Chapter Text
The midday sun shone down on a quiet dirt road, dust whipping up over the old trail as a car - which looked much too expensive for this environment - drove steadily along it.
“You could at least tell me where we are going,” Dagon said calmly, turning another corner as Machiavelli directed him. “That way, I would not have to rely upon your somewhat shaky grasp of geography in order to get us to where we must be.”
Machiavelli suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at his companion. “I know how to read a map, Dagon.”
“Do you? Remember Cairo? Or that lovely visit to Tenochtitlan?”
“That was different!”
“How?” Dagon hazarded a glance over at him. “Be honest, Niccolò. You cannot navigate to save your life. Or my life. Which is what I am most concerned about at the present moment.”
With a sigh of frustration, Machiavelli resigned himself to glaring down at the aged map in his hands. He had bought it at an extravagant auction that he had been sent to by his Elder master, for far more than any of the mortal bidders would have ever valued it at.
But Machiavelli was no mortal. And he knew a prize when he saw one.
It had drawn him in, as soon as he had laid his eyes on it in the catalogue. A quick glance had told him that the assumed origin given by the auction house’s so-called expert was completely wrong. Despite looking very much like a complex illumination from a Mozarabic manuscript, reminiscent of a Beatus codex, the devil was in the details: no normal Spanish monk in the 10th century CE would have written his inscriptions in the language of the Elders of Danu Talis.
But that also meant that Machiavelli was only vaguely aware of what any of the text actually said. Dagon had translated much of it already, but parts of the delicate map had been damaged over time, obscuring the symbols beyond recognition.
“Turn left. I think.” Machiavelli said quickly, squinting to make out the tiny letters on the page. “And then we go straight ahead until...”
“Until what?” Dagon asked, impatient now.
Machiavelli frowned. “Well, it says that we will reach a cave. Once we are there, however, the map becomes useless. The monk that illuminated it must never have gone inside.”
“He did not give any information about it?” The fish-man seemed skeptical, which meant that he was going to be extremely annoying for Machiavelli to deal with. Why couldn't everyone just trust him without question?
Taking a deep breath, he spoke. “There is one inscription that you translated that seems to pertain to that particular section of this quest... you won't like it, though.”
“When do I ever like anything you drag me into, Niccolò?” Dagon sighed.
“A fair enough point,” Machiavelli admitted. “It reads: ‘When compassion fails to the weight of the sacred gold, for your freedom will you drown in bones.’”
Both men were silent for a moment. “Charming,” Dagon said at last.
“You must understand that at the time this was written, humanity was waiting for the world to end. Again,” Machiavelli sighed. “Lots of fear, but also lots of greed. People didn't seem to remember that they couldn't bring their worldly possessions with them when they died. This is just some... silly, overdramatic curse to scare people away from the treasure.”
“One would think that the Humani would prefer to spend their final days celebrating and enjoying themselves,” Dagon mumbled, his voice like tiny bubbles in a pond. “I know I would.”
Machiavelli pinched the bridge of his nose. “Humans are... complicated. Especially when it comes to death.”
Dagon mulled over that while he pulled the car over to the side of the road. “We're here.”
The cave was small. Unimpressive from the outside. But Machiavelli wasn't there for the regional geology.
He was only interested in what lay just beneath the surface, waiting for him.
Waiting to be claimed by someone who was worthy of it.