The Jingle of Shekels.
In the beginning was the Word. And the Word was — Slack.
What else could you call this shack?
Not only was it shoved into the farthest ass-end of the city, but it also sounded like a whole damn gang of cats was throwing a reunion party inside. Cats that had sworn to stay forever young in spirit and in chaos.
When I woke up the next morning, the first thing I saw were a bunch of dried goat skulls hanging on the wall. No clue what they were for. Were they begging for pity? Decoration? Curse insurance?
Who the hell knows. Couldn't even act surprised — my own room used to be a paint storage closet. It still reeked of wet rags and my fallen ambitions.
Sitting up on my mat, I twitched a little and shouted:
– You cunning bastard! You really got me.
The old man had done it — left a full-on drawing of me on the floor: passed out, drooling, mouth wide open like a deadbeat prophet. Looked pretty tomb-ready, if you asked me. I'll give it to him though — he ran out of coal right around the drool, so it faded there. Artistic decision, maybe.
Still… not bad. Kinda handsome, even.
Next to the drawing, the good ol' master of the house had left a little note:
– Fix this dump, dummy!
Short and sweet. Fair enough — that was kinda the whole reason I came. Kind of, because I sure as hell wasn't planning to start remodeling today. Still, I walked around the place — if you could call it a "place" — and checked it out top to bottom.
Yeah… the work here was biblical. As in, Book-of-Lamentations-level bad.
The floor was clay with random slabs of marble wedged into it. (Where the hell did he get those? Looted the Forum?) The walls were covered in ash, soot, and creepy drawings of winged chariots with way too many eyeballs. Gave me the willies. The furniture matched the madness — all handmade by the owner, of course. My personal favorite was the hearth, with a tiny clay pot on top… that had a hole in the middle. I assume for more ergonomic soup consumption.
So, the job was clear: scrape the walls, haul out the mountain of charcoal junk, patch the roof, and maybe build a chest for my stuff. Though on second thought, what would I even keep in that chest? That kid who presented the artist in the square?
Just to be safe, I checked every damn corner of the place to make sure my employer wasn't keeping the kid tied up somewhere. You never know with that guy. Okay… inspection complete. Time to hunt down the people I needed.
First stop: Mary.
She was my first lead in the quest for some guy named James — she either hired him or just let him loiter around. Hard to say. Either way, I needed to find him. He might be the key to unlocking the secrets of Jesh.
Also, I had a side mission brewing — I wanted to examine those wedding jars. Thoroughly. For Mori's tricks…
What?! Did I just call him that?
Looks like this house isn't the only thing full of junk — my brain's got some cobwebs too.
I grabbed a quick bite of what the artist left for me (the nastiest cheese in the entire United Cheesy Federation) and finally left the Lair of Creative Evil.
After crossing the dried-up riverbed (RIP, buddy), I picked up the pace. Big day ahead. Good thing Mar-Rukh's boring lecture yesterday chilled me out so much that I actually got decent sleep. Can't even tell anymore — was it exhaustion, or another one of their magician mind tricks? Gotta flag that in memory and look into it later.
So many tasks, it's hard.
And far higher than the low, squatting roof of the warehouse I'd finally reached — sitting smack in the center of Cana. Took me a while to get there, but the road yields to the one who walks it.
Standing outside, I stared at the totally unremarkable, generic-looking building, wondering what the hell this Mary was actually up to. What was her angle?
You don't check — you don't know. That was the slogan I was rocking as I pulled on the door. It swung open instantly. Classic. I was clearly expected — Jesh must've whispered through his Divine Bluetooth that I'd show up, and they should keep the door unlocked. Nothing mystical about it — just standard conniving.
Inside it was damp and dim, as if the raging heat outside had taken a coffee break. As soon as my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw It — The Table. Capital T.
Big. Wooden. Covered in strange symbols, formulas, and squiggles. It stood by the wall, and attached to it were schematic boards showing warriors, runners, wrestlers, and even donkeys going full throttle.
Mary sat in the middle of this glorious mess, rightfully perched on a bench, eyes glued to a wax tablet.
Without even looking up, she barked:
Sit down What're you staring at?
Just… scoping the Trying to figure out who that sweaty donkey's running from.
She let out a cackle that sounded like a murder of crows had gone in on it together and explained:
Oh, him? Forgot all about that Donkey races aren't my thing. I barely touch that nonsense.
That got my interest up. I stepped closer and lowered my tired derrière onto the bench. Folding my hands like an innocent schoolboy, I explained:
Lady, I'm here on behalf of someone named Jesh. You surely know him — he knows everything about everyone. So, I'd like to find a man named Jacob, and I kinda think he… Babbling's for the weak! – She roared and stomped her foot. I nearly fell off the bench. Scraping together what little courage (or whatever substitute I run on), I stammered:
So… do you know him or not?
Know him?! Damn right I do! That idiot thought that just because he was guarding my place, he'd somehow become an expert in betting odds and fighter stats. See that sack over there?
I nodded. The sack definitely looked well-punched — worn out like a disgraced senator.
I used to beat on that thing and show him where his opponents' weak spots So he thought he could handle it. Forgot that this ain't about swinging swords — it's bare-knuckle brawling! That takes skill.
And he doesn't have it?