The Pit of No Return (The King Henry Tapes Book 6)

by Richard Raley

  Massey had decent control, but it was also wasteful. Far too much for the job. A fifteen-minute-pool when five would’ve done. He also held nothing back. Journeymen and employees being here means he can only show off so much. If you knew the trick of it, it was nothing special. But if you didn’t . . .

  Up rose an artifact. That I found impressive. It was a glass cylinder with numbers marked upon it in twenty-five number intervals, all the way up to a thousand. When I say it rose, it went on up to the ceiling. Just this great big cylinder, rimmed in copper and other metals, three or four stories tall.

  “Donate your anima now, please,” Massey ordered.

  The ground under my feet crackled with the discharge. Geo-anima in unison, all around me it left the Guild members and went into the ground under their feet. Just like with the Pit, there must have been more artifact unseen underneath us, collecting or registering it all, telling the glass cylinder to fill with glowing green fluid. Above us the spectro-crystals dimmed and that column grew in luminosity. It ended up marked at just over six hundred.

  Massey nodded at the number, motioning to MacNess. Who put down his papers to approach the column. “Roll Call reads at six-hundred and five!” MacNess shouted.

  “Does anyone disagree with this reading?” Massey asked the assembled crowd.

  “Do I get a vote?” I finally couldn’t help myself.

  “No,” Massey chastised, “you do not.”

  “Just checking.”

  “Six-hundred and five,” Massey agreed with MacNess, “with no objections. If this was a trial for a member’s actions, we would ask for a super-majority, but as Artifice Price has helpfully pointed out on any number of occasions, this is not a trial, merely a disciplinary hearing. As such a simple majority will do. Three-hundred and three, please.”

  Now it was MacNess’ turn to throw anima at the artifact, sending it plunging downward. Perhaps better to say it shrunk, since while the copper surrounding it moved, the numbers changed to match the size of the cylinder until one-thousand disappeared from the top spot and three-hundred and three took its place.

  “Well done,” Massey mumbled so only MacNess and I could hear it. The young Master Craftsman glowed at the praise before returning to his papers. Massey, meanwhile, turned back to the crowd above us. “For those who have not attended such a disciplinary hearing, let me explain how events will unfold over the next few days. I, as Guild Master, have chosen to take the role of Arbiter. An arbiter impartially leads all of these proceedings to insure matters move forward at a swift pace. I will have no vote and you will in fact vote on my role soon enough. I am merely the Guild, and though I have my own views on Artificer Price’s conduct, I will leave you to judge him as your Brother.”

  While working behind the scenes to fuck him over every way I can, including dicking him about with maybe giving his girlfriend a special visitor’s pass, I couldn’t help but add silently.

  “Master Craftsman and Auxiliary MacNess was dispatched with the mission of cataloging and discovering Artificer Price’s actions and crimes,” Massey continued, “thus as Arbiter, I will be appointing him to Advocate. An Advocate lays out his case against the Accused as you would expect in most westernized trials. Assuming you confirm me as Arbiter, you will then vote on Master Craftsman MacNess as well. Following this, it is my job as Arbiter to put forward seven jurors. Unlike other trials, for the Guild, jurors do not have any more voting power than those assembled. What they are able to undertake is to ask questions of witnesses in addition to the Advocate. They are your voice outside of your vote.

  “Jurors are chosen one at a time as I put forth my selections. As such, you will vote on each separately.” Massey smiled widely, his lips so thin they looked like they might have merged with each other. “On a personal note, let’s please not have a repeat of the 1997 trial of Nathaniel Ivers. If you are not approved as a juror, please do not start bashing the heads of those around you who didn’t vote for you!”

  Whole room laughed at that one.

  “Just so you are aware what you have gotten yourself into, my Brothers and Sisters,” Massey called, “today will set the hearing’s course, tomorrow we will begin calling witnesses. There are four charges against Artificer Price which I will list at the end of the day, I think you will find the evidence for each profound and well presented. I have planned two days for this, however we may complete it tomorrow, especially if the Accused minds his place and doesn’t overly interrogate the witnesses against him, in which case our third day will be a recess. On the fourth day, Artificer Price himself will be questioned just as the witnesses were, both by the Advocate and by each juror in turn. Thus, we will finish on the fifth day with closing statements and a final vote, both on if Artificer Price is guilty of the charges against him, and then on what punishment we will offer to him and his Institution backers.

  “Questions?”

  None from the assembled, but I raised my hand. “How the fuck did you say all that without biting your tongue?”

  [CLICK]

  Voting started without Massey giving me an answer.

  Seriously people, how’d he manage it? The Arbiter observes the Advocate against the Accused Artificer Price. Try to say that shit ten times really fast. See if you have a tongue after you’re done. Don’t lick any clits or suck any cock after you do bite said tongue, that’s how you get a really embarrassing infection. Like genital warts on your tongue or something.

  You throwing up?

  Take a moment. It’s okay, I’ll wait.

  You done?

  Good boy.

  Voting started without Massey giving me an answer, cuz fuck King Henry. Whole day is meant to make him feel like shit among all his peers anyway. Embarrass him. Humiliate him. Make him beg to join us. Send his guilt rising on up until nothing is more important than clearing his conscience through reconciliation.

  Someone should’ve clued Massey in to how I react to guilt tripping.

  That’s right.

  Defiance.

  The tiniest act of defiance.

  Ten seconds of my time, but it spoke volumes.

  Haven’t talked much about it so far, being most of the time I’ve either been in the Pit or in the Geo Realm. Either a god or as mundane as you get. In the Vault and the Guild Library I talked about feeling anima and using my senses for it, but not pooling it. Didn’t feel the need. Was alone with Val. Safe with her. If it seemed like we might get caught, then retreat to the Geo Realm was the quicker and safer move, not pooling up for my usual thirty-minutes and unleashing on some poor janitor.

  But . . . that was over.

  Here, I felt an itch to pool.

  Except here’s the thing . . . I’ve spent shitloads of time in the Geo Realm lately and what comes with shitloads of time in the Geo Realm?

  That’s right.

  Anima saturation.

  Makes you pool faster, pool like some hundred-year-old geezer had their body filling up with excess anima since the Stone Age. Like the Lady or Plutarch or Samson. Sure, some of that awe they built at the Asylum was due to the same tricks I’ve stolen, but anima saturation has its effects too. One of those effects is increased susceptibility to Anima Madness . . . been trying not to think about that one. Not that you know when you’re Anima Mad, that’s the biggest problem with insanity . . . those demons telling you to decapitate people and replace their brains with Magic Eight Balls just seem so damn real.

  As, ya know, a random example.

  Been bathing in anima for six months.

  Was saturated as fuck.

  First time I journeyed to the Geo Realm with Val, I’d cut seconds off my pooling speed, now I could cut off a third or even half the time for every pool I built up. That first blast of saturation faded as the weeks and months went by, but I haven’t given it a chance to fade this go around. Geo Realm visits had gone from being something I did once a week, to every few days, to at least once a day.

  Maybe I’m killing myself doing it.<
br />
  Maybe I’m driving myself deeper into madness, quicker . . . hey, anyone know if Amazon sells Magic Eight Balls by the dozen?

  Just asking for a friend.

  Or . . . maybe I’ll become a living, breathing, out-of-control earthquake slowly but surely.

  Lady seems fine enough . . . for a cackling old bag of a crone.

  Plutarch seemed fine enough . . . for a grumpy old hermit never misses an episode of The Rockford Files.

  Samson . . . well, dead now, but he was the picture of health. Should I live that long, please let me have that much sex well into my nineties. Can even be with a ninety-year-old Valentine Ward too, I don’t mind. My balls can be hitting my knees, she can be throwing her tits over a shoulder to get ‘em out of the way. I’m cool with all that. Make it happen. Blood pact fucking signed.

  I’d be fine.

  Way I’m going, gonna get myself killed a long time before I have to worry about being Anima Mad.

  Saturation, got to love it.

  Nice bit of edge over every other geomancer on the planet and I’m already a Maximus, right? Should count for something.

  That edge let me have one bit of tiny defiance after another in the Guild’s rotunda.

  Each time Massey called for a vote, I pooled along with that massive crowd of Artificers. All that talk of brotherhood, makes it fair, don’t it? Besides, I’d be ever so disappointed if Massey didn’t get exactly the Artificial Court he wants to put on for them. See, he thinks a good show trial is me being a good little boy, but any kid watched wrestling growing up, knows what you really need is a great heel to sell that hero. So . . . just giving them a good show, Massey, nothing to worry about. When I finally punch you, that’s when you’ll need to worry.

  “Thirty seconds equivalence of anima, no more, no less,” Massey informed them all as he dug out a golden pocket watch from his robes. Thought I felt anima inside of the thing, but I couldn’t be sure. Would’ve been anachronistic in the modern world, but inside the Guild Hall a pocket watch seemed opposite. “Vote when able, the pooling period for affirming myself as Arbiter begins . . . now!

  Pool.

  Salt and Pepper each flinched as I started, turning their bodies towards Massey for any possible orders about smashing me flat. These golems weren’t built like men so much as machines. Rotating upper torso, rotating and levered arms and legs. Fucking ye olde terminators is what they are. Every bit of that movement felt strange and foreign and mathematical.

  Massey noticed it, frowning at me once he realized why.

  Didn’t give him time enough to start shit, instead throwing the anima I’d pooled into the ground. Thirty seconds of anima pooled in fifteen. Suck on that, Massey. Up bubbled the first vote in the cylinder, a good six or seven seconds before even the graybeards like Plutarch and Volkov joined me.

  Seconds after that a flood of glowing green fluid filled into the cylinder, well beyond enough to affirm Massey as Arbiter of my fate.

  The man himself wasn’t smiling now, only watched me with his brain tick-tocking away behind his temporal eyes. “I thank you for your confidence,” he muttered before shaking his gaze away from mine and up towards the crowd. “Now, the vote concerning Master Craftsman MacNess as Advocate for the Guild’s case. Pool for anima . . . now.”

  Same result.

  Massey watched me through it this time, not his pocket watch. I gave him some canines. See how big those teeth are? Anima inside of me is even bigger, even faster, even mightier.

  Some in the crowd had noticed the pissing contest and wore either an appropriate scowl or hid a rueful smirk.

  “What do you believe you are accomplishing, Artificer Price?”

  MacNess was affirmed as Advocate according to the cylinder, Massey didn’t give a crap. Neither did I, which is why I pulled out an I-don’t-give-a-crap shrug. “Just hurrying it all along by tipping the scales of justice, Guild Master. Plus . . . been in the Pit, nice to feel anima again, ya know?”

  Massey nodded at that. Yes, stuck in the Cleansing Sphere of Reform for three nights. He’s just flexing his muscles after being in the cage I’ve locked him inside, those clock gears worked away at the puzzle. “Good,” he said as he turned to waiting the Artificers, who were a bit more bemused about the conversation their Arbiter seemed to be having with the Accused.

  Fucking seriously, Guild, not one word that didn’t start with an ‘A.’ Would it have killed ya?

  Juror voting next, one at a time.

  This was all news to the Guild, so names earned applause, either polite or enthusiastic depending on how well liked the Brother or Sister was.

  Imad Joumari, Addington Muller, Konstantin Volkov, Gregorios Pachis, Minato Yamamoto, Persephone Godfrey, and Avani Sharma.

  All confirmed one after another to varying degrees.

  All with King Henry Price casting the first vote for each at his own trial-that-is-not-a-trial.

  “If you pool to even the size of a personal conjuration, I will have you beaten,” Massey finally whispered a warning to me. “To say nothing of the incentives I’ve offered you disappearing and the deal we struck becoming far harsher in nature.”

  “Got ya, chief. Deal sucky, sucky. No bang bang the girlfriend.”

  He scowled briefly before controlling his features, forcing his thin smile. Behind that smile he might be pleased, might be unhappy, but whatever the emotion, you found it was surely vague. “We have our jurors then. If those honored with this responsibility would please leave your seats and descend to the floor, you will be placed between the Accused and the Advocate.”

  A rich pampered white woman plays with statues all day, a man-hating Indian crone, a godless atheist Soviet communist, a Muslim Berber, a Greek weapons dealer, a guy probably has ancestors used to hunt black tribesman for sport, and a Japanese guy thinks he’s either a Samurai or a Jedi going into battle with an obsidian sword.

  What’s all this human and cultural diversity have in common?

  They’re lining up to fuck me in the ass, one after another.

  Session 171

  “Charge the First against Artificer Price,” Massey called out, voice echoing through the rotunda with the weight of a guillotine. “Creating artifacts in the form of violent weapons, designed to harm his fellow human beings, despite his pledge otherwise, lacking in judgment and risking the discovery of Elementalism by the mundane world.

  “Charge the Second against Artificer Price: The creation, selling, and distribution of artifacts to Were Nations, specifically the Coyote Nation. It will be shown that Artificer Price not only sold individual Were members his deadly static rings, but that he also entered into a pact with Horatio Vega to provide floro-seeders for the purpose of narcotic manufacture, floro-seeders created with stolen Guild design documents!”

  Massey got some noise from that bit of rabble rousing.

  Well, when you say it like that then of course I sound like a criminal. Don’t know how you can say it so I don’t sound like a criminal, but I should find a way how to do it by tomorrow . . .

  “Charge the Third against Artificer Price: befriending and imprisoning a Corporeal Anima Concentration, use of Corporeal Anima Concentrations without proper training or proper documentation, and creation and use of an illegal golem casing outside of the Guild Hall; again risking the discovery of Elementalism to the mundane world!”

  More noise as whispers bounced off the rounded walls and ceiling.

  Never had a problem with mundanes wondering what Mini is, they just assume he’s a toy or a drone. What’s more worrying is what he’s doing with all them Dr. Pepper cans.

  Two words: sex pillow.

  Or three words: Dr. Pepper Sword.

  Not sure which would be more dangerous.

  “Charge the Fourth against Artificer Price and by far the most unforgivable . . . when I heard of this, my Brothers and Sisters, I wept for the knowledge and history lost to us! Charge the Fourth: the destruction of the legendary artifact, the Jinshin Ken of Hi
roto Arashi, believed to possibly be a device known only as a World-Breaker.”

  Gasps, shouting, and whispers all three.

  Only one I ain’t one-hundred percent guilty of. The rest were all gray, decided by interpretation and Massey Said/King Henry Said. Charge One was only a handshake deal with no legal documentation. Charge Two was forced on me by Ceinwyn to keep the Coyote-Asylum peace treaty in place. Charge Three . . . Mini ain’t a fairy, he’s a gnome, no laws about befriending gnomes, are there?

  Okay, so there’s only no laws about befriending gnomes cuz they think Elementals are myths from yesteryear, but that’s where the gray area comes in.

  So that was their four charges against me. Could be bad depending on the witnesses and what evidence they’ve scrounged up. Wasn’t completely at Massey’s mercy though. Was some wiggle room to attack. Massey be doing his own wiggling to buy the votes he needs either way, but . . . what’s the fun in not putting up a fight? And if you’re gonna fight, you might as well fight dirty.

  We are in England.

  So . . .

  Stay Calm and Kick ‘Em in the Balls.

  “One last matter for the day,” Massey told those above to rein in the volume somewhat, “I know many will wish to discuss this over a beer or spirit and that a few have even scheduled presentations and discussions later—Master Craftsman Sharma’s talk on anima channels, Corners or Curves in Anima Flow, always a must listen for our Journeymen—but first, as is traditional, the Accused must enter a plea.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “Just a plea?”

  Massey’s lips compressed against each other. He judged me. The clockwork intricacy that made up Massey battled amongst itself. “If you wish to apologize and beg for our mercy along with your plea, then by all means, our ears itch in anticipation, Artificer Price.”

  Just as my foul mouth opened to spew some of its favorite words, the main door to the rotunda clicked open.

  In stepped Ceinwyn Dale.

  Had a guess now at who was responsible for pushing Val’s pyromancer dress code, given the getup Ceinwyn wore. It was more body stocking than a dress, clinging to all the tall, long-legged length of her. White, kind of immaculate white that mortals like me don’t get to wear without ending up stained and smudged. White that’s only for goddesses, or an aeromancer using copious amounts of aero-anima to keep every speck of dust and ruinous decay off her person.