by James Maxey
“I’ve had my fill of mind-readers!” Bigsby said, shaking his fist. “Get out of my head!”
“Perhaps you should learn to keep your thoughts inside you.” There was a further rustling in the shadows. “Your fear amplifies your inner voice into a scream.”
“I-I’m not the one afraid,” said Bigsby. “You’re the one hiding in shadows.”
“Ah, but you are afraid. You felt a swell of panic when you saw that our host has labeled this fortress the Inquisition.”
“It’s an unpleasant name,” said Bigsby. “The only time I ever hear the word is when the church is seeking to root out heretics.”
“We’re all heretics here,” the voice answered with a chuckle. “That doesn’t mean we welcome fugitives.”
“Why would you think we’re fugitives?” Bigsby asked.
“You fled the Silver City as wanted men, did you not? Bigsby, you stand accused of murder. The man with no memories killed at least three of the city guard, and maimed uncounted others. Brand is accused of fraud. I see he’s innocent, but that will matter little as long as juries can be swayed with bribes and his stepmother controls his family fortune. And Sorrow... I don’t care to spend the time it would take to catalogue her crimes.”
“If you know our names, tell us yours,” said Sorrow.
“Ah. This is an easier question to answer than your original query. If I know nothing else of myself, I at least know what my father called me. My name is Brokenwing.”
“That’s an odd name,” said Bigsby.
“Perhaps. But it is my one precious possession.”
Bigsby crossed his arms. “I hardly see how a name can be precious.”
“There’s one among you who does not know the name given to him by his father,” said Brokenwing. “Or, indeed, if he even had a father. Ask him how precious he would consider a name.”
Everyone looked toward Slate. Slate shrugged.
“I fear that the hours grow short,” said Brokenwing. “Our host is rather insistent that everyone arrive for dinner promptly and in appropriate attire. It will take some time to make yourselves presentable. You look like vagabonds from the sea, and smell even worse.”
“If we offend your nose, might I suggest you find a shovel and muck out the path to your front door?” said Brand.
“This is a back door,” said Brokenwing. “The other side of the island has a more pleasant approach. For now, if you continue moving forward, you’ll find the exit to the cellar. Turn right in the hall and follow it to the third staircase on the left. This will lead you to our guest quarters. By now the servants should have your rooms prepared. Hot baths are being drawn. Dinner is served at sunset. I’ll see you there.”
“But will we see you?” asked Bigsby.
Brand said, “We really don’t want to be rude, but we came here seeking answers, not dinner. Is there no chance we can see Zetetic now?”
There was no answer.
“Nothing is stopping us from going back to the ship,” said Bigsby.
“We’re staying,” said Sorrow. “There’s something here that I want more than anything else in the world right now.”
“Aye,” said Slate. “Answers.”
“Those too,” said Sorrow. “But I was talking about the hot bath.”
THE DINING HALL was lined with fireplaces large enough for a grown man to stand in. Firewood being in short supply in the Spittles, the flames were fueled by small mountains of coal. The fires did an admirable job of chasing away the chill, but the coal gave the room a rotten egg miasma.
While the hall was large enough to seat hundreds, the handful of current guests were seated at three long wooden tables arranged in a triangle so that everyone could easily see each other. Servants led Bigsby, Brand, Slate and Sorrow to seats along one side of the triangle. At the next table sat a liver-spotted old man, two empty chairs, and a person Sorrow suspected was a woman, given the shape of her face and the slenderness of her build. But she was wearing a man’s suit and had a mustache, which confused the matter somewhat.
“I don’t suppose you’re Brokenwing,” Brand asked as he eyed the old man.
The old man grinned as he scratched his bald head. “I knew my skin was getting a bit scaly in my later years, but certainly I’ve not gone that far.”
The person at the end of the table said, “I’ve told you, Vigor, there’s something reptilian about your mannerisms.”
The old man nodded. “I’ve spent seventy years studying the beasts, Equity. It’s only natural I’ve picked up a few of their traits.”
“Equity?” Sorrow asked. “You’re Equity Tremblepoint?”
“Indeed,” said the androgynous figure. “And the old reptile is Vigor. I’m glad to see that Zetetic has finally arranged for other scholars to join our little party. Though, I fear, I don’t recognize any of you from my normal circles.”
“We aren’t scholars,” said Brand. “I’m Brand Cooper. This is my brother, Bigsby, and my friends Sorrow and Slate.”
“If you aren’t scholars, what are you?” asked Vigor.
“A weaver, a warrior, a fish baron and a retired circus performer,” said Brand.
“Indeed,” said Equity, with thinly-veiled disappointment.
There was a moment of awkward silence until Vigor cleared his throat. “I can’t help but notice, my dear Sorrow, that you’re a rather impressive blend of serpent and human. I’m the word’s foremost authority on reptiles, from the common skink to the mightiest dragon. Perhaps later we can meet in private? I would find it most interesting to examine you unclothed.”
“I think not,” she said.
“She’s on to you,” said Equity.
Vigor’s wrinkled cheeks flushed red. “My dear, my curiosity is entirely scholarly.”
“He’s nothing but an old letch,” said Equity. “He propositions me five times a day.”
“I most certainly do not,” Vigor grumbled. “I wouldn’t risk you saying yes. I’ve been in your company for over a week and still haven’t decided if you’re a man or a woman.”
Sorrow had been wondering about that as well. Equity was tall for a woman, a little short for a man, and thin for either sex. Equity’s hair was cropped in a severe, mannish cut, but her or his face was feminine, with blue-green eye-shadow and lips painted crimson. Above these lips sat a thin, curly mustache that may or may not have been woven from horsehair. Equity’s throat, which might have solved the mystery with the presence of an Adam’s apple, was hidden by a high collar. The rest of Equity’s wardrobe was equally confounding, consisting of pants and a jacket of a masculine styling, but trimmed with frills of crimson lace.
“Actually,” Bigsby said, looking at Equity. “I’m a little confused myself.”
“You shall remain confused,” said Equity. “I’m all sexes, and none. My only gender is thespian. If the world knew the configuration of my genitalia, they would have prejudice in regards to the roles I play on stage. I will not allow my biology to shackle me.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t been thrown in shackles, period,” said Vigor. “I’ve never been to the Silver City, but from what I know of it, the people there don’t think kindly of deviants.”
“Then it’s wise you’ve avoided the place,” said Equity. “As for my survival in such a conservative enclave, my talent in the theatre places me beyond reproach. I’m honest enough to admit that my family fortune may also play some small role in my relative freedom. When the poor make people uncomfortable by refusing to comply with the prevailing morality, they’re imprisoned. Similar transgressive behavior among the wealthy is tolerated as mere eccentricity.”
“It must be nice to dress however you want and not worry about it,” Bigsby said.
“I wouldn’t know,” said Equity. “I worry over the finest details of my appearance with what must surely be an unhealthy obsession. Today, I changed my undergarments nine times before settling on the correct pair, despite my certainty that no one but myself will ever see the
m.”
“I just meant it would be nice to have the freedom to look however you want in public,” said Bigsby.
“We’re all born with such freedom,” said Equity. “If you lack the inspiration and audacity to live as you wish, you’ve no one to blame but yourself.”
Sorrow left her spot at the table, gliding toward Equity with her undulating motion as she retrieved from her pocket the scroll that had launched her on this journey. “I haven’t come to discuss clothing. I’m informed you’re the world’s foremost authority on dead languages.”
“I dabble,” said Equity. “My ancestors bequeathed me a voluminous collection of ancient plays. It would have been wasteful not to read them.”
Sorrow unrolled the scroll. “I found this on the Isle of Fire. I believe it may have been written by Avaris, Queen of the Weavers.”
Equity picked up the aged parchment. “Hmm. This is the old weaver’s script. I’m a bit rusty. There are no plays written by witches, I fear.”
“So you can’t read it?”
“I didn’t say that. I’ll need to investigate a few of the words, but the gist of the manuscript is obvious. ‘Dear Sisters, our struggle has been a long and difficult one, etcetera, etcetera.’”
“It’s the etcetera part I’m interested in,” said Sorrow.
Equity nodded. “Very well. It goes on to say that the great persecutor is in our possession. There’s something about the man-weapon having been hollowed and needing to be refilled. These lines here explain the wisdom of retreat. The author says she will travel to the eastern isle to regain her strength, and encourages her sisters to go into hiding.”
“Does it say which eastern isle?”
“If it did, I would have told you.”
“Does it say who or what the man-weapon is?” asked Slate.
“No, but—”
At this moment everyone grew silent, as a dragon the size of a small pony limped into the room on misshapen, bandaged limbs. Slate leapt up, sending his chair skittering across the floor. They’d come to dinner unarmed, but Slate wasted little time in changing that situation, bounding to the nearest fireplace and grabbing a heavy poker.
He spun to face the dragon, brandishing the makeshift weapon.
“I told you my appearance was alarming,” said the dragon. “Please put that down, sir, before I’m forced to defend myself.”
“Brokenwing?” Sorrow asked.
“An appropriate appellation, no?” the dragon asked, glancing toward his back where his wings were braced with wooden splints. “Vigor is doing what he can to restore my limbs.”
“We were talking to a dragon?” Bigsby said, his eyes nearly popping from his skull.
“This isn’t the first time we’ve spoken, Bigsby,” Brokenwing said. “I paid you a visit in Commonground. You knew me then as Relic.”
“You’re the guy who wanted to kill Greatshadow!” Bigsby’s brow furrowed. “But if you’re a dragon, why did you want to kill another dragon?”
“Do men not kill men?” asked Brokenwing. He kept his gaze on Slate, who still brandished the poker. “I’ll ask you again, sir, to assume a less threatening pose. Not to mention it’s unwise of you to linger so close to the flames. It unsafe to stand between me and my father.”
“Your father’s Greatshadow?” asked Sorrow.
“And you want to kill him?” Bigsby said.
“Our relationship is complicated,” said Brokenwing.
“Stand down, Slate,” said Sorrow.
“But... but... dragon,” said Slate.
“How eloquent,” said Equity.
Slate placed the poker back on its stand. “I suppose I’ve no cause to hate thee. I mean, you.”
Brokenwing removed the chair beside Vigor and drew up to the table. “After I informed our guests of the importance of promptness, I see that Walker and our host have failed to show up.”
“Perhaps I’ve been here all along.” All eyes turned to an albino face that rose above the edge of the table next to Brokenwing. It was a pygmy, who climbed up in his chair and walked across the table. He hopped to the main table, and walked to the throne that sat behind the table. “As for Zetetic, it’s possible he’s too small to be seen. I led him to the mathematical realms earlier. He insisted on pressing on alone to explore past the zero, though I warned him he might return as only a fraction of himself.”
He knelt for a closer look and shook his head. “I sense no trace of him.”
Sorrow could hold her tongue no longer. “It’s you! You’re the pygmy who came to my tent!”
Walker nodded. “Indeed. I thought I recognized you. You’ve engaged in some interesting addition and subtraction of your own.”
“You’re the one who was looking for the Destroyer?” asked Slate.
“Yes. And you’re wondering if you’re him.”
“Am I?”
Walker shrugged. “It’s been, what, seventeen years since I gave the matter any thought.”
“It’s not even a month since I met you,” said Sorrow.
Walker chuckled and shook his head. “No, my poor witch. Eternities have passed. Admittedly, not locally. But I’m seldom in one place for long. I never visit hell without losing track of years.”
“Let’s get back to the Destroyer,” said Slate. “Who was he? What was he?”
Walker shrugged. “In the grand design, we’re all destroyers. We trample unseen kingdoms of insects beneath our heels, oblivious to their hopes and dreams, their wars and gods. We destroy nature, enslaving fields to do our bidding, robbing the ocean to steal food from the mouths of sharks. Even seated alone in a room, holding our breath, we grind the past to dust by perceiving the present. Destruction is a synonym for life.”
“I suppose that’s true, but the mundane destruction of ordinary life hardly seems like the type of destruction discussed in hell,” said Sorrow.
“I assure you that ordinary life is the most popular topic of conversation there.”
“I mean, demons would probably focus more on a Destroyer that burns cities and topples empires.”
“Or one who erects cities and builds empires,” the pygmy said.
“You’re not really answering our questions,” Sorrow grumbled.
“Perhaps you’re not really asking them,” said Walker, with a broad smile.
“Pay no mind to our pale associate,” said Vigor. “He’s completely in... sane...”
Vigor’s voice trailed off as he stared at the door. A tall man with a black ponytail had just walked backward into the room, completely naked, drenched in sweat and bleeding from a thousand small scratches. The blood was smeared into patterns of lines and squiggles. Sorrow squinted. Were they all numbers?
The man walked backward to his throne and sat, turning his face toward his guests. The large red ‘D’ tattooed in the middle of his forehead burned with a faint, pulsing glow. His mouth opened. “.reverof no tnew tsuj taht rebmun lanoitarri na htiw tnemugra na otni tog I .gnitiaw uoy peek ot yrroS”
Walker laughed so hard he fell off the table.
“?ynnuf os s’tahW” asked Zetetic.
Walker wiped tears from his eyes, unable to breathe.
“?ereh klat elpoep od noitcerid hcihW .etunim a tiaW” He stood up and walked around his throne backwards. When he said down he said, “Is this better? Do you understand me now?”
“I don’t think I’ve understood anything since I got off the damned boat,” said Bigsby.
“You’re Zetetic?” asked Brand.
“I certainly hope so,” the man answered. “I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting. I’m sure you all must be hungry. Fortunately, I have the power to summon a feast from thin air merely by scratching my nose.”
He did so. Nothing happened. Sorrow blinked and suddenly all the tables were heaped with large platters of roasted birds, steaming cauldrons of soup, and bowls stacked high with fruit representing every color of the rainbow.
Bigsby stared at the platter of flaky white cod stacked
before him. “I’m glad you didn’t live in Commonground,” he said. “It’s tough enough making a living selling fish.”
Zetetic waved his hand dismissively. “Your industry is safe. I never, never repeat myself.” He grabbed a quail and tore it in two, shoving the breast into his mouth. With his mouth full, he said, “Forgive me. I’m famished.” He glanced at Walker. “Next time, we should pack a lunch. I haven’t eaten in three days.”
“We just had dinner last night,” said Vigor.
“Time moves at different rates in some realms. It can get confusing. When Walker led me through the abode of dreams undreamt, we returned nineteen minutes before departing. I met myself as I was preparing to leave. Those nineteen minutes alone with myself were very educational.” He shook his head as a wistful smile settled upon his lips. “Very educational indeed.”
“Speaking of things that are confusing,” said Brand, “there’s a painting in my room I’d like you to look at.”
“The one with me, Walker, and the Witchbreaker?”
“You’ve seen it?”
“It was in my possession for a while. It used to hang in the Monastery of the Book until I stole it. When the church caught me and killed me for a little while last year, I lost track of it.”
“Do you know why you and I appear in the painting?” Slate asked.
“I have two theories,” said Zetetic. “The first is that, at some point in the future, I’ll travel into the past. Walker’s in the painting, so I assume he comes along.”
“I’m not in the painting,” said Walker.
“It certainly looks like—”
“I assure you, I’m not in the painting. Neither are you.”
“Are you arguing for the sake of argument here?” Zetetic asked. “Because I know what I’ve seen with my own eyes.”
“Do you?” asked Walker. “Or have your eyes been deceived by a falsehood? The representation of a thing is not the thing.”