Mobius

by Garon Whited

  “I’m definitely getting shafted,” I observed.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “You had to go and try to steal her mine. You knew someone owned it.”

  “You’re a lot more forthcoming all of a sudden. What happened to ‘Follow me’ and the brusque demeanor?”

  “I was ordered to bring you to a mahrani.” He shrugged, clanking slightly. “I don’t care to drag one of the First anywhere, but I do my duty. I act as an emissary with a mahrani’s authority.” He quirked a smile. “It’s not always a pleasant job, but it pays well.”

  “You would have gotten a much quicker response if you’d told me why.”

  “You should have responded instantly,” he countered. He ran a hand over his tabard, as though it explained everything.

  “I’ll take your word for it,” I agreed.

  “Now that we’re on our own, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “We are?” I glanced at his flunkies.

  “Servants.”

  “I got that.”

  “They don’t count.”

  “They don’t?”

  “Of course not. Oh! No, I see what you mean.” He snapped his fingers and pointed at the table. The shield and sword hit the wood and the flunkies departed. “There. Now there are no loose tongues.” He gestured me to sit and we did so. The furniture was well-constructed, but not the overbuilt things I like. Still, if big men in armor used them, as the scratches and scoring seemed to imply, I was probably safe.

  His dismissal of the servants wasn’t what I meant, but his assumption told me more about the place than I liked.

  “All right,” I agreed, “what do you want to ask?”

  “What in the Two Lights possessed you?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “First, the mahrani tells me there’s a warrior, a wizard, or a priest living in the mine. Then you show up in town, buying supplies for six men. People point at you and tell me you’re the priest, despite your armor. Yet, you’re not wearing any of the colors. Her wizard assures her—and me—there is a wizard in that hole.”

  “What’s wrong with a wizard in the mine?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with wizards. Wizards have their place. Some of my best friends are wizards. But you’re no wizard. You’re a warrior,” he finished, gesturing up and down at me.

  “Can’t a wizard wear armor?”

  “Where are you from?” he asked, sneering. “No one not of the warriors would dare, especially armor of a First.” His expression changed as he had an idea. “You’re… you’re not from Thalkasar, are you?”

  “I don’t even know where Thalkasar is,” I told him, truthfully.

  “I can believe that. You speak Tassarian too well.”

  Well, goodie. I know what to call the local language.

  “What I want to know,” he continued, “is why people think you’re a priest.”

  “I guess they’re confused.” I certainly was. Then again, if priests wore single colors while everyone else wore symbols, it could account for some of the odd looks.

  “Hmm. I suppose. But why the black?”

  “It goes with my eyes.”

  “I see that, but what house are you?”

  His usage of house could mean two things. First, it could mean a sort of clan group, a House, capital-H, comprised of several families. Second, it could be used for a single extended family, a house, small-H. I wasn’t sure how to tell the difference. His phrasing asked about both, so I could answer with one or the other.

  “Hmm.” Do I tell him the truth? It’s tempting to simply come clean, but dancing along the edge of the truth might let me stay here long enough to finish my project. Telling the truth could easily shoot down all my work so far.

  “Well?” he prompted.

  “Well, it’s just… hmm. All right. I’m of the House of Halar.”

  “Halar?” he frowned. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of it.”

  “It was once a large House, and now it’s gone. Except for me.”

  “Oh. Oh! I see! You’re the last, and the House what killed the others would kill you, too. That’s why you were so cautious around my servants.” He nodded to himself. “The last of a dead House, wearing black. Yes, I think I can see it.”

  I was hoping for something a little less dramatic, but if it was a good excuse for not having the local form of heraldic devices, I’d take it. Besides, if someone comes up with a good reason, run with it. They’re more likely to believe it.

  “I don’t have to tell you I need this kept quiet,” I told him, softly.

  “I am a warrior,” he replied. “Were you the youngest of the House when you escaped? Or did your father send you away to ensure vengeance?”

  “I’m sorry, Hazir. We haven’t been formally introduced.”

  “Ah! Yes, the niceties are sometimes lost when the mahrani are involved. My apologies. Hazir, of House Leukon.”

  “Halar, of House Halar.”

  He froze for a moment, brown eyes locking with black.

  “You were the Master of your House?” he asked quietly.

  “Yes.”

  “You were born of the Manzhani?”

  Manzhani also didn’t translate well. A ruling class, of a sort. Certainly a position of power. Leader of a clan-group, or a capital-H house? Without understanding the power structure, it was hard to categorize.

  I put a finger to my lips. It seemed to mean what I thought it would: Shh. Don’t tell anyone.

  “If you had said as much to the mahrani Devlin, she would surely have ignored the mine!” he whispered, urgently.

  “How do I know I can trust her? I am the last of my House!” I whispered back. He looked startled, then his eyes widened farther.

  “Ah, so you wear the color of death, without your House device,” he said, nodding sagely. I was prepared to nod and smile to his ideas, mostly because his would better fit the local culture than mine. “So, you do not know who—you mean your House was destroyed by someone who did not even claim it as part of their vendetta?”

  “I think it was the work of one man. My brother. He is evil, and I will have my revenge. That is why I am in the mine, away from the city. The less I am seen here, the less chance he will discover me, and the more work my wizard can do to find him. Until then…” I shift my swordbelt a bit. “I am a warrior. I have been out of the country for years, since I was a boy, which is why no one knows me. You understand?”

  “I see. Yes, I see,” he nodded. “This explains much.”

  “It does?”

  “You have had no need for money for a long time, hunting barbarians and monsters. You are not used to the customs, and you tend to be direct when you should seek to follow proper protocol.”

  “Yes. I see your point. Perhaps I have been hiding in Thalkasar?” I suggested.

  “No, that will not do,” he mused. “It would raise more questions, and there are few ships that would risk the Sea of Shoals. You have obviously been far north for some time to be so pale. Perhaps you have been carrying on a campaign against the northernmost kustoni?” Kustoni translated, roughly, to barbarians, but was more specific. A particular tribe, perhaps.

  “Savage, unwashed brutes?”

  “The very ones.”

  “I’ve killed hundreds over the years,” I assured him.

  “Thousands,” he suggested.

  “Thousands,” I echoed. “I wear black so they know death is coming for them.”

  “Very good. Very good. I like that,” he nodded. “I will keep your secret… surely you do not use your proper name?”

  “Lucard. Albert Lucard. You can call me Al.”

  “I shall keep your secret, Al of Lucard.”

  “Thank you. Now, I have to get back to my quest. Do you have anything further for me?”

  “No. You have been gracious, manzhani.”

  “Secret,” I reminded him.

  “No, that will be all,” he said, in a louder and much firmer tone. “You may go, Al.”


  “Thank you, Hazir.”

  I found my way out of the Hall of Ruling without much trouble. The big hallway forms an outer ring of the building. I presume it goes all the way around, but I didn’t walk it. I went back to the nearest door, exited, and looked around for the tallest horse in sight. Bronze was waiting for me, as expected, but had a man pinned under one hoof, which was not. The spectators were ringed three deep around her. No one was within touching distance, though. Bronze occasionally switched her tail back and forth, as though swishing it at flies on her sides. The metallic sound seemed to work as a repellent for humans.

  I pushed my way through and stood in front of her.

  “Thief?” I guessed. She nodded. I moved to crouch next to the man. He looked at me imploringly while breathing rapidly and shallowly. Having had my entire chest compressed by one of her massive hooves, I empathized without sympathizing in the slightest.

  “You seem to have made a terrible mistake.” He didn’t have the breath to answer, but he nodded vigorously.

  I looked around. Everyone was chattering to each other and watching. Street theater at its finest, apparently.

  “It occurs to me nobody tries to steal stuff in broad daylight, in a crowd, from what is obviously a magical horse. No one with any scrap of either brains or self-preservation, that is, unless there’s a dire need. So, I’m going to make a suggestion. It’s purely a suggestion. You can ignore it if you choose, but I think it’s a good suggestion, nonetheless. Would you like to hear it?”

  More nodding and a bit of wheezing.

  “I’m going to have my horse remove her hoof from your chest. When this happens, you might want to roll aside and crawl away as quickly as you can. When you have enough breath to stand up and run, you might want to do that, too. Again, it’s only a suggestion. It’s entirely up to you whether you take my advice or not. Do you understand?”

  He nodded and made a hand gesture. It was a wrist-based hooking movement with the first two fingers, ending with them pointing up. Firebrand told me it was an affirmative, kind of like the thumbs-up signal in the United States.

  Bronze lifted her hoof. She didn’t put it down, but held it like a bronze sword—well, hammer—of Damocles directly over him.

  He took my advice. He didn’t crawl quickly, but a couple of cracked ribs slows anyone down.

  I mounted up and the spectators melted away. In seconds, there was no one near us.

  The trip back to the mine was uneventful.

  Not having any idea on when what’s-her-face, the mahrani lady—

  Devlin, Firebrand supplied.

  —Devlin, that was her name. Not having any idea when she wanted her rent paid, I elected to start with a pile of gold before grabbing cannon components. I hope she likes ingots because I opened up a portal and grabbed two brick-sized bars of gold. I wasn’t about to waste any more time or energy on the rent than I had to. I figure fifty-plus pounds of gold should cover me for a while.

  My other portal openings were for pipe segments. Open the portal, grab one, yank it through, close the portal. Repeat as needed. Then screw the sections together on the supports and I have an air-cannon barrel. Everything should be so easy.

  Among my purchased supplies, I picked up some copper and other metals. They know a fair amount of metallurgy here and have most of the things I need for both orichalcum and the other parts of a divinity dynamo. Unfortunately, due to power constraints, I’ll have to grab more stuff for my dynamo project tomorrow. On the plus side, I can easily grab enough of the rare stuff to keep me occupied for quite some time.

  I’m not hungry, not yet, so I haven’t gone into Sarashda at night. I’ll see about a nighttime exploration well before I start to get peckish. I want to size up the local magical protections and the religious fervor. Priests apparently wear solid colors, and the people all know this, so the local religion is probably organized and somewhat pervasive. I’ll have to look into it.

  On the religion subject, I’m wondering about my glowing ball of light. It seems quite content to sit there and shine. From what I can tell, it’s a life form, albeit an energy-state life form. It flickers in different colors when I probe it with spells, but it doesn’t seem to mind. Is it the equivalent of some sort of pet to the celestial beings? A cat? A rat? Or is it more of a parasite, like a flea? It obviously eats what the bigger types eat, but how does it fit into the ecology and food chain? Or am I thinking about it all wrong? Could it be an egg, or whatever the equivalent is in energy-being terms? If I feed it enough, will it… well, not “hatch,” obviously, but maybe undergo some sort of metamorphosis?

  I’m a little afraid to find out.

  I took a break from staring into the light and stared into the Cretaceous, instead. It’s advanced quite a bit while I wasn’t watching. The lair is solid, the interior spaces perfect, and even the add-ons, like shelves, tables, benches, all the bonus features are functional. True, they aren’t as sharp and hard-edged as they could be, but they’re grown, not forced into shape. The air-handling tubes near the surface, for example, have a more organic feel to them than piping or air ducts. They’re functional, but they aren’t heating the air all that much. Air flow is sluggish, at best.

  This puzzled me, at first, but I figured it out. The solar conversion spells on the pyramid are still replicating. Last time I was there, I set them to copying themselves to cover the pyramid, which they did. I think I forgot to update the termination of replication coding for the conversion panels on the pyramid. I know I did it for the surrounding solar panel farm, but I might have missed the pyramid’s panels. As a result, they’ve been feeding power to my pet pebble, but they’ve also been adding more layers to the conversion.

  The pyramid is as close to black as the human eye will ever see. By the time sunlight goes through all the layers, hits stone, and reflects back out through all the layers again, there’s almost nothing left.

  At least I can fix the termination sequence without costing me much power. With the Ring of Spying here to maintain a micro-connection, I can open the pyramid’s gate and use its power. So I did, popping out to handle the unrestricted replication of the power panels.

  It’s not a bad thing, I suppose. I don’t normally go for multiple layers, since there’s a four percent loss in efficiency for each successive layer, but this didn’t cost me time and effort. At least the lair will be, uh… well-nourished? I suppose it’s as accurate a descriptor as anything.

  Tauta, 12th Day of Varinskir

  Eleven-day weeks means it’s the first of the week, here in… let me see if I have this right. The world of Tauta, the country of Tassar, and the city of Sarashda. Since I had not much else to do until my crystals finished charging—and since I apparently agreed to rent a damp hole in the mountain for a pound and a half of gold every week, a fact I do not appreciate in the slightest—I loaded up both of my gold bars and we trotted happily into town.

  Okay, Bronze trotted happily. I rode grumpily for the first mile or so, but I’m a much angrier person than I used to be. I think my guilt and stress are only barely held in check by my denial. Maybe I should find a supernatural therapist. No doubt a mummy would ask me about my father, but that way lies madness.

  At any rate, her good mood was somewhat infectious to me and I lightened up considerably. All those dark and brooding vampires in gothic castles? They don’t have a happy horse, that’s their problem. They always have black horses with wild eyes, bloody froth at their mouths, all those things. Why are there no pastoral villages with cheery peasants toiling away, singing songs, and looking forward to dear great-granddad passing peacefully away at the evening celebration? No happy horses, there’s the problem. It leads to dark overlords randomly killing whoever catches their attention.

  Sarashda is a walled city, but it’s not an impressively walled city. The walls aren’t the thick, heavy things I associate with cities. They’re two or three stones thick, so they’re definitely strong walls, but they aren’t designed to st
and up to heavy bombardment. They’re almost, dare I say it, ornamental. They have battlements built on top, though, overhanging both sides. Defenders can shoot out through the crenellations, pour oil through the machicolations, and go up and down the wooden staircases along the inside of the wall. I wouldn’t want to be up there if someone breached the wall, though.

  I haven’t noticed any siege engines. Admittedly, I haven’t spent a lot of time spying on the world, so maybe I’ve simply missed them. Still, if they had anything capable of launching big rocks, I’d think they would build thicker walls. Maybe they don’t have them. Maybe I should make more of a list on what sort of weapons they do have. Later.

  We made our way to the Hall of Ruling and Bronze waited outside. I wandered around for a while, trying to find the garden again, but I think I came in by the wrong door. They all have abstract designs on them and I don’t know them well enough to tell them apart.

  I finally stopped a paper-carrying person and asked directions. He stared at my hands. I tapped the gold bricks together to redirect his attention.

  “Hey. Focus. I’m looking for a mahrani, name of Devlin. She was in a garden yesterday. Where is she now?”

  “I beg your most gracious pardon, but I am ignorant of such matters.”

  “Direct me to someone who would know.”

  He gave me directions. He was wrong, but he tried. I worked my way through about four layers of the local bureaucracy, mostly on the strength of bloody-minded stubbornness and two gold bricks. I didn’t have a sack for them, so I carried one in each hand. People seemed quite willing to ignore any minor social gaffes I might make. They were distracted. I’d like to claim credit for cleverness, but I was just lucky.

  Eventually, I made it to the third floor and a lavish apartment. Technically, it was an office, but it had hanging silks, incense, thick, woven rugs, tapestries on the walls, couches, lounges, cushions, curtains—everything needed for an expensive porn flick but the cameras and actors. Considering how some of the servants were dressed, the actors might be included.