Mobius

by Garon Whited

  “A crack in the ceiling isn’t the best,” I agreed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Since I didn’t have much else to do for the day—the crystals were all charging—I examined the crack in the ceiling of the cavern. Smoke went away up there, but it was only about a handspan wide. I couldn’t tell where it went, aside from out, eventually. I settled for an air-handling spell to draw smoke from the cooking area.

  Naturally, while considering the cooking area, I saw some changes to make. While other spells hollowed out niches in the walls to serve as shelves, I rearranged the rocks around the cookfire. A little slicing with the Saber and another spell to smooth them further turned a ring of stones into a serviceable firepit. Salvaged metal from the ruins and some holes in the wall gave us a place to hang the pot, some flat-topped stone cylinders gave us support for pans, and a heat-reflecting spell meant we didn’t need to gather as much wood.

  As I turned from my work, I nearly ran my face into a glowing ball of light. I also nearly had a heart attack, nighttime or no. The thing was utterly, utterly silent as it hovered behind my left shoulder. It didn’t react to my macho squeak of startlement.

  Yep, same ball of light. It left the ellipse of power to get a better look at what I was doing. It may be the first sign of actual curiosity I’ve seen in the thing. Once I was out of the way, it floated down exactly like a soap bubble, landed on the rim of the fire pit, and rolled around it. It then floated across the room and cycled through its airlock, back into the power environment.

  I’m going to have to figure out a way to talk to the thing. Eventually.

  Tauta, 18th Day of Varinskir

  In the morning, I helped Leisel with the granary roof, mostly by cutting lumber for her. Green wood isn’t the best choice for construction, but I also didn’t plan to stay here indefinitely. I sliced poles and wooden shingles for her, whittled some old iron into nails, those sorts of things. She stayed up on the roof and assembled it all. She’s surprisingly handy with a hammer. She also knows a lot of interesting ways to cuss when she hits her thumb.

  The roof will keep the rain off. I wouldn’t trust it against a sunset or a good storm, but it’ll do for rain.

  “Leisel?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can I ask you a question?” I handed her a new shingle as I spoke.

  “You’re paying me,” she pointed out. “I ask permission. You just do.”

  “Maybe so, but I try to be polite.”

  “And I appreciate it. Mostly. What’s the question?”

  “Does it bother you to do other work besides… well, I guess we’d have to call it ‘warrior’s work.’ Cooking, construction, caring for the horse, that stuff.”

  “Not really. I’m not a—I mean, I’m not one of the First. Out in the field, warriors do whatever we need to. It’s one of our strengths. Brush down a horse, dig a ditch, sharpen stakes, whatever. Now, if we were in your fortress and I was part of your guard, that would be a different matter. I’d expect a groom to deal with the horses. There would be laborers and craftsmen and a cook. I wouldn’t have to do all this,” she gestured around the roof with the hammer. “I’d leave it to people who were born to it. They’re always better at it, anyway. As it is, we’re in the middle of nowhere and there’s only us.”

  “Circumstances.”

  “Exactly. But you’re one of the First, so I get why you don’t see it the same way I do.”

  “Hmm.” I didn’t correct her. She assumed I was highborn and looking down. I was really an outsider looking in. Still, she answered my question and I learned a little bit more about the structure of the society.

  “Come to think of it,” I went on, “about this hypothetical fortress. If I build one, where should I put it? Around here, I mean, in this region.”

  “Tough call,” she decided, and hammered for a bit. When she stopped, she replied, “Trouble is, most everything around here is owned by one of the manzhara.”

  The manzhara, by the way, are a plural form of the various manzh-whatevers. It’s a slang term for Mazhani, mahrani, and manzhani as a group. It could be translated as “the nobles,” or maybe “the ruling classes” is closer.

  “They’re not going to sell you the land for a fortress,” Leisel finished.

  “How far do I have to go to find land they don’t own?”

  “Head north, toward the peak of the Triangle. Up there, some of the Razikian isn’t claimed, I think. It’ll be a week or more, depending on how hard you ride.” She looked up at the porch area. Bronze stood up there, looking out over everything. “Maybe less,” she admitted. “Of course, the western mountains are much closer. The Kasnakani Range isn’t owned by anybody I know of, but then you have the kustoni to worry about. It’s hard to build a fortress while they’re raiding your work camp.”

  “I’m sure something can be worked out.”

  Leisel hammered another nail and paused a moment to look down at me.

  “You’re considering it? I mean, you’re really thinking about carving out a new domain?”

  “Should I not?”

  “I’m not sure of the protocol. I think you need permission. Aargh!”

  “Thumbnail?”

  Her reply was scathing enough to scorch paint. I distracted her from it.

  “Permission from who? A House that wants to own whatever I carve out?”

  “Probably!” She sucked her thumb for a moment, shook her hand, and reset the nail. “They’re the only ones who have the resources to make it happen. Maybe you need to ask the Temple, too. On second thought, you might want to start with the Temple.”

  “How about if I go out, build a fortress, and wait for them to notice me?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think it’s ever happened.” She tapped the nail to seat it and paused. “Not since the early days of the Empire, anyway.”

  “Good. I’m starting to think this place could use a little shaking. It gets some of the dust out and lets in air.”

  Leisel cocked her head, considering. Her mouth twitched as though she wanted to say something. At last, she nodded and we went back to finishing the roof.

  Leisel stayed up a bit to watch me work. If it didn’t bother her class-centric sensibilities, it didn’t bother me. She caught her breath when she saw me open a gate and pull through a five-foot-tall air tank, but she didn’t speak and she didn’t interfere. I got six of the things and screwed their connectors into the manifold. Six was probably enough, but the manifold had spaces for eight, so I planned to get two more, next time. I redistributed my crystals for charging. Come the morning, they should have enough charge between them to easily manage two more gates. I didn’t feel rushed to maintain a specific schedule, so let them have another day to charge before the Orb-summoning.

  When I returned from the tunnel and sat down at the table, she sat with me. My pet ball of light, currently out and about, floated through her midsection, out the far side, and went to explore my air tanks. She didn’t notice.

  “All right, I’ve seen it, but I have a hard time believing it.”

  “What’s so unbelievable?”

  “You open a hole in the wall to a room that isn’t there, then open it again to a different room. I can’t understand it.”

  “You can’t? I don’t believe it.”

  “Are you mocking me?”

  “No, but I am being a smartass. I apologize.”

  “Should I believe you?”

  “That’s the spirit! And yes, you can believe me when I apologize. I might not be sorry, but if I apologize, I mean it.”

  “If you say so. Is it important for me to know what you’re doing?”

  “That’s… a surprisingly good question. It might be.”

  She waited expectantly for me to continue. I wondered how to explain. A full accounting would be a long story, but the basics of the situation as it was, at present, might be reasonable. Then again…

  “What do you know about demons?”

  “They’re spir
its of malice and hatred. Some take on physical form and wreak havoc. Others invade people or animals and force them to do things. Usually they kill their hosts. Sometimes they keep a physical form long enough to rampage around, eat people, and so on. The more powerful they are, the smarter they are. They can sometimes be bargained with, but they are untrustworthy and will twist your words in any deal you strike.” She hooked a light chain around her neck and drew out an amulet. “Some people wear charms against them.”

  “May I?” When she nodded, I left it on her neck, but held it and examined it. It was a simple defensive charm, useful against magic in general, as well as just about anything that might want to occupy a body. It wasn’t as specific as one I might build, but sometimes being too specific can be a drawback. It would probably offer some protection against my tendrils, too. The fact it was a working charm told me she was probably right about immaterial demon spirits. Different worlds, different demons? Maybe. Chaos demons can possess a body, but there might be some species of hostile spirit-beings, as well.

  Or… hmm. Are the local demons really Chaos demons? If so, are the demons here different because people believe them to be different? Is their concept of an orderly universe such that any demonic creature from the void of chaos must assume an immaterial form? Or was the universe set up this way by whoever—or whatever—built it? Or are the local demons actually some sort of native life form having nothing to do with chaos beasts?

  This is the problem with multiple universes. The rules I know may not apply.

  “This should work,” I decided. “I think you’ll be reasonably safe.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that. I mean, I do like the sound of it, but it implies bad things. You mentioned a demon, but how many demons are involved?”

  “Just one. See, this demon and I have a long history of fighting each other. What I’m doing here is preparing to banish it to a realm of the uttermost darkness—hopefully forever. Everything I know says there’s no returning. Once I have everything set up and ready to go, I plan to summon my adversary from whatever mischief he’s doing, surprising him, so I can subdue him and send him into oblivion.”

  Leisel tucked her amulet inside her shirt of scales and reached for her helmet.

  “I wish I’d known before I asked for a job.”

  “Want to go? You can keep the horse.”

  “No. I took the job. I stay. What do you want me to do?”

  “Eventually, when I’m ready, I’ll have you guard the door. This is going to be dangerous, but only if someone interrupts me. If I’m left alone and uninterrupted, I should be able to make this work.”

  “So, keep out all visitors.”

  “At all costs, and I do mean at all costs. If this goes wrong, the potential loss of life is too catastrophic to think about.”

  “A major demon summoned and released instead of summoned and banished.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I think I’ll sharpen my sword.”

  “It’ll wait until tomorrow.”

  “It soothes me. It’s one of the few ways I can get to sleep tonight.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Yes, but I’m just your guard. We haven’t negotiated anything else.”

  “Huh?”

  She shook her head and smiled as she headed off to her tunnel. I shrugged and spent my time working out a spell for the air cannon barrel. A field effect to prevent the spherical sabot from touching would reduce friction to nothing. It could also act as an air block, creating a better seal between the sabot and the barrel, increasing the efficiency.

  Tauta, 19th Day of Varinskir

  I think Leisel is still bothered by me. I’m a wizard, but I’m a warrior, so I don’t fit into her worldview. Everybody in Tauta is born into a caste, I gather. If you’re born to a craftsman, you grow up to be a craftsman. If you’re born a laborer, you’re always a laborer. If you’re born a slave, you’re a slave forever. Ditto for all the other classifications—nobility, priests, merchants, and farmers. When you die, your life is judged by the gods, your soul purified of the mortal realm, and you’re born again based on how you did in your previous life.

  I gather there’s an underclass of criminals, not really a caste, as such, but people who either couldn’t hack it in their “gods-given” profession or chose not to follow it.

  There’s some mobility, but not much. Within each social division, there are subdivisions. Among the craftsmen, a goldsmith outranks a silversmith, and both of them outrank a blacksmith. A metalworker of any sort is regarded as a higher social level than a woodworker, though—cooper, carpenter, or cabinet-maker.

  In the warriors, the highest rank are the First, the gentry of the warriors. The scale slides down from there, ending in “guard.” Technically, anyone of the warrior caste can hold any job fit for a warrior, but, in practice, the First don’t march in the infantry or guard harems, while foot soldiers can’t afford the arms and armor of their higher-ranking brethren. Still, a foot soldier can fight his way up the chain, while a First who has money but no martial talent may wind up a well-armored soldier.

  Movement within each caste is possible without requiring external arbitration. A blacksmith who shows a talent for fine, delicate pieces may be trained by a jewelry-maker and so rise to silver- or gold-smith. Warriors just fight their way to the level of their talents and skills.

  More drastically, if someone is clearly born into the wrong caste, he or she can be adopted by someone of the correct caste. There isn’t a lot of this, mostly because it involves finding a family who wants someone else’s kid, as well as acknowledging someone—one or both parents—somehow failed in their duty to the gods and wound up with a wrong-caste child by mistake.

  Note it’s the human who made the mistake, not the gods. I’m suspicious. It also seems unusual to me there does not seem to be a provision for “was blessed with a higher-caste child,” instead of a “mistake.” If the gods are handing out children as a punishment, something is fundamentally wrong with the system. I tend to think the gods may be speaking, but it’s the priests who are doing the talking.

  So, you offended against the gods and have a child of the wrong caste. You find someone who wants him and you all go to the temple. The priests pray and accept a generous offering, consult the entrails, read the omens, shake the ceremonial sticks, smoke the sacred pipe, have their holy visions, whatever it is they do and eventually permit you to correct your error. The kid—anywhere from five to fifteen—is then the child of the correct-caste family and not yours.

  Adoptions across the caste lines happen, but it’s hard to find someone who did it. Adoptions within a caste are more common, and especially so with the warriors, for reasons that should be obvious.

  Wizards are considered a highly-skilled trade, their caste outranking the craftsmen, but they rank below the warriors. Since wizards and warriors are almost at the same social level, a high-ranking wizard outranks—socially—a low-ranking warrior, whereas even the highest-ranking warrior will, de jure, answer to any of the noble caste. I say de jure because it’s the law of the land. De facto, however, a nobleman on hard times may find it difficult to acquire members of the warriors’ First for any purpose at all. Or, for that matter, any of the best representatives of any caste or trade.

  As always, money is the lubricant in a rigid system. Surprisingly, the members of the merchant caste are not in charge. They are employed by anyone, however, to broker deals. Typically, this doesn’t matter in small-scale trades, but a first-class merchant may manage the financial affairs of a great House while the less well-regarded supervise trade goods or even a single shop.

  The system has just enough flex built into it to keep it from being too brittle. I’m a crack in the structure and I’m not sure Leisel likes it. I don’t much care for the system itself, but all I need to do cope with it, not approve of it.

  While the crystals charged in the tunnels, I did some minor adjusting of the air cannon, the spells
on it, the grab gate, the sabot, everything. I wanted the whole setup sorted out and prepared as thoroughly as an operating room. No doubt the Orb would try to resist, so the fewer things to go wrong on my side were that many fewer things to go right for it.

  As I regarded the cannon and the grab gate, I realized I was missing a bet. The plan originally called for shoving the air cannon’s mouth into the grab gate. Why not simply put a gate on the mouth of a cannon, itself?

  Prototypes can always be improved. I scratched symbols into the metal all around that end of the tube, muttering incantations the while. At least I thought of it before the moment of truth. It wouldn’t do any good to think of it later!

  I also asked Leisel if I could borrow her helmet. She handed it over willingly and I cast a few spells on it to cut down on mental influences. Firebrand, Bronze, my altar ego, and the Orb go right through my mental bunker, but only because they are me, in certain limited ways. Anyone and anything else has its work cut out for it. My goal, though, was to reduce the chance Leisel would feel an uncontrollable urge to pick up the Orb, grab it from me, whatever. One less thing to go wrong…

  “So, my helmet is enchanted?” she asked, turning it over in her hands.

  “No, it only has a spell on it. Think of it like a layer of armor you can’t fix. It’ll take a lot of hits before it gives way, but then it falls to pieces. Not the helmet,” I added, seeing her expression. “It’ll be fine. Only the spell protecting you from mind-affecting magic. It’s like your charm. The charm is a wooden shield and will stop working after a number of hits. This is a thin layer of metal over it, making it harder to penetrate. Once they’re useless, you drop them and get another.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. Do you want to make my sword a demon-killer?”

  “I’m not sure I can.”

  “Neither am I, but I thought I’d ask.”

  “May I see it?”

  I examined it in some detail. It was a well-used blade, a trifle heavier than my saber. It was line-straight, also unlike my saber. A really thin longsword? The style of the point reminded me of a katana, but her blade was edged halfway down the back from the point. She called it a seydu’haad, which, literally translated, meant “straight sword,” although the native meaning was more specific, meaning this exact type and not all “straight swords.”