Heaven in Cilifus

(5) The Tower of Cilifus 5

"The coach was hiding information," Éliol whispered. "They omitted very important reasons why an expedition is such an urgent requirement for citizenship."

Francies found it hard to pay attention when all around them a real town, no, city sprawled open.

Paved roads that never ended! Alleys of stone and iron doors! Houses built thick and sturdy instead of easy to rebuild and cheap to repair! Parapets, balconies, terraces—actually, he didn't risk raising his head that high, but why wouldn't there be a few?—and many other architectural bits he heard about but struggled to imagine without seeing.

And all of it lifeless. The graveyard of wagons had been a bustling jungle by comparison. Since then he hadn't heard a peep louder than his own breath, or the squeaks of these hairless vermin who swarmed puddles of filthy rain water, taking careful sips as if they might be pulled under at any moment.

"These reasons can be resumed to, of course, Dwellers," Éliol continued, glancing from corner to corner as if the damned things were waiting for his cue to attack. "They would not leave their command post unprotected, that would be illogical! We call them Guardian Dwellers, Dwellers who slumber in the darkest reaches of Hosile and emerge only to assassinate those who approach without an Invitation!"

"I have heard of such creatures before, yet I cannot imagine a Dweller that is so... subtle." Garces said, walking by the first person they saw out and about, an older hare woman with a woolly blanked smoking a roll of herbs on a street corner.

"Of course there are subtle Dwellers! And Guardian Dwellers are the worse of their ilk, but that is besides my point. They don't attack Guests, but Initiates who are not born here lose this protection eventually. As a Guest employed to one of the Town's Guilds, they surely knew this fact! Am I crazy to think that information should be given up front?"

"Maybe they didn't want to panic us." Francies could have gone for the rest of his life without knowing those, and be better for it. "Having to piss and sleep in these streets is threatening enough, I think."

Garces grunted. "Mon Handres doesn't remark me as one with nefarious intentions. And if they were, what purpose could hiding that possibly accomplish?"

Éliol's massive trunk lurched over a rock and nearly tipped over. Forget grating, its constant scratching hurt like nails tickling his eardrums, fouling his mood by the minute. Why was him sticking to Francies like sap anyway? "Obscuring such important facts just doesn't make sense. There has to be an angle..."

"Maybe they forgot, maybe they though we wouldn't be dumb enough to wait until we get attacked, maybe that's a lie and you're wrong?" Francies said.

"Convenient excuses! I have been trained to spot ploys, and there is something peculiar about the situation, mark my words."

There was something peculiar about everything here. Francies knew the sounds of a sleepy neighborhood by heart, and Cilifus was not sleepy. No shuffling bodies, no snoring, no creaking of cooling floorboards or cracked bed frames. There was some decay here, a few houses lacked doors or windows, but nothing that explained the silence.

Things improved a bit as noon rose, and the number of people grew steadily. They found the front of an open store, a young man sweeping by a clear glass display; a group of hooded people disappearing behind a dark window; cackles followed by the sound of a bottle striking a wall; a girl not much older than her teens whistling as she dragged a cart full of heavy boxes down the street.

With those numbers, the variety of folk grew as well. A pair of hare ears waving high, muscles that should shred through to clothes stretching a shirt to its limits, mottled blotches that looked painted over smooth skin rather than diseased, that much didn't raise his brows any. A swish of what might have been a furry tail from the right perspective, and his gaze fixed onto the ground.

If only he could get away from that Churn damned squeaking that drew every stare their way Sadly, Éliol was surprisingly strong. "H-hey, wait for me! I think I must have figured another aspect of the conspiracy! If you think back to those 'necessity pauses,' they—"

Except, he realized as many became a crowd, Éliol wasn't the only center of attention. A perimeter of wrinkled noses had former around all three of them. Frowning, Francies gave himself a good sniff. Nothing? Maybe it was a lingering effect of the magic wagon or something, because judging by these strangers' faces that had not been the right reaction.

"I think we should hurry up." Francies didn't consider himself the self conscious type, but he was as folk as the best of them, his confidence had limits.

"I'm going as fast as feasible!" Éliol said. "If you didn't notice, my belongings are not made of feathers!"

"I'm in agreement with Francies." Garces said. "If you would like some help with carrying—"

"D-don't you touch my stuff!"

"... Merely a suggestion."

Thankfully, it wouldn't take five more minutes before the crowd parted, giving them an unbridled view of an impossible monument.

The town opened into a clearing too large to drown in populace, unlike the streets. Tiles of sandstone led him down wide stairs to a great hexagon indent where small groups relaxed apart from one another, ignorant of, or worse, too used to the glowing statues to feel their haunt.

Six brass figures stood over a tall stand, backs to one another. A film of mucus flowed from the highest peaks of each, invisible until it distorted, shimmered, glinted like a shower of mirror dust in the light, turning bared blades and billowing lace and gallant locks into the purest gold

A magician in an overcoat and a wide brimmed hat, sleeves consumed by spiked flames. An odd creature with a bubble shaped head and frothing dress, ankle touching arms spiraling around their legs. A savage looking hare dressed in rags and with hair reaching their hips, arms twisted into grotesque claws. A monstrosity that looked more like a coffin made of bones, top half masked by the bloated caricature of a bearded nobleman with a five pointed crown grinning. A simple hooded robe, not a single characteristic unveiled otherwise.

Finally, higher than the others, raising an odd sword that looked cobbled from dozens of small razors, the spitting image of a legendary hero, cape blowing in false wind, plated armor embossed with the sharp angles of crags and stalagmites, a face so perfectly angled and boned his heart skipped a beat.

A plaque opposite his entrance, below the statues, was the only context given, or the only context needed. He took a few seconds to read it in full.

And below that, a trapdoor, five locks with distinct keyholes embedded in the stone around it.

Creaking announced the coming of his companions. His mouth ran faster than his thoughts. "And these ones? Who are them?"

There were a few seconds of silence, before Éliol answered. "Who do you think?"

Heavenly Piercers.

"Thieves," Éliol growled.

"Aight, got it. I think it's time to go," Francies said.

"And I think—!" Éliol said. "I-I think I don't have the strength to pull it up the stairs again. I-I would not mind your help."

Upper Town lived up to its name.

Not too far from the square with the statues, an arch rose three stores high, covering its neighboring buildings in shadow and mercifully obscuring the Tower enough for him too look up.

There was a town above the Town, manors large enough to harbor half of South Lateno watching their lessers from the safety of their pedestals. Fences of iron spears protected sheer walls from stray climbers, the air around them glowing with charged auras where mystical effects threatened those who didn't get the hint.

Below its pillars, its ceiling of metal and masonry interwoven into a webbed mesh, the Town of Cilifus proper continued into tunnels of homes and commerce. Corners of poverty and darkness peeked through, but the underground was mostly well cared and lit: natural light cascaded from collapsed sections of the Upper town, torches repelled the shadows wherever they rose, and fireflies as potent as embers escorted the people as finishing touches.

Gorgeous, incredible, amazing work of folk ingenuity! But he just couldn't get those six statues out of his mind.

Once you knew their likeness, you saw them everywhere. The fire magician in granite sitting in a privileged position of a merchant's stand, or the ugly grinning mug chalked over a gate, he started counting the figures as they came and just couldn't stop. Not counting other similar depictions, they overshadowed the Church of Apodon's Ringworm more than five to one.

He half wondered how Garces was finding this place, before his mind came crashing back to a second precedent thought that didn't allow him to enjoy the architecture of Cilifus: the amount of openly armed people.

A knife was fine, a hatchet, repurposed farming tools, who needed so many of those these days anyway? Self-defense was a necessity when a stray encounter with a blind vinegar dog could be deadly. Those were not it. Pikes and halberds fashioned from bone, bows of wicked black branches, clubs of gray crystal on hips, on backs, brandished between passersby—bucketfuls of swords with marbled red blades sold at every shop, even the damned food stalls!

Not good for the nerves. Suddenly, he didn't feel too safe walking side to side with Éliol, not in the least because he was meeting every passing glance with that same sulking glare of always.

"They can try me," he whispered. "We will show them what we are made of."

"We," Francies said.

The Notary's Office was a skip and a hop from a collapse, estimating from the light on the ground. Or rather, the nondescript rectangle of bricks containing the Notary's Office was, the amount of grumbling, heated arguments, and pitiful sobbing from inside a worrisome omen.

The corridor immediately after the entrance was filled with multiple lines of folks to both sides, half sat, two fifths standing, an unfortunate few who could not merge into the walls having to wait in the middle of the hall. Éliol's trunk made it inside, but sure wasn't going anywhere past that.

"I can do it." Éliol insisted, of course he did. "It's all a matter of angle. As is, it is too wide, but on its side it might just squeeze through."

"And you're going to drag it on its side how?" Francies said.

"On paper, the wheels can swivel."

"On paper."

"W-what do you suggest, then?! That I leave my precious belongings unattended in front of a bunch of foreigners?"

He would suggest just that, but now half the corridor was glaring blades at them. "I-I get it, I'll help. Let's put it upright, you get that side and I get this."

Left of the entrance, follow to the staircase up then right, last door on the left. If the door is closed, knock twice and then again every two minutes. If an hour passes and nobody answers, leave the building, take the first right off the main street, the second left, then again at the end of the alley. That corner is behind a bakery, toasty and private, perfect to sleep in. Better luck the next day!

Thankfully, the Notary's hallway was mostly empty, and despite the door being closed they were answered on the first knock.

"Come on in!" A voice, gentle and lively like a wind chime, called. "I've been waiting for you!"

Éliol huffed. "Now this is prompt service! Much better than that Deliverance Guild sham. Though they could afford clean this establishment more often, I can see dust gathering around the corners."

"I think we should be done scolding others to their faces in public," Garces said.

"It's constructive criticism!"

"Pal," Francies said, opening the door.

"You saw what I saw, this establishment lives in the shadow of nobility! Literally. It needs to care better for its image if it is to fulfill that expectation, that is simple fact."

"Maybe I shouldn't bother, but look around yourself, this isn't—" Francies froze, swallowing his words.

"Wait, just three?" the voice said. "But I heard there were at least six or so?"

"What do you mean, just three? I will have you know that I, Éliol Fernen Bilo Epinondas, have ties of blood to the Caixelas family and will not stand to be looked down upon—" Éliol froze, swallowing his words.

"Oh, my sincere apologies, Mon Epinondas! But I had been expecting a large group of Initiates, and to know I've already lost the opportunity to meet half of them..."

Garces froze, spitting his words. "Apologies myself, but could you both please not occupy the doorstep?"

Standing behind a desk of polished rose ironwood was the most beautiful woman Francies had ever seen. Slender, elegant, tall, eyes shining sapphires under the incandescence of twin fireflies, pale face lightly freckled under round spectacles, dressed in a simple white blouse with flowing sleeves and a dark skirt that only accentuated her impeccable posture. She flipped a mesh of silken hazel hair behind her ear.

Her longish, sharp, tapered ear. A furred tail swished behind her. Slit eyes blinked at them, a polite smile on her face, revealing the tips of pearlies who could tear through his carotids like they were made of old parchment.

The first fox he had got a proper look on, and in turn had taken a proper look at him.

He licked his lips, suddenly alert and searching for exits from the corner of his sight. His grip on his spear was so tight the smooth handle dug into his palm, yet her glance slid right of his sole means of defense like he was wielding a stick.

"This isn't the way I prefer to introduce myself, but since I can smell a certain problem brewing in the wind, let me assure you: I'm not a bad fox! Never had a single business with Maela, in fact, my family has been Velan for a century before the Conquest, and from a neighboring kingdom before that."

The image of a ghost awaken to see his own killer, Éliol snapped, standing straight as a rod and puffing his chest out. "And how would we know that is true? Do you carry some proof of your birth around?"

"Not on my person, no, but I know where they keep my grandfather's, if you want to see? Or I could tell you the history of how my grandmother became the squire to a disgraced baron in Mamola. Ever heard of the Two-Chop Sword? That's her. Really big deal around those parts, from what I recall."

As if any of that mattered, Éliol deflated. "It's an old story, anyone could have heard of it, Maelan foxes included."

She rolled her eyes, but never lost her smile. "I still have her gear rusting away in my attic. I could bring you over to see, but I'm not the kind of woman to let strangers in her apartment over weird pick-up lines."

Bastard actually blushed. "I-I was not making any kind of uncouth suggestion, I would never!"

"Unfortunate! Anyway, now that the situation is resolved and we're all acquaintances, how about you step in so we can get these documents going sooner rather than later?"

Francies still wasn't convinced, but Éliol looked hesitant, and Garces laid a hand over his shoulder that brokered no retreat. Carefully, he shuffled forward, keeping as safe a distance as the surprisingly spacious office allowed.

Foxes Ate hares. Foxes had eaten many of his relatives, according to mom, back in a time she was so young nobody dared tell it to her face. Did it make a difference, where they were from or how their families got there? The village didn't think so. When people disappeared on the road, the words in everyone's mouth was fox, not Maelan.

...Alright, it had been Maelan once or twice, but he didn't really know what that meant and always assumed those were synonyms. They might not be, but did it matter? The fundamental truth didn't change: foxes ate hares.

"Name's Tessan Vargos, but Tessan or just Tess will do. Like I would have wanted to start with, I'm currently the one responsible for registering new Invitations into our archives," the fox said, tapping an open book on her desk, a beast as wide her torso and as thick as her skull. "And helping with the census, but that's neither here nor there.

"I go on for hours on the particular reasons why you are here and what exactly we will be doing, but do you actually want that sermon right now?" She looked at each in turns, expectant. Francies tried not to flinch, but couldn't quite get the words to come out.

"I know everything I need to." Éliol said.

Garces hummed, arms crossed. "I must confess feeling tired. I would be grateful for a short version if possible, ma'am."

She snorted. "Ma'am is too kind! But I'm a glorified scribe, Tess will do. Short is perfect, but a question: does everyone here know what a Party is, in the context of Cilifius?"

"Up to six Invitations can be linked into a named group that share certain benefits with each other. Simple enough!" Éliol said.

"And remuneration! Very important thing to discuss as early as possible, that. But essentially correct! The Tower is the Churn incarnate, and even a hulk of a Guest with the Ranks and equipment to make us slobber with envy can get chewed up and barfed out if they underestimate its cruelty.

"For us folks of reasonable sanity, we have one power and that is each other. We all can agree that there's power in groups, but not every group is powerful, right? Sending a bunch of novices who don't even know what Essence is or how it works to live a couple days inside Cilifus is tantamount to killing them."

Francies did not know what Essence was either, but this was no time to be baring weakness. Glancing side to side, she nodded, satisfied.

"The amount of casualties we suffered from letting inexperienced Parties do as they wanted is incalculable We, humble members of the Endless Dote, designed by the great Heavenly Piercer Krant the Shallow Abyss, came with a solution years ago. To help fulfill your obligations while making sure you stay alive, we trained specialized Parties with veteran Guests to gently guide you through your beginner pains!

"But before that, we need to know who you are, where you are from, what affiliations you have, how you fight... And don't worry! Remember the first Core Law of the Tower! 'All Guests, regardless of their origin, are welcome to partake of the Tower, so long as they respect its commandments."

"That's not how it was worded to our group." Éliol frowned.

"Really?" Tessan asked. "Who brought you here, by the way? Malin? Riegal? They usually like to homily about the Laws."

"It was Mon Handres," Garces said.

Her smile thinned. "That explains it. No, Cilifus will take on all sorts. The only unwelcome elements are the ones who would interfere in the exploration of the Tower."

"To which I'm afraid I must ask, does that group includes members of the True Faith? They can be..."

"Ranbuctious? Don't worry! We allow churchs of all types to operate here, above board too! We have Orthodox ones, Unorthodox, Mysteries," she leaned forward and whispered, "Blasphemists, if you are in that sort of thing."

Garces expression froze, but the cold fury in his eyes made Francies forget the Fox Tail in the room for a second. "I am not."

"Just making a point," She shrugged. "No matter your background, no need to lie to us. We will know if you lie, and will adjust accordingly, but you won't be penalized if, say, you want to become a Flagellant or the sort."

"Noted."

"That sounds like absurd nonsense," Éliol said.

"Trust the Heavenly Piercers! They know what they are doing. Any more questions?"

A bout of courage. Or a nagging doubt, more likely. "How did you know we were coming, or how many we were?" Francies said.

Again, a slight purse of lips, but her smile didn't die. "News travel fast? And target your ears when they are part of your job. Mine aren't half as good as yours, but they still aren't too shabby."

And if his eyes weren't either, at the very corner of Tessan's desk were two hazy figurines that could only be more Heavenly Piercers. No fancy magic, no immaculate details, simple shapes carved from a branch of yellow wood, base still left in bark.

The bubble head was obvious, their head an oval dome rather than a perfect sphere, layers of dressage at her feet like dripping mud, worm shaped arms recoiling towards their feet. The next was one he had never seen before, not outside: Shaped like a mug with a lid of berries, or less flattering a cap of tumors and pocks all the way down, a single arm or tendril for a handle.

"What are those?"

"If you volunteer to go first." Her smile brightened. "I will get one for you, mister..."

"Call me Francies."

"Francies! Now, privacy or nothing to hide?"

While answering the questions, the carvings didn't leave his mind for a second.