CITY OF THE GODS: FORGOTTEN (33 page)

“Good day.
 
I’m wondering if you would help me,” D’Molay said.

The man opened his eyes. “My name is Orunmila, and I may or may not be of aid to you,” he said, his lips moving between his thin scraggly goatee and mustache. His deep baritone voice seemed soothing and powerful all at the same time.

“Orun-mila. Are you the keeper of the Sacrificial Records?”
 
D’Molay hoped the giant book was indeed the register, but for all D’Molay knew, it might be an appointment book.
 
It was not like there were any signs on the wall indicating where the records were kept. He was relieved when the man smiled and nodded his head.

“As a god of wisdom and destiny, the Council decided that I was the perfect choice for such an honor. Please, be seated and tell me what you wish to know.”
  

D’Molay sat down on the grass in front of Orunmila with the large tome between them.
 
It was then he noticed that the book was actually floating a couple of inches off the ground.
 
The pen continued to independently write in the book as they sat there.
 
“I need to check if a name has been added to the register in the last several days. Is that something you can look up for me?” he asked.

“Is this a person you know, or have you been sent here by someone else to check on a name?
 
It makes a difference in how I look for a person.”
 
Orunmila held his hands up almost as if was shrugging or waiting for D’Molay to pick one hand or the other.

“She is someone I know. Her name is Aavi. Well, that is the name we gave her. She doesn’t know what her true name might be.”

“I see. Do you have anything that belongs to Aavi?” Orunmila asked.

D’Molay thought for a moment. “No. As far as I know, she had nothing of her own.” Orunmila responded with a hum that sounded a bit disappointed.

“Since you know her, there is another way. I will need a lock of your hair.” Orunmila looked up toward the ceiling and nodded. A green parrot flew down from somewhere near the skylight to land on D’Molay’s shoulder. He started a little as the bird landed, but remained seated. D’Molay turned his head slightly to get a better view of the parrot. It had black, intelligent eyes, a sharp grey beak and a bright red patch of red feather in between its eyes. It looked at D’Molay then spoke, its words prefaced and appended by squawks.

“Orunmila usually needs about two inches of hair, do you agree?”

D’Molay’s mouth dropped open. It had been a few months since he had seen a talking animal; he hadn’t expected to meet one today. “Uh, yes. Go ahead”

The parrot tilted its head and then pointed its beak to the left. “Turn your head then.”
 
Orunmila watched with an amused look on his face. It was obvious he was enjoying this.
 

D’Molay turned so that more of the side and back of his head was presented to the parrot as it waddled back and forth on his shoulder. Then he felt a tickling sensation as the bird nuzzled itself into his brown, shoulder length locks. The parrot bit off a chunk of his hair then half flew, half hopped over to Orunmila’s outstretched hand. The bird dutifully dropped D’Molay’s lock of hair into Orunmila’s palm.

“Thank you, Jardine. Now return to your brothers and sisters,” Orunmila said. The parrot scrambled up onto his shoulder, and Orunmila touched his nose to the parrot’s beak.

The parrot nuzzled his nose back. “We are always there for you, Orunmila, even if mankind is not.” Then the bird flew off in an upward spiral and disappeared into the foliage.

“You must excuse Jardine. She still holds some resentment from events of long ago that brought us here.
 
Now, let us see what the book will tell us. As I ask, you must picture your friend in your mind’s eye or it will not work.”

“Anything,” D’Molay said, immediately closing his eyes and pulling an image of Aavi from his memory.
 
He thought about their ride along the shore to Mazu’s dock house and how the sunlight danced on her hair. The angle of the sun gave her golden hair a glowing brilliance, like a silver lining on a cloud.
 
She was so happy and excited about the scenery and the little bag of coins he had just given her.

“Ah, I see her. She is quite pretty.” Orunmila held the lock of hair out over the book and his pupils turned white. Then he spoke in a dialect D’Molay didn’t understand. The melodic and repetitive words sounded like a song. Orunmila sprinkled D’Molay’s hair over the open pages of the book. For a second, nothing happened; then the large book rose a little higher. The floating quill pen flew away and the great book snapped shut.

Orunmila eyes lost their white glassy cast. “Your friend, Aavi, is not in the book, so she has not been sacrificed. That should be good news for you, yes?”

“Yes, yes it is. Thank you, Orunmila.” D’Molay exhaled a deep breath of relief.

“It is my duty and honor. Remember though, this only means she has not been sacrificed yet. She still may meet this fate. I cannot predict that. I can only see if she has been sacrificed. The list changes every day. Every hour.” Orunmila bowed his head slightly and summoned the quill pen to return, which it did. D’Molay watched as the pen again began to write.

“Have you heard of a creature named Mordecai?”

The god thought for a moment. “Yes the name is familiar. He gathers wayward slaves for sellers from time to time, but I can tell you no more than that.”
 

Now D’Molay knew he was on the right track, “Thank you, you’ve told me as much as I could hope for.” He stood to leave, his curiosity compelling him to ask something else. “How many people are sacrificed every day?”
 

“I cannot tell you. Only the Council has the power to know the answer to such a question. I wish you good tidings on your search for your friend. You may return tomorrow if you wish, and I can check again.”
 
Orunmila leaned back a little and closed his eyes.

“Thank you Orunmila.
 
I hope I don’t need to return.” D’Molay bowed and walked back down the grass-lined hallway and out into the street that circled the Great Library.
 
He had at least eliminated one of the possible fates Aavi might have suffered. It was time to see what he could find out from the slavers.
 
“I’m close to finding her now, I must be,” he thought.

He took a carriage home for a change of clothes and then headed toward the seedier part of the City where the slavers plied their trade. Gods of gambling, addiction and violence kept secret temples and shady businesses there, all devoted to the sins they had power over. In the many years he had lived in this mystical realm, D’Molay had tried to steer clear of the temptations these gods offered. Many times though, due the nature of his work, D’Molay crossed paths with the denizens and purveyors of such dangerous traps. Despite wishing to remain distant from such matters, he counted a few of those involved with them as friends. He hoped one in particular still valued his friendship as he entered the Jolly Rajah Tavern.

The Jolly Rajah was located midway between two of the larger slavers’ dens, one being the Roman Flesh Market and the other being Lamasthu’s great
 
temple. Buyers and sellers of slaves often stopped here on the way from one place to the other to refresh their palates between auctions. The “Rajah,” as the regulars called it, had been here a long time, but unlike many of the temples and buildings in the City this tavern and drinking hall was not in the best of condition. The wooden beamed building cried out for repairs. The red tiled floor was worn in many places from the constant flow of customers passing through. Walls were cracked and rough with peeling paint. Tables and chairs were splintery, stained, and etched carelessly with initials and rude inscriptions.

D’Molay actually liked the atmosphere of the place. It reminded him of the kinds of places he had frequented in Constantinople and southern France, though how long ago that must now be was beyond his ability to count at this point. He had stayed at the Rajah from time to time, in one of the tavern rooms upstairs, when he was too drunk or too injured to travel back to his own place. As he sat down at one of the more sturdy tables in the corner, he breathed in the smell of ale and cooked meats that permeated the tavern. An attractive yet tired looking woman wearing a sari walked over to his table. “So what can I get you today, sir?” Her smile was decidedly practiced and fake.

“An ale, and I need to talk to Sergius. Tell him it’s D’Molay.” He put a coin down on the table as he finished. The woman eyed the money, as if staring at it might cause it to multiply.

“I’ll let him know,” she said, “but I can’t guarantee that he will want to talk to you.”
    

D’Molay watched her take the coin and go through a side door. Sergius had been a friend for many years. Long ago they had traveled together doing tasks for the gods of Olympus. Somewhere along the way they had parted company, each pursuing his own path. Sergius had won this tavern in a card game and settled here, finding the life of a tavern owner much simpler and less dangerous than the life of a tracker. He had never shared D’Molay’s passion for causes, and found compromise a much easier path than principle. This made him perfect for the task of operating a tavern in the midst of chaotic and conflicting factions of sellers of flesh.

The side door opened and from it emerged the serving girl. Right behind her, bearing two oversized mugs of ale, strode D’Molay’s old partner. Sergius was a tall man with dark curly hair, now slightly thinning at the front. He still had his mustache and a small combat scar under his right eye had faded somewhat with age. Sergius had a friendly face, but his bearing was that of man who had fought death many times.
 

Sergius raised the mugs in greeting, as he approached. “D’Molay! What brings you to my place?” His voice carried with it an air of smug assurance that could easily be misconstrued as overconfidence in those who didn’t know him.

“It’s good to see you, Sergius! You haven’t changed a bit, and neither has the rest of this place. Both still shabby as ever,” D’Molay jested to his old comrade.

While the setting had seen better days, Sergius’s wardrobe did not fit with D’Molay’s mock criticism. The tavern owner’s burgundy leather jerkin and matching trousers were brand new. A very expensive and stylish dark leather belt sported a gold buckle in the shape of an eagle, the symbol of Rome. Custom-fitted knee high black boots kicked out a chair as Sergius slid into it to sit, sliding one of the mugs over to D’Molay. “When something breaks, I replace it. Otherwise, why mess with perfection? I bet you’re still running tasks for the gods, right? So you are still the same too, no doubt,” Sergius said with an accusing chuckle. “But we’re the lucky ones, eh?
 
I’ve been in the Realm of the gods a lot longer than you, probably by at least a thousand years.”

D’Molay finished a swig of ale. “Well, you have me there. It’s strange to live so long and not change, especially when I see the men who are not favored by the gods age and die. It’s hard to get close to anyone who’s that way. They go so fast. As you say, still running tasks for the gods is a living.
 
Your experience from before I was here is exactly why I have come to you, old friend.”

“I hope you’re not thinking of asking me to join you on some damn fool quest or rescue mission. Forget it, I’m done being a soldier for hire,” Sergius said as he too took a gulp of ale and stolidly put it his mug down on the table.

“No, no. It’s nothing like that. I’m just looking for a little information about the slave trade, the latest gossip, that sort of thing. You get slavers stopping by all the time, so I thought you might have heard some interesting news.”
      

Sergius looked over the top of his mug as he took another sip. “What is it you’re looking for? I hear slaver gossip all day. Some of my customers never shut up. Some of them still remember when I used to sell slaves at the Roman Flesh Market, before I even met you,” he finished.

“That’s why I came here,” D’Molay replied. “I’m looking for a particular slave who might have been sold in the last day or two. She was a beautiful female named Aavi.”

“Aavi?
 
No, I’d remember a name like that. The main thing everyone’s talking about is a new sales record. Someone paid thirteen hundred gold for a slave! Can you believe that? Crazy!”