The Python of Caspia

by Michael Green

  Squeeg had launched into recounting maxims that represented the axiom behind his plan. “Yes, yes,” Andy interrupted, “but we need to see everything mapped out—our position, eh—the enemy’s position, and uh, the plan itself, of course, if it’s to be in accordance with supreme excellence.” Andy coughed to stifle a laugh.

  “Sir!” Both Squeeg and Lojjy protested.

  “Supreme excellence!” Andy retorted, “Get that map going—work together. You don’t want to see your Mistress in a bad mood.” He said that last part plainly.

  It had the desired effect. “Right, sir—we’d best get to th’ command pavilions.” Squeeg called to him as they bumped into each other in their rush to the largest tent on the shore.

  Sad stuff, those two, but this one?

  Andy approached the striped goblin. “Good work, getting marshals off your back. Come now. We’re attacking tonight; we need to high-talk with our ychorite: the real brains behind the Broken Teeth.” The goblin held out a bony hand, “Name’s Mastery Surgeon Clang.”

  Andy took his hand. “Lysander—” he tried to think of a rank or code-name, but nothing came to mind.

  Clang gestured that they head into camp. “Just a moment Clang—” Andy pointed to Pythia, “I need a quick word.”

  Clang folded his arms and nodded.

  Andy rushed to Pythia, who was busy accepting colorful seashells from a thick crowd of eager goblins. Andy pushed past the line. “Hey! No cuts!”

  Andy continued past them, but felt a flurry of sharp kicks to his shins.

  I’m glad she put armor on me.

  “Mistress!” Andy called over the buzz.

  “It isn’t polite to push ahead, Lysander,” Pythia said, accepting another shell. “And shouldn’t you be planning?”

  “I—we need to talk about the attack.”

  “There is something in there I want very much. I expect that you will find it.”

  Andy paused, annoyed that she wouldn’t even look at him. He yelled, “I can’t do it—I,” He stuttered as the green faces stared, all shocked that he would raise his voice to their Mistress. “I’m not able to lead an attack,” he whispered to her.

  Irritated, Pythia looked up from her offerings. “You have no idea what you can accomplish—and tonight you will capture that ossuary for me. The creatures that occupy it are more pitiful than this assemblage. Your blade can tear through the gates, now don’t disgust me any further and attack!”

  Andy wanted to yell at her. “It’s a fortress, a mountain fortress—what the hell is an ossuary?”

  The goblins started backing away.

  “They keep bones in an ossuary, dear boy—among other things. Now get up that hill or tomorrow morning you will watch me feed that sad-faced girl to an abomination—I haven’t decided which one, maybe you’ll pick for me.” Pythia snapped her fingers at the goblins, who cautiously came closer. She returned to accepting shells and administering pats to pointy heads.

  I don’t doubt she would.

  Andy turned away and scowled at the fortress. I’m sure this is my fault; maybe if I did something differently. Maybe— He felt a tug on his sleeve, it was Clang.

  “We’ve got to be off.”

  Andy nodded, grateful that this goblin looked competent.

  Clang grunted. “I’ve trouble with bosses too. But listen clear, my bosses are small teeth to yours.”

  Andy thought he got the gist of that. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  Clang snorted as he nodded his head. “Damn fool color to bare in a battle,” he smacked at the billowing burgundy cloak, “everything with eyes sees it.”

  Andy grimaced. “I’d better keep it though, she put it on me.”

  Clang laughed at that. “Stay to the rear when we charge, and care that shiny sharp of yours is full actual, afore the fighting.”

  Andy considered the marble in his palm. It hasn’t failed me in a fight—has it? He thought back, and remembered the first time it fluttered out on him. It was during his struggle with the Brutox for the crossbow. It stopped working halfway through, and he had no idea why.

  Can I depend on it? The Argument it’s called—I need to depend on an Argument. He grinned, and paused to consider his condition, the people, the new clothes, and the looming fortress above. It all felt absurd and he wanted to burst out laughing. “Am I dead already—or maybe in a coma? I hear you have long dreams in comas.”

  “No time for pointless questions.” Clang pulled on his cloak and got him going again.

  “Who are you taking me to?” Andy asked as they negotiated a way through the ramshackle encampment.

  “We go to the Martin, our smartest, our ychorite.”

  Hmm, an oddly normal name, followed by a few strange ones.

  “You said Martin is the brain here?”

  Clang grunted. “The Marshals pretend smartness, but the Broken Teeth don’t move until the Martin nods.”

  “That’s good; the Marshals aren’t very inspiring.”

  Clang’s cackle was as rough as his leathery skin.

  The Mastery Surgeon led him through the camp, closer to the steep, rocky stairs. In a hollow beneath the stairs they came upon a cave, which reached into the mountain. As they passed inside Andy coughed from the acrid smoke coming from the goblin’s lopsided torches and braziers. He had to crouch to avoid the low ceiling.

  “How deep does the cave go?” Andy asked, between coughs.

  “Not deep, but there is a big room, and then a geary gate—all shut that is, though.”

  “A gate? There’s a gate at the end of the cave? Does it lead into the fortress?”

  Clang looked at Andy like he was a child, “Din’t you hear? It’s shut up tight. The Mistress been down here plenty to bang away and play with the gears. It never opens.”

  Andy ducked under a low hanging rock and stepped into the chamber that Clang had mentioned. Large and tattered black banners, emblazoned with crude images of broken teeth and fangs, hung on the ceiling and walls. Ropes crisscrossed the chamber, suspending hammocks and holding sacks and pieces of equipment off the ground. Andy found this curious.

  The assembled goblins were of another sort altogether. They quieted their chatter when Andy stepped into view. Where the goblins outside had been cowering, these were attentive. Andy spotted a goblin with a missing ear nudging his sleeping comrades, alerting them to his presence.

  Andy saw piles of equipment being repaired and blades being sharpened. A hunched goblin was busily fletching arrows on an overturned barrel.

  A whisper had gone up and Clang raised a hand to quiet it. “The sharpest are a bit skittery,” he said to Andy, before addressing a goblin ogling at them, “get the smartest—”

  Clang was interrupted by a voice that came from above. “Please stop calling me that, Clang.”

  Andy jumped as a fox face poked out at them from behind one of the black banners. The face was colored like the cave ceiling, but had a decidedly different texture. The Fox’s eyes were hidden behind narrow lids, but what eye there was, was solid black, lacking pupil or iris. The air around the face shimmered, but as Andy looked closer, he realized that it was the creature’s body blending into the background, like a chameleon.

  Andy could make out a smile on the face. “I’m being rude to our guest, please excuse me.” The shimmering air solidified into a reddish mass. Andy saw the creature’s body.

  It’s like a—a—hmm. Well, I recognize pieces, but added up, this creature doesn’t make sense.

  Its body was almost completely feathered, save for the face, hands, and feet. The hands and feet were slightly clawed, but otherwise human. Andy’s eyes widened at the tail. Its fox face put on a wry look and the feathers changed color. The feathers were at first a dull red, but they brightened slightly at the base, and further up, they sharpened to a blood red. At the tips of each feather a shock of yellow-orange burst out, giving the impression that his whole body had just ignited. As the fox face straightened, Andy saw that h
e was lithe and trim.

  Amazing.

  Andy sensed the fox face was becoming annoyed with him.

  Clang coughed and nudged him. “Don’t stare.”

  “No, it’s all right Clang, let him look. But the staring stops after our introduction—just tell me when you’re done.” He spoke as if chastising a child.

  Andy grinned at the remark. His face is so expressive, and he’s a quick wit too.

  Andy held out his hand. “Lysander—Andy is better.”

  The creature took his hand with a gentle claw and shook it. “Martin, and not The Martin, please.”

  “Sure.”

  There was a pause as Andy wondered what to say next; it was hard not to stare.

  “I hear that good and bad news follows your coming. The bad?” Martin looked around the room questioningly.

  “The baddest news!” A few goblin voices echoed, desperation clear in their voices, “Attack! We must attack tonight!”

  They are calmer than the other goblins, but they are still nervous. Of course they are, anything with half a brain would be. How much brain do I have left? When Andy realized that he wasn’t about to run away, he had his answer.

  “Yes!” Martin replied. “This is terrible news, on the face of it at least.” He motioned at Andy. “But the good news?” He stared at the assembled faces, waiting for an answer.

  “His flashy bladey.” A voice called out from a bedroll.

  Martin held his hand out to Andy.

  Andy fumbled in his pocket for the marble. He readied it in a tight grip and summoned the blade. It flickered.

  A few shrill cries bounced off the walls at the sight of the flashing blade. Andy saw Clang smack one of the scared goblins.

  Martin stared at Andy’s hand. “Twist your wrist; that should help you find the hone,” he said.

  Andy did so and found that the blade solidified. For a moment it almost had distinct definition, to the point of looking like a real, if crude, sword.

  “It will take practice,” Martin said.

  Andy loosened his grasp and held the marble up for Martin to see. “You know what this is.”

  Martin stared, his fox brow furrowed up in thought. “To a degree.” His feathers darkened to mottled gray-black. He shivered, and the feathers lightened. Andy wondered what he was thinking.

  “Everyone calls it an Argument, and I hardly know any more than that.”

  Martin however, was distracted and lost in thought. “A Seer’s sight isn’t like a ryle’s, but it’s worth a try,” Martin said, half to himself, before turning and walking deeper into the chamber. “Come on,” he called to Andy, “You too, Clang.”

  Andy looked at Clang, who shrugged and followed.

  At the far end of the chamber, a smaller passageway led further into the cave. Clang grabbed a torch, though Martin plunged ahead into the darkness.

  Andy avoided cracking his head on the many low points in the passage, but he heard his armor scrape against the rocks along the way.

  “There it is,” Clang said.

  Andy saw another light ahead. He realized, with a start, that the floor had suddenly become even, and he didn’t have to hunch. He reached up and couldn’t touch the ceiling. The cave ended; we’re in a hallway now.

  Clang grunted. “Don’t touch the geary pieces.”

  Andy focused. There were indeed levers and motionless gears scattered in an insane pattern on the walls, throughout the hall. Andy wanted to stop and inspect them, but the smoke from Clang’s torch made it hard to see.

  “—no, the third horizontal axle on the lantic wall breaks off in the cave mouth.” Andy heard an unfamiliar, high pitched voice talking with Martin.

  A small lantern hung at the end of the hall, and miniature tables, covered with tiny charts and diagrams, sat in a few places. Past the lantern stood a barred door. The door, composed of thick, twisted gears and metal work, was almost impossible to see through.

  “Who’s the gawking surfacer?” an annoyed voice asked.

  Martin stepped aside and held a hand out in introduction. “Blue, this is Andy, recently appointed commander of the invasion.”

  Blue, a mouse reminiscent of Titus and his people, only colored like an evening sky, sneered at hearing the news. “We already have two worthless commanders, three if you count the hag—she’s the reason we’re down here breaking our—”

  Martin coughed, “Careful now, Blue; she could be listening.” He tried to put a good face on Blue’s querulousness. “Andy, this is Blue, exiled builder, expert tinkerer, and,” he paused to scowl, “clearly the sharpest tongue for leagues.”

  Blue huffed at the last. “So—are we done wasting my time, or can I get back to this mess?” He gestured to the confusing machinery covering the walls.

  “If you not figured it by now—” Clang started and was silenced by sharp stares.

  Martin spoke, “I have bad news. We must attack, tonight. And with this door locked, our strike will likely be a suicidal one—up the races, to the gatehouses,” Martin finished, shrinking back from an increasingly angry Blue.

  Blue took a heavy breath before kicking over his little table, sending the charts flying. “Fine! Get yourselves killed!”

  Martin raised a claw to calm the mouse. “I said likely—there’s still a chance.”

  Blue paused, and Martin gestured to Andy, who smiled awkwardly.

  Blue kicked over the second table.

  This one’s nothing like the other builders. Maybe that’s why he’s been exiled.

  Blue looked to Clang. “It was a joke on day one, Martin! Enlisting with the Viper, who barely feeds or clothes us—her idiot marshals wasting everyone’s time—and now a child commander!”

  Clang nodded, and Blue threatened to hurl a chair into a wall. He took a breath, lowered the chair, and stormed off anyway.

  “Wait! Just wait a minute!” Martin called.

  Blue turned back to them and crossed his arms in false expectation. His brow furrowed so hard that his left ear furrowed along with it, giving him a fearsome look of cynicism.

  Martin turned to Andy. “The Argument, please?”

  Andy produced the marble for all to see, and then gripped it.

  “No no—not like that—we don’t need a blade, it won’t cut through these bars. We need the sight. Do it properly.” Martin gestured to his eyes.

  Andy stood there, confused. “What do you mean, properly?”

  Martin scratched his chin. “When I was aide for Master Boqreq he trained heavily with the Counter-Argument; all powerful ryle do. I saw him—” Martin reached out for the marble, Andy tensed, and nearly pulled it away, but Martin stopped short, “I’d better not touch it—I tried once. Somehow, the Master would take it into his sight before he began his experiments for the day. It always gave him the meanest purple eyes, but yours should go silver.” Martin narrowed his gaze. “Try holding it up, like you want to look into it.”

  Andy sighed and held the marble up to his eye. At first, he saw only the sparkle of countless flecks across its surface. Looking closer, he saw the flecks were moving ever so slightly around one another. He saw a few purple and gray flecks converge, then scatter.

  The surface is like liquid—well, like churning pieces of cereal—wait, are those letters?

  He looked closer still and saw the lines between the flecks were actually letters and words. The darker flecks were bordered by the script he had come to associate with the ryle. However, the headache inducing letters didn’t make him sick. He considered this odd, but wondered if he wasn’t growing used to it.

  Distracted by the occasionally legible text on the light flecks Andy looked closer still, but saw something like a wireframe face.

  Martin?

  Burning lights and dark letters were enmeshed and sewn into the wireframe that was Martin’s face. Martin’s eyes were a confluence of spinning pools full of broken letters, both light and dark. It was like nothing he had ever seen.

  Martin’s mouth mov
ed, as if in speech, but he only heard a dull buzz.

  Andy tried to tighten his grasp around the marble, but found it was gone. He pulled his hand away from his eye. What? What’s happening to me?

  The hallway wasn’t exactly gone, as much as it was replaced, with a maelstrom of letters and words sewn into the shapes of what should have been there. The words of a gear on the wall sounded off in his head as his eyes passed over them, “Gear twenty eight thousand, link gear—” Trails of letters flashing across surfaces tangled and untangled as his eyes violently twitched away, looking for something sane. Andy felt certain he was screaming, but all he could hear was the dull roar of millions of words sounding off, all at once, in his mind.

  He stumbled backwards and felt hands catching him, while voices shot through his head. He looked down at a black and white mesh lattice-work that resembled Clang’s bony hand and arm.

  “GOBLINOID-LITHE-Median axiom// 93% weighted-potency & physio-social-traitiality:(For details: see-Spleen) (__SELF?NAMED…,”

  The speech wasn’t cut off, but as his eyes strayed over other letters, the words were overcome by another language reading just as loudly. The two droned on indistinguishably.

  Andy felt his heart beating out of his chest as he looked away from the hand that supported him. He closed his eyes tight, but he still saw everything, only under a slight misting of alpha-numerics. He covered his eyes with his hands but only saw the writing on his limbs.

  There was a difference in his own arm. Deep inside the mesh of letters and shapes that made up his right arm, there was a painfully silver cord that ran down the limb and terminated at the end of his fingers. It was so bright that he couldn’t bear to look for long.

  “Andy!” the word was soft, barely audible. He saw Martin’s nightmare face, though concern pulled at the lines of his features, despite his wireframe form.

  “Andy—focus—”

  Andy could barely make out every other word, though he tried. He tried to focus on the sound of Martin’s voice.

  Andy reached out and grabbed Martin’s arm, he felt the feathers, both spiny and soft at once. Help! Andy felt like he was speaking, but he couldn’t hear his own voice.