could see a similar-sized group of men crowding the corridor behind them. A nearby door offered the only possible escape. The three Guardsmen waited for a cue from the watchman, but Caris had already yanked his own sword from its scabbard and bolted for the door.
"This way!" the watchman yelled as he threw the door open and disappeared into the darkness beyond. Quick to respond, the three friends were close on his heels. Unfortunately the mob of attackers streamed after, screaming for blood.
They turned left and right frantically, ducking through doors, sprinting through rooms, hurdling ragged tents, in their attempt to lose the attackers. They found themselves in a vaulted chamber that was surprisingly empty but for a wide staircase that curved up and away into darkness. Caris raced up the staircase with the friends close behind.
Hope seemed lost when they reached the landing at the top as there were no exits. The entire landing was nothing more than an oversized balcony, and all sides were bounded by flat, gray stone. There was no way down except the stairs or to jump over the railing. Caris released a string of profanities as he cast about for an escape route that refused to present itself.
Realizing the predicament, the three friends turned about and formed up shoulder to shoulder with swords in hands. They had no shields to overlap for defensive purposes but descended the staircase a few steps to command the high ground. Whatever advantage they could snatch from their circumstances would be needed, Onin was sure.
The attackers met them on the steps, their forward momentum broken by the sudden ascent. They were a rabble, attacking as a mob with no coordination or planning. Two fell in the initial attack, taking a third and fourth with them as they tumbled down the staircase, only to be trod upon by their fellows. Regardless, the enemy’s superior numbers forced the companions backward, one step at a time. Fargin cried out as a knife bit into his forearm. It was not his sword arm, however, and he fought on, undaunted.
Hangric, meanwhile, locked blades with an assailant. With a defiant roar, he reached forward with his other hand and grasped the front of the attacker’s grimy tunic and, to the man’s surprise, casually tossed him over the railing of the staircase with one hand. The attacker plummeted fifteen feet or so to land on the hard stone floor below.
Seeing an opportunity, Onin vaulted over the railing after him. He let out a hoarse yell as he landed feetfirst on the attacker who had just been thrown below by Hangric. The man convulsed with the impact and lay still. Onin pressed his sudden advantage and attacked the body of surprised men clustered at the bottom of the stairs. Caris the watchman had taken his place next to Hangric and Fargin; a fleeting part of Onin's mind was impressed by the man’s mettle under duress.
He had no room for extraneous thought as he cut a path into the enemy. Two men fell before they even realized what had happened, and a third narrowly avoided the same fate with a clumsy parry. Onin flicked his wrist and sent his opponent’s weapon flying from his grasp then dispatched him with a backhanded swing.
Onin’s rampage continued, driving his adversaries before him with each stroke of his sword arm. His momentum carried him through their center, and he found himself climbing back up the first few steps of the staircase. Following Hangric’s example, he reached out with his free hand in the chaos of the melee and was rewarded with a handful of beard. Onin yanked as hard as he could, and the man on the other end of the beard sailed over his shoulder to be dashed on the stone floor below.
The twanging sound of bowstrings split the air. Sudden pain erupted through Onin as two powerful blows struck him from behind. He fell to his knees on the staircase, his sword tumbling from his grasp. One of the attackers seized the opportunity to kick him in the face. Onin tumbled backward to land in a heap and descended into unconsciousness. As the darkness claimed him, he could hear his friends screaming his name.
* * *
THE DREAM HAD HIM AGAIN; the details were the same, but the focus, different. Dragons in the sky, at war through tooth and claw, and none of them verdants. Scaled carcasses littered the landscape. The eggs, in a nest carved into the mountain. A single egg showed dark striations throughout the shell, the pattern in the form of a shield. The eyes, one yellow like a cat, the other a glittering gemstone, superimposed over the egg. Then, behind the eyes, the shield-shaped reed boat floated on a river with an infant nestled inside of it. Unlike previous dreams, this was not fleeting; he relived it over and over again, each detail burning itself into his memory. It remained the same dream but new and different, vividly real in a way like never before.
The egg. The eyes. The shield. They all meant something. If only he knew what.
* * *
ONIN REALIZED HE HAD been hearing a solitary voice for some time, but it was the awful smell that finally lifted him back to wakefulness. The air reeked of rotten eggs and sweat. Onin struggled to open his eyes and, with a concentrated act of will, succeeded. He blinked his way through the dried crust threatening to keep his eyes sealed shut. The room felt small and cramped, the air very close but warm and comfortable. He took a deep breath, and jolts of pain shot from his back. He groaned and coughed, which only made the pain worse. Onin spent several moments suppressing his urge to cough; it sent only tiny daggers of pain through him. His head pounded and he feebly lifted a hand to his brow. He felt a bandage there, the flesh beneath felt sore and bruised.
He became dimly aware of another figure moving about in the smoky gloom of the cramped space. The voice he had been hearing issued from the shrouded form, the voice of an old woman, apparently talking to herself.
"He’s coming awake already," came her scratchy but high-pitched voice. "Aye, he is, and much sooner than I would have reckoned possible." For some strange reason, Onin thought she wasn’t speaking to him.
"I can’t cook without the proper ingredients," she continued. "The proper ingredients are nearly impossible to obtain. It’s why I send the others to get them. I’m an old woman. I can’t be expected to go all over the place to find these things. Yes, if they want me to cook for them, they must simply bring their own ingredients."
Onin’s vision cleared, and he could see the old crone stirring an iron cauldron hanging over a fireplace. She lifted the large wooden spoon to her nose and sniffed several times. She returned to stirring the mixture while fishing in her old, ragged clothes for a handful of something. Onin couldn’t see it, but she dropped the mysterious handful into the boiling pot. Within seconds the scent in the room changed, not really any better, just different. It now emitted an earthy, even moldy, smell.
"The dreams disturb him, that’s obvious enough," the old crone went on. "Of course they do. He has nothing to compare them with, not even other dreams." She threw back her head and let out a harsh laugh. "Imagine it! Spending your entire life with only one dream. I never thought about it that way. It sounds terribly limiting. It would be like cooking with only one recipe! One recipe for an entire lifetime! How could one recipe satisfy all of life? It simply can’t; that’s obvious enough. Sometimes the right ingredients come to you; sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they just land in your lap and are waiting for the person to come along who needs the recipe."
The old woman put a lid on her cauldron and hobbled over to where Onin lay swaddled in smelly furs. The lighting was poor, the only illumination coming from the bed of coals in the fireplace and a single candle on a wooden table. Onin could make out only the vaguest sense of her features. He could sense, more than see, a toothless grin on her face.
"Where—?" he croaked, but his dry throat choked off the rest of his question. The resulting coughing fit caused waves of pain from the wounds in his back. His head still hurt too much, and nausea assaulted him as his cranium pounded.
"He doesn’t even realize he’s still dying," said the old crone as she pushed him firmly down into the furs. "He probably thinks I like the way all of this smells. A dullard and a brute he is. Hardly what I hoped fate would provide. Sometimes the right ingredients are there; sometimes they’re not. Sometimes you need to adjust the recipe. I hate making due. I really wish I had the right ingredients."
Her gnarled hands had fished another mysterious handful from her ragged clothes. She forcibly crammed the handful of whatever into Onin’s mouth. It was dry and bitter and clogged his throat as it crumbled into particles on his tongue. Unable to resist, Onin could only chew the ghastly substance, which felt like dried moss on his palate. He would have gagged, but she held a waterskin to his lips and squeezed a mouthful for him.
"Sometimes you need an entirely new recipe. Well, of course, don't think I would forget that, do you?"
A sudden light flared in front of Onin’s eyes, and her face came into clear view for the first time. It simultaneously reassured and frightened him; she was equal parts nightmarish hag and doting grandmother. Deep lines and sagging skin defined her features, and sparse white strands hung from her scalp. A rare breeze sent smoke from a nearby brazier into Onin’s face, filling his nostrils with a sickly sweet aroma.
"It will put him in a frame of mind better for healing," said the old woman. "His mind is as rigid as his spine. His kind snaps in the wind instead of bending. Do not judge so quickly. Perhaps his rigidity is what is needed. It doesn’t fit the recipe. Is this a new recipe or an old one?
"Whatever the case, the dish always turns out. Sometimes it turns out terrible, but it always turns out. And there’s always the next time I cook. Maybe the recipe will be better next time, or I will have better ingredients."
A light-headed sensation had begun to descend over Onin. He had a hard time focusing on the old woman before him, even as she took repeated tokes on the pipe in her hands and blew the smoke into Onin’s face. It was really quite pleasant, once you got over the sickly sweet smell of it, thought Onin.
Soon enough, the big man found blessed, peaceful sleep again.