The quarterly Evening of Generosity hosted by the Children of Endkiu in the Eternal Palace was the second greatest movement of wealth that the city of Urk ever saw.
It began when all the city’s finest designer suits and gowns were removed from their closets, when all of the heirloom jewelry heavy with the weight of dazzling stones and exploited labor emerged from their jewelry boxes and safes (and in more than one case, the smaller safes nested within). This was the beginning of the movement, a stirring, from the closet to the foot of the bed.
The attire climbed onto bodies, which helped matters somewhat. Adding legs into the mix made for more efficient movement. From there, the flow of wealth really took off.
From all the corners of the city that mattered—that is, all corners except for the dangerous exterior districts and the objectively poor or relatively poor interior sections, which in total made up about ninety-five percent of the city’s corners—armored carriages flanked by extensively-vetted bodyguards turned their paths towards the Eternal Palace. They moved quite expeditiously, as far as travel in Urk was considered. There was only one thing better than a hand stamp or bit of paper for passing through the endless series of gates, and that was the garish display of unfathomable and obscene wealth. To the legislators, the laws of the worlds, and above all, the animated bits of muscle that enforced them, such a display was practically a spell of invisibility.
It was said that these movements of wealth totaled, on average, somewhere in the neighborhood of sixteen and a half million radulas. And that’s one of the nice neighborhoods, mind you, with a sturdy fence and a gatehouse at the mouth of the road and a cadre of guards on the HOA’s payroll.
On these quarterly outings, this stockpile of wealth—and the associated legs and other biological vestiges—moved about flauntingly. After all, what was the use of having special-occasion, thrice-locked-up, heavy-as-a-brick bangles, earrings, and cufflinks more like weighty fetters if you didn’t make good and sure that the people who didn’t have those things could see them?
Being Urk, however, this brought about a unique disposition, so that the money-movers walked about while somehow marrying the temperaments of a strutting peacock and a hunted rabbit.
Events such as these, in fact, were in many cases the most significant workout the associated legs and arms received all quarter, weighed down with such a quantity of metals and stones. It is also worth noting that the sheer weight of this wealth was the reason the event had to be held in the lowest level of the palace, a decision made with a cautious eye for the building’s untraditional construction.
And so the great movement of wealth was done, converging on the Eternal Palace. It was matched, of course, by the equal movement of the attendees and all their dressings returning to their respective mansions at the conclusion of the night.
But these were only the second greatest movements of wealth that the city ever saw. There was one more regular movement that topped even the sixteen and a half million radula sum of the Evenings of Generosity.
Most days, once a day, Grand Priest David Mammona entered the Hall of Relics, donned the Crown of Samesh, and made his way, amidst a legion of guards, from the Eternal Palace across the street to the Numinous Cathedral. Sure, it didn’t cover the several blocks of distance braved by sapphire brooches and velvet loafers during the Evenings of Generosity, but where numbers were concerned, this movement won by an infinite number of miles.
Easily trumping a mere sixteen and a half million radulas, the Crown of Samesh was, of course, priceless, and so its every change of scenery skewed the heat map of Urk’s riches like an exploding sun.
Though that map, as noted, changed little. The Crown of Samesh—the Halo of the Unsightly King, the mote periapt of fear—had not, with the exception of a handful of brief church business trips, ventured farther than a mile in any direction from the Hall of Relics in all the hundreds of years since the church claimed it as their own.
So some might’ve asserted that it was well past time for Urk to see a true movement of wealth.
Root stood outside the Eternal Palace, clutching a forged event ticket and feeling absolutely awful. But the dress made it at least marginally better.
It wasn’t even just the anxiety about what they were about to do—about everything that was already in motion, about having crossed the point of no return, about all the things that could still go wrong and what those missteps could mean for the rest of their lives, mostly in their ability to expedite that summary. No, most of the horrid sensations she was being subjected to had nothing to do with her nerves and everything to do with her stupid fucking decisions.
Okay, yes, she was ready to admit it—just certainly, certainly not to him. Azriah had been right.
Her headache had only gotten worse, like her skull wasn’t big enough and her blood hammered on the other side, trying to renovate for a more spacious interior. That was nothing compared to the nausea, which had made damn sure every bit of food in her vicinity looked like it’d been fished out of a gutter. And the resulting hunger didn’t help matters. Stomachs are notoriously bad at operating in their own self-interest in this regard.
As if the hangover wasn’t enough, she could barely keep her eyelids up. The only things keeping her on her feet now were the judgmental looks of Saly and Brian, the jump from the anxiety, and the stupid, itchy seams of this damn dress…
It was her only complaint about it. Otherwise, she was in awe.
Vit and Azriah had done the shopping. They had to look their parts—a hired caterer, a church guard, and three attendees for the stuffiest, most obnoxiously-rich event in the city. The only people buying the mind-bogglingly expensive tickets had money to burn. Saly wore that costume well, minus the having part. Root didn’t have the money, but… er, never mind.
They had enough; Ybris Affodell and the exchange of the bizarre “crypt currency” had seen to that. And they were eyeing a whole lot more, so they could afford a bit for a costume budget.
This dress made the one she’d borrowed back in Midden look like a reformatted tablecloth. Black and sleek, made from some sort of fabric that looked like metal but felt like water (itchy water), it hugged her from her armpits to her thighs before a split granted free range to her legs, leaving the rest to swish about her ankles. Strapless, it had a neckline like a dagger lunging toward her navel—like it and the slit reaching up her thigh were conspiring toward indecent aims. As much as Root admired the attendees in gowns that swept the street and staircase behind them, Vit and Azriah had been adamant about other points: range of motion, for one, and eliminating any tripping hazards. Despite the attire, they weren’t here for a simple gala.
It was also why she’d opted for more practical shoes, silly as they looked with the dress. Her lack of experience in heels was too significant a liability, and she shuddered to imagine the struggles of walking through the hidden tunnels in them—or worse, barefoot. She’d be more likely to leave with her feet in her handbag.
To complete her outfit, she wore long, elegant gloves to match the dress and at least two pounds of jewelry after the local fashion, gold and lapis lazuli and a wide, heavy necklace.
Next to Root, Saly fidgeted. He cast frequent glances at the closed palace doors just ahead. The attendees around them in line complained loudly that they were meant to have been let in three minutes prior.
“I do hope everything’s going all right in there,” said Saly, again adjusting his immaculate suit. Beside him, Brian’s was similar, but more businesslike, like he was ready to give a presentation to a critical board.
“Perhaps some last-minute tidying,” said Root with a level expression.
“Well, I more so meant—”
The palace doors opened. Those at the front of the line made their impatience louder in its final moment, only for a lone figure to lumber out and the doors to clap shut once again behind him. Cruncher squeezed around the line and made his way toward the stairs.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” said someone.
“Four minutes!” said another.
“I need to put this down already,” said a third, indicating a medium-sized bag held at her side. Most in the crowd carried bags—which was some help, as Root had one of her own, stuffed with her change of clothes—and in nearly every one, neatly folded, was a yellow raincoat and a black umbrella.
There was rain in the forecast, after all.
As Cruncher approached the three of them, he cast a glance at Root. That was it—not even a subtle nod. He lowered his head.
Just as he passed them, his hand, hanging at his side, brushed Root’s. A wad slipped into her fingers. She closed her hand tighter.
And then Cruncher was gone.
Saly gave Root an expectant expression. She said nothing—did nothing. But his eyes trailed her hand as she slipped a handkerchief into her clutch bag.
“I do hope we’ll be let in soon,” said Root loudly.
Complaining was an excellent way to blend in with rich people.
“Five minutes until doors, people, five minutes!” yelled a voice that had done an awful lot of yelling all afternoon.
The palace’s event organizer was a lank man with shallow features and shallower personality by the name of Gilm Glamson. Vit wasn’t all too bothered by him. After all, they’d previously worked for Low Fishdrum.
Gilm marched all around, not doing much of anything but certainly making sure no one else was afforded the same luxury. That was the only bit that had caused Vit any issue with the man, as it meant they’d had to fend hands that were trying to look busy away from their cart for the past hour. A cart is like a goldmine for someone trying to look busy, after all, as it could be moved one way, and then another, and then off to a third location. You could tote a cart all around for an hour at a brisk pace and look like the busiest one in the room.
“Hey, hey, hey,” shouted Gilm. “All catering carts need to be in-the-kitchen. What does this look like, people, a pantry?”
“Sorry,” said Vit, who wasn’t sorry. “Just had to move it out of the way while unloading some of it for the bar.”
“Well parking it here in the hall is a no-go,” said Gilm. “Come on, out out out.”
Vit grabbed the cart from where they’d stashed it in the passageway off the Hall of Relics. They pushed it toward the hall and the courtyard and catering wing beyond.
Atop the cart were all sorts of things—probably things the catering team would’ve liked to have had in the kitchen several hours ago. Among the boxes of cornmeal and trays of jarred fruit were two enormous sacks of flour sitting haphazardly at the peak, both situated like they’d been packed on there by someone with a quite limited understanding of sound structural composition. And the one on top, for reasons unexplainable and bizarre, was open.
Vit pushed the cart hurriedly into the Hall of Relics without a care for any of these details.
Halfway across the hall, they hit an unfortunate bump. It was unfortunate because anyone with one eye could’ve spotted it, and Vit had five. Teetering was inevitable, and it didn’t help matters when Vit pulled the cart to a jarring halt.
“Whoa!” they said at the crux of a hundred mental rehearsals. The two sacks of flour, to great surprise, were sagging off their perch.
Vit was quick, and equally precise. They reached out fast and made a grab for the sacks, but somehow only managed to snag the lower of the two.
The top one continued on its merry way: slipping, then plummeting to the floor. And—ugh!—you might recall that this one was open! As it hit the polished, stone-tiled floor, it heaved a great wheeze. Flour burst across the floor and up the side of the nearby display case.
Vit’s fingers had only just barely caught the corner of the second sack, and its shifting weight quickly overpowered their loose grip. They’d only delayed the inevitable.
Missing its companion, the bottom sack of flour tumbled. It landed atop the former, knocking the wind and, more importantly, the flour from it with a heavy fwuh!
A tremendous plume of flour bloomed in the air, scattering a film across every surface in all directions. Vit watched in well-timed horror.
Just inside the doors to the Hall of Relics, dressed in palace livery and gripping a standard-issue spear, Azriah watched the events unfold impassively. His partner shot him a subtle snicker from the opposite side of the doors, which he appeared to ignore.
“No, no, no!” shouted Gilm. “What in the worlds was that? What in the worlds was that? No, no, you have got to be joking right now. Are you joking?”
“Oh no, terribly sorry, so sorry,” said Vit, making useless efforts to scoop flour back into the open sack. Dusty smears dirtied their crisp catering suit.
“Four minutes,” cried Gilm while very nearly ripping out handfuls of his hair. “Four—less than four minutes until doors. No, no. Where is the cleaning team? Cleaners! Someone get the cleaners!”
“Here,” said Squeej, rushing in, all tentacles in motion. A few others were only seconds behind.
“Get this sorted now,” demanded Gilm. “This… this…” He seemed to be hyperventilating.
Vit hoisted what remained of the sacks of flour back onto the cart as Squeej pulled out a spray bottle sloshing with a pinkish solution and doused the dusty windows of the grand display case. She wiped them until they shined, the glass so clear it might not’ve been there at all.
“And you!” shouted Gilm as Vit shoved the cart in the direction of the catering kitchen.
“Hm?”
“You… you…” the words died on Gilm’s tongue. Vit was afraid something had burst in his head from the tension. Then he brushed a hand aside in dismissal. “Get to your post, to your post.”
Vit nodded and hastened toward the kitchen as the sweepers finished sweeping, the dusters finished dusting, and Squeej moved on to the windows facing the courtyard.
With the cart stowed, Vit returned to the courtyard. A bar had been set up to one side. They glanced into the foyer to see the first guests coming through the front door and filtering through the security checkpoint. Root, Saly, and Brian were among them. Vit paid them no mind and instead began setting out glasses on the bar top.
Event attendees trickled into the courtyard, most beelining to spots at the tables that had been set up throughout the space to drape raincoats on the backs of their chairs. Funny, the attitude toward coats in the desert. It was like the people didn’t know what to do with them.
“Excuse me?” said Root as she approached the bar.
“How can I help you?” Vit asked cheerily.
“I don’t suppose you could break a helix? I only carry the useful coins around, you know, but I’ll need a tip for my carriage driver this evening, and, well, I can’t go giving him one of these. You folks don’t work hard enough for that, ha!”
A few other guests nearby nodded to themselves like this was a frequent issue of theirs.
“Hm, let me see,” said Vit as they rummaged around below the bar. “I’m sorry, miss, this is all I’ve got.” Into Root’s outstretched palm they deposited three of the magic whisper stones and a small pouch of fata pomorgranate seeds.
Root tutted. “Well, that’ll do, I suppose. Here, keep the change.” She handed Vit a helix. “And would you throw this in the garbage for me? Nicked my finger and got blood on it. I’ll just buy another.” She passed Vit the handkerchief between two fingers.
“Of course,” said Vit as they moved their hand below the counter to the trash can and then pocketed the handkerchief. Root strode off haughtily.
A minute later, a voice chirped to life in Vit’s ear.
“We’ve arrived,” said Saly. “All’s well?”
“Right on schedule,” said Vit under their breath.
“Thank goodness you’re all alive,” said Beel’s voice from back in the basement, more distorted than the others, like it was traveling down a longer tunnel. “Now, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking on what you all said about sneaking me my medicine, and I don’t appreciate—”
“We’re on our way to the courtyard,” came Anjeanette’s voice.
Azriah jumped in. “The dog?”
“Taken care of,” said Root.
The line fell to near-silence as half a dozen people tried not to look like they were mumbling to themselves. Beel’s muttering trailed off.
Vit, in the lull, turned their attention to bartending.