by J Jordan
Romney nodded. There was another deep pang in his throat, the kind he had felt sitting in Semnir’s body. It was a sense of divine purpose flooding his heart with warmth. It wasn’t every day that someone needed him for something. And now, the Goddess of Creation was asking for his help. He stood to attention, his shoulders heroically squared and his jaw stuck out. For once, someone believed in Romney Balvance. It was a magnificent moment, except that his eyes were watery with raw emotion.
Also, it was a dream. But these were minor details. The Goddess of Creation had a task for Romney Balvance. He would not fail her.
“Okay,” he said, sniffling away his weepiness and playing it cool, “what do I do?”
Katrese tapped her chin with a long finger. Romney thought he could hear the heavens thundering with thought. Or was it more magic?
“We don’t know what he’s doing with the stone. But it must have something to do with his collection of rare artifacts.”
“Then maybe we should keep playing along. Eventually, he’ll reveal his hand and we can stop him then.”
Katrese’s brow furrowed.
“That is a dangerous game.”
And then Katrese thought about it. Maybe, just maybe.
“It’s a crazy idea. And stupid, no offense. Irresponsible too.”
Romney shrugged. This was the part where she was supposed to say something like “but it’ll have to do,” or “but it just might work.” He waited patiently, for the entire quarter of one minute, then decided he would take the initiative.
“But it just might work.”
“No, it’s not going to work”, snapped Katrese. “It’s too dangerous. We need a more direct approach to this.”
“You just said he can’t do anything with these artifacts.”
“He can’t use magic. He’s forbidden from using its power in any capacity. But—”
Katrese’s divine gaze fell squarely on Romney. Her mouth twitched from side to side.
“Someone else could use it for him.”
“You mean me?”
Katrese snapped her fingers. It echoed like thunder.
“He can’t use magic, but you can. That’s the loophole.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. I’m new to all of this. I don’t know how any of it works.”
Katrese nodded. A point to Romney. The argument was still in her favor.
“Okay, then. Let’s ask a different question. Why did he choose you? Why did he choose you to steal the Katarin stone? Why you? And I don’t mean offense by that, because you are a wonderful and capable person. But why did he pick a newbie for this big heist?”
Romney nodded. These were all fair points. But she had one thing wrong.
“He didn’t choose me.”
Katrese’s starry gaze snapped to Romney like a magnet. He could see the tiny constellations trundle toward Katrese’s pupil. He wondered if it was a black hole. He began to feel its pull.
“You chose him.”
Katrese grabbed his shoulders and brought her face to his. The doomed constellation was already touching the void. He could feel its shape begin to bend. All those little stars who lived without consequence in a void floated around each other, burned and flashed. They followed the rules. Okay, so maybe some of them didn’t. They did nothing wrong. Why them? They didn’t want to be a part of some grand scheme. They just wanted to be happy. It was funny, thought Romney, the places your mind went when someone was yelling at you.
“Romney. What did I just say?”
“I don’t want to be in your black hole.”
“No. I said you are the loophole. Devon is using you as a go-between for magical power. That is really, really bad. Don’t give him anymore artifacts. Are you listening to me?”
Then, she withdrew.
“And please give context next time you say something like that.”
“But I can’t stop him,” said Romney. “He’s a billionaire. His assistant can watch me wherever I go. They have power over everything. I can’t just walk in and take it all back.”
Katrese nodded. He was right, after all. Devon had untold wealth and an army of loyal employees. And that didn’t count the friends in darker places, the ones left off of Mila’s reports. Under Devon’s hands, they were all dangerous people. Romney had a historian and a martial arts instructor. They were good, but they were only three people. The moon was full in the sky. And now Katrese was frowning at him. A celestial light flashed across her eyes. A comet, maybe?
“You’re going to do it anyway, aren’t you?”
“Here’s the way I see it. We can get him at his own game. Devon wants this magical stuff more than anything in the world. I know that for a fact. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the stone. All we need to do is get him to slip up.”
Katrese thought about this. She began to see his plan. It was clear from her expression that she didn’t like it.
“So, your plan is to give him what he wants until he makes a mistake.”
She turned the idea over in her mind for Romney’s sake, but her pained expression was already enough of an answer. The Goddess of Creation didn’t like this plan at all. Romney rallied his defense. An old saying came to him from somewhere in the recesses of his mind, from a Camerran history class in his senior year of high school.
“How do you rule a ruler?”
Katrese smiled a thin smile and waited for his answer. She knew the rest of the saying, of course. Some argue she invented it.
“You have something he wants.”
Katrese nodded as politely and courteously as she could.
“He will make a mistake,” said Romney. “He’s already in over his head. Two, maybe three more pieces, and he’ll snap like a twig. Trust me on this. I know people like him. All you have to do is find his weak spot.”
Katrese’s sigh lingered across the beach as a gust of wind. She gazed at him with two pools of night sky. She reached down and squeezed his shoulder. He could feel the divine weight of the world pressing down on him.
“You are playing a dangerous game, Romney. And you’re putting a lot on the line here.”
“But it just might work.”
“Please stop saying that.”
Her glare was punishment enough. Romney felt a terrible guilt welling up inside of him that almost persuaded him to abandon the whole endeavor. Almost. But Katrese continued staring at him, constellations churning around her eyes. She was mulling something over once more. She concluded her train of thought with a smile.
“Something tells me you’re right about Devon.”
She released him from her grasp and started her way down the beach, as the last of the daylight faded from the sky. The fire lit for Semnir had slowly worked its way to dominance, now the sole beacon on the beach. The Katrese that had been speaking to him turned to Romney one last time, now only a silhouette with two pools of starlight for eyes.
“Be careful, Romney. Magic is a dangerous power. Don’t believe what anyone tells you. Magic cannot be tamed and cannot be controlled. Seek magic to unravel Devon’s plan and nothing more. Too much magic, and you could unravel the machines of creation. That is a worst-case scenario, and entirely in the realm of possibility. Please be careful. Don’t make me regret this decision.”
She turned to something in the sky and pondered it. Then she pointed up at the something with a long finger.
“What is that?”
Romney followed her finger up to a point in the sky. It wasn’t anything important. It was just his ceiling fan.
Devon Reymus and Mr. Gray
Devon Reymus watched the stone on his desk. It had flashed twice in the past half hour, in no particular interval. The third was waiting.
He could hear it in the air, the beginnings of the build up. He could hear the machinations ticking softly in the great beyond. Each piece was in place, spinning or clicking or ticking, keeping the great rhythm in harmony. But he could already hear one tiny little piece in the foreground. A gear perhaps,
moving a fraction of a second too slowly. And with each interval, that tiny little piece lost a little more. Devon squirmed in his chair. It really could happen. But he wouldn’t press the matter further. He couldn’t. It might give the whole thing away. So, he waited.
The quake approached. The sudden tremors shook Devon in his chair, though everything else in his office remained still. He clutched at the rim of his desk and waited. He closed his eyes.
The grinding of deadlocked parts was now upon him, just as she said it would be. Devon could imagine the pandemonium below. All those tiny pieces, slowed, helplessly shuttering under the tremendous need to move, held in place by eldritch forces. On the very outskirts of the halting machine, he could hear the whispers. It was Her. It had to be. Was She afraid?
And then, the furious grinding sounds were gone, and the building tremors, as if some divine providence had resolved the issue. For a third time, the stone’s surface glimmered deep blue. He smiled at it. This was the real stuff. The old stuff.
He would need more, if the plan was going to work. Much more.
◆◆◆
Mila was waiting by the desk, her tablet folded under her arm. She waited for the glimmer to fade before speaking.
“Perhaps it’s time we called in Mr. Gray,” she said.
Devon nodded absently. He was still looking down at the stone. Mila’s smirk disappeared.
“Start by putting your new toy away.”
“You’re still mad, aren’t you?”
His grin did nothing to her new glower. In fact, it deepened.
“The little man played you, as the kids say. Like a banjo.”
“They still play guitars, Mila.”
“They play banjos too,” she hissed. “You paid him double the promised price. And that is a swindle. When he held out that stone, you were his puppet.”
She leaned over the desk and looked Devon in the eye.
“I told you to stay calm. Do not give in to the smaller rewards. Don’t look at it. Stop.”
Mila snatched the Katarin stone from Devon’s grasp and pulled it close. A brief anger thrilled through Devon, but it subsided quickly. He remembered his place. Now was not the time.
“This is not the goal,” she said, gripping the stone in her palm. “This is the key. Remember that.”
Devon straightened in his chair. He took a breath to cool the fires in his belly. His new smile was forced, but sincere.
“I’m sorry, Mila. You’re right. I forgot myself.”
“You must do exactly as I say. That means remembering our plan and sticking to it, even when someone waves a new toy in your face.”
Devon clinched his teeth, but nodded with all the politeness he could muster. Mila Rin had been there from the beginning and she had been integral in making everything happen. But there were times when she reminded him of her superiority, and it always drove him mad. He couldn’t get rid of her. He needed Mila Rin now more than ever.
“I’m sorry,” said Devon, with practiced obedience., “I won’t forget again.”
“See that you don’t.”
Devon picked up the small black phone on his desk and swiped the screen. He found Gray’s number, dialed it, and asked the unsuspecting researcher to meet in his office. They were going to discuss the same private matter.
In five minutes, Mr. Gray stepped through the hallway into Devon’s office. And of course, he was wearing his namesake. The gray pinstripe suit had become his persona. Gray’s hawkish eyes, round face, and slicked black hair were merely accessories to the wool garment. The suit was always the point of focus when looking at Gray. It was the crux of his being. When he approached, one might make the careless assumption that the suit was moving on its own.
Perhaps it had something to do with the particular shade of gray used in the fabric. It seemed to stand out wherever it was standing, be it along a crowded street or in a dimly lit bar. Wherever he was walking, you could see the gray suit coming. And there was nothing you could do to stop it. Mr. Gray operated entirely on this assumption.
Did we mention that this suit was nice? That is a key detail.
Gray probably had a real name, but it was never recorded in the Reymus Employment Database.
Mr. Gray took his seat by Devon’s desk, laced his fingers over his lap, and said nothing. The pinstripes of his suit flashed briefly in the light as he crossed his legs. When he did speak, it would come with a Camerran gentleman’s accent, of a dialect picked up in Central Gonford.
“Gray,” said Devon, “let’s cut the chase. I wanted to talk about the project.”
“The project is on track,” said Gray., “My sources informed me of a seller in West Tambridan, in the town of Lumalo. It’s a small villa outside of Hirna Alda, a place for the rich and powerful to unwind. I have people in the area who have confirmed the seller is ready. The source is good and our money is in place. All we need is the seller’s final word.”
“Great,” said Devon. “Thanks for the report. But I didn’t ask for a status update. I wanted to talk in more broad terms. How long have you been on the project?”
Mr. Gray wasn’t startled in the slightest.
“Six weeks. And now it is aligned.”
“It’s three years, Gray. Three.”
The man in the nicest suit ever made didn’t miss a beat.
“And we have produced results in those three years. And they’re finally coming to fruition.”
“You’ve produced history reports. Nothing more.”
Again, Mr. Gray was unfazed. It was as if he had been practicing this conversation for months. Each confrontation would be met with a rebuttal, a misdirection leading away from the prize. Like swatting arrows out of the sky. Devon could see it now, the maneuvers playing out before his eyes. Mila was right. The stone had been blinding him this whole time. He would believe anything.
“We are one week away, Mr. Reymus. At most, one week. Just give me the word and I will have the stone in your hands.”
Devon smiled. It was time to make a move of his own. He plucked the Katarin stone from his jacket pocket and placed it lightly on the desk. The calm lake of Mr. Gray’s face became a turbulent sea. Devon took time to relish the moment. The talented Mr. Gray was coming undone.
“That won’t be necessary,” said Devon.
Mr. Gray’s demeanor unraveled. Devon could never remember seeing him sweat before, but now the man was drenched and shaking with rage. Or maybe an intense fear had overcome him. This was too much for the man. His livelihood was now compromised. The tightly -bound coil of Gray’s persona leapt into oblivion. Gray was out of his chair and grabbing for the stone. Devon had already snatched it up.
“Where did you get that?” Gray snapped.
“You’re fired.”
Gray made another grab, but Devon batted him away.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“Yes,” said Devon, “I’ve just saved this company from wasting more time and money. Clean out your desk and go home. You’re finished.”
Gray gave no comeback. The man had nothing. He had become a raging geyser. Without another word, Mr. Gray stole through the conference room and out of Devon’s home, never to return.
Mila appeared at the door a moment later. She was smiling.
“We can deal with the others tomorrow.”
Devon had already returned to the small world of the Katarin stone. He was turning it between two fingers, this way and that, watching the blue flecks spark as they hit the light.
“Please get some sleep.”
He nodded absently. Just one more time, he decided. Then he would go to bed. Just one more tremor. One more jab.
Romney Balvance and the Jade Scar
Taverns are the birthplace of revolution. This idea is a universal concept, oddly enough. Though the name changes between languages and the drinks change between climates, the people and the ideas—the essence—does not.
Whether it’s luxurious Rivena along Tambrid
an’s western coast, or the humble Kavos nestled in the outskirts of civilized Azerra, and even downtown Tornhold in Camerra: there is always a bar, always a lone drunk with a troubled past, always a group of young souls in heated debate over the things that matter, and always a pair of tourists who don’t fit in. There is always a bartender polishing a drinking implement, always pretending to listen to someone’s problems, be the storyteller young or old, rich or poor, sober or hammered, like bad TV. The tavern has an enduring spirit. Without taverns, we wouldn’t have much.
Taverns have been the crucibles of fine art and literature, of plays and poems alike, for generations. They have been the centrifuges for the star-crossed, entwining souls together in smoke-filled hallows. Historians agree that the Ontaran Revolution began in a tavern, and that’s saying something. They rarely agree on anything. And they do agree on another point.
Time changes place. Innovation always shapes the world into something new. But in that change, something is lost. People move on to the next big. From the Modern era, the café was born. A modern answer to the age-old tavern. Alcohol was out, at least in the mornings. Caffeine was in. The bartenders of the world became baristas and their lonely drunks became infinitely more productive, wired head to toe on quad espressos. The world was caffeinated. Artists and writers guzzled coffee down by the liter, then forged their epics on napkins and on computer screens, albeit with jittery hands. The people that debated now had more vim in their arguments. And now the tourists fit right in, though they were still uneasy asking for a medium cup in Tambridesian.
Perhaps it wasn’t a revolution, or the next great Ontaran novel, but Romney knew he was on to something big. He just didn’t know how big. Or what the something was. But he was on to it.
But when he found Cora and Tykeso at a booth in the far corner of the Underbrew Café, they were not pleased to see him. The wild dream from the night before had made him late for their meeting.