Lich for Hire

The moment Harvey saw the vicious tifling soldiers, he felt a strange sense of déjà vu, like when he had first met Ambrose.

Did every diviner have to screw people over to advance to a legend? Was this some kind of bizarre initiation ritual? Had he been stuck as an apprentice for so long simply because he wasn't ruthless enough?

He didn't have time to dwell on his thoughts. The soldiers were already charging forward, intent on capturing both Mr. Misfortune and Harvey, his accomplice.

Without hesitation, Harvey hurled his glass to the ground at their feet.

Liquor splashed across the floor just as he tossed his dice of fate at the soldiers.

The soldiers very well might slip; Harvey's dice turned that chance into a guarantee.

The soldiers all went crashing down. The impact was so intense that it caused the tavern's lights overhead to sway wildly. The soldiers lay sprawled, groaning, unable to get up.

Harvey turned quickly, about to urge Mr. Misfortune to flee, only to find that the old man had already climbed out the window and was waving at him from outside.

That settled it. This had to be his master's fellow disciple. No diviner would stay in danger a moment longer than necessary.

Harvey wasted no time. With a Mist Step, he flashed to the old man's side and asked, "Where do we go now?"

This was tifling territory. Being hunted by the authorities meant they couldn't just hide anywhere, and Harvey still had no idea why Mr. Misfortune was being pursued.

The old man shook his head. "No need to worry. They can't see us."

Harvey frowned. They had merely climbed out a window. How could that possibly be sufficient?

Curious, he glanced back into the tavern. The soldiers had scrambled to their feet and were just about to notice him at the window when a candle suddenly dropped from the swaying lights and landed squarely on one soldier's face. Molten wax splashed into his eyes, making him howl in pain.

If not for the tiflings' natural resistance to fire, he might have been blinded on the spot.

The man thrashed wildly, knocking his comrades over again in the chaos. In the confusion, not one of them noticed Harvey standing right there.

Was this, too, the power of fate?

Harvey hadn't seen Mr. Misfortune roll any dice, and neither did he sense any spellcasting. And yet, this chain of coincidences was unmistakably the work of destiny.

The old man offered no explanation and simply walked on. Harvey hurried after him.

They strode openly down the street. The soldiers eventually rushed out of the tavern and began searching frantically, but no matter how they looked, their eyes never settled on the two of them. A passerby would block their view, or they'd look the wrong way, or a companion would call out and distract them.

A dozen soldiers ran right past them, completely oblivious.

"How... are you doing this?" Harvey finally asked.

Even dice of fate couldn't cause such prolonged effects.

When Harvey tossed his dice, their effects would only trigger once. After they got up, that was it. He couldn't make these soldiers trip for the rest of their life with just a single toss.

But Mr. Misfortune's effect persisted. New soldiers arriving on the scene were affected just the same.

The old man chuckled. "Impressed? Better than your master's skills, eh?"

Harvey was starting to sense that these two men really didn't get along. Mr. Misfortune seized every chance to outshine Ambrose.

After a brief hesitation, Harvey said, "But... my master was the one who won back then, wasn't he?"

Mr. Misfortune's smile vanished. "I was going to teach you," Mr. Misfortune said flatly. "Now I'm not so sure you deserve it."

Harvey coughed awkwardly. "I do want to learn. Just... not at my master's expense."

The old man gave him a curious look. "Strange. How did that bastard produce an apprentice like you? He'd do anything for profit. You two don't seem alike at all."

Harvey didn't know how to explain. Strictly speaking, he was mostly self-taught. Ambrose rarely guided him directly. The most he'd do was dump piles of reading materials on him.

Maybe that was why they turned out so different.

"Forget it," Mr. Misfortune said. "No more jokes. I'll teach you my tricks."

He took Harvey's hand and waved it lightly through the air. Suddenly, where there had been nothing, countless threads appeared, dense, interwoven, and shimmering in different colors.

They connected everything: people to people, people to objects, objects to objects. And they were constantly appearing and vanishing.

"See?" the old man said. "These are the threads of fate that connect everything. Each thread represents a possibility. Between you and me, for instance—we might have fought the moment we met, or we might sit down and share a drink.

"But if you cut certain threads, you eliminate that possibility entirely. They can't see us because I severed the connection between us and them."

Following his guidance, Harvey spotted a crimson strand linking himself, Mr. Misfortune, and the soldiers, and stretching even farther beyond that. But at one point along its length, it had been cleanly cut.

"Sever a possibility, and it ceases to exist. Your dice of fate cause countless possibilities to collapse into a single outcome. I, on the other hand, remove a possibility altogether. Until that thread mends, they will never see us."

Harvey was stunned. Fate could even be used like this?

Mr. Misfortune seemed pleased with his reaction. "I've gone further than your master in my study of fate. He may have won back then, but only because he played dirty."

Harvey didn't argue. Knowing Ambrose, that sounded entirely plausible.

Not wanting to hear more insults about his master, he quickly changed the subject. "How long does it take for these threads to mend?"

"Depends. The one I cut will remain that way for about five days."

Harvey hesitated, then asked, "Can a thread be severed permanently?"

"Yes, but the cost would be enormous." The old man waved him along. "Come. Let me show you something."

They picked up the pace and soon arrived at a modest, low building.

Inside, Harvey found a surprisingly neat home. Everything was clean and orderly, nothing like the hideout of a fugitive.

What quickly caught his eye were towering bookshelves, packed with volumes of every kind. In that regard, Mr. Misfortune was much like Ambrose. The most prominent feature of his castle had also been shelves upon shelves of books.

"Read more," the old man said, noticing his gaze. "Everything in this world is part of fate. The more you know, the deeper your understanding."

"I will," Harvey said earnestly.

"Good. Now come."

Mr. Misfortune led him into a small room, rummaged through an iron chest, and produced a plain stone slab.

He handed it to Harvey. "Take it. This is the master who taught both me and your master."

Harvey examined it carefully, but saw nothing remarkable. It was small, thin, no larger than a palm. There were no carvings nor inscriptions, just the wear of time and perhaps faint traces of dried moss.

It looked like an ordinary rock.

"I'm sorry," Harvey admitted. "I don't see anything special."

"That's fine," the old man said. "Take it back to your master. I've kept it long enough."

"I will."

Harvey stored the slab in his storage pouch. He took a deep breath. "Sir, about the letter my master sent..."

Mr. Misfortune sniffed. "I'm aware."

He lay back in a chair, pulled out the letter, and began to read.

His expression darkened with each passing line. At the end, he clenched his hand. Flames burst forth, reducing the parchment to ash.

Harvey froze, not daring to speak. Whatever Ambrose had written, it clearly wasn't pleasant.

After a long silence, the old man said, "Go back. Tell that bastard to come here in two months and three days. What he wants, I'll prepare."

Relief flooded Harvey. For once, his master hadn't completely set him up. He had accomplished his task in less than a day.

Curious, he asked, "Sir, were you... waiting for me in the tavern?"

Mr. Misfortune nodded. "Diviners sense events that concern them. I knew of your coming before you even set out. With the kingdom in turmoil, it's easier for me to find you than the other way around."

Harvey hesitated, then asked the question that had been bothering him. "Why are you being hunted?"

What could have happened to cause a legendary diviner, one of the rarest classes of mages, to stand against his own kingdom?

The old man sighed. "That's no secret. The Impure have been gathering materials to build more Hellgates. Do you know what those require?"

Harvey shook his head. "I'm afraid I'm not familiar with infernal matters."

Mr. Misfortune sighed. "Flesh and blood, as much of it as you can afford."

Harvey felt a chill.

"Before," Mr. Misfortune said grimly, "they used livestock. But now, they've started using people as well."