Test of Metal

by Matthew Stover

  “Crap, I hope so.”

  And then I realized what Sharuum had actually just said. I looked up at her, and my chest felt as though it were being crushed within an invisible fist. “You said … Did I hear you correctly? Did you just say that Crucius suggested you should ask me?”

  She smiled faintly, and this motion of her cheeks was enough to spill tears down her face. “He didn’t mention you by name, child.”

  “Wait … wait,” I said. I squeezed shut my eyes and tried to massage ideas into my brain through the outside. Even thinking clearly about this riddle was impossible for me—it was too entirely alien. I understood the principle perfectly—surface paradox reveals a deeper answer—but it pointed to this answer in a language I simply could not decipher. Riddles? Metaphors? Epigrams and aphorisms? I am an artificer. A mechanist. I deal in fact. My business is force and reaction, torque and shear, mass and energy—what can be measured, calculated, and designed to work in the real world. I have entirely the wrong sort of mind for this kind of …

  Oh.

  “Wait,” I repeated. “Wait—Crucius. He was a clockworker as well as a mechanist, yes?”

  Sharuum said, “He had many gifts. Clockworking was among them.”

  “Then it is … at least conceivable … that he could have looked forward through time and seen us standing here, right?”

  Baltrice was starting to look worried. “What are you talking about?”

  “Analysis,” I said breathlessly. “Wait.… It breaks down perfectly.…”

  “This is, ah, I mean, if I may …?” Renn said. “Clockworking is, after all, my specialty.”

  “You want to help? Help me?” I said. “Who are you, and what have you done with Silas Renn?”

  “I’m not a monster,” he said in a tone that clearly implied the phrase unlike you. “The direction of time is actually irrelevant to the function of magic. It’s equally probable that Crucius, as a clockworker, could have looked backward from the future and advised his previous self to confide his message to the Grand Hegemon.”

  “A nonpertinent distinction,” I said to Sharuum. “In either case, he could have known I would be the one to whom you would tell these things. In fact, there is a specific flow of alternatives—I could draw a chart.…”

  “Tezzeret,” Baltrice said, “sooner or later somebody’s gonna worry about how long we’ve been up here. Worries like that can lead to bloodshed.”

  I took her meaning. “All right. Specifically: either these messages were intended to be passed to me, or to someone else, right?”

  “The latter is more likely,” Renn muttered sourly, but he was absolutely right, and I said so.

  “Yes. I am one man. The spectrum of alternatives, in terms of statistical probability, makes the likelihood of me being the One in Question infinitesimal—but that’s irrelevant to the problem. If I am not the One, we have no useful solution; whatever we try can’t be expected to succeed. But if I am the One in Question …”

  “I get it,” Baltrice said, her eyes wide. “If it’s you, then he knew it would be you—and the questions would be ones he knows you can answer.”

  “Exactly. Granted that, we arrive at another alternative: either Crucius wanted or expected me—us—to find him, or he didn’t. If he didn’t, then the questions are deceptions to lead us in the wrong direction … but if he did?”

  “Tezzeret,” Sharuum said seriously, “listen to me and heed my word now. If you find Crucius—if you can bring him to me, or me to him, if even for a heartbeat, all that I have is yours. Everything. My treasure, my power, my subjects, my realm. Yours, for one more heartbeat beside my beloved.”

  My brain whirling, I was barely paying attention. Where do you seek for what can’t be found?

  When one is made of glass, everything looks like a stone.

  “If Crucius the Mad wants to be found, and if he hoped I might be the one to find him,” I said, astonished at myself for this unexpected conviction, “I know exactly where to start looking.”

  TEZZERET

  A LONG AND WINDING ROAD, WITH ZOMBIES

  The only good news in my forescout mirror was that we had finally reached our destination. The rest of the news was that our destination was surrounded by zombies.

  A lot of zombies.

  Someone had gotten here first.

  A simple exertion of will twisted the levitation fields of our gravity sleds and dropped them both to the white sand. The gravity sleds had proven to be almost ridiculously useful up till now. Having designed and constructed them myself, I could take a certain pride in how well they had performed. Both were virtually pure etherium, representing the entire contribution of the Grand Hegemon to this expedition—her personal reserve of etherium, almost seventy pounds. The variable levitation magics—to provide motive power in addition to keeping them aloft—were quite standard, even pedestrian; the particular elegance on which I prided myself lay in the shimmering blue variable energy screens that had not only protected us from wind and sun, but also shielded the sleds themselves from the incredibly abrasive winds of the Glass Dunes, not to mention that the sleds themselves had only two moving parts.

  I had hoped to ride them right up to the entrance of the Labyrinth, but clearly that was not to be. It would be a shame to disassemble them, but there was no help for it. Given this new development, I knew I’d need the etherium.

  We might have to fight.

  “What’s wrong?” Baltrice’s voice came to my mind just slightly muffled by the anti-grit screen I had tweaked into her earpiece—a smaller and lower-powered version of the screens that protected the gravity sleds. Channeling the extra magics had forced me to almost quadruple the size of the earpiece and to build in a support band that Baltrice wore around her head. Not fashionable, perhaps, but it would keep her alive.

  I would have preferred to reserve that etherium for other uses, but she was unwilling to use direct mind-to-mind communication, and considering for whom she worked, I couldn’t blame her. “There a problem?”

  Zombies ahead, I sent, to keep Doc out of it, but he’d already seen what I had in the mirror. “Zombies?” Doc said. “Are you kiddin’ me? You’re worried about zombies?”

  “Can you count?”

  “Sure—two, four, eighteen, carry the twelve—urk. Hot festering crap! There’s like a million—uh, a million six, give or take a couple thousand.”

  “My estimate was a million two, but you have better eyes—eye—for this sort of thing, even though you’re using mine. We both could be off by as much as a million, or even several,” I said, “because there’s no way to tell how many are already inside.”

  Baltrice dismounted her sled and walked over. She reached up to pull the earpiece. I said, “Leave it.”

  “What in the hells for?” she said with a skeptical squint. “I hear you fine.”

  “Feel that breeze? Remember what I told you about the sand?”

  “Tezzeret, I fart harder than this breeze.”

  “Well, don’t do it in my direction, then. If you remove the earpiece, it will deactivate your anti-grit screen. The glass powder on that breeze will instantly begin to abrade your corneas, which will not only progressively blind you, but it will hurt. A lot. And there is a very long vedalken word that I’m not going to inflict on you, which is the specific term for the permanently disabling lung damage caused by breathing the powdered glass in the desert. The powdered glass is why we call it the Glass Desert.”

  “Aw, hells, Tezzeret, I know. You already told me eight times. It’s only—well, you know. Where I’m from, the stuff that’ll kill you is big and scary and makes loud noises and crap. This dying-from-just-how-the-place-is gunk just seems all wrong.”

  “It may be. But there’s nothing you or I can do to make it right. Are you with me?”

  “If I weren’t, I’d be blind and coughing, right?” She nodded toward the progressively higher rides of the dunes ahead. “What’s the deal on your zombies out there?”


  “They don’t have to breathe, and they don’t need eyes. And there’re a lot of them.”

  She shrugged. “Zombies burn.”

  “Indeed they do, but that’s not the real issue. What matters is—well, to talk about it is pointless. I can show you from the top of that dune.”

  “All right, juice up the sleds and—”

  “No more sleds. We brought them too close to the Labyrinth as it is. We may have alerted those ahead.”

  “And so we rode them this far why?”

  I shook my head. “In the Glass Desert, accurate navigation is impossible. There are no maps, and there is no reliable measure of distance. A two-mile hike may take you ten miles from your starting point, or one, or leave you farther from your destination than when you began.”

  “That’s why your scout thingies, right?”

  “Exactly. And that scout thingie,” I said, nodding toward a metallic sunflash at the top of the farther dune, “is the last of them. We won’t need more.”

  She frowned. “Don’t much like the sound of that.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Doc chimed in.

  “You won’t like the look of it, either.”

  The Crystal Labyrinth stands at the center of a vast, deep bowl of sand known as the Netherglass, some 20 miles across. Today, that is; the dimensions of the Netherglass are as variable as any other distance in the Glass Desert. I am given to understand that the Netherglass never shrinks below a fixed minimum of four miles across—but only because to do so would make it impinge upon the Labyrinth itself.

  Even from almost 13 miles away, the Crystal Labyrinth is of a wholly astonishing appearance. Its walls and roofs are white as milk quartz, with no stain or sully to be seen, perhaps because constant abrasion by the scouring winds of the desert erode and erase all substances that might otherwise darken it. The Labyrinth proper is a structure of twelve immense rectangular buildings, set precisely in a great ring about three miles across.

  It is said the dimensions of the Crystal Labyrinth are the only constants in all the Glass Desert.

  Each of the great structures is in fact a vast hall of twelve stories, each story containing one hundred rooms, with each room having from two to twelve doors. Six of the stories of each great hall are above ground, and six are subterranean, directly below the upper. The connections between the buildings are said to exist beyond normal space. There are thresholds within the Labyrinth that might connect the lowest corner of one hall with the uppermost of one at the opposite end—and if you turn back, often you will not return to the same chamber you left.

  All I could uncover that described the interior of the Crystal Labyrinth was recorded by one Faltus Mack, the sole survivor of a quite large and well-funded expeditionary party some thirteen years before. His account speaks of walls, floors, and ceilings of glass, some transparent as air, some opaque as stone; of blazons and guide paths disappearing behind him as soon as he would quit a chamber; of walls that seemed to shift when he was not looking—though he never saw one move—leaving him unable to determine whether any room was in fact one his party had visited before, or a room of similar configuration wholly elsewhere. He also speaks of encountering other seekers, unfamiliar pilgrims, some of races unknown to Esper, speaking languages that cannot be transcribed in our alphabet. He speaks of meeting members of his own party, who were alive though he knew them to be dead, and on one occasion actually encountering himself, or some phantasmic doppelganger that claimed to be he, filthy, wild of hair, clothed in rotting rags, and speaking only disordered fragments of sentences. By the time Faltus Mack finally escaped, he was entirely mad, of course, but mere madness is not sufficient to impeach his account.

  When I shared this information with Baltrice before our departure from Vectis, she became a bit dubious about our propects. “This is your idea of a vacation spot?”

  “Think about the riddles,” I said. “ ‘When one is made of glass, everything looks like a stone,’ and ‘Where do you seek what cannot be found?’ The Labyrinth is literally the only place on all of Esper that Sharuum and her agents can never search; no one has ever reached the center and returned to the outside world. And, not to grind too fine an edge on it, it’s made of glass.”

  “Oh, this just keeps getting better. You are one literal-minded sonofabitch, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said, “and we must operate under the assumption that Crucius knew this when he laid the trail.”

  “How do you know it’s not just a practical joke? Or, like, demented rambling? I mean, come on, we’re talking about a sphinx, right? A crazy sphinx. Did you ever hear the joke about the sphinx who was so crazy that other sphinxes noticed?”

  “According to Sharuum herself,” I said, “there is a sphinx of unimaginable power at the heart of the Labyrinth. She named him Kemuel the Hidden One, and she believes he is the oldest living creature on Esper. She is uncertain if this Kemuel reached the center by navigating the Labyrinth, or if it might have been originally built around him.”

  “How nutty does this crap have to get before you just give up?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m not sure I have any idea what nutty is anymore.”

  “Got a mirror?”

  I conceded the point. “You don’t have to go.”

  “Yeah, sure. Then I’d have nothing to do but hang out and watch my boss’s hideous doom and crap. Include me out on that one, huh?”

  “You are unexpectedly tender of heart.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t tell anybody.”

  “There is also this: the Crystal Labyrinth is by far the oldest structure on all of Esper. Descriptions of its exterior are among the earliest writings of the vedalken culture, which is vastly more ancient than the human. If Faltus Mack is to be believed, however, the Labyrinth behaves like a machine.”

  “A machine to do what?”

  I shook my head. “I can’t say. Kill people who get lost, certainly—but there’s no way to know if that is a designed function or if it is merely ancillary, like a side effect. This, however, is certain: If one wishes to deter intruders, one does not hide at the center of a maze. One does not build a maze at all.”

  “What, now you’re thinking Crucius built the Labyrinth?”

  “I am reserving judgment on that; I can only say that it is not impossible. I am certain that whoever did build it is a mechanist whose boots I am not fit to wipe.” I shook my head helplessly. “I don’t even have the words for how far beyond me—beyond anyone—the Labyrinth is. Crucius is the only being I can think of who’d even come up with the concept.”

  “Woo. Crap. Damn, Tezzeret,” she said, “all these years I’ve been dead-bang positive that the stars’d burn out before I ever caught you being humble.”

  “It’s not an attitude I cultivate.”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “Myself as well. It’s Crucius. He’s like … staring into an infinite abyss. Anything you can imagine might be in there, and what’s actually in there you probably can’t imagine.”

  “How powerful is he?”

  I shrugged. “How bright is the sun?”

  “Oh, sure. Sure. One hour with a nice-lookin’ sphinx and you’re all up in their gnomic utterance crap. Do you even know how old he is?”

  “I cannot venture a guess that would have meaning.”

  “Aw, come on, for crap’s sake, Tezzeret, you know how old Nicol festering Bolas is!”

  “Time and age are not the same for a clockworker as for others. Even Planeswalkers. It’s at least conceivable that when Crucius decided he needed a Labyrinth, he clockworked his way back to pre-vedalken days. That way he could build it without fear of interruption.”

  “Wait,” Baltrice said, massaging her forehead with one hand. “You’re saying—wait, seriously? Okay. So twenty-thirty years ago, whatever, Crucius decides to disappear, so he figures to go back to like the beginning of time to build himself a place to hide? So that it’ll already be there when he needs it in ten tho
usand years or whatever?”

  “Possibly. It’s also possible that he built it because he knew that he would one day disappear, and he wished to leave a trail to lead someone—we’re assuming me, or someone like me—to wherever it is he has disappeared to.”

  “So, now wait again—now you’re saying that the Labyrinth isn’t intended to keep people out?”

  “Labyrinth is not a fancy word for maze. They are two different things. A maze is a puzzle path, a set of cognitive traps intended, for entertainment or some darker purpose, to trick or baffle those who try to navigate it, and prevent their success. A labyrinth is supposed to be solved. Many classical labyrinths have only a single path, and many have no walls at all. Treading a labyrinth from entrance to center is intended to affect those who do so in specific ways—usually to produce some variety of meditative or contemplative state, but sometimes for other uses. There is a whole subspecialty of magic devoted to the effects of following esoteric pathways.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of them. Whackos. All whackos. You can only follow so many multidimensional loops before your brain goes loopy too.”

  “Becoming loopy, as you say, is actually the point,” I said. “The key to understanding a labyrinth is to recognize that who you will be when you reach the center is not who you were when you set out. In other words, the Crystal Labyrinth is not intended to keep anyone out, but in order to reach the center, you must transform yourself into the person the designer wants you to be.”

  “What, like a giant self-help book? Building a Better You in Only Fourteen Thousand Rooms?”

  “I prefer to think of it as an entry code, or an elaborate lock. To reach the center, instead of merely knowing a password, you must be the password. The Labyrinth itself machines you into a key to turn its own particular lock.”

  “You know, there’s a point where piling on more education just makes you soft in the head.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I am living proof of it.”

  Once we had labored up the long slope of soft powdered sand to the top of the dune, she could see what I meant—for perhaps a mile around the Crystal Labyrinth, the desert could not be seen through the solid press of zombies. She signified her understanding with a low whistle and a breathy, “Damn …”