Remedy

Chapter Two The Plexus-2

Moving closer Rob felt the quiet chuckle leave his throat and, catching the barkeep's eye again, gestured for another drink to be placed beside his own. He saw the proprietor cringe slightly as he nodded.

“Now that is impressive,” Rob grinned to himself. He heard the quiet murmurs of awe as he approached to place his hand on the young man's shoulder. Rob's reputation of surviving The Depths of Acheron had earned him respect. Much to his frustration his trials below had not gone unmentioned, but few dared to broach such matters. Often he was left alone, hearing the whispers of speculation that he sought to rescue someone from within. He let them gossip. He didn't really care as long as they kept their distance. But on occasions such as these he was happy to shed his solitude. “I've heard tales of these ruins, of the treasures within.”

Seeing his approach an older man moved as if to stand, prepared to offer his seat to the hunter. The respectful gesture was stilled by a raise of Rob's hand as he continued talking. “I can see you've put much thought into your retrieval of the relics.” Rob fought back the smile which caused the edge of his lips to twitch slightly. He knew full-well this treasure had already been claimed and relocated. “Tell me, what are your plans for passing the sentries?”

“Sentries?” The young man questioned in amazement, once more inspecting the map. He knew he would require labour to dig down to the ruined shrine, but he had not imagined any safeguards to still be in place. “What kind of sentries are we talking about?” The man frowned.

“From my understanding the security is immense. I have to say, there have been several attempts to do what you are suggesting, and all have met with failure.” Rob shook his head slightly. “You do realise that parchment won't help you right? It doesn't grant you any legal ownership.”

“But if I claim it—”

“You can try. The thing is, if they let anyone possessing a treasure map enter the museum and stake a claim they'd soon have an empty building, wouldn't they?”

“Museum, no I—” he gestured towards the map, his face clouded with confusion.

“Yes, you are talking about a heist, right?” Rob grinned.

“What? No I—oh.” Rob saw the alarm on the man's face become disappointment. He patted him on the back in a consolatory fashion before he approached the bar collecting his tankard and the additional glass.

“I guess the only one lining their pockets tonight is the merchant. Sorry, lad, but he saw you coming.” Rob placed the drink before the disillusioned youth. He took a long sorrowful gulp as he tried to conjure an explanation to give his wife about where this week's wage had gone. He slammed his hand onto the table, scrunching the parchment into a ball.

“Looks like I'm sleeping on the floor tonight. If the wife even lets me in that is. Ah well.” He rose to his feet, thinking it better to excuse himself now.

“Here.” Rob approached the bar, pulling a few of the flowers from one of the displays under the scrutiny of the frowning barkeep, despite the fact he knew he would be compensated later. “It'll soften the blow.”

“You know, one day someone really will be planning a heist.” The barkeep smiled refilling Rob's tankard as he relaxed once more in his familiar seat.

“Not that one, he's a good lad. I didn't want to see him chasing debt.” Rob knew all too well how some of the less than savoury merchants operated. They sold a dream and offered to finance it. They'd supply tools and labour at no upfront cost in exchange for a signature on a loan agreement. But when they reached their destination, no fortune or glory awaited, only debt.

The treasures had long been plundered, but the dreamer still had to find the means to pay for services rendered. The merchant would reclaim their loaned equipment and, since the would-be adventurer had no means to repay the contracted amount, they were sent to the mines. Their labour became extra coin in the hands of the loan trader. It was a longstanding, underhanded operation. But as soon as the contract was signed it was impossible to renege on the agreed terms.

* * *

As the first ray of light fought its way over the horizon Rob was already walking the streets. Traders began to cross the borders, tired from their long walk from the neighbouring villages. Quiet conversations were carried on the wind, the lowered tones almost appearing considerate to those who still slept.

The paling light of Dynamism was starting to fade. Its cool light slowly extinguishing as the wind, warmed slightly by the sun's first breath, dispelled its fading remnants. Darkness still chased beneath the twisted structures, hiding in corners to become shadows as the sun rose higher. Few paused to witness the final disappearance of energy, the turning of night into day, but Rob was one amongst them. Another night had passed, another day born. He shrugged to himself, hunching his shoulders against the still cool wind, and listened as the slow creaks and groans of timber became drowned out with the sound of life.

He had stayed at the tavern until last orders, retiring to his room with a bottle of spirits. The merriment of intoxication was a stranger to him now, no matter how often he tried to recall its numb embrace. He had waited until dawn stirred on the distant horizon.

He never slept well the night following his return. At first it had been the terror of what he had seen haunting his mind. Over the years such things had become more like figments of a nightmare, recalled in part, but not dwelt upon for any time. Something else caused his sleep that night to be fitful. The disappointment of further failure, and the growing pit of hatred that came with each unrewarded return.

Given there were so few who would venture into The Depths of Acheron, Rob often found his services in high demand. He—or more specifically the hunter named Aeolos—would today receive an influx of requests ranging from the pleas to find a loved one, to the materialistic demand for something of value. The latter were the quests he would often accept.

He ventured into The Depths of Acheron each month, so long as it was of benefit to him. He would research that which piqued his interest, and gather what little information he could before agreeing to a contract.

His clientele all had one thing in common, a knowledge of The Depths of Acheron beyond what they should possess. They knew of events, unearthing of treasures, and their insights into such things intrigued him. But none seemed willing to reveal their sources, and yet, each request so far had proven suspiciously fruitful. He had learnt a long time ago asking questions of their inexplicable knowledge served no purpose. The nobles were not forthcoming in the sharing of information, but occasionally, in excitable states, they had revealed the slightest hints of rituals and madness.

“Hey there, I've not seen you around for some time,” hailed the gruff, familiar voice of the Plexus master as Rob pushed the door open to reveal the strangely busy room. The man behind the counter was not exactly what people had come to expect from one in such a role. He was a stocky, old man, with the broad shoulders of a lumberjack. His salt and pepper hair was short with unruly curls trying to make their appearance. His beard and moustache were kept short and tidy to frame his slightly rounding jaw line.

This man, in his time, had been one of the best hunters known. He had ranked second on the tables in the year of his retirement which, by some strange coincidence, was the same year Theron, who had been in the lead that year, had hung up his weapons.

The point system operated by the Plexus was originally designed to ensure those lacking the necessary skills could not be assigned work surpassing their abilities, but had soon become the means to host a friendly competition within their ranks. Each year those ranking first, second, and third within their field would receive a Plexus Star. It was a widely recognised decoration which, for the entirety of the year, afforded the bearer certain benefits. These included a small discount from merchants and craftsmen, as well as first refusal on high paid work.

Each year the star was of different design, and even once their year of glory had finished, it was a respected medal of honour. The points for any given job were determined by the Plexus master, based on the difficulty and danger. The higher the value the more difficult the task.

In the beginning the Hunters' Plexus had not been divided into subclasses. As time moved on, and the world changed, there became a clear divide between the types of requests passing through their doors. There were those who requested hunters to find or retrieve treasure, and those who sought wanted criminals. Thus the subclasses were born in order to create a more balanced reward structure, where each class had their own table.

“Hey.” Rob raised his hand returning the greeting with a polite smile. Before lowering his hand he made an effort to brush the longer parts of his sandy-brown hair behind his ears. His hair, which was normally well-kempt and short, now looked a little on the untamed side. Not that such a look deterred the passing gaze of any woman. He was devilishly handsome, and even with little attention to his appearance somehow he seemed to pass from clean cut to rugged. He could apparently look clean, rugged, or dangerous but never, it seemed, scruffy or messy. Not that he himself put much stock in his looks, but he did appreciate other people noticing him.

Rob paused his approach to the counter, his sight passing down the volume of wanted posters which now lined the wooden walls. The last time he had visited this particular Plexus the pictures had been but a few. Now it was as if the Plexus master had decided to conceal any evidence of the wooden structure below.

“Thinking of switching to real work?” a voice challenged. The man was easily seven foot in height, with the stocky frame most hunters would covet. The figure's hair was tied at the nape of his neck in a scruffy, grey-brown ponytail. A few of the people paused their browsing to watch with interest.

“Nah, I think I'll stick with what I know.” Rob waved his hand in a dismissive, lighthearted gesture. His eyes fixed on the broad back of the large figure who had addressed him.

“Yeah, but I dunna see much for flower arranging here. Then again, nothin's better than part time ay?” the hunter smirked.

“Just count your blessing, if you'd half my skill the Plexus'd already be destitute.” The figure's laugh roared like thunder through a mountain range, reverberating through the room. He turned to face Rob, reaching out his thick arm in greeting. A thundering strike resounded as their flesh met in a friendly forearm shake.

“It's been a while, Aeolos. Been quiet without ya.” The huge figure guffawed, calling Rob by his Plexus alias, before releasing their greeting. The forearm handshake was used by Plexuses and merchants as a standard greeting. It had replaced the hand-to-hand shake some time ago. After all this gesture made it easy to check for weapons or items concealed in the sleeve, it was easy to break away from, and most importantly it was a clean and i***t-proof display of camaraderie.

“What's it been, Iphios, a year? Of all the places I thought we'd meet I never expected it'd be here.” Rob slapped the man on his shoulder a little harder than necessary.