“Might be a storm brewing,” said Silvertime to Grit as the pair minded the rails.
“Aye, let’s just hope we’re in port when it lands,” said Grit, turning his back on the darkening sky.
The image of Parley loomed into view, the great port city situated along the eastern coast of Karobos. Its many towering, ramshackled tenements jutted up like teeth inside the mouth of a massive cavern that housed the entirety of the city. A spit of beach lolled out from the city like a tongue. From his perch on the rigging, Picaro could see the glint of the sun reflecting off the stone cliff above it, standing like a mountain against the steep drop that met the sea. Parley sat in the heart of Scarred Truce Bay, a wide and shallow body of water complete with many a coral reef that only oarboats could navigate faithfully. It was aptly named for the tenuous truce that all men exhibited, whether they be free or no, when in the confines of the stonewalled city.
Silvertime brought the ship to bear along the western coast of Freebarrel, the closest Barrier Isle to the port of Parley. They were scarcely anchored when Valgur left the main contingent of his men to stand guard over their ship. Picaro joined Valgur, Grit and Atrocius with two other men serving as oarsman en route to Parley. Scuttle stood at the rails, gritting his teeth and digging his nails into the wood, watching the boy go in his place for his victory of the ornate chest.
The oarboat meandered through the coral reefs. Picaro could see fish darting from the small craft as they shouldered the shallows, the water all a dazzle of golden light. They made land and disembarked at the mighty wharf that bade them welcome to Parley. As they entered the city proper, Picaro saw many flags and colors of the Free Men stitched together above them, making a great and colorful awning that shielded them from the sun. Valgur was loathe to find his own colors were not yet there, for no one in Parley had been inspired to weave his checkered yellow and white into the great tapestry that had become the histories of the Free Men. But then he remembered his current errand, and his mind rested assured there would be more of his tale to tell before it was all said and done.
They moved with purpose passing fisherman and a growing density of vagabonds, both merchant and beggar alike, minding the lower walkways as they moved towards their goal. Ramshackled towers rose above them, haphazardly strewn together by feats of amateur engineering. Parley was always under construction as it was always falling apart. Men built where there was room, which was usually on top of one another. Only the Merchant Masters of Parley kept together any sense of organization and stability, both in business and their own dwellings. Valgur and his troupe came upon a particular stretch of pier lined with pavilions owned by one such man, a newly crowned Merchant Master of Parley who lovingly bequeathed himself the confidant of coin.
“Baldergast,” called Valgur, his arms spread as he caught sight of the rather rotund man, bald aside from a thick moustache. He was dressed in one of his characteristic green suits draped in fine silk. Picaro saw the glint of gold above his neck and many gems adorning his fingers, which held onto the head of a cane. With a bemused look on his face, Baldergast regarded them.
“Captain Valgur,” said the merchant, a smiling as he wobbled towards them on his cane. “What brings you to the mainland?”
“Reckon we could speak private? I have something to show you,” said Valgur.
“Assuredly. Right this way,” said Baldergast.
The group crowded into one of Baldergast’s many workshops along the pier. Atrocius, large as he was, was bade to wait outside on guard.
“I know yer the type of man that likes his oddities. So I brought you something y’might like a gander at,” said Valgur with a knowing wink.
“Oddities. That is one way to put it,” chortled Baldergast, wiping away a bead of sweat that had begun to form on his brow with a handkerchief. It seemed as he did so another formed, and so the process continued. “Can I get you anything, something cold to sip on perhaps?”
Valgur straightened. “Aye, that would do well."
“Water, or something stronger?”
Valgur barked a laugh. “Stronger, always. And one for Grit,” said Valgur. Baldergast tipped an eye at Picaro. “Water for the boy,” Valgur finished.
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“Very good,” said Baldgerast. He wrapped the back wall with the tip of his cane and a young servant emerged from a small door along its side. “Get our guests some refreshment, and bring ice, if there’s any.”
Valgur eyed the door warily as the servant departed. Picaro noticed there was no handle on it, and its edges were fitted so well one could barely tell it was a door when it was closed.
“That’s a fine place for eavesdropping,” said Valgur.
Baldergast scoffed. “My servants come when called, nothing more. Not to worry, our conversation is safe within the confines of these walls. Everything that moves through my company is well monitored and accounted for, especially secrets.”
“Aye, then that would be my worry,” said Valgur, narrowing his gaze as the servant entered again and laid a tray upon the table. “What’s safe for the proper coin?”
“Come, Valgur. I know we haven’t done business long, but it has been good and I would never risk that,” said Baldergast, lifting a cup for the captain to take. “Here, have a swig.”
Valgur took the glass and downed it in two gulps. He smacked his lips and laughed heartily. “Well, that is good grog. Right, then, as y’say. Here’s what I have.” With that h produced the scrimshaw key.
Baldergast’s eyes widened at the sight of it. “In all my days. What do we have here. May I?”
“Of course,” said Valgur, handing the key to the merchant.
Baldergast produced a thick monocle and inspected the key carefully. He muttered to himself, nodding as he did so. After several moments, he looked back up at Valgur. “By the depths. This must be a skeleton key. I’ve heard of these, but have never seen one.”
“Skeleton, y’say? Meaning what exactly,” said Valgur.
But Baldergast was lost in thought, mumbling to himself. Then his gaze jerked upright to meet Valgur’s. “Where did you get this from?”
“Nevermind where it came from, just tell me what it’s for.”
“It’s just that I heard captain Buccannon enlisted an expedition to find the last of these keys. And Alcatran has also-”
“Blast those old silverbearded bastards,” Valgur growled. “They may as well be skeletons. The wind’s changed, and the tide’s shifted. The key came to me to stake my claim on the seas, and that hour is at hand. I won’t let it slip away. Don’t worry, Baldy, no one’s gonna know it was you who told me. Now, all I need to know is what it’s for.” The last words were spoken softly, but with great emphasis.
“They’re are a rare thing indeed,” said Baldergast, turning the key over in his hand. “It’s meant to open a very particular thing. A cache, one might say, meant to keep secret treasure. A door, a chest, something closely linked to this key, likely from the same making. And see here, these engravings?”
“Aye, I was looking at that,” said Valgur.
“These are clues as to who made this key, or had it made,” said Baldergast, pointing to the small scene inscribed into the neck of the key.
“What ye think it means?”
Baldergast furrowed his browed and pondered it. “It’s hard to say. I’ve never been good at this sort of emblematic language.”
“Emblemat-a-what now?” said Grit.
“A visual code. There is a message in it that I can’t quite read,” said Baldergast.
“Oi, well what can ye tell us then,” said Valgur.
“I can tell you I am not the man for this. I don’t know what to make of this key aside from telling you it must certainly be a skeleton key. And there is something worth opening it with. Who you’re looking for is the man with the map under his chin.”
Valgur’s expression darkened slightly. “I’ve heard tell of that. I thought it was only legend.”
“Nay, not legend. Though many believe it to be. Even so, knowing where the cache is and opening it are two very different things. Did anyone tell you the man’s name? It’s Patmos. He’s a hard man to find. Normally keeps to himself. It’s said he’s been after the skeleton keys his whole life. Drove him to the point of madness. This was when I was still young. Man must be old and grey by now, if he’s still alive.”
“Patmos,” said Valgur. “Where can I find this man?”
“Last I heard, he kept to the Far Reaches. I’ve heard tell of a cache out there. Some whisperings. Many have tried, but all have failed to find it. He lived among the locals for a time. Rarely comes back this way,” said Baldergast.
“Blast, we were just there. But that doesn’t exactly narrow it down.”
“Try the Marron Isles. I’d start there,” said Baldergast, handing back the key.
“Hope yer not leading us on a merry chase,” said Valgur toothily, flipping a gold piece onto the table.
Baldergast chuckled. “I’m looking forward to seeing what you bring back upon your return.”
“Aye, you and me both,” said Valgur, turning for the door.
“Careful, though, Valgur. I reckon yer not the only man after Patmos. Buccannon and Alcatran were already looking for these keys. I would not be surprised if they’ve found him already.”
Valgur grinned back at him. “Don’t worry, Baldy, I’ll be sure to tell ‘em you said hello.”
Baldergast was left looking worried as the group departed the pavilions and made their way back to the wharf. Picaro watched curiously as the people of Parley went about their business. “No time for taking in the sights. There’s treasure to be had, lad,” said Valgur, an expectant twinkle in his eye.
How it started:
- Samuel O. Ludescher