Troy Denning - Pages of Pain

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Pages of Pain
Troy Denning
Pains Of The Mind
Black hair and ebony eyes, a cleft chin and sun-bronzed skin, he is no denizen of mine. He
shoves his way through the teeming lanes of the Lower Ward, both arms wrapped around that enormous
amphora he carries and no hand free for his sword. He wears the bronze armor of Thrassos, with no
cape to protect against the acid haze that always hangs in this part of the city. From his belt dangles a
purse, fat and naked, just daring some fingersmith to ply his trade. The gray-swaddled crowd swirls
around him with scarcely a stare; with Abyssal fiends and celestial seraphim walking the streets, they
have better things to heed than wide-eyed pilgrims too naive to hide their coin.
A clever disguise, but I know that Thrasson for a Hunter. Those ebony eyes can see through my
thickest granite walls, and that long aquiline nose can smell a drop of blood at a hundred paces. Those
ears-small and shaped like shells, in the human fashion - those ugly little ears can hear a hiss of pain in the
next ward. He has one of those long forked tongues that can taste the fear of those who have. looked
upon my face. And if the Thrasson presses his hands to the cobblestones, he can feel the coldness of my
passing. I know he can.
In Sigil, the Lady of Pain always knows. I hear all the lies whispered into all the tepid ears in the
dark bedchambers of all the great manors. I see every hand that slips into an open pocket on every
bustling street, and I feel the dagger that bums in the belly of every trusting fool who ever followed a
glitter girl into a dark alley. No longer can I tell where Sigil begins and I end; no longer can I separate
what I perceive from what the city is. I am Sigil.
(In a dreary room where sick men slake their secret fevers, a yellow-bruised girl climbs naked
from the zombie pit. She opens her palm and walks the aisles and does not cringe when the hot hands
caress her thighs. She lives the best way she can; in Sigil, the noblest act is to survive.)
I open my eyes, and the Lady of Pain is there—not just watching, but stalking the Hunter up the
teeming street, with the clamor of forge hammers ringing in my ears and the stink of hot slag scorching my
nostrils. She is tall and serene, a statuesque beauty of classic features, with sulfurous eyes and a cold,
callous air. A halo of many-styled blades surrounds her head, some notched and pitted, others silver and
gleaming, but all keen-edged and tainted with blood. The hem of her brocaded gown sweeps along the
grimy cobblestones, but never soils.
My gray-swaddled denizens bustle by, blissfully unaware that she - no, I - that I walk among
them. Only if my feet break touch with the ground will they notice me, and I am careful to keep my shoes
on the street. Better for them to see the Lady of Pain when they have offended me, when they feel the
fear eating their .bellies and hear the death gods calling their names.
Whenever my denizens brush against me, tiny white welts rise on their skin. Before my eyes,
these blisters swell into thumb-shaped pods. They begin to grow more slowly, then sprout dozens of
hooked spines. As the crowd mills about, the barbs catch hold of anything they touch, and the husks pass
to fresh carriers. They continue to enlarge and soon latch onto someone new, then someone else after
that, and it is not long before a sea of bulging pods is spreading steadily outward around me.
My denizens continue to bustle about their business. They cannot see the pods, nor feel the extra
weight, nor even smell the fetid reek that clings to their bodies. Only I perceive the husks, slowly swelling
and turning emerald and gold and ruby and jet; only I see them oozing yellow ichor and starting to throb
like hearts.
Thus are the four Pains spread through the multiverse— agony, anguish, misery, and despair—to
ripen and burst and bring low the mighty and the meek alike. From whence they come, I do not
remember. It may be that I create them myself, or that they rise from some hidden place deeper and
blacker than the bottom layer of the Abyss, where smoke hangs thick as rock and death is the sweetest
memory. I can only say there is a void in my chest where I once had a heart, and from this emptiness
springs all the suffering in the multiverse.
At first, the Pains are like a kiss, hot and breathy and welcome. They reach out with long cajoling
fingers and make my bones hum with delight. I warm to the touch and, though I know what must follow,
yearn for more. My flesh tingles and flushes and shudders, and the more my ecstasy builds, the more the
void pours forth. It fills me to glutting, sates me with honeyed rapture until bliss rolls half a turn and
becomes sweet agony. Then my body nettles with a blistering itch no ointment can heal. And the greater
my woe, the more scalding the anguish that seethes from the empty well inside. I boil in my own sick
regret, and I cannot staunch the flow. It billows up in white plumes and blanches my bones with sorrow; I
bum with the shame of a thousand evils I cannot recall, and still the well pours forth. It fills me as fire fills
a forge, until I must burst or scour myself clean on the swarming streets of Sigil.
They are a gift, these Pains.
(A bottle of Arborea's best in one hand and a chain of Ossan pearls in the other, a jolly merchant
home early flings open his door to see his young wife lying cold and blue on the floor, her child clinging to
her breast and wailing for a reason. There is no reason; only life and suffering and then a terrible lingering
emptiness, and, hard as I try, I cannot see beyond that)
Pain can force fathers to forsake their daughters and heroes to betray their kingdoms. It can
change the hearts of tyrants, or subdue the lands of proud and vicious warriors. It is pain that makes
wives hate husbands and immortals beg for death, and only pain that can shackle whole planes to the will
of a single lord.
And so the gods send their Hunters; they thirst for the Pains as flames thirst for tinder. The
wicked ones would make a weapon of suffering; they would spread it among their enemies and brandish
it over the heads of their comrades. And worse would the good ones do; they would drive torment from
the multiverse altogether-destroy misery if they could—and end forever all suffering and despair.
Frauds and fools, every one - and the good ones more than the bad. Like quicksilver, pain slips
from the hand that would grasp it and divides before the blow that would cleave it. Without the Pains, the
multiverse can endure no more than wind can blow without the air. Suffering breeds strength from
weakness, it heralds new births, it guides all beings through life. The dead soar to oblivion on black wings
of anguish, and even pleasure springs from the same well as agony. To shun pain is to lie stillborn forever.
(A child, wishing he could swim once more in brown waters, lies slick with sweat and speckled in
pink, his stiff legs withering to useless sticks. I have hugged him to my breast; the Pains have rooted and
sprouted unseen and unfelt, and now they have burst It is not right, and it is not wrong; it is life.)
At a crossroads, the Hunter stops and turns his head right, then left. He is looking through walls
with those ebony eyes, searching for what has already found him. I take him in my arms and press myself
close. A hundred blisters sprout beneath his armor, and still I hold the Thrasson tight as a lover; I hold
him tight so the pods will root deep, deep down in his soul and not rub off.
His body tenses.
That huge amphora slips through his arms and nearly crashes to the street. He cries out and drops
to his heels. He catches it, and gives out a long breathy sigh, as though smashing that jar would be worse
than dying.
Perhaps it would. There is a golden net inside, god-enchanted just to catch me.
The Thrasson balances the amphora on the street and slowly turns, his free hand on his sword
and his eyes narrowed. It may be that he felt a chill beneath his armor, as though a ghost had embraced
him, but he cannot be certain. So sudden and fleeting was the touch that even now he wonders if he
imagined it The crowd swirls past, cursing him for a fool or a madman and keeping a watchful eye on his
weapon hand. Though I stand less than a pace away, of course he cannot see me. Soon enough, he
decides it was nothing more than a sudden case of armor itch. He takes up the amphora again and bulls
his way back into the crowd. Already, I see a thousand hooked spines stabbing through his backplate.
Do not call it revenge-never revenge. Even the gods deserve their pain, and the Thrasson shall
bear it to them.
Hall Of Marble
After so many hours harrowing Sigil's teeming lanes, what does the Thrasson think when at last
he plows through the crowd and sees the Blue Hall looming ahead? I know. The Lady of Pain always
knows, and she will tell you:
The Hall of Information looked exactly as twenty or more peevish direction-givers had said it
would: an imposing monolith of pale blue marble, with a roof of black slate and three massive columns
straddling a pair of gray entrance ramps. Inscribed on the capitals of the three pillars were the words
"Cooperation," "Compliance," and "Control," an oddly ominous motto for what was purported to be a
service bureau. A web of fracture lines laced the "Cooperation" post, which, despite a supporting cage of
steel braces, appeared on the verge of collapse.
Clutching his amphora in both arms and pushing through a torrent of drab-cloaked beings-human
and otherwise - the Thrasson angled across Crystal Dew Avenue toward the ramp between
"Compliance" and ''Control." The nearer he approached the hall, the less he agreed with the churls who
had called it "an edifice of stately grandeur." Even a simple man of action could see that the building
suffered from a clumsy attempt to substitute opulence for taste. The stark bands of the onyx corner
boards made a mockery of the marble facade's soft swirls, while the turquoise window casings looked
like the painted eyes of a common harlot. The door guards, with their crimson breastplates and rusty
shoulder spikes, added just the splash of blood to make a vulgar mess of the whole thing.
Jewel of the Infinite Planes indeed! Sigil so far had been a bitter disappointment to the Thrasson.
So thick was the ginger air that it dragged over his face like cobwebs; just breathing the awful stuff filled
his throat with a burning, acrid grit. In some wards, the avenues ran ankle-deep with swill, and in others,
a man could hardly shove his way through the throngs that packed the streets. Everywhere, the constant
drizzle stained the dreary building facades with runnels of yellow sulfur. Upon each sweltering breeze
came a stench more rancid than the last, and nowhere did the clamor ebb for even a moment.
The Thrasson had heard that Sigil was shaped like the inside of a floating wheel, and that if he
looked straight up, he would see the roofs of distant buildings instead of sky. So far, he had seen nothing
but a sick, brown haze. It was said that the city was the hub of the multiverse, that somewhere in its
bounds lay a portal to each world in the infinite planes; to the Thrasson, it seemed that every one of those
portals was the wrong end of a garbage chute. He wanted nothing more than to complete his task and be
gone from the place.
The Thrasson climbed the ramp and crossed the portico, unabashedly returning the stern glower
of the guards. He would have welcomed a challenge, so anxious was he to vent his frustration. In addition
to the difficulties of delivering the amphora, no one in the city seemed to know of him. He did not expect
them to recognize him by sight, or anything so foolish, but it did seem reasonable to assume that by now
his deeds would have been sung in even the lowliest gutter house of Sigil. Yet, when he introduced
himself, he still had to recount his entire list of feats - at least those he could remember - and even after he
described the felling of the Acherian Giant, most people simply turned away in indifference. The only
ones interested in him were the thieves eyeing his heavy purse and the guides who, hearing the name of
the one he wished to find, scurried away without naming a price.
As the Thrasson neared the entrance, the sentries reached over and pushed open the doors. They
gave no salutation or comment, and their faces betrayed no hint of either respect or disdain. They were
simply holding the doors for a man burdened with a heavy amphora.
That anonymous courtesy made the Thrasson's belly bum with indignity. Still, as it was the burden
of fame to suffer ignorance in good grace, he paused long enough to utter a few sentences of thanks.
"Bar that, pal," answered the tallest guard, a square-chinned fellow with a two-day growth of
beard on his cheeks. "We'd do the same for any blood. Now get on with it." He jerked his head toward
the entrance. "Madame Mok don't like us letting in drafts."
The Thrasson stepped into a murky foyer of blue marble, where he found himself standing at the
end of a serpentine visitors' queue. The line switched back and forth a dozen times until it finally stopped
before a high, looming counter of black marble. The massive desk stood directly beneath a glowing
chandelier of blue-green beryl crystals. It was flanked by a pair of silver, hand-shaped braziers, from
which rose two plumes of pink, apple-sweet incense smoke.
Behind the lofty counter sat a single bespectacled clerk, hunched over the bench and using quill
and ink to scratch notes into a parchment ledger. From the wooly nap atop his head rose the
double-curled horns of a bariaur, a sort of goatlike centaur that roamed many of the multiverse's planes.
The Thrasson had already been surprised by the hundreds of bariaur pushing through Sign's packed
streets; in his own plane, Arborea, the bariaur were an unsettled, carefree race who would sooner leap
into a cesspool than enter a city. He found it difficult to believe that any of them actually abided in Sigil,
much less worked inside a gloomy building like the Hall of Information.
The Thrasson considered the line only a moment before deciding it was beneath him to wait.
Scattered among the humans were frog-faced slaadi, dwarves both bearded and bald, a svelte trio of
elves, even a lizardlike khaasta warrior, but he saw no sign of anyone who matched his own stature. Had
he seen the shimmering feathers of an astral deva's seraphic wings, perhaps, or the smoking horns of a
great baatezu lord, he might have waited. As matters stood, however, it seemed apparent that his
business took precedence over that of anyone else in the foyer.
The Thrasson pushed straight through the looped line, issuing stem yet polite commands for those
ahead to stand aside. The humans obeyed, of course, though it surprised him to note how many of them
looked taken aback. Even in Sigil, it should have been obvious from his bearing and fine armor that he
was a man of renown, beloved of the gods and deserving of all respect
When the Thrasson reached the khaasta, the reptilian suddenly raised its tail to block the way and
craned its sinuous neck around to glare. The warrior's head was typically lacertilian: a flat wedge that was
mostly snout, with a long, stupid grin and beady slit-pupiled eyes that betrayed no emotion at all.
"You wait like the ressst of ussssss, berk."
The Thrasson regarded the tail. The thickness of a human leg, it was armored in leathery scales
and braided with the rippling sinews of a race not far removed from the brute. The appendage was no
match for the star-forged blade in the Thrasson's scabbard, but he had no wish to punish the khaasta so
severely. He threw one leg over the tail, then forced the scaly appendage downward until he had it
trapped between his knees.
"You would be wise to defer to your better."
The khaasta's head began to bob in that angry lizard way, then its scaly hand dropped toward a
broad manskin belt.
The Thrasson snapped his hips forward, trapping the tail behind one knee and before the other,
then scissored his legs. With a sharp pop, the appendage kinked and went limp. The reptilian roared and
produced a stiletto from its belt sheath, but with its broken tail still trapped between the Thrasson's legs, it
was helpless to spin and attack.
At the head of the line, the old bariaur scowled and looked up from his ledger. "Here now!
What's all this?" He peered over his spectacles at the growling khaasta. "People are working. If you can't
be quiet, I'll ask you to leave."
The khaasta quickly slipped his dagger out of sight. "Assssk me to leave?" He pointed a single
yellow talon at the Thrasson, who released his tail and continued to push toward the counter. "That
berk'sss the one who'sss shoving ahead!"
The bariaur studied the disheveled line, then turned his glower upon the advancing Thrasson. "We
have procedures in this hall. You'll have to stand in line like everyone else."
"Do you not know me, old sir?" The Thrasson hipped aside a scowling dwarf and continued
forward. "Have you not heard of the slayer of the Hydra of Thrassos, the tamer of the Hebron Crocodile,
the bane of Abudrian Dragons, the savior of the Virgins of Marmara ..."
He reached the counter, and the bariaur leaned over his desk to scowl down. at the Thrasson,
who continued to list his feats: ". . . the champion of Ilyrian Kings, the killer of the Chalcedon Lion-"
"No, I have not heard of you," the bariaur interrupted, "nor do I much care what you've done. If
you can't comply with the rules, I'll have you removed."
The clerk cast a meaningful glance toward the door. The two sentries now stood inside the foyer,
glaring at the Thrasson as though they had expected trouble from him all along.
"What'ssss of me tail?" complained the khaasta. "There'sss lawsss againssst the breaking of
tailssss, there issss!"
The sentries nodded, more to each other than the khaasta, then snapped their glaives to the
advance guard and started forward. The crowd parted to let them through, and the bariaur scowled
down at the Thrasson.
"Is this true? Did you assault the reptilian?"
"I caused him no serious injury." The Thrasson's tone was sharp, for it had been the khaasta who
had wronged him. "He dared block my path, and even you must see that my concerns take precedence
here." The bariaur arched his brow, then raised a hand to stop the two sentries. "Are you declaring an
Emergency Priority?"
"If it means I am entitled not to wait, then yes."
The bariaur licked his lips, then clasped his hands on his desk and leaned on his elbows. "The
proper procedure is to announce the Emergency Priority to the door guards, who will then certify that
you have the proper funds and escort you to the front of the line, so as to create minimal disturbance and
avoid unpleasant incidents such as the breaking of tails." The clerk made a sour face and glanced at the
khaasta, then looked back to the Thrasson. "However, since you have already reached the counter, we
will skip certification and proceed directly to collection. You may now present the fee."
"Fee?"
"Ten gold pieces." The bariaur's eyes grew large and menacing behind his spectacles. "Otherwise,
every sod who came through those doors would declare an Emergency Priority, would he not?"
When the Thrasson did not immediately produce the fee, the guards began to advance again. "By
order of the Hall of Speakers, false declaiming is a crime against the Lady's Order," said the tallest one,
who had spoken to the Thrasson before. "Crimes against the Lady's Order are punishable by a sentence
of not less than—"
"I have the fee!"
The Thrasson placed the amphora on the floor and balanced it against the counter with his leg,
then opened his purse and counted out the gold. Ten gold coins would buy a lot of wine, but he could
always get free wine back in Thrassos. He passed the coins up to the bariaur, who confirmed the count,
entered the amount in his ledger, and dropped the coins into a slot on the surface of his bench.
"Do you want a receipt?"
"No. I want..."
The bariaur raised a finger to silence the Thrasson, then produced a large iron bell from behind
his bench. He rang it six times. Though the tolling was not particularly loud, it reverberated through the
cavernous hall as clearly as birdsong. By the time the last knell had died away, a gentle murmur had
arisen to fill the entire structure. A trio of human youths, all dressed in pale blue uniforms with ugly red
shoulder sashes, rounded a comer and stood at attention beside the counter. Around the opposite corner
came another six guards, all wearing the same red plate armor as the door sentries. These men positioned
themselves between the crowd and the counter, holding their glaives at port arms. From somewhere in
the depths of the building echoed the measured clatter of four hooves clacking upon the marble floor.
The bariaur dipped his quill in the ink, then poised it over his ledger and peered down at the
Thrasson.
"Name?"
The Thrasson hesitated, loathe to admit his one weakness in public. An impatient murmur rustled
through the lobby, and the guards began to push the crowd back.
"Name?"
"I-er-uh, why is my name important?"
The bariaur's eye twitched. "We have our procedures, berk. Name?"
"You dare call me—" The Thrasson bit his tongue, reminding himself that he needed the bariaur's
cooperation to keep the promise he had made. "I-uh-I can't tell you my name."
Deep in the building, the steady clacking of hooves grew louder, and the two door sentries
stepped to the Thrasson's flanks. "Can't, or won't, berk?"
"I cannot." Though hardly intimidated by the guards, the Thrasson forced himself to answer
politely. His task did riot call for the shedding of blood, and it was the hallmark of a true champion never
to cause unnecessary harm. "I don't know my name. I recall nothing before awakening on the shore near
Thrassos, where the citizens were kind enough to care for me until I could repay their hospitality by
slaying the great hydra. Not long after, I heard of the mighty crocodile menacing the fishermen of the river
Hebrus, so I journeyed-"
"Yes, yes, I have heard all that," the bariaur snorted. "But what am I to put in the ledger? He who
slew the Hydra of Thrassos, then tamed the Hebron Crocodile, and on and on? I only have one line."
The Thrasson thought for a moment, and while he thought, the clacking of hooves deep in the
building continued to grow louder. At last, he looked up. "The people of Thrassos call me the Amnesian
Hero. That should fit on one line."
The bariaur nodded sagely. "The Amnesian Hero it is, then." He scrawled in his ledger, then
dipped his quill again. "And may I put down Thrassos, Layer the First, Arborea, as your home?"
The Amnesian Hero nodded. "That is the only home I know."
The bariaur wrote this as well, then peered down at the Thrasson. "I'll grant that not knowing
your own name is serious, but it hardly seems an Emergency Priority." He dipped his quill arid, almost
sympathetically, said, "Still, you paid the fee and I can't get it back for you. Who would you like to see
first? The Bureau of Human Affairs, or perhaps the Nonplanar Races Commission? By the Emergency
Priorities Edict of the Hall of Speakers, you have a maximum of ten appointments to answer a single
question."
The Amnesian Hero felt an unexpected flutter in his stomach. "You can tell me who I am?"
The bariaur smacked his lips. "I'm not authorized to dispense that information." His quill remained
poised over the ledger. "My duties are limited strictly to the scheduling of appointments. Now, whom do
you wish to see?"
The Amnesian Hero came close to requesting the Bureau of Human Affairs, but at the last
moment found the strength to resist the temptation. Whoever he was, he was certainly a man of renown,
and men of renown did not put their personal needs above their promises.
"If you don't know who you wish to see, I am authorized to give you a list."
The clacking of hooves deeper in the building grew so loud that the Thrasson expected to see an
enormous bariaur rounding the counter at any moment. Voices in the impatient crowd began shouting
suggestions, some more polite than others. The guards yelled back, bellowing warnings about staying in
control and complying with the rules. To make his answer heard above the clamor, the Amnesian Hero
nearly had to shout.
"I'm not here about my name. I want to see the Lady of Pain!"
The old bariaur yanked off his spectacles, and, save for the mounting echoes of hooves on
marble, the chamber abruptly fell silent. The clerk leaned out over the counter and, bushy white brows
half-arched, peered down at the Amnesian Hero.
"Pardon me. Did you say, the Lady of Pain?"
The Amnesian Hero nodded. "I did." He gestured at the large amphora he was still balancing
against the counter. "I have a gift for her."
Nervous laughter rustled through the crowd, drawing several stem threats from the guards. On
the other side of the counter, the steady clacking of the hooves suddenly ceased. The bariaur's face
turned a deep shade of crimson.
"This is no time for jokes, berk! You're the one who declared an information emergency!"
"I am not joking," the Amnesian Hero replied. "I came to deliver a gift to the Lady of Pain. My
question is: where do I find her palace?"
A brief clatter sounded from the rear of the counter, then a second bariaur appeared beside the
clerk. She was by far the largest the Amnesian Hero had ever seen - at least that he remembered
seeing-looming a full head above her associate. In fact, she was so large that the silk-draped swell of her
broad, goatlike forequarters was visible over the lip of the counter. Her face was gaunt and amazingly
flat, save for a long narrow nose hanging like a bartizan over her gash of a mouth. Her hair was dyed the
same pale blue as the hall's marble walls, and she wore it in a long, unruly mop that could not quite
conceal the two golden horns curling back from her temples.
The Amnesian Hero felt his mouth gaping open. He promptly clamped it shut and averted his
gaze. Horns were something of a deformity on female bariaur, and it would be unseemly to stare.
The female took a moment to glower over the crowd, then turned her glare upon the clerk. "You
rang the emergency bell, Earlick?"
Though she pronounced it "Earlick," Erlik was a common enough name for the Thrasson to
suspect she was being intentionally insulting.
Without looking the female in the eyes, Erlik nodded. "I did, Madame Mok." The clerk squinted
at his ledger and laid a finger on the appropriate line. "A human, one Amnesian Hero of Thrassos,
Arborea, Layer the First, declared an Emergency Priority and paid the fee."
Madame Mok glared down at the Amnesian Hero, her sour face now absolutely curdled. "And
this Amnesian Hero, has he no real name, Earlick?"
"None that I can recall." The Amnesian Hero was tired of being treated as though he were not
there. "I remember nothing before awakening on the shore near Thrassos, where the kind citizens cared
for me until I grew strong enough to repay them by slaying a hydra that had-"
"Silence, berk!" Madame Mok snapped. "We have our procedures in this hall...."
The Amnesian Hero bristled under the rebuff, but inclined his head politely and allowed Erlik to
answer for him.
Erlik swallowed, then licked his lips. "The Amnesian Hero cannot recall his name."
"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.
The Gatehouse looks like no palace the Amnesian Hero has ever seen. Large enough to house
the Cleaver of Lands himself, its shape, that of an immense battle crown with a long, blocky wing
spreading outward from each side. The walls were as drab as mudstone and as high as cliffs, their faces
striped by three mundane rows of small square windows. The most striking feature was the central gate
tower, an immense helmlike turret crested by six curving spires that arched inward toward a central
minaret so high the apex was lost in Sign's brown fog. The gate itself was an impossibly huge portcullis,
with bars the size of Arborean cypress trees and spaces through which a titan could have passed.
A long string of gray flecks stretched from this entrance halfway down Bedlam Way. So dwarfed
by the Gatehouse's immensity were these specks that the Amnesian Hero did not recognize them as
people for several minutes, until his bearers had carried him close enough to make out the shapes of their
heads sitting atop their hunched shoulders. The column packed the street completely, leaving only enough
room for area residents to squeeze along the tenement fronts on the way to and from their homes. The
Thrasson groaned, realizing that this was a line of petitioners, waiting to see the Lady of Pain.
"Lock that bone-box, berk!" hissed Cwaino, who was marching along outside the chair box. "In
this part of town, sniveling draws bloodblades like flashing gold draws glitter girls."
"I do not snivel. As for your bloodblades, let them come. I would welcome the fight." The
Amnesian Hero glared at the supplicants ahead, wondering how many coins it would cost to declare an
Emergency Priority to bypass them. "Is no place in Sigil free of these monstrous lines?"
Cwaino squinted at the wretched column. "Bar that. If you wait, I wait—and I'm not staying
down here a minute longer than I need to."
The assertion seemed bold for a mere guard, but the Amnesian Hero would be glad to avoid
paying more bribes. He was running low on gold, and he hated nothing more than relying on the good will
of others for his wine.
As the Thrasson's procession approached the line of supplicants, the four Mercykillers moved
forward to shove people out of the way. The petitioners grudgingly yielded to the rough treatment,
pressing aside just far enough to let the sedan chair pass. Most were humans, but the Amnesian Hero
also saw bariaur, elves, dwarves, ogres, khaasta, githzerai, and a few other races he had never before
encountered - at least that he could recall. All had gaunt, haunted faces wearied by hunger and despair,
and the soiled rags hanging from their bony shoulders hardly resembled the bejeweled foppery of most
royal supplicants.
The Thrasson saw teary-eyed women supporting drooling elders whose glassy eyes were looking
somewhere far beyond. He saw lonely naked orphans with swollen bellies and skin hanging loose on their
crooked bones. He saw burly guards holding the leashes of wild-faced men with shackled hands, he saw
coughing, quivering women trembling with age and flushed with fever, but nowhere did he see anyone
arrayed in what Madame Mok called "the proper style." Aside from his own, there were no sedan chairs,
no lantern boys or guards, not even a single figure dressed in a cloak decent enough to hang in a
shepherd's hut.
Cwalno reached up to draw the chair curtain closed.
The Thrasson grabbed the cloth and held it open. "What do you hope to hide, Cwalno? I've
already seen that those poor wretches hardly look like royal supplicants."
Cwalno appeared vaguely uncomfortable, but chuckled grimly. "Who else would they be?" He
shoved aside a babbling madman whose handler had dropped the leash. "You can't think a sane man
would - er, sony. That must be why Poseidon sent you."
The Amnesian Hero locked gazes with the Mercykiller. "I hope you are not trying to say that I
am demented."
Cwalno sneered, while at the same time hastening to shake his head as though he had been
terribly misunderstood. "A cutter like yourself? 'Course not!" There was a mocking tone to his voice. "I'm
only talking about your condition. Poseidon wouldn't send no blood with a memory to deliver his present.
Any berk who can remember half what he's heard about the Lady of Pain would sooner jump into the
Abyss than stand face-to-face with her."
The Amnesian Hero sat back and nodded thoughtfully. Despite Cwalno's condescending manner,
there was truth in what he said. The King of Seas was by nature a selfish god, hardly the type to restore a
mortal's lost memories in return for a simple errand like delivering a gift. Since accepting the amphora, the
Thrasson had been expecting to run into some such trouble. Now that he finally had some idea of its
nature, he was almost relieved.
"If the Lady is so terrible to face, why are all these people waiting to see her?" As the Amnesian
Hero studied the throng of dismal supplicants, it occurred to him they all had an abundance of one thing.
"Do the wretches not fear the Lady because of the gifts they bring her?"
Cwalno eyed the derelicts with a disdainful smirk. "And what could the Lady want from these
sods?" "Their suffering, of course! That's why she is called the Lady of Pain, is it not?"
Cwalno, sneered, but was careful to neither nod his head nor shake it. "You'll see soon enough,
Thrasson."
The Mercykiller pointed forward, where his three crowd-breaking companions had just pushed
through into a large open square. A dozen men in cloaks of bright, spangled colors were cavorting in the
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PagesofPainTroyDenningPainsOfTheMindBlackhairandebonyeyes,acleftchinandsun-bronzedskin,heisnodenizenofmine.HeshoveshiswaythroughtheteeminglanesoftheLowerWard,botharmswrappedaroundthatenormousamphorahecarriesandnohandfreeforhissword.HewearsthebronzearmorofThrassos,withnocapetoprotectagainsttheacidhaz...

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