by Garon Whited
Bronze is right. It’s obviously an energy-state being of some sort. As far as I can tell, it’s less complex than any of the ones I’m familiar with. In normal biology, if angels and other high-order manifestations are equivalent to humans, this thing might be a dog or cat, possibly even lower. Similar in basic life processes, but not as developed, maybe. It didn’t mind me looking at it at all. It simply sat there and glowed in varying shades of blue as long as I didn’t touch it.
At least it wasn’t as hostile as its bigger cousins. If it wanted to nibble on the leftovers from my divinity dynamo, I was fine with it. It’s like having a stray animal wander up and adopt you, sort of.
So, my schedule for stealing things calls for more osmium, obviously, since it’s the holdup on manufacturing my divinity dynamos. When I have another one enchanted and running, we’ll see if it attracts any other sorts of attention. I’d hate to find the local gods are annoyed with me, but they may be more reasonable than angels! On the other hand, I have shielding spells to hide their sideband emanations. I should get those up and running first, I think, lest I attract more celestial attention—or get inundated with glowing spheres of light!
Next, I have major components to fetch. It irks me I have a perfectly good air cannon sitting on an Earth, but I don’t dare go near it. Angels may be watching the barn. Instead, I need a suitable form for the Orb, pipe for the cannon barrel, and some large-ish air tanks. At least I don’t need threaded sections of pipe. Those were for determining the optimum barrel length. Now I know, so I only need pipe of the right size.
Damn. I’ll need threaded sections of pipe, anyway. The optimal pipe length is too long for me to simply grab easily. Well, at least I’ll save time by simply assembling it to the correct length instead of hunting for the correct length.
I’m not happy about the near-complete reconstruction of the project. It doesn’t exactly invalidate my data from previous test shots, but it introduces a greater level of uncertainty. I don’t like it. It wasn’t as precise as I’d like to be with an astrophysics project. It isn’t rocket science, since I’m not using a rocket, but a lot of the variables in my equations have larger margins of error than I’d hoped. NASA would not approve, I’m sure, and I’m leery about finding a world where I can charter a starship to take out my garbage.
There’s a thought. Is there a universe where they don’t recycle? Where they take whatever horribly offensive trash they have out to a singularity and toss it in? I may have to look for one.
In the meantime, I think I’ll hide my dynamo emanations.
Tauta, 11th Day of Varinskir
I bought some tools in Sarashda, along with more food. Yes, I can find these things by using a gate, but it’s much more effort. A good comparison might be an exceptionally tall apple tree. True, you could climb sixty feet up to the thin, swaying branches near the top, lean out, and shake a limb until the last apple falls to the ground, then climb all the way back down. Or you could drive to the store and buy a whole bag of apples. Neither one is convenient, but one is a lot more work for a lot less return.
Even the hammers here are ornate. The one I bought was a big, heavy thing, more of a one-handed sledgehammer than a carpentry tool. I planned to pound osmium with it. The designs carved into the metal were on the sides and top, not on the striking faces, and were styled to imply explosive sparks, I think. The handle’s design was shallower, depicting a twining plant all along its length, but provided a good grip. It’s a quality item and it would take an enchantment quite nicely if I wanted to put one in it. I did ask the shopkeeper about a magical hammer and he simply looked puzzled. I’m guessing enchantment is an aftermarket accessory.
As I loaded up everything, lashing it behind Bronze’s saddle, I reflected on how much easier this would be with a stepladder. Bronze offered to kneel down, but I had it handled. Still, a collapsible one? No, I’m too heavy for those. It was a minor inconvenience and I puzzled over it while I finished loading.
A man in full armor came up to me. It was pretty armor, intricately carved and nicely polished, partially covered by a yellow tabard with a complicated knotwork design in red on the front. He had his helm in the crook of one arm, a heavy-looking thing with a strange bird as a crest, the head and beak forming the nose-guard, with sharp, metal wings swept back along the sides. He was flanked by a pair of flunkies. The flunkies carried a round shield and what I’d call a knight’s arming sword, both obviously for their boss. The leader was about my height, much heavier in build, and had the long, dark hair you see on the cover of romance novels. He even had the cool scar under one eye.
“You,” he said, stopping about two paces away. “Northlander.”
My translation spell was working, but I wasn’t sure I was getting the implications of “northlander.” There was something of “stranger,” but it might have come from his tone. This is what I get for not immediately hunting down enough locals to learn the language. Still, I’m paler than anyone around here. I can certainly understand why the locals might assume I’m from much farther north.
“May I help you?”
“Your presence is required. Follow me.” He turned on one heel and marched back the way he came, his flunkies following.
“Required where? And by who?”
He halted with a jerk and spun around. His expression was more than startled; he was shocked.
“Come with me! Now!”
“Why?”
He checked his temper with effort and tried again.
“Your presence is required at the Hall of Ruling. You will come with me.”
Firebrand?
He doesn’t know why, Firebrand supplied. He’s only acting on orders.
Bit rude, too, I replied.
Not to him. He thinks he’s being polite and you’re being rude by not acknowledging his authority.
I shrugged and finished tying the rope. I climbed into the saddle and Bronze turned to follow the impatient and angry guy. I didn’t like the way my translation spell handled the name of the place. “Hall of Ruling” wasn’t necessarily a place where the city was ruled, but the rules and laws, judgment and governance were all tied up in it.
He’s also impressed you can climb like that wearing armor.
He doesn’t know how light it is.
Or how strong you are?
If he knew how strong I was, he would still be impressed.
Good point.
He walked on the sidewalk, his flunkies flanked him, and Bronze clop-chimed along the street, not bothering to mute her hooves. I’m not sure if there are any traffic regulations, but I suppose they’re less important with horses and carts. I sat and waited until we arrived.
The Hall of Ruling was one of the larger buildings in the city. It was a circular, masonry structure. It was only three or four storeys high, but it was otherwise enormous. Two hundred yards? Three hundred? I’m not sure if it was a perfect circle, but three hundred yards across would make it larger than Yankee Stadium, and all of it indoors. The whole thing was done in what I think of as an Art Deco style. Big blocks, sharp corners, some odd angles. Clearly, someone designed it to be a big, impressive building from the beginning, rather than a big building with a lot of additions.
I wondered how they drained the roof when it rained. I know, I’m weird like that. From where I sat, it might well have been level. How many tons of water would that be? Did it drain into the city sewers? Or into a cistern? If it was a castle, I’d have bet on a cistern. In a city? Maybe they stored it anyway as public water.
Yellow-tabard gestured me down.
“Dismount.”
Since Bronze doesn’t always cope well with flimsy floors, I did so. She would fit through the doors without ducking her head, but there was no guarantee the thickness of the floor was on the same scale. If there was a basement, she might wind up in it.
“Follow me.” He marched into the building without waiting for a response. Since I already came this far, I checked my impulse to demand a
“please,” shrugged it off, and followed him. Besides, I was starting to wonder who wanted me and for what. I doubted I was under arrest. Even if we were, I didn’t doubt we could successfully flee the authorities.
The interior of the building was also designed for scale. It reminded me of some public buildings back home. The halls were wide and lined with frescoes, the floors were tile mosaics, the ceilings arched high and held sky-based, celestial scenes. The ground floor was taller than I thought. The building had only two or three usable floors despite its height.
There were people in fine clothes all over the place, strolling along on whatever business they had, followed by flunkies in less-fine clothing. Less-fancy clothing characterized the people with papers—scrolls, mostly—hurrying somewhere. Bosses and employees. Our little procession drew glances from everywhere, but no one openly stared despite their obvious interest. I’m thinking this culture regards staring as a serious faux pas.
Yellow-tabard stopped at a door and his shield-flunky threw it open for him. We all stepped into a garden. It wasn’t a large garden. The Gillespie’s garden behind Applewood Hall was bigger. This one was at the bottom of an open space, the building built around it. It served as a light well and ventilation, obviously, with numerous windows facing into it. Someone had the bright idea of placing reflective metal and glass pieces on the wall to scatter the sunlight, surrounding us with bright, glittering mosaics of abstract designs. At a guess, there were many of these light wells inside the perimeter of the building. They would solve the problems of light and air for such a massive structure. I still had no idea how the roof drained, though.
We moved through the rows of potted plants as we approached a table. It had several papers, two inkwells, a collection of pens, and all the other accoutrements of a scribe. A woman sat behind it. Over her was a painted wooden panel on a stand, shading her from direct sunlight. Did she also work out here when it rained? The panel would cover her and the desk-table, so maybe. Two servants stood behind her chair. To either side of them were various creature comforts—a chest of ice, some bottles, several goblets, a large, feathery fan, and half a dozen cages with songbirds.
I doubted she was a scribe.
We entered the small, clear space around the table and stopped. I waited, since yellow-tabard seemed content to wait. He didn’t even clear his throat. After a bit of scratching with her pen, she finally put it down, did the whole thing with the sand and whatnot to dry the ink, and put her document aside. She looked at yellow-tabard—not at me—and nodded. He went to one knee in a genuflection and rose again.
“Mahrani,” he began, “the one who invades your property is brought before you.”
The word mahrani didn’t translate well. It was clearly some form of civil authority, and a high-ranking one. I had the impression of someone not in ultimate authority, but high up enough to have some discretion in the exercise of her powers.
She looked at me. Her eyes were brown—typical for the locals—and much lighter than her hair. They were not friendly eyes.
“You are the one who has taken my mine?”
“No.”
She glanced at yellow-tabard.
“Hazir?”
“He lies, mahrani. He dwells within the old mine, as your wizard reported.”
“How do you answer his accusation of lying?” she asked me.
“I didn’t lie. I answered your question. I have not taken your mine. It’s still there.” After being summoned, I might have been feeling just a touch contrary.
Her lips thinned. Yellow-tabard—Hazir—held out a hand to one of his flunkies. The flunky held out the sword, but the mahrani gestured in dismissal. Hazir relented.
“You are the one who dwells within my mine?” she asked.
“I dwell within an old, worn-out, mostly-flooded mine. If it is yours, then yes, I do.”
“I seem to have mislaid your petition.”
“Probably because I didn’t send one. I didn’t think anyone would mind.”
Eyebrows went up all around the garden. Even the birds looks surprised.
“You are incorrect,” she informed me. “Hazir, have him flogged. Ten strokes. And confiscate whatever you find in the mine.”
“Before we begin,” I interrupted, drawing more startlement from everyone, “may I make an offer?”
“An offer?”
“Yes.”
She clasped her fingers together and leaned back in her chair. Her lips curved in a slight smile. Everyone relaxed. I must have said something right.
“You may.”
“Does this worn-out mine provide you with anything? Other than the pleasure of owning it, I mean. Do you get anything from it?”
“No.”
“If I were to pay you for the privilege of living in it, then the mine would have value again, would it not? By owning the mine—and allowing me to reside there—you would gain something. True?”
“True.”
“My offer is to pay you for the privilege of residing in your mine.”
She tapped her lips with her steepled index fingers, clearly considering it. From the various attitudes—servants went back to ignoring me, Hazir looked mildly bored—I concluded this was not too out of the ordinary.
“How much?”
Not knowing what the local economy was like beyond some tools, some furniture, and a lot of food, I decided to be respectful.
“I am certain you have a better idea of what would be fair compensation. I see it only as a worthless hole in the ground, but it belongs to you.”
“For all practical purposes, you are correct. Very well, I will grant your petition on condition you deliver to me one shirak of silver every week.”
“Not to be too picky, but will gold suffice? How much is that in gold?”
“One minak. Yes, gold will suffice.”
“Excellent. How big is a minak?”
“You don’t know what a minak is? Do you northerners know anything?”
“I’m afraid I know nothing, mahrani.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Hazir, show him some money and see he learns its value. Take him away. All.” She made a sharp gesture and returned her attention to her papers. Hazir genuflected again and headed back the way we came. I blinked for a moment, then, to be polite, genuflected and followed. Hazir led us to a good-sized room with a small table, some chairs, and other furnishings. It put me in mind of a small reception room. I noticed a long, low stand with several round protrusions. Hazir put his helmet on one. A helmrack instead of a hatrack!
“Here,” he began, and untied a pouch. “I don’t know what you use up north, but around here, we have something called money.”
“I know what money is,” I told him. “I’m used to different coins, though.”
“I was joking. Northlander money isn’t so much different, is it?”
“How did you know I’m from the north?”
“Many things. I’ve never seen an enchanted horse around here, nor a blade of such size. Mostly, it is your skin. It’s so pale.”
I had to admit it was. Hazir—and everyone else I’d seen—had a deep tan, either acquired or built-in. Northerners might have less sun to worry about. If everyone was going to assume I was a northerner anyway, I might as well go with it.
“All right. What sort of coins do you use here?”
Hazir dumped out the pouch. A dozen or so flat, stamped bars of gold and silver spilled out. Hazir held one up between his thumb and forefinger, possibly half an ounce of metal. He went over the denominations and I completely failed to follow.
The local currency isn’t decimal. Gold coins are more valuable, then silver, then copper—technically, their copper coins are a copper alloy of some sort. That’s as far as I got by being familiar with hard money.
The coins are narrow, almost rectangular, but the ends are at an angle to form a trapezoid. When all eleven denominations in one metal group are laid out flat and assembled correctly, Hazir tells me th
ey form a triangle. The grand design of Sarashda on the coins is fully visible. He didn’t have enough of any sort on him to show me the triangle, but he explained quite patiently. Gold has one stamp, silver another, and copper-ish coins have one of their own. The base of this money triangle is quite long and the most valuable, obviously, while the tip of the triangle is a small triangle, itself. The gold triangle is the equivalent of a single dollar while the silver and copper are various small change.
There’s a name for each of the eleven denominations. I paid attention, but I really don’t much care. If it’s expensive, you pay in gold. If it’s not, you pay in silver. If it’s cheap, pay in copper. That’s about my level of interest.
I took a silver bar and examined the stamped designs on both sides. Intricate, detailed, and doubtless loaded with symbolism and hidden meaning. It was well-hidden from me, at any rate.
“Which one of these is a shirak or minak?” I asked.
“A shirak is a weight, not a coin. So is a minak,” he explained, patiently.
“All right. How much does a shirak weigh?”
“About as much as my breastplate,” he replied, tapping the upper portion. “It’s often used as a standard weight of steel.” I judged it to be between twelve and fifteen pounds.
“And a minak?”
“There are eleven minaks in a shirak,” which I interpreted as about a pound and a half. A pound and a half of gold. Per week. I suspected she was cheating me.
“I see. Just for comparison, how much would it cost me to get a decent room, nothing fancy, for the week?”
He selected the largest of the silver coins and handed it to me. I turned it over in my hands. It was probably about an ounce.