by Chris Turner
“Inadvisable,” Risgan said, shaking his head. “The gem, though showy, is not a prize easily sellable at market. You will spend much of your time driving at a lower price than you intended.”
“Perhaps, but I sense you are discouraging me from selling it, Risgan, as somehow I expected.”
“Not at all!” Risgan denied. He proceeded to tick off his many excellent qualities, amongst them good sportsmanship.
Imstiv, chancing to overhear the conversation, approached with a face of smiling geniality. “I will offer to buy the gem outright for eighty ozoks.”
“Done.”
Risgan gaped at Vimisk in astonishment.
“I am not an impecunious man,” remarked Imstiv, “and here, I advise you to heed the relic hunter’s counsel, which I deem as sound.”
Risgan nearly jumped in startlement, for he watched the bauble change hands at the outrageous price, and the woman, clinking coins in her firm palm stepped away to glory over her wealth.
Imstiv departed in happy strides while the woman was thrilled with her quick transaction, as evidenced by her whirling about in a little jig. “Well, well, Relic Hunter. Events bring a fortune far fairer than I ever expected, especially from a shrewd cheapskate like Imstiv.”
Risgan’s lips grew redder in the noonday light. He wondered at the depths of Imstiv’s ploy, the desperate urge to acquire the relic for a sizeable sum. Sadly, he watched Imstiv retreat into the busy corners of the moneylenders’ district, and knew there was little he could do, outside of waylaying him like a common footpad.
“You seem a trifle troubled, wayfarer,” Vimisk posed silkily. “Are you somewhat nettled? The least I can do is offer you a place for the night. I feel indebted to you and somewhat weary and do not wish to transit to Ghisli after all.” She gave a milky sigh. “So much to see, so much to do... Why not share lodging at an inn? ‘Tis cheaper doubling up—and you seem to be down and out of late?”
Risgan gave a stony acquiescence. His mood, albeit tolerant, sensed Vimisk a lonely woman in need of some company, and he was not adverse to obliging her. Possibly he could offer comfort and sympathy on a chance brief meeting. Yes, possibly the day was not an entire loss... Yes, Arm in arm, the two strolled in not unfriendly manner down the boardwalk and through the old stone quarter of Fugis. Ivy ran up and down the rough, mason-chiselled blackstone manor walls. It was pleasant enough and an agreeable establishment presented itself—the old Manustry Hostel. Risgan, in an air of formality and pride, offered to pay for part of the rent with the last of his clear glass beads rifled from an obscure crypt in Zanthia. Vimisk waved off the contribution; together they selected the most commodious residence.
The early evening progressed with ordering of the finest butter-fish and baked yams the hostelry had to offer, with flambéd oysters to follow and desserts of skinned peaches and purple-red wilterberries. Moods had been heightened, by wines and sherries and their coupling had been not short or insignificantly explosive, what with Risgan’s expansive new found youth. After an extended period in the wilds, he was not hostile to sharing a bed with a woman, at least someone other than a bearded man, tic or desert insect. While the last stars glinted their firelight, the blue-black sky began to lighten through the open window and Risgan awoke with a pleasant yawn.
He jerked himself erect, noticing that Vimisk’s hair, normally dusky-brown, was tinged with spider’s web grey. What was this? The decorator looked twenty years older. Risgan gave a mournful sigh. He put on his clothes and made plans to retreat.
The streets were near bare at this hour; only a few fishmongers and gondola-polers worked grumpily at their tasks by the boardwalk. A thin mist curled off the water, wrapping coils of grey about the stone cobbles in a damp embrace. Feeling no profit in prolonging his stay, Risgan made ready to take to the eastern road to Fahrur. On chance, he glimpsed the agent Imstiv. He was being wheeled out of a tall, richly-kept manor in a wicker wheelchair. What now? thought Risgan irritably. The agent was so old and decrepit as to be unrecognizable. The fool had obviously indulged excessively in the dark side of the nephrite. The bauble, which he clutched in a trembling claw hand, showed an eerie glow; from his lips came an incoherent gibbering.
Risgan approached the young squire who was wheeling the chair and tipped his hat with pleasant gentility. “Imstiv seems to be out of sorts, a much different man than I recall.”
The other smoothed his chin. “Imstiv has queerly entered his dotage. No one knows why. I am his executor and next of kin. Perhaps something he ate? The women he kept company with?”
Risgan gave his head a grave shake. He indicated that though unlikely, the latter was a more probable reason. “For a fact, I know the woman he travelled with seems to have suffered a similar fate.” Risgan gave a muted cough. “Withal, the gem he clutches is inarguably the macabre specimen he won off me, picked from a cursed grave.”
The young man put a shocked hand to his mouth. “You don’t say? I wish the old jack would give up the cursed thing! Twice I have tried to prise the curio from his fingers, but to no avail. The stone wafts a peculiar flux!”
“Indeed it does. I will take the relic off you out of the goodness of my heart—for a marginal fee—the dark area of the relic is laced with toxic poison, I suspect: perhaps cinocide or temorocin, or some such nasty derivative. The poison may have everything to do with your master’s unexpected aging.”
The executor reared back in dread. “Please do keep these poisons far from me, sir! Oh, dear me. This comprises dismal tidings. I wish I had have heard of this dreadful ‘cinocide’ earlier—or at least could have crossed paths with you or heard your counsel earlier.”
Risgan nodded as if he shared a similar sentiment. He accepted the young man’s thirty ozoks for disposal fees and with easy camaraderie, deigned to extract the bauble from Imstiv’s hand.
“Is the cinocide likely to affect me too?” asked the heir.
Risgan looked critically at the relic. “I cannot guarantee anything, but I suspect that much could be the case. For an extra twenty ozoks, I might be able to transport the bauble to a competent anti-hexer. He or she can lift the taint of its victims.”
The man was astounded by the revelation. Quickly, he passed Risgan the extra funds.
Risgan donned gloves. Ceremoniously he prised the relic from Imstiv’s outstretched hand, and much to the caregiver’s relief—and the chagrin of the old man, nodded wisely at the fortuity of his action.
In a cheerful mood, Risgan ventured down the main avenue of Fugis. Imstiv, far behind, drooled and gave a clucking moan of protest. He touched fondly at the gem, assured with his gloved protection that his somewhat dubious deeds of yesterday had brought him favourable bounty. He hardly believed to have stumbled across the youth talisman for another time...
Or had it found him? Risgan frowned. It was an interesting turn of fate—on which he would apply some focussed thought.
Upon this change of fortune, the relic hunter veered off to the traders’ market to the north-east section of town. He stocked up on a few supplies and at a reputable conglomerate shop, he acquired a quality sabre; also a fine hat, new boots to replace his old, threadbare ones from the steppes. A detailed map of the outlying area was a worthy addition. Risgan made a point of revisiting his old trade of relic-retrieving, after so many harum-scarum adventures. He was eager to discover ancient finds which might make him rich.
Joyfully he whistled and mentally took stock of his luck: two bouts in one day... boons!
* * *
Faring east and slightly north along the dirt roads and footpaths, Risgan hummed a lively tune while he trod toward the deserted town of Old Fahrur. The crayback trees arched high, sending dappled ochre-olive light along the sprawling roots and grizzled trunks of the old trees. He lost count of the hours; his progress took him on a much more northerly route than he expected. He skirted damp hollows, pig-shaped wallo bush, trudging through close-knit aisles of aged craybacks. He crossed a stone bridge and finally
ended up in a copper-hued copse, resting under the odd amber yew.
From there he passed onto open country. Grazing ibex and various livestock wandered freely, prime targets for where-back raiders. As for dangerous beasts, Risgan had glimpsed none. Only the odd isk soaring far overhead, from which he scrambled under the cover of a monstrous crayback with fervid haste. A half volfi and tree rat had surprised him whilst traversing a certain steep section of hill. But other than that no scares. He had frightened the creature off with continued threats and abuse from his club.
For most of the day, Risgan saw little in the way of habitations or folk. Roads seemed nonexistent. He only noted that the landscapes and fields seemed more arid than usual, confirming a belief that had recently lingered in his mind after the disaster in Zanthia. Even heading back on an easterly route toward Fahrur, he deemed the region stark, though it was reputed to be a rich area of green forests and verdure. Risgan made curious note of the fact. He consulted his map and he bit his lip with puzzled reflection. He had the nagging suspicion that something was not right, that the land he walked in was merely a dream or illusion. Such a nonsensical thought! He shook the suspicion off with facetious amusement. It must have been the balloon ride to Fugis that had made him so giddy. Risgan trilled out a small laugh. Only yesterday his feet had poised far off the ground for lengthy periods, engendering frivolity.
The desolation and lack of habitation still puzzled the relic hunter. The lands were barren and unpopulated, and enough to evoke disquiet. His feet however, made swift progress. Even when the last light should have been fading from the sky and the last sign said three leagues to Ycon, the gateway to the old stone pits at Fahrur, had he not passed the ghost town, clearly labelled ‘Ycon’? Yet the sun showed it was only noon. Odd! A strange feat? Risgan rubbed finger to chin. Time seemed to have slowed down. Flora and fauna were disposed as they should, outside of the niggling scarcity of both. The angle of the sun and passage of time were not in accordance with his sense of time.
He thrust the inane notions from his head. Thanks to the youth talisman his step was more spry, at least, but that could not explain his rapid transit.
* * *
Later that afternoon, Risgan passed over the brow of a bare hill. The site below caused him to stare. A striking labyrinth of rock nestled in an arid valley dotted by only a few stunted craybacks. All manner of clocks and timepieces abounded in the maze, mounted on pedestals, rocks, tables. Some were large, small, mid size, but of all complexities and qualities. Risgan guessed that they were the product of an eccentric collector. All of the clocks ticked most fulsomely, like an enormous horde of grasshoppers clicking their legs in feverish synchrony. The maze seemed to go on forever and constitute some queer composite of a giant clock.
Risgan sat back, bemused. He wiped sweat from his brow and attempted to get a bigger picture of the scene before him.
At the head of the maze stood a roly-poly man, before a double doors of walnut and yew leading into the hill. He was giving precise instructions to a group of tiny orderlies who appeared to be midgets of some sort. Risgan heard the man’s elderly voice speaking in tones of urgency: “The fluxion must appear northward and clockwise, you sizzlesops! I have mentioned this to you time and time again, Dardar. Shame on you! You strike too brazenly on the perizelion of this pillared cross-piece. To your detriment, this cock-eyed hammer of yours flails much too wantonly. Pay heed to young Bookoo’s thrusts! You too, Bella-bella!—your execution with the switch-hook is egregious, and Balsar, you err: your last swing, was charged with a negligence that only a blind man could manage, and the plinth of this main timepiece is canted on an acute angle. Shame! Far too southwise. The sun must strike at a decent angle allowing the clock face’s axial silver arms to be illumined in full. It is integral for proper functioning!”
Risgan, amused, wandered close by and automatically pinched brows in curiosity. He saw the overseer as a short, plump fellow wearing sandals and a loose yellow gown belted tight at the hip. He had a ring of sparse brown curls that seemed to flop around his ears. Thick spectacles made his eyes appear as large as eggs, glasses which he took off in a nervous habit, due to the perspiration that ran amply down his nose and the incessant glare of the sun.
He beckoned Risgan over as if he were an old friend. “Here wayfarer, come hither! Gads! I give these Mavars sap from the kissle cacti and what do they do?—they infuriate me! For this boon, they promise me efficient service in the mode of precise workmanship of my master clocks, though you would hardly know it. I hire these small beings for their industry—their hands are deft, their movements are quick, and they are clever at fabricating the inner machinery of my wondrous timepieces, which is far better than my old trembling limbs can afford.”
Risgan expressed concern at the slipshod service. “It seems a convenient arrangement.”
The old man pointed out that the dwarfed figures numbered in a half dozen. Risgan saw they were cute, round-faced dwarfs, swarthy three-foot-high beings who worked artlessly with tools, wedges and shavers.
“More convenient than you think, wayfarer. I am an inventor by nature—mainly machines and clockworks. Dardar, despite his faults, is my most studious worker. Dasbir is my name and my maze, my latest masterwork—Fiffiholth, also known as Ezmaron, is a work unparalleled! I am a Documentarist of the 11th aeon, and a man of science, and a philosopher.”
“I am quite impressed with these qualifications.”
The old man beamed with pleasure. “Thirty years and a day I have slaved on this singular project. For what purpose? The simple work of an inventor and his love of creation.”
“Laudable and exemplary,” conceded Risgan, “but I may ask, what prompted such obscure crafting?”
The inventor heaved a weary sigh. “’Tis an intriguing tale—if you care to listen?”
Risgan showed a kindly face. “Time is at my disposal.”
“It starts with the Five dwarfs of Ezmaron. As history would have it, they are remarkable people. Once they were wandering bands of bards or philosophers of some sort with a penchant for mischief and pranks. On their way to Isilgul, a town which has now passed out of mind, at the county fair they encountered the eerie witch Zsmlid who peered out at them from her creepy onion-dome in Masbruck forest. She muttered unflattering comments at the fairgoers. The dwarfs at once took offence to the witch’s slurs and not able to help themselves, snuck secretly around the back of her dome to perform one of their infamous tricks, replacing the liners of her shoes with river mud so she could not run with any speed. Three went to the mire to draw out the bush ogre who dwelled there, luring him toward the onion-dome. The ogre, an unpleasant sort, was annoyed at the interruption to his swamp-muskrat fishing, and sprung on Zsmlid and did filthy things to her. Predictably, she caught up with the brute and spellbound him into irons; next the bards she turned all into two foot high homunculi before they could so much as blink an eye. The dwarfs consequently looked for a way to reverse their vile fate. Their travels led them to the doors of the Arch-Magian Vaduk who instructed them to peruse the three lorebooks of Jimou, a rare volume-set in the high gallerium of the wise king Fusa. Perhaps you know the volume? No? Pity... Therein, the beleaguered dwarfs sought a suitable antidote to their problem. It turned out that the second volume of such a set chronicled a queer cure: to go back in time and perform some contravening act which would defy the mishap. For the five bards, this meant avoiding Masbruck forest altogether. This they did, and chanting the prescribed cantraps, they not only destroyed the witch, but created the first Time Guild of Scientists and Philosophers!—of which I am now an official descendant. Isn’t that grand?”
Risgan agreed and scratched his head with wonder.
“I am the first ‘Time-smith’, if you like—since the honoured guild disbanded five centuries hence. I, Dasbir, alone dare to revive the mystic sciences of old!”
Risgan congratulated Dasbir on his achievement.
“There is more!” cried the time-smith, tri
umphant in the fervour that struck his mood. “The mission was taken up by Besimark III of the Farlor kingdom, a kingling who, upon hearing of the dwarfs’ miracle, had given a task to his First Magician: to map out the corridors of time, so that all mortals might traverse it at will. A ridiculous endeavour—all agreed, but Besimark was a stubborn man, who was one to get his way. The kingling’s vision was of more refined quality than that of the little people.”
Risgan nodded absently. He peered at the eccentric structure. There were rows of quirky clocks mounted on ornate pedestals, each row merging with the last into a blur of machinery. Corridor upon cross-corridor of them, many adjacent clocks linked with wire. In more and more intricate patterns the devices dazzled the eye and confounded the brain. Risgan’s eyes bulged with the effort of taking them all in, and conceiving of such a grand vision.
“Observe the nodes!” cried Dasbir briskly. “They are entities in themselves, built in absolute synchrony, comprising together the weft of the time-weave of Ezmaron. Each clock guards a unique bearing. The work of months! You can imagine my joy when it was almost completed. Regard the cables which link the devices to one another. They are contrived to manifest a vast network of time corridors. They are controlled by this central node, which is not yet complete.” He strode over to tap an ever more eccentric complex with three clocks, towering over Risgan’s head.
Risgan gaped. Below bulged a massive circular controller, like a ship’s wheel.
While his eyes rounded in bewilderment, the Time-smith continued as if it were nothing. “The construction, admittedly, is eccentric, if not sophisticated.”
“But the name ‘Fiffiholth’—this seems incongruous.”
Dasbir twisted in his shoes. “If you must know, Fiffi and Holth were two lizards of mine,” he confessed. “They used to frequent the clockworks, and to which I grew attached.”
Risgan nodded. “It makes perfect sense. And what happened to them?”
“They were transported—or translocated, during an early experiment—to the fifth dimension.”