A Day with Mr. Ambrose, by Stephen Dewey

Mr. Ambrose by Kenya Ferrand

The overstuffed leather office chair protested loudly on its wheels beneath Laok’s weight. In their natural form, imps were rather light creatures – most being under three feet tall and composed primarily of hot gas and loosely concentrated nightmares – but it was no secret that Laok was immoderately obsessed with his “bargaining form,” Mr. Ambrose.

“Besides,” Laok had argued on several occasions, “to sit in a chair properly, one must shed unnecessary shoulder baggage. Wings make the entire experience of relaxing substantially more difficult.”

Therefore, Mr. Ambrose was the form Laok favoured more often then not, insofar as comfort was concerned, and the same form whose weight the chair now protested against.

It wasn’t a bad form, all things considered, despite the distinct lack of a tail which made general balancing – not to mention hanging from rafters – a new experience entirely. Just under six feet tall, Mr. Ambrose appeared all in all as a very well-put-together sort of chap. A tailored suit, charcoal coloured of course, with black dress shoes that reflected the light of fire quite exquisitely. A crimson undershirt, and a tie – cross knotted – that seemed the colour of orphan tears. He had a thin sort of build, looking not unlike both a nimble human and a rather large viper all at once. His face was sharply angled, adorned only by a soul patch beneath his lower lip – both for the classic appeal and the sheer irony of it. His hair was black and slicked back, making the two dark red horns emerging from his forehead even more pronounced.

Mr. Ambrose rubbed his temples as his eyes darted back and forth, looking carefully over the sheaves of parchment that covered the broad rosewood desk.

A gentle rapping noise on his door shook the imp from his concentration.

“Enter,” the devil called, making use of the rich human accent the altered form provided him.

Brymstor was quite gangly for an imp, which by imp standards is saying something. The little devil was a good deal shorter then the height of the doorknob – no doubt having had to fly up to it in order to gain entry into the office. Scrambling his way into the room with a small stack of papers gripped in one claw, the imp landed on the desk with little more then a snap of its wings, laying the pile before Mr. Ambrose.

“Another signed contract,” the imp shook its tiny devil head, as if in disbelief. “A priest of light. Seven years of service postmortem, and three favours prior. Just plain impressive sir.”

Mr. Ambrose smiled at the imp.

“Damn fine devilling, if I may be so bold to pat myself on the back Brymstor,” Ambrose joked.

“Pat away sir, pat away. How do you do it?” The small imp enquired.

“You know, it’s not as hard as one might think,” Mr. Ambrose mused, accompanied by a conniving grin. “Let the powers that be boast all they want about keeping evil alive on the mortal plane. Master a few simple steps and any slick minded imp with half a brain can keep the fires stoked.”

Mr. Ambrose laughed, a wicked sort of noise that sounded not unlike both a cheerful chuckle and the screams of tortured innocents all at once. Brymstor however, intrigued by the man’s musings, cocked his head to one side and sat eagerly on the desk – ready to learn. Ambrose studied the inquisitive little imp for a moment, before sighing and nodding.

“Very well Brym, very well. We need more imps who know what they’re doing so I don’t mind letting you in on some of the finer techniques. Where to begin…” Mr. Ambrose stroked the small tuft of hair beneath his lower lip which, for all Brymstor knew, was one of the many souls the elder imp had bargained for. “Soul bargaining is a many layered, rather complex task…” he began.

“Like balancing?” Brymstor interrupted, toying with his tail.

“You get used to that too,” Ambrose jested. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”

“Now then, something that most devils fail to realise is that it’s not our job to simply wait around for someone to offer a deal. Waiting for those magical ‘I would give anything’ words is not the way to go about things. The simple truth of the matter becomes, hundreds of people would sell their soul daily, if given the chance, on really the most pointless of things. A good harvest, a healthy baby, a night with the bar wench… It gets tiresome really, mortals are all want, want, want. When it comes right down to it though, a quick glance around the torture pits will show you the real problem. No one’s worth torturing! The vast majority of mankind lives in shades of gray and hardly anyone these days makes a name for themselves. What’s the good of eternal damnation if they’re not even going to put up a fight? People who think they deserve it are no fun. No, you’ve got to aim for quality, not quantity.”

“Find some suitable subjects. Make a list of two hundred or so of the most valiant, stout-hearted and decent folk you can locate – the kind who look down on those shades of gray as blasphemy. Adventurers, politicians, and religious figureheads are my personal favourites. Adventurers are nice because any treasure-seeker worth his salt packs more punch then your average mortal but always wants to pack more. Politicians usually seem to need only the slightest of pushes to put them right onto the throne, and into the palm of your hand. And religious folk, well, it’s just so cute when they fall from grace.”

“Then you watch, and you wait. Everyone has a moment of weakness eventually. Everyone. But even then, when you see their willpower wane, patience is the key. If it’s meant to be, you’ll know. Finding the perfect moment is just as important – if not more so – then finding the perfect candidate. You have to time it precisely, because if you’re bargaining with the right people, there’s a good chance they will be defensive, suspicious, paranoid, and in possession of both powerful weaponry and a general animosity towards anything with horns that appears in a puff of smoke.”

“I’ve always hated that puff of smoke clause. Seems… counterproductive,” interjected Brymstor.

Mr. Ambrose nodded, “True, but good business practises must be maintained. Besides, if the timing is right, the smoke and horns should be the least of their worries. Desperation… That’s the time to strike. When a mortal reaches the end of their rope, whether figuratively or literally,” the man grinned, lost in a memory for a moment. “Yes, when they’re flat out of options, preferably alone, and terrifically distressed – that’s when you strike. They’re so distracted that nine times out of ten they think they’re composed enough to outwit you. They’re dead wrong of course… and the bargaining begins.”

“The soul bargaining?” Brymstor questioned excitedly, now that things were getting interesting.

“Well, sure. That is an umbrella term of course, but not so rigid as you might think. Most adventurers have read just enough storybooks to assume that souls are all we bargain in. Souls can be a tricky business though, especially with the religious folk.” Mr. Ambrose here switched into a mocking tone, “My soul belongs to Flufflekins! God of flowers and bunnies! It is not mine to give!” The man rolled his eyes. “Bloody ridiculous. The key Brym, is to ask for something that seems relatively innocuous – something that would bring no immediate consequence to the poor chap giving it away. The beauty of souls is that the ownership of them does not even become a point of interest until the time of death.”

“The price you ask should be relative to the weight of whatever is being requested of course. A permanent boon to a mortal should come with a permanent penalty, while a gift that only aids them for a few moments or days should have a similarly temporary price. Where creativity enters the picture is in convincing the mortal in question to agree to a deal where you are actually getting the better end of the bargain, regardless of what they think. For example, an adventurer may think that promising something as simple as say, a ‘favour’, is well worth it when their own life is on the line. But when the favour is called in, and you demand three innocents killed, it’s a net gain on our part. Favours are better than gold and silver – a fact that, thankfully, mortals still don’t grasp. The lives of firstborn children are always a good standby too, though it works best if you know the child is going to grow up to be a great champion of good or some such rubbish. Besides that, bargaining for things like names, talents, faith… Hells, even the use of some words. I’ve seen it all. I’ve done most of it,” the man chuckled.

“Is it true,” Brymstor perked up, “that you made a deal so a holy man couldn’t say the name of his God anymore?” Mr. Ambrose smiled at this, leaning back in his chair, puffing out his thin chest as best he could.

“Poor sap had to use nicknames from that day forward. The best part of that bargain? He was on a quest for some ancient relic of that very same God when we hatched the deal – chap had run afoul of some quicksand.” Ambrose could barely tell the story through his laughter as he continued. “So he reaches the temple and finds this dreadfully old artifact – an orb of some sort or another. Three guesses what the final word of the incantation was to activate it!” The two devils filled the office with laughter, Brymstor nearly falling off the desk.

“He must have been furious!”

“He was,” smiled Ambrose.

“How in the hells did he last?”

“He didn’t.” Ambrose stated simply, as Brymstor’s laughter subsided and the imp raised an inquisitive eyebrow – or at least the ridge where an eyebrow might have been on a more hairy creature. “Village was invaded by Gnolls a few months later,” the man continued. “He decided his silence wasn’t worth the death of his family, so he broke the bond to activate the relic.” Ambrose shook his head sadly. “If I wasn’t the devil whose brilliance spawned that contract I might have even felt bad for the man. He was a decent fellow, all things considered. A paladin, a knight of purity, chosen by divinity with a shiny chair and a set of wings waiting for him in the afterlife… Death for him and his would have done the whole family a bit of good really – being relocated to a cottage on the clouds and all. Peace, happiness, and such.”

“He died a fortnight later, unrelated causes, leaving behind two children and a wife who relocated swiftly to the bed of his squire.” The man shrugged.

“What happened to him? His, well his soul I mean?” Brymstor asked tentatively.

A sickening grin crossed Mr. Ambrose’s face as he leaned forward and locked eyes with the small imp, forcing Brymstor to utilise every ounce of his willpower to keep from running in terror at the man’s overwhelmingly malevolent presence. Suddenly, a snap resounded through the tiny devil’s mind as memories rampaged forth through his unprepared mindscape. A scream escaped Brymstor’s lips as his thoughts were wracked with terrible understanding. Falling from the desk, the imp writhed on the floor as Ambrose stood – letting forth a contented sigh.

“And that, Sir Brymstor, is the bit of soul bargaining that warms my heart. The true art of it shines forth most impressively in a broken contract, and in carrying out the punishment very clearly laid out in the fine print.” Mr. Ambrose walked around the rosewood desk to better watch the waves of burning realisation as they washed over the tortured man. “Don’t you worry, Sir Brymstor. The memories will subside soon and you can go back to filling out my rather impressive pile of paperwork, and of course seeing me as I am – a brilliant, brilliant man.” Even now the fits of anguish in the small creature began to be replaced by obedient complacency. “And you can continue, Sir Brymstor, your afterlife of blissful ignorance. At least, until tomorrow.” With a final satisfied sigh, Mr. Ambrose returned to his chair and began glancing over the newest contract that the former paladin had brought him.

A devil’s work, thought Ambrose with a smile, is never done.