"I see. And has a Mercykiller confirmed his claim? Or could this be another attempt by the Hall of Records to embarrass us?"
The color drained from Erlik's face. "I d-don't have the auth-th-thority to auth-th-thorize-"
"Of course you don't." Madame Mok turned to the Amnesian Hero, then pointed at one of the door sentries standing beside him. "You will look into the Mercykiller's eyes and repeat your name."
Growing more perturbed with each passing moment, the Amnesian Hero turned to the guard. Though there were not many Mercykillers in Arborea, the Thrasson had heard the name before. They were a group of fanatics who dispensed "justice" to the "guilty"-though no one in Arborea seemed to have a clear idea of who the guilty were or what justice they received.
The Amnesian Hero met the Mercykiller's gaze, and the sentry's pupils suddenly seemed as glimmering and dark as cavern pools. The Thrasson felt a gentle tingle behind his brow and realized the fellow was looking someplace beyond his eyes. It did not matter to the Amnesian Hero; the best thing that could happen to him would be for the guard to discover that he did know his name.
"I cannot remember my name," said the Thrasson. "I recall nothing before awakening on-"
"That's enough – I don't need your whole life history." The Mercykiller turned to Madame Mok and nodded. "He's telling the truth."
She smiled rather wickedly. "Now that we have established who you are – or, rather, who you are nor – what do you want from the Hall of Information? I believe I overheard something about a gift?"
"For the Lady of Pain." The Amnesian Hero rested a hand on his amphora. "My question is: where do I find her palace?"
Again, a nervous chuckle rose from the crowd. Even Madame Mok sneered in amusement. "And this gift, it is from you?"
The Amnesian Hero scowled. "Am I not the one who paid good gold to have his question answered?"
"You paid to have your appointments expedited – as they have been," Madame Mok corrected. "But I am in control here. If you wish to have your question answered, you must comply with my procedures."
The Amnesian Hero ground his teeth and said nothing.
"Is the gift your own?" demanded Madame Mok.
"No, I am only the bearer. The gift comes from Poseidon, King of Seas and Cleaver of Lands."
Madame Mok's face turned as pale as alabaster. An astonished drone buzzed through the foyer, and people who had been waiting in line all day long began to scramble for the exits. The guards turned away from the crowd and formed a ring around the Amnesian Hero, who, though surprised by the reaction, was glad to be at last accorded the proper respect.
"Poseidon?" Madame Mok asked. "The god Poseidon?"
"Of course. What mortal would dare send a gift to the ruler of Sigil?"
Madame Mok fixed the Amnesian Hero with her harshest stare. The Thrasson stood proudly while she scrutinized his patrician features, the rich red tint of his bronze armor, the silver-gilded hilt of his star-forged sword, even the polished leather of his sandal straps. When her gaze finally returned to his face, her expression had changed from imperious to suspicious. She slipped back from the counter's front edge.
"You're a proxy, then?"
"Hardly. A proxy is a servant. I am a man of renown, beloved of the people and favored of the gods, as befits the bearer of a gift from the King of Seas."
The color began to return to Madame Mok's face. "Then you are not invested with Poseidon's power?"
"I have might enough of my own." The Amnesian Hero glanced contemptuously at the ring of glaive blades leveled at his chest. "Now, if you will direct me to the Lady's palace, I will deliver the gift and be gone from this swarming city."
"And this gift, what is it?" Madame Mok leaned over the counter to peer down at the amphora. "Some of that rancid pine sap you Thrassons call wine?"
"I suspect not." Poseidon had told the Amnesian Hero only that the jar contained a treasure that the Lady of Pain had lost before the founding of Sigil. "However, since the Cleaver of Lands bade me never to remove the stopper, I cannot say what the amphora holds – nor would I, if I knew. What passes between Poseidon and the Lady of Pain is no business of mine – or yours."
Madame Mok's face grew pinched and red. "In this hall, I decide what is my business and what is not!"
"Then you remove the stopper." The Amnesian Hero waved at the amphora. "If the contents are truly the concern of the Hall of Information, it will not trouble the Lady that you opened her gift."
The Thrasson's mocking manner drew none of the expected sniggers from the guards. Instead, Madame Mok studied him with narrowed eyes for several moments, until finally the shadow of a smile crept across her lips.
She shrugged. "As you wish. The amphora's contents are no concern of mine. I was only trying to do you a favor, Thrasson."
"I am sure you intend to tell me how."
Madame Mok nodded, accepting the sarcasm with surprising humility. "Tell me, how much do you recall about the Lady of Pain?"
"I know only what the King of Seas told me," the Amnesian Hero admitted. "She is the winsome ruler of Sigil, alone and aloof, and very sad."
"All that is true, of course, but she is also quick to anger. If she dislikes the gift, she will certainly slay you."
"I thank you for the warning, Madame Mok." The Amnesian Hero believed at least this much of what she said. Conditions in Sigil certainly suggested the city's ruler was callous and cruel. Still, the Thrasson had every intention of delivering the amphora. Poseidon had promised to restore his memory once the Lady of Pain received her gift. "We men of renown must accept such risks, so I would be grateful if you would direct me to the Lady of Pain's palace."
Madame Mok gave him an acid smile. "Certainly. It will be a pleasure to get you out of my hall. I trust that heavy purse of yours contains five more gold pieces?"
Though the Thrasson would gladly have parted with the coins just to learn the location and be on his way, a Mercykiller stepped to the counter and aimed a glaive at Madame Mok's breast.
"By edict of the Hall of Speakers: bribery, or the solicitation thereof, is punishable by-"
Madame Mok slapped the glaive aside. "Buckle your bone-box! I'm not hunting a garnish." She turned back to the Amnesian Hero. "Do you have it or not?"
The Thrasson opened his purse and withdrew five yellow coins, then raised a hand toward the counter. Madame Mok shook her head and pointed at the square-chinned Mercykiller who had accused her of soliciting a bribe.
"Give it to Cwalno."
The Amnesian Hero passed the money to the guard, who held the coins at arm's length and grimaced as though clutching a handful of scorpions.
"What am I to do with these?"
Madame Mok pointed at the door. "Go outside and hire eight lantern boys and a sedan chair for the Amnesian Hero."
"A sedan chair?"
"Of course. He'll need to show the proper dignity when he goes to see the Lady." Madame Mok looked down at the Amnesian Hero, then glanced at his open purse and sneered. "In fact, I'm sure he has coin for each of you Mercykillers as well. Why don't you give him a full escort and make sure he arrives at the Gatehouse in style?"
"Are you sure that will do?" The Amnesian Hero shoved his hand into his purse. "I have more gold. Perhaps you want to come too?"
Madame Mok smirked and shook her head. "That isn't necessary. Eight Mercykillers should be enough – even for you, Thrasson." Bleak House
How squalid the Amnesian Hero must find the Hive as he rides down Whisper Way in his elegant sedan chair, borne over the muck and the sludge on the hulking shoulders of four white-tusked ogres, four lantern boys leading the way and four more bringing up the rear, four Mercykillers to the left and four more to the right. How he must despise the grimy bloodblades who slip along the mud brick tenements, shadowing his chair, balancing the heft of his purse against the swiftness of his guards' bare blades. How he must abhor the droning black flies that hang in the air as thick as drops during a rainfall, feeding upon the stink of a street knee-deep in carrion and offal. How he must pity the gray armies of children, with their wooden forks and their starving eyes and their rat-hunt scramble.
How the Thrasson curses the wickedness of callous, foul Sigil, until he comes at last to the Marble District, where the buildings are tall and stony and black with soot. His bearers turn down Bedlam Run toward the Lady's palace, and how he gasps at its sprawling, begrimed majesty.