The Slings and Arrows of a Mage's Gig Work

There was ample distance between Marasher and the explosion, but he felt its heat singing the hairs on his arms and prickling his skin anyway. Still, he came out mostly unscathed. His party’s arquebusier, not so much.

And to think that just hours ago, they thought their expedition inside this ancient ziggurat would’ve been a relief from the oppressive desert heat.

From the other side of the massive chamber, the opposing party responded with a mix of gasps and cheers. They could hardly believe their luck. Among their ranks were three assistants of varying martial skill and four mages, scholarly types who clearly weren’t used to getting their hands dirty. Or, rather, three mages with advanced training plus a dithering young man barely capable of preparing a proper spell-circle, never mind doing so under duress. Marasher wondered whether the young man had even passed Fundamentals yet.

But Marasher was the one under real duress. Somehow, his expedition’s leaders, for all their family wealth and their connections and their high rankings within the Explorers’ and Excavators’ Society, had only hired one mage to accompany them, and that one mage was him. Perhaps this was because the Society was unpopular with associates of the University of the Esoteric Arts and Lore, where most mages of any repute were educated. And sure, Marasher was able to take advantage of this situation to negotiate a healthy sum of coin for his services, but now he was the only one who could take meaningful countermeasures against the other party’s spellcraft. Countermeasures aside from direct violence, that is—a serious head injury could take an adversarial mage out of the equation pretty quickly. But his party only had so many weapons, only so many means of dealing out injury to the other party.

And one of their means of injury had just exploded.

It was an impressive feat of sympathetic magic, Marasher admitted to himself as he simultaneously dodged flying debris, ignored bewitchments trying to enter his mind like powerful intrusive thoughts, and studied the dimensions of the room, all while planning his next steps. Making fireballs erupt out of nowhere was simply the stuff of legends, but finding something dangerously volatile in one’s environment and manipulating it with magical force was quite feasible. Black powder was difficult to manipulate through sympathy, however, as powder formulations varied so greatly from one batch to the next. Marasher was impressed that one of those University mages had managed to link his party’s black powder cache with a similar enough substance they had on hand. He could hardly believe their luck.

Nor could he believe he was taking on all this danger for what amounted to a mercenary’s commission. Some gig this was.

But he had to focus, even as his ears rang from the explosion. The best way to level the playing field, he figured, was by causing a magical anticyclone, something like a high-pressure zone but for the invisible magical force that existed all around them. A successful anticyclone would redirect much of the magical force around them outward, making spellcraft nearly impossible in most of the chamber. Marasher had to be precise, though, in hopes of shaping an anticyclone that would impede the other mages without making himself useless. The only other way he could make himself useful in a combat situation was with his saber or his camping knife, and frankly, he wasn’t much good with either one.

Once the ringing in his ears dulled somewhat, he was ready to attempt his gambit—if the other explorers were ready, too.

He beckoned two of his other party members, though not before ducking and dodging a careening hunk of ruined mud brick construction larger than he was. So much for these University mages’ attempts to protect this “irreplaceable historic site” from raiders.

“Kalam! Isha! Cover me!”

“What?” shouted Isha, a broad-shouldered, sturdy, curly-haired Takheti woman who under better circumstances was quite handy with a crossbow.

“Seriously? Now?” chimed Kalam, an Andaeni man of wiry build and light bronze skin, a city-dweller who looked far from pleased with being caught directly in a firefight.

“Now, or we’re done for! Cover me!” Marasher wasn’t about to dawdle. The urgency of their situation overcame his usual cautious, studied approach to things.

“Alright, wait—” Kalam interrupted himself, ducking as a lead bullet whistled past his head. The University’s party had a grizzled, middle-aged Takheti shepherd among them, probably their wilderness guide originally but now making himself useful as a capable slinger. “—wait for my signal!”

Kalam and Isha exchanged nods, then Kalam got the attention of the other two remaining party members, one outfitted with a crossbow and the other with a dwindling arsenal of throwing knives.

Marasher and his party ducked past another round of shots and magical attacks. Kalam then made three rapid chopping motions in the air, one directed at each shooter, and Isha and the others all fired in turn. Isha hit one of the mages’ attendants in the shoulder, while the others pressured the mages into staying behind their cover of what must’ve been ancient furniture and ruined statuary, plus some of their own camping gear stacked into improvised barriers.

Marasher tried to control his breathing and refocus on his task. He traced a perfect circle in the air as he sucked in his breath, then carefully traced several lines within the circle to configure the dimensions and function of his spell. He tried to ignore the firefight ensuing around him as a single mistake could be costly, likely making his spell useless or generating some unintended and potentially disastrous effect.

“Marasher! You said now!” Kalam shouted in his best commander’s voice.

Marasher pivoted as carefully and quickly as possible from his cover, keeping his left hand suspended where his invisible spell circle was, then let out a sharp, exhaling whistle as he traced one final line through it.

Marasher felt a vaguely electric, lightly prickly sensation wash over him. The sensation was rather subdued, as if the force had flooded in from a good distance, thankfully.

The other side of the chamber was quiet at first, and then filled with synchronized groans and gasps. Clearly the mages in hiding had had some spellcraft of their own in the works, but Marasher managed to foil them.

Sensing that he had foiled their plans, Marasher resolved to try a second daring gambit.

“You’re finished! Come out!” he shouted. His voice didn’t carry well, but the chamber had already gone mostly quiet, save for the creakings and crankings of crossbows being reloaded.

“Says you!” replied the youngest mage, the person whose knowledge of spellcraft Marasher wasn’t certain exceeded the shepherd’s.

“The anticyclone extends past the back wall. You’ll have to come to our side of this chamber if you want to try another spell on us… So, either you can meet our blades, or you can drop your weapons.” Marasher wasn’t fully confident in his claim, but his past misadventures had taught him that feigning confidence could get him pretty far at times.

He could feel the other party’s hesitation, the silent deliberation going on behind their improvised cover. An aged yet resonant voice replied from the back of the chamber, “Alright, alright, we’ll negotiate.” She was the head of the University’s party, an experienced mage and a lecturer by Marasher’s guess. “But lay down your arms, too.”

Kalam furrowed his brow and looked at Marasher expectantly. Isha slowed but did not stop cranking the winch of her weapon.

Marasher nodded at both of them, then turned back to the lecturer. “We agree. But we’ll negotiate on our terms.”

“Very well,” the lecturer said with a sigh. Now it was the Explorers’ turn to cheer.

*

Even after their firefight, the University mages’ main concern was still with preservation of this ancient site. Or so they said—Marasher had to make an active effort not to roll his eyes as he mentally pictured the scorched mud brick walls, the clay flooring that cracked under his step. He tried not to think of the charred remains situated in the middle of that scorched space. He tried not to feel guilty for finding it merciful that the ringing in his ears had drowned out Mosem’s screams of agony. Most of all, he tried not to remember the smell.

“Marasher,” Kalam nudged him, “do you believe that?”

“Hmm?” Evidently, Marasher was struggling to stay mentally present.

“Pay attention, will you?” Kalam hissed, “it’s your word against theirs.”

Marasher briefly contemplated demanding a higher commission in that moment, but he decided to let the negotiations with the other party carry on smoothly. “Right.”

Kalam turned back to face the lecturer, the oldest and most authoritative-looking mage in the party. “Remind us why we should believe a word you’re saying.”

“We don’t know what it is exactly,” the lecturer admitted, “but we’re reasonably certain there is an artifact or great work that’s sealed away deep inside this ziggurat. The layout of this building is designed to obstruct travel to a central point—and mind you, these ziggurats did not function as fortresses. Whatever it is, the Shadrusun must have hidden it away for good reason.”

“The Shadrusun…” Kalam scoffed, “Those towering freaks, all the way out here in Far Takhet?” He regarded Marasher with a smirk that quickly disappeared when Marasher didn’t appear to share his skepticism.

Marasher met his gaze and shrugged. “Well, that would account for the logographs on the walls and steles in here.”

“You would know something about Shadrusun writings, wouldn’t you, Marasher?” One of the other mages cut in. Marasher remembered the man’s face but had diligently struck his name from memory. A former classmate. And Marasher wasn’t going to do so much as acknowledge him now.

Kalam rested his hands on his hips, scolding Marasher. “So you didn’t think to mention—”

Marasher snapped at him. “You weren’t especially interested in ‘those funny old letters’ when I brought them up earlier. Twice. And there’s a difference between letters and logo… ah, never mind.”

Kalam sucked in his breath and looked off to the side. But then his brow furrowed deeply and he turned back to Marasher. “Out here, though? Really?”

“It’s a puzzle to us, too,” the lecturer replied.

“And their homeland, what do they call it, is thousands of—"

Marasher cut back in. “Unless your ancestors were writing in Shadrusun logographs and building ziggurats themselves, there isn’t really any other explanation, is there?”

Kalam huffed. “I suppose that makes sense. Well, what did the letters say? The ones you pointed out to us?”

“The ones I tried to point out to you?”

“Well, you weren’t exactly selling me on their relevance, were you?” Kalam tried to match Marasher’s snark.

“Tough sell for a glorified treasure-hunter,” Marasher replied curtly.

The mages and Kalam’s eyes all widened at that. Even the shepherd-navigator from the mages’ party looked up at them, and he wasn’t exactly one for academic debate.

Kalam’s expression began to turn scornful. “Treasure-hunter? Sounds like egghead talk to me. You’re sure you’re not with the robes over there?”

None of the mages in the room were, in fact, wearing robes—they were all dressed in practical garb for a desert expedition—but the bright, flowing regalia they wore during formal University functions symbolized, to ordinary folk, the opaque subculture and ivory tower mindset of the mage-academics.

“If I dare say so myself, I saved your asses back there! Or did you think you were about to bring three—no, four—mages to the negotiating table on your terms some other way? Be serious.”

The others in the room were so engrossed in the exchange that they didn’t seem to notice the implied insult against the mages’ most junior member.

Kalam sulked. Marasher disregarded him entirely, addressing the lecturer again. “Where were we?” The lecturer raised a finger to reply, but Marasher regained his bearings and continued. “Right, so whatever lies in these chambers, you think it’s meant to stay there.”

The lecturer nodded slowly. “Taking your chances with whatever defenses may remain in this ruin would be equally as unwise as tempting yourselves to tamper with whatever it is this place still protects.”

“And we can’t even have a look?” Kalam butted in. “What harm could that do?”

“I fear it could do a great deal of harm,” the lecturer said solemnly.

“But you don’t even know what it is! Or if even it’s inside—” Kalam was raising his tone, but Marasher silenced him with a sideways glare.

“My… colleague has made one good point,” Marasher said. “We haven’t come all this way for nothing, and I’m not sure how you’re going to compensate us for the loss of one of our men—at your hands.”

“During a firefight,” the lecturer objected.

“Yes, a firefight that you started.”

“Oh, not this again!” The lecturer threw up his hands. “We clearly weren’t going to stop you any other way, were we? We even tried offering—”

“Yes, well, you should’ve…” Marasher trailed off and exhaled sharply. “We’ll talk compensation later.”

“Right,” the lecturer nodded, “for a graver choice weighs upon you at the moment.”

Now Marasher’s eyes widened as he pointed at his own chest. “Me? I have to decide?” He looked to the lecturer and the Kalam. The two nodded in unison for the first time since they had met.

“You at least have a clue what in the ashes they’re talking about,” Kalam chimed in.

“And as far as I am concerned, you are the only one who might talk some sense into your party,” the lecturer added.

“You have a job to do,” Kalam chided him.

“And you have a responsibility,” the lecturer cautioned him.

“Splendid, splendid,” Marasher turned away from both of them.

“Those are all of my favorite things.”

*

Marasher took a moment of leave from both parties to pace about and think through his decision. As much as he didn’t care for University mages, the lecturer’s words weighed on him still; the etchings in the Shadrusun script, even more so. Virtually any Shadrusun written text was circumspect and inscrutable by nature, reflecting the character of their authors, but Marasher understood enough to see something ominous in their cryptic messsaging. Far be it for the previous keepers of this ziggurat to issue a direct warning to visitors, of course.

But the more Marasher considered siding with the mages and dropping his contract, the more he thought about what awaited him back in the busy city of Andaen where he had been recruited for the job in the first place.

Marasher had long ago found himself ill-suited—or others had found him unsuitable—for the conventional professions available to most people. He was too slight in build for strenuous physical labor, too absent-minded for the bureaucracy, not extroverted enough for people-facing work, and he chafed at structure and direction too much to thrive in the University. But he had a natural knack for spellcraft and well-honed instincts of self-preservation. The unusual gigs that Marasher would take on more or less matched his unusual skillset. Caravan protection contracts, divination requests, and a little subterfuge here and there were the most reasonable gigs that would come his way. More odious were requests for alchemical and apothecarial services (not his specialties), appeals for entirely mythical feats of spellcraft, contracts that would blatantly violate the Four Sanctions, and worst of all, pleas to fix clients’ love lives with his magic. Given his precarious circumstances, he had to be just as judicious about rejecting contracts as he was with accepting them.

His chest tensed up as he thought about why he was chasing one contract after another. His previous, incomplete studies didn’t pay for themselves, and he had few personal ties in Andaen or elsewhere, certainly no cache of family wealth he could fall back on during hard times. No, every hour, he felt, was spent planning for the next hour, or carrying out a contract, or brainstorming where and how he could find more contracts. His spending habits didn’t help, either: He swung wildly between budgeting to the point of immiserating himself and self-indulging to make himself feel alive again. For this reason, there were times in his life when he had debt collectors after him—including at the present—though debt collectors wouldn’t chase him all the way to the wastes of Far Takhet, would they?

He should’ve been able to relieve his many stresses the way most residents of Andaen did, through visits to cafes and taverns, but those were places he went to look for work. He would spend his days bumping shoulders with businesspeople, politicians, and whoever else seemed like they had money to spare and problems that could be solved by a freelancing mage. It cost money to patronize these cafes and taverns where he could find gigs, too, so his relentless search for the next contract itself strained his finances. And with few connections or clout beyond his ability to impress others with his spellcraft, he could hardly guarantee that when he did land a gig, he would be compensated fairly and according to the terms he had originally agreed to. He hated all of it.

Marasher let out a slow, shaky sigh as this torrent of anxieties washed over him. He wondered whether the thing the Shadrusun had hidden here was more valuable than it was dangerous, and if so, whether he could use his leverage from his role in this expedition to split the profit. Perhaps with a sizable nest-egg of coin in his purse, he could finally invest some time and energy in himself and not in one dreadful gig after another.

He stepped back into the chamber where the negotiations had paused.

“Kalam,” he said, “What’s the harm in having a look at this thing? Let’s see for ourselves.”