Test of Metal p-4

by Mathew Stover

  “Solve it?” Baltrice and Doc said together.

  “Those zombies cannot be there for defense, nor to discourage intruders; anyone out here in the Glass Desert will have more than enough power to simply avoid them-fly over them, teleport or gate past them, or if we’re talking about someone like you, burn hundreds of thousands of them to ash and walk in before the survivors can reach you. No: I am fairly certain that what we’re looking at here is an attempt to reach the heart of the Labyrinth.”

  Baltrice frowned “How do you figure?”

  Doc said, “BFI, right?”

  “Exactly,” I said under my breath, then spoke up for Baltrice’s benefit. “We artificers and mechanists of Esper have a pet acronym of our own: BFI. It stands for Brute Force and Ignorance. Let’s say, to Keep It Simple, that we’re looking at one and a half million zombies. The Crystal Labyrinth is reputed to have fourteen thousand four hundred rooms, which means the necromancer has at his disposal more than one hundred and four zombies per room. Zombies don’t need to eat, drink, or sleep; in fairly short order, even working at random, they will have explored every possible path. Once every path is known, the necromancer can just bloody well teleport in.”

  “Hey, I can probably do that!” Doc chirped. “I can teleport, remember? It’s like the only actual thing I can actually do. Except hurt you. And there’s only one place I can teleport you to. But still.”

  “There is nothing about you that I have forgotten,” I reassured him.

  “Put like that, it sounds easy,” Baltrice said, grim. “Hells, the bastard could have done it already.”

  I shook my head. “If he has, why are all the zombies still here?”

  “Holiday decorations,” Baltrice said. “How in the hells should I know?”

  “And we still haven’t answered the main question: Why is our necromancer working so hard to reach the heart of the Crystal Labyrinth? And why now?”

  “I don’t get you.”

  “There’s no treasure,” I explained. “There has never been even a legend of treasure. All that lies at the heart of the Crystal Labyrinth is a single ancient sphinx-who may or may not be alive, if he ever existed.”

  “Well, that sphinx and-if you’re right-some clue to lead you to Crucius.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Why tells us who.”

  “Yeah?” Her face cleared. “Oh, I get it. You’re thinking about that snotty little clockworker from the Seekers, right?”

  “Silas Renn,” I said. “Beyond the three of us and Sharuum, who knows that the path to Crucius might be found through the Crystal Labyrinth? Who’s rich enough to hire however many necromancers he might think he needs? Who would sacrifice his entire family’s fortune and all of his remaining body parts to discover the key to creating etherium?”

  “Huh. ‘Why tells us who.’ Huh.” Baltrice shook her head. “And all those years, you kept telling everybody with ears that why means nothing at all.”

  “Did I?” I said. “I can’t imagine what I must have been thinking.”

  “You should have let me kill him back in Vectis.”

  “Perhaps.” At the time, I had been unwilling to upset Sharuum, nor did I wish to spark an all-out brawl with the Seekers of Carmot-especially not when the city’s defenses included apport interdiction, so we couldn’t teleport out if things went bad. And if I’d tried to planeswalk, Doc would have dumped me back in that sangrite cave on-in-Jund. And I had discovered myself unwilling to destroy Silas Renn. Despite the danger he represented, he was not trash.

  He was something I had not yet found a use for.

  “So, it’s this Renn guy who’s got you all worked up? He’s not so much of all that.”

  “Renn is tremendously powerful. You caught him by surprise, distracted by the arrival of Sharuum and her retinue. Do you remember how powerful I was? Back when I had my arm?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Renn and I studied together for three years. I fought him at least once every examination period-thirteen times, in fact. I never beat him.”

  Baltrice frowned. “Never?”

  “And he wasn’t even allowed to use clockworking,” I said. “At the Academy, clockworking is forbidden in sanctioned duels unless both participants agree to it beforehand.”

  “For real? How come? I mean, sure, chronomancy is kind of weird, but it’s hardly-”

  “Chronomancy is not even on a nearby plane to clockworking. A clockworker can actually control time. You understand teleportation. To a clockworker adept, time is simply another spatial dimension. They can jump forward and backward in time as easily as you or I might teleport across a room.”

  Her frown turned into a scowl. “So if I hit him with something that rocks his world, he can just, like, jump back to right before I hit him and deliver a preemptive smackdown?”

  “It’s more complicated than that-clockworking is fiendishly difficult and, no pun intended, time consuming-but essentially, yes. He can also control your own personal temporal flow in ways no magic at our command can counter. No shield will stop you from getting old. And that’s not all.”

  She winced. “It gets worse?”

  “A good clockworker-which Renn is-can, with proper preparation, move sideways in time.”

  “What in the hells is that supposed to mean?”

  “You’d have to ask a clockworker for the details,” I said. “I’ve never looked deeply into the theory, and so I have only a layman’s knowledge. The best I can understand is that time isn’t a single straight line-it’s more like a big rope, braided and rebraided out of an infinite number of different temporal strands. Every time you make a choice-turn right instead of left-you split off a new temporal strand. If the choice you make doesn’t affect other nearby main lines-if you arrive at your destination at the same moment you would have if you’d turned the other way-your strand gets braided back into the main cable and everything proceeds as usual. But a clockworker adept can sense the nearest strands of other main lines and decide which one he wants to be in. In other words, he can pick and choose the outcome he wants, and move himself into the time line where that’s what happens. And he can take you with him.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yes. The only limitations of clockworking are the power of the adept and the dictates of probability-the more improbable the outcome the adept is looking for, the more power it takes to get himself into that alternate line. Even though it’s not something he can pull off on the spur of the moment, the only real defense against a good clockworker is another clockworker.”

  “And he got here first,” Baltrice said, “and brought all his friends.”

  “Yes.”

  “And he knows we’re coming, so he’s had time to prepare.”

  “Yes.”

  “And he might be inclined to be a little stern with both of us.”

  “That’s it. See any holes?”

  “Other than the bleeding ones that are about to start opening up all over both our bodies?” She stood for a long moment, staring grimly at the stark reality clustered at the bottom of the Netherglass. When finally she spoke again, her voice was hoarse and harsh. “This was what you were talking about, when you said you won’t survive.”

  “Not specifically.”

  “How about we walk away? Just pitch it. Because I’m looking down there, Tezzeret, and all I’m seeing is an assload of undead that you and I will probably be joining. I think we are way out of our league.”

  “I can’t walk away.”

  “That you talking, or Doc?”

  “Doc is silent on the subject,” I said. “He doesn’t want to die any more than I do-but he also can’t let me back off. You, on the other hand, are under no obligation to perish at our side.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in popping back to Vectis to pull your doohickey out of Beleren’s brain first, would you?”

  I only looked at her.

  “Sure, what did I expect?” she said. “You’re not the merciful type.�
��

  “More merciful than he was,” I said. “He’s alive. And he may yet be whole and hale.”

  “If we win.”

  “Yes. If we win.”

  She took a deep, deep breath as though about to take a plunge to black water, without knowing whether she’d ever breathe again. Finally she let it out in a gust, shook the kinks out of her shoulders, and said, “All right. Let’s do it.”

  “Baltrice-”

  “Shut up, Tezzeret. I mean it. Shut up because whatever you’re about to say, I really don’t want to hear.”

  I stood in silence.

  Eventually, she turned to me. “You have a plan, right? Tell me you have a plan.”

  I said, “I have a plan.”

  THE METAL ISLAND

  LIFE AND TIMES

  Still reclining upon the etherium sand, the ancient dragon snorted another gust of greasy, meat-scented smoke. “What a pathetic creature you are.”

  Tezzeret smiled. “Flatterer.”

  “You spew egomania like a sneeze sprays snot. Except snot tastes better,” Bolas said. “Maybe you should kill me now. Put me out of your misery.”

  “If death is what you’re looking for, you need only wait,” Tezzeret said. “Or, I suppose, ask me nicely.”

  The dragon rolled his eyes and took a deep breath in an apparent attempt to control exasperation. “Do you understand just how preposterously self-centered your whole theory of reality is, you demented little gutter monkey? ‘Oooh, Crucius did everything just for meeeee…’ ‘Oooh, Rennnn’s waiting there to spank me!’ Revolting.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You did understand, even back there, that for your theory to be accurate, Crucius would have had to anticipate not only your brains getting scrambled by Beleren-all right, to be fair, anyone who knows the two of you saw that one coming-but he would have had to somehow make me glue your pieces back together and strong-arm you into looking for him in the first place.”

  “When you put it that way, it does seem unlikely,” Tezzeret said mildly. “And yet, here I am.”

  “Not because Crucius planned it this way.”

  “As soon as the Grand Hegemon departs,” Tezzeret said with a casual wave toward the cloud of etherium-colored mist that still enveloped Sharuum and the Metal Sphinx together, “you are welcome to ask him.”

  “Like I actually believe any of this.”

  “I can say with considerable certainty that at this moment, nothing in any universe depends upon whether you believe in it or not,” Tezzeret replied. “I knew an Ethersworn monk once, who made it a practice to believe six impossible things before breakfast; if he could manage only five, he stayed in bed.”

  “Baltrice was right,” Bolas muttered. “You’ve spent too much time around sphinxes.”

  “Disquieting, isn’t it?” Tezzeret smiled thoughtfully toward the great statue. “I may be coming to understand how they think.”

  “Tezzeret.” The musical harmonics of the Grand Hegemon’s voice wafted from the cloud like audible incense. “We are finished.”

  Tezzeret raised a hand, and the cloud faded. Sharuum backed way from the Metal Sphinx as though unwilling to take her eyes from its etherium face. “You have done all that was asked of you, and more. The word of a sphinx is not lightly given, nor can it be broken. As promised, all that I have is yours, to keep or to abandon, to build or to destroy.”

  Tezzeret said gravely, “Thank you.”

  “Is this a joke?” The dragon’s scaly jaw dropped toward the sand while the rest of him was in the process of rising. “Did she just give you the plane?”

  “Part of one.”

  “It’s a pretty nice thank-you gift.”

  “Yes.” He looked up at Bolas, who now towered over him. “Sit.”

  The dragon glowered down at him, but sat.

  “Stay.” Tezzeret walked toward Sharuum. “I will return you now to our land.”

  “Must you? I had… hoped… I might abide here. For… company.”

  “You cannot,” Tezzeret said. “You have given yourself to me, per our bargain, and this is my will: that you return to Esper and rule as you always have, that you place your great wisdom in service to our land and all who call it home, and that you treat all of my possessions as your own.”

  The great sphinx stared down at him, uncomprehending, silent with astonishment.

  “If I should chance to change my mind,” he said through his thin smile, “I’ll let you know.”

  Her eyes drifted shut, and she lowered her head until Tezzeret might have touched her mask-shield with his hand. “Your gracious nature confounds me, Tezzeret,” she piped solemnly. “I do not know how to address you with proper honor, as the master of my life and all I possess.”

  “If you choose to address me by any word other than my name,” he said, “I would be honored to be called your friend.”

  Behind him the dragon grunted disgustedly, “Since when do you have friends?”

  “Bolas.” Tezzeret did not turn around, and his voice was mild as the ocean around them: a gentle surface beneath which lurked unimaginable threat. “Manners.”

  The dragon growled low in his throat, but subsided.

  “Then my friend you shall be,” piped Sharuum, “unto the end of my days, and beyond. It will be written upon my tomb, first among my titles: ‘Friend to Tezzeret the Seeker.’ ”

  “Thank you,” he said, and reached up to touch the edge of her mask-shield with one hand.

  The etherium that had filled her scars turned once more to liquid, draining down her face like silvery tears. “The etherium strands-the tears of my beloved-bring light to my eyes and strength to my limbs. They cannot remain?”

  “From this place, one can take only what is brought from beyond,” Tezzeret said. “And memories.”

  “Then let it be so. Memories are more than I’d hoped to gain.”

  Tezzeret gestured, and the rippling plane of etherium-colored interplanar gate reappeared. “Give my regards to your son.”

  Sharuum, Grand Hegemon of Esper, looked back at him with a smile and, astonishingly, a wink. “It will be done, my friend,” she said, then entered the gate and passed beyond the universe.

  Tezzeret turned toward where Nicol Bolas sat upon the etherium sand like an obedient puppy-a sixty-foot-long, fire-breathing, horned, scaled, and impressively fanged puppy, but obedient nonetheless.

  “As I promised, you are free to depart as well, Bolas,” Tezzeret said, “but my tale nears its end. I hope you might be interested enough to stay yet awhile.”

  “Your tale is closer to its end than you think.” The dragon’s eyes went sleepy, and a hint of sneer curled one corner of his upper lip. “You’ve gotten so good at riddles, try this one: What’s at each end of a tale?”

  “Our business doesn’t have to take very long, but if you choose to be difficult,” Tezzeret said, “it can take the rest of your life.”

  “Aw, Tezzie, come on! Play along.”

  “Don’t call me Tezzie,” he said. “Before you answer, recall that here and now, I can stop you. And I can promise you won’t like it.”

  “Tezzeret, then. Humor me.” The dragon’s sneer spread toward a mocking grin. “What’s at each end of a tale?”

  With a tiny irritated shake of his head, Tezzeret said, “Fine. I give. What’s at each end of a tale?”

  “At one end, nothing at all,” the dragon said. “At the other, an asshole.”

  Tezzeret made a face. “Up to your usual standard of wit.”

  “You just don’t get why it’s funny. It’s a double pun,” said Nicol Bolas. “Come on, Tezzie-you called me an asshole…”

  “I called you a doltish thug.”

  “You’re missing the point.” Bolas dropped the playful mockery in favor of a darkly infinite certainty. “I am the end of your tale.”

  Tezzeret frowned, and clouds gathered overhead, spitting jagged lightning.

  He cleared his throat, and the Metal Island tremb
led with earthquake.

  He lifted his hands, and the eldritch energies of the etherium around him supercharged his layered shields until he blazed with power, brighter than the sun itself. “Do we need to have this conversation all over again?”

  The dragon bared his fangs. “Want to see a trick?”

  “No.”

  “One little trick. You’ll love it. I promise.”

  “Watch mine instead.” Tezzeret made a fist, and from the sand shot upward girders of etherium thicker than a man’s chest that in an instant had curled around the dragon and braided themselves into an impenetrable cage that flared with every color of power. “Don’t try to draw mana, and don’t touch the bars. I tell you this for your own protection.”

  The dragon shrugged carelessly. “You showed me yours. Let me show you mine.”

  “Save it.”

  “But it’s a really good trick. Here, watch,” Bolas said, and vanished.

  Utterly and completely, as though he had never been there at all.

  Instantly Tezzeret slapped his hands together in front of him, interlacing his fingers. The bars of the etherium cage became razor-sharp blades and crushed themselves into a jaggedly solid mass.

  But among them he found no bloody chunks of dragon.

  The dragon’s footprints were gone from the etherium sand, and no trace of even his previous presence could be detected by any magic Tezzeret could command.

  He looked over his shoulder at Baltrice and Jace. The Webs of Restraint that had bound them were gone, and both of them were stirring from their magically enforced unconsciousness. Rubbing her eyes, Baltrice pushed herself dizzily up to a sitting position. “What’s going on?”

  “Something bad.”

  “Where’s the dragon?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why it’s bad,” Tezzeret said. “Get ready to fight.”