“No hope of that, I think. And my trip doesn't have much to show for it. Though I have seen some solid proof that I am, in truth, being hunted.
I could begin to search for Pharod, only now that doesn't seem quite right. It's probably better I slow down and think for this evening.”
Morte lifts his chin slightly towards the battle axe showing over The Nameless One’s shoulder.
“New headsplitter at least.”
“New sights, new sounds, new kit, new enemies,” he says, adding a bit more weariness than he really feels.
“But you've been true to your word, and I honor you that. Thank you.”
He studies Morte for a few beats. The mimir uses some vivid language and gestures, but when he returns to stillness, he gives off about as much personality as an obelisk.
“Stand with me apart here.” He withdraws some paces from the drunks seated beside Morte.
The young man solemnly intones:
[…]
Dispensing prologue of suit and bargain
With each side’s prefer - preferrment the lightning stroke
One of Morte's drinking companions promptly stands up and shouts:
“With each side’s prefer-” He makes a loud hiccuping sound. “Preferrment”
There’s a roar of laughter and the graybeard sits back down, almost missing his seat.
“Nothing pressing. We may stay for the poet if you like.”
He pauses. “As we have a moment, I would hear more of your own aims, if I may. Supposing you were freed of your commitment to me and granted one hundred pounds of gold, what would you do with your time?”
“Eh. There are parts to it I wouldn't readily gab, chief. The public part is I’m mostly keen to travel the planes and stay out of the dead book.
“I read once that our kind ‘consumes secrets like a man consumes a fine banquet’, and while I doubt Kai Zunik the Younger knew his ass from his elbow, I guess it’s fair to say an aria sung by a pretty jay bird hits different when you can play it back at will for the rest of your days. See the slight tremble in her hand, the hair curling down onto her breast. Trace the line of her eyes, lighting upon that young man in the third row in particular.”
“Even this.” He thrusts his chin in the direction of the youth on the stage. “It’s worth a listen.”
“Tell me. Have you heard the saying that ‘A man may live three score years if he stays away from violence, four score if he keeps dry and swears off spirits, and five score if he is very lucky and very boring’?”
“Now prophets weep what they in signs foresaw”
says the young man. One of the drunks leans forward expectantly, perhaps anticipating a verbal stumble.
“From what I’ve heard, our shapes were crafted so that the knowledge we hold would never be lost. You won’t see a mimir go lame except by violence or some plague made of the Art. Never heard of one dying of old age.”
“Ah. I had it in my mind to ask you. I do judge you a sensible man, and I was perplexed why you hadn't yet talked your way out of bondage, both from the dustmen and from your sorcerous master. Surely you have enough cunning to defy any overseer who is not constantly looming over you. But if you have eternity, I can imagine you might see it differently.
Did you enjoy your time in the mortuary?”
“Enjoy? That’d be a stretch. I saw and heard some things. I don’t taste or smell, which is probably a commendable state of being for a dustie. But can’t say I enjoyed my time in the basement, no.”
Morte tilts his chin fully forward to stare straight upwards at the ceiling for a few seconds. It's the first time The Nameless One has seen him make that particular movement.
“In fantasy, perhaps.”
He notices a nagging thought. It isn’t a new one, but now for the first time he’s able to put words to it.
Morte is… too convenient as a companion. He presents himself as an intelligent, submissive counselor and court jester. He doesn’t raise difficulties. He expresses no ego.
Maybe that is because he was manufactured to order by his mysterious master, much in the way the dustmen train their vessels to fit a particular purpose… but is it not plausible that this mimir was designed for a different patron altogether, to serve as a double agent, acting against he, the immortal, himself?
He says, “Answer immediately. Do you believe it was a coincidence that you and I crossed paths?”
Morte makes a movement with his jaw that calls to mind a grimace. “No. And don't ask me now what all I suspect about that.”
But. In what possible world would it be in Morte’s interest to speak as he just did, if he is an agent of the adversary? Is he to believe the skull is so childishly sloppy in his deceptions that he will blurt out secrets if merely asked forcefully? Or was it to make him think that Morte is playing some high-order recursive bluff game?
“Very well. You will answer this one simple question, and then afterwards nothing further on the subject for today. Were you expecting me or one like me to arrive this morning, or, rather, more broadly, this month?”
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