Mark of the Fool
Chapter 519: A Symbol of Fruit

The archivist, to no one’s surprise, was a horrible creature.

Twice as tall as Alex, with the bloated body of a bipedal pig—dripping with mucus—and the head of an enormous, filthy fly. The creature’s odour burned Alex’s eyes and churned his stomach.

It took every bit of his training to keep his face neutral, and thankfully, the carrot strapped to his face limited his sense of smell; but, he also had to keep blinking to stop tears from pouring down his face.

The master of festivities, on the other hand, was quite the opposite; she looked almost human, with only her goat’s horns, bat-like wings, and scorpion’s tail betraying her demonic nature. She was also stunningly beautiful, so much so, that it nearly hurt his mortal eyes to look upon her directly: graceful curves hugged a robe of white silk.

Sucking on one of her fangs, she gazed on Alex distantly as he bowed before them.

“This humble jester makes your acquaintance,” he said. “I’m the leader of our troupe, and I hope we can serve to entertain and thrill. Thank you for taking the time to give me my instructions and regale me with the deeds of the great Kaz-Mowang.”

“Hmmmm, so you know etiquette. That’s a true rarity in a mortal,” the master of festivities pronounced, glancing at a golden scroll held in clawed fingers. “In order of appearances, your act will be third—after the beasts—but before the maze run. Once the gala begins, you shall be ushered into the servant’s gallery then you appear when your troupe is called. If your performance is satisfactory, you shall be given the chance to eat of Kaz-Mowang’s table and enjoy some delicious libations. My lord is generous, he would never see his entertainment cast out into the city as though he could not afford to feed them.”

“Understood,” Alex muttered. “Kaz-Mowang be praised.”

“Very good.” The master of festivities made a mark on her golden parchment. “Celpahophon will provide you with the lore you seek. Ensure you sing my master’s praises properly.”

With a single beat of her wings, she was off, flying into the blazing sky.

There was a sound of bubbling phlegm, and the archivist spat on the stones at his side. “Mortal! I like you!” the fly headed demon proclaimed suddenly.

Alex’s eyes grew wide. “Really?”

“Yes!” the demon gurgled. “You have shown great interest in the most interesting subject in all the realms: the glory of the great Kaz-Mowang!” A foul odour sprayed from its fly-like mouth with every word.

Alex resisted the urge to curl in a ball and die, after heaving his guts out.

“Yes I have!” he said with a forced smile, immediately regretting opening his lips when the odour hit his tongue. “I want to know all about the great lord’s battles, his victories and his triumphs. There are many to be told, I’m sure.”

“Of course there are!” Celpahophon boasted. “And I have memorised the details of each and every one.”

“Every last one?” Alex’s interest piqued. Behind him, the rest of the troupe climbed from the wagon, spreading out among the other entertainers. “What are your favourites?”

‘Get people talking about themselves,’ he thought. ‘Lower their guard. Demons especially love talking about themselves.’

“I’m so glad you asked!” the archivist trilled like a glee-filled bird. “A favourite of mine is Kaz-Mowang’s Triumph over the Coward Ilzula—”

The archivist self-importantly began recounting details of different battles that his master had fought.

And the more he talked? The more Alex wished he could turn the greater demon inside out.

The hard way.

Every ‘triumph’ seemed to be some new cruelty.

Most victorieswere against the sort of folkAlex would likely have called friends, and Kaz-Mowang’s successes often spelled days of darkness for entire planar domains or mortal realms. It made Alex’s teeth grind.

But…he was noticing something.

Not a single name this mucus-covered demon mentioned belonged to any hero, realm or demigod he had ever heard of. He’d learned a great deal of history at the university, yet...none of the names were familiar, even those belonging to individuals from the material plane.

‘The world is a big place,’ he thought, considering the travelling Whetstone Tavern. ‘But I should have heard of at least one of them…’

He had a feeling that the Many-Spheres Theory was not that far fetched after all, but maybe he should be focusing his attention on this demon and its endless prattling right now.

“Ahhhh, that is a glorious tale. There’s no way we can fit them all into our performance, but we’ll try and bring in one or two of your favourites.” Alex winked. “But erm…there’s a battle that even this humble one has heard of, despite coming from a backwater world. Is it true that the great Kaz-Mowang fought a mere mortal called Hannar-Cim?”

The archivist stopped dead and—for a moment—Alex wondered if he’d gone too far.

Suddenly, it shuddered like aspic, sputtering as a wet tearing sound rose from its back and a pair of immense dragonfly-wings sprang free, buzzing furiously. “That battle was terrible! Terrible! I do not wish to speak of it! Take care that you do not mention it in front of my master for—when his mood is low—any talk of it instantly drives him to terrible wrath.”

“Ah, my apologies!” Alex cried, as though admonished by the enormous demon. “I had heard that the battle ended in his resounding victory.” He decided to take a slight risk. “Hannar-Cim was a devious opponent, triumphing only by quickly moving from place to place! Trickery! But Kaz-Mowang still defeated her!”

“Her trickery robbed my master of complete victory!” the archivist screeched. “She used her deceitful mortal magics to escape before the final blow could be struck, wetting herself in the process!”

Somehow, Alex had a feeling that part wasn’t true.

“Ooooh!” The young wizard slapped his forehead as though coming to an incredible revelation. “I’d heard that Kaz-Mowang had taken a trophy from her upon her defeat!”

“He takes trophies from all worthy opponents upon their deaths, but Hannar-Cim’s object was dropped as she fled, soiling herself thoroughly!” the demon boasted. “A vile thing! She should have remained to grant my lord his victory as per his right.”

Alex considered the demon’s words.

When exactly did this battle take place?

He knew of no tales about the Saint of Alric in combat with a greater demon. Had the priests simply left that out of her chronicle? He doubted it. All of his teachers at the church school loved filling young minds with the deeds of Alric’s patron saint.

Then again, they might have only taught stories of her victories, and left out any battle where a demon fought her to a standstill; if such a battle made Kaz-Mowang’s archivist flinch at the telling, he could well imagine the church having similar qualms.

Hopefully, whatever information he found, would shed light on everything.

“It’s shameful that the great Kaz-Mowang couldn’t collect his prize from a corpse, as is right and proper,” Alex’s voice dripped with sympathy.

“Yeesssss! Yeessss! You understand!” The archivist’s enthusiasm bubbled over.

The Fool of Uldar mimicked that enthusiasm, using the Mark to examine every minute tick in Celpahophon’s body language. He mirrored the giant demon’s posture, loosened his jaw and widened his eyes as though he was a child gawking at the stars for the first time.

“I couldn’t hope to understand.” He bowed his head. “Not in the way you do…but…oh I wish…no, I couldn’t…”

“Speak, mortal!” the archivist cried. “There is no need to hold back from sharing in Kaz-Mowang’s glory!”

“Well, it’s just…” Alex shuffled, scuffing his feet along the ground. “...I wish I could see some of Kaz-Mowang’s trophies for myself. Their glory must make one weak in the knees.”

“Yes, yes they do!” the fly-headed fiend giggled, his laughter causing great gouts of slime to run down his chest, soiling his rich, silk vest. “You should count yourself lucky that Kaz-Mowang’s trophies are only for his own eyes and those of his closest allies and advisors! The sight of them—for a mere uninitiated mortal—would strike blindness into you and wither all memories of beauty in your mind!”

“Ahhhh, if only my eyes were more sturdy and my mind less imbecilic!” Alex cried, miming clawing at his own face in regret. “Might I ask—” He looked around conspiratorially. “—if you could describe some to me, just so that I may share in even the ghost…the shadow…the scent of their glory!”

He poured enthusiasm into his voice: just a touch of uncontrolled emotion. A slight pulse of mania spread through his chest at the sound of it, as he saw Celpahophon puff up with even more self-importance and boundless glee.

“Well, since you asked so humbly: I will give you a taste of my lord and master’s trophies!” the fiend’s stench wafted through the air, a pulse of purple light coursing through the many lenses in his eyes. “First, let us speak of the Lion’s Head of Numarai—”

For a time, Alex let the giant demon ramble, going on about gruesome treasures that made his blood boil. Some of these ‘trophies’ had no value in terms of magic or gold…but were the sort of sentimental items that one could never replace: paintings of deceased loved ones, the first gift from one’s lover, or a child’s first shoes, were some of his favourites.

Again, Alex had to fight the urge to call Claygon and have him rip this fly’s wings off. With a great effort, he resumed focus, paying attention as Celpahophon turned tomore general treasures: magical weapons, lost artefacts and other items of power.

The young wizard steered the conversation subtly, waiting for a lull, then asking questions about the trophies from battles the archivist had previously mentioned. And—within those questions—he slipped in the important one.

“And what prize did he earn from that foul Hannar-Cim?” Alex asked. “I hope it was something precious.”

His voice portrayed utter sincerity, not allowing his ingratiating facade to crack for an instant.

And the demon leapt on the bait.

“If only!” it snorted. “She dropped a pittance of an item—”

Alex’s eyes narrowed, ever so slightly.

“—with no practical use…or discernable sentimental value! It was a simple rectangle.” The demon made a shape with its fingers. “One just slightly larger than your human hand with the symbol of a silver appleon the back, and a lantern engraved in it. Other glyphs marked it, but none held any power! Perhaps it was just a useless piece of artwork she’d scratched out!” He shook his head in disgust.

The young man nodded. “Yeah,” Alex said. “Must be worthless…”

To the demon, perhaps, but to the Thameish wizard, he’d just gained something precious: he now knew what to look for.

‘Symbols…maybe some sort of stone tablet to decode the book?’ Alex thought. ‘Maybe a translation tool…but he said it had no discernable use, and these demons had decades to figure out how it works. Maybe it only works in the Cave? Or maybe it’s a dead end…but, it’s a lead. At least, it’s finally a damn lead!’

“Indeed, worthless, but better it be in the hands of my master than some cowardly wretch!” the archivist boasted.

Alex promised himself that—if a fight did break out here—he’d make sure to smash this fly.

“Thank you for your insights!” he said. For a moment, he considered asking where Kaz-Mowang kept his trophies, but that would have been entirely too obvious. He’d need some other way to learn where those trophies were kept.

He and Celpahophon exchanged a few more pleasantries before Alex was at last permitted to take his leave to incorporate Kaz-Mowang’s glory into his act. As he watched the fly-like fiend buzz into the air, his mind was already calculating.

Thinking.

Adapting to his circumstances.

Looking for anything that could help him reach his goal for the mission.

Something came to mind, something dangerous but it also promised a delicious irony. He remembered how close Zonon-In was to Kaz-Mowang.

‘He’d probably show her his trophies,’ Alex thought. ‘And if she thinks she’s helping a powerful archwizard—one that could owe her future favours—then I think we’ve got ourselves a plan. Good, let’s let her work for us for once. If we can time things just right, we might be well gone from this place before the gala even ends.’

Elsewhere in the city, from deep within his own manor, a greater demon bellowed at his servants to ready his palanquin for Kaz-Mowang’s gala. He was late, annoyed, and on edge.

Strange rumours buzzed of goings on in Ezaliel’s palace. Rumours of danger and dark negotiations. It was enough to give the mania-field extra bite today. The greater demon resisted the urge to punish his honour guard: a group of fearsome, veteran tiashivas who would serve as his escort through the gala.

As he paced, he hardly gave them a second look.

Not even one of their most veteran members, whose third eye was narrowed in agitation.

The creature had an enormous scar on its chest.

As though someone had raked a burning saw through its flesh.