by Ren Garcia
When I suggested our five year hiatus, I never intended for you to become a hermit. I wish you to take this time that we agreed upon and use it to your advantage—live, see what’s out there. And, should your travels bring you into the arms of another, then that is something that I shall have to accept. I wished for this time, and you are blameless in whatever comes of it.
I have taken the liberty of making some inquiries for you. I certainly hope you will not be angry with me, and I hope you shall keep to an open mind and do a good effort to make friends. If only for me then, please try to enjoy yourself.
Thinking of you, as always.
Lilly
Stenstrom read the letter several times and replied. He wrote her that he would do as she asked and not go out of his way to be a hermit. If only for her, he would try to enjoy himself and make a friend or two.
What could it hurt?
* * * * *
After lunch the next day, Stenstrom retired to the library to study for a pending exam. Characteristically, he was behind on his studies, but didn’t feel overly put off—a bout of furious cramming and he should be up-to-date without undo fuss.
And, characteristically, he sat at the large table alone. Lilly’s concern for him passed through his thoughts, but he didn’t have time at present to be sociable. It was second nature to avoid strangers and sit by himself—he still really didn’t have the first clue how to go about making a friend.
But, all that had to wait because his studies were in peril. He had a selection of books piled in front of him and several holo-term cones floating about for additional research. He was so behind.
Before long, two people approached his table and stood there.
A smallish gentleman in a sumptuous gold and green coat and a skinny lady in a brown gown hovered over his table, staring at him. The woman, her brown hair pulled away from her face and laced into a long, single braid, cooled herself with a black silk fan. She wore fingerless lacy black gloves.
They stood there for what seemed like a long stretch of time.
Eventually, Stenstrom pushed his books aside and looked up, feeling his personal space invaded in a big way. “What’s this all about?” he asked.
The pair took Stenstrom’s question as an invitation, and they sat down, pulling their chairs out with a draggy, woody fuss that leapt across the open air of the library. The gentleman drew a small silver case from his coat pocket and opened it. Neatly housed within the case was a line of slim cigarettes, leafed in a natural brown color. The gentleman took one out, tapped it on his sleeve, and held it aloft, as if expecting Stenstrom to offer a light.
“I do not have a lighter, if that’s what you’re hoping for,” he said.
The woman lifted her slender hand and, with her thumb and forefinger, pinched down on the end of the cigarette. After a moment a thin trail of smoke curled through her fingers. She slowly let go, and his cigarette was fully lit.
Some sort of sorcery or hidden technology in her palm or on the pads of her fingers—Stenstrom was unimpressed. He returned to his reading.
The fellow in the gold jacket took a puff and let the smoke come out his nostrils, the delicate gray feathers of smoke rising up toward the distant ceiling, getting lost in the wood paneling.
Stenstrom didn’t indulge in smoking, but he found the soft, woodsy smell of the smoke pleasant enough.
“I don’t believe smoking’s allowed in the library,” Stenstrom quietly remarked, looking up from his books.
The gentleman smiled slightly and continued smoking, enjoying his cigarette with deliberate slowness, pull after pull.
Finally, as his coal began to fizzle, he spoke. “Are you Stenstrom, Lord of Belmont-South Tyrol?” he asked in a smooth tone.
“I could say no,” he replied, “but I’m fairly sure you already know who I am.”
“True enough. I am Bannaster, Lord of Tartan, and this lovely lady with me is Alitrix, Lady of Zama.”
The woman smiled and ripped her fan. “I am of the Hoban Zamas, sir, not the wild Onaris Zamas. That is a common misconception.” Apparently, she found that an important distinction to make plain right off the bat. She gestured with her fan as she spoke.
“Great!” Stenstrom said. “Glad to know you. Now, I have a pile of studying to catch up on, so if you don’t mind, could you two please push off?”
Lord Bannaster was unfazed. “We have an opening in an exclusive club that we belong to. You have been highly recommended, and we wish to invite you to join us this evening. I guarantee there will be rich foods, entertainments, and feats of mind and body to freeze your blood. Only the best people shall be there.”
“Really?” Stenstrom replied, uninterested.
Lady Alitrix spoke in a greasy accent. “Are you willing to place your soul at risk? Are you willing to face the Sisters’ wrath? If you have courage, if you call yourself a man, meet us at this address tonight.” She placed a small card onto the tabletop and slid it toward him. “Only those of good blood may join—that shall be your first test.”
“Test?” Stenstrom blurted out. “As in the test I’m going to fail if you both don’t clear my space.”
The two of them stood and walked away, the wooden floor of the library creaking under foot as they went.
Stenstrom thanked Creation for their departure and continued with his reading. After a bit, his curiosity got the better of him—that damn card sitting there on the table. It might as well have been a crowd of people, a flashing light, or a blaring noise, for the card troubled his thoughts and made studying impossible. He picked the card up and had a look at it.
It was blank, just an ivory white card with a faint smell of myrrh.
* * * * *
Stenstrom was annoyed and rather unhappy about his visitors in the library. Though he sat there all afternoon, he got relatively little studying done.
He returned to his apartment, tossed his things aside and sat there—as Lilly’s letter had noted, he was alone and had no friends to call on. His last visitor was his sister Lyra. It was always good seeing her, and, in fact, the bed in the guestroom where she had slept was still unmade.
He felt quite lonely all of a sudden, the fine walls of the apartment closing in around him. He longed for home, for Mother, and for Lilly. He got Lilly’s letter out and read it again.
I have taken the liberty of making some inquiries for you. I certainly hope you will not be angry with me…
He wondered—were the two bores from the library, Lord Bannaster and Lady Alitrix, responding to an inquiry Lilly had made on his behalf? They had to have been—so, in such an instance, he couldn’t be overly sore at them for disrupting his study session. They had, after a fashion, been invited into his presence.
Maybe they were friends with Lilly. Maybe they would tell her that he was a cold fish.
Or, maybe they were in association with the Woman in Gray: the Astral Traveler.
He went through his books and picked up the scented card Lady Alitrix had given him. Again, it was nothing more than a plain white card—no embossing, holo-triggers, 4-D tattoos or stamping. He had created several simple tools capable of detecting the presence of the Astral Plane. The most effective was a hollow, silver pyramid filled with certain salts and minerals that he had gathered. If the two of them had recently been to the Astral Plane, he should be able to determine that—the components within the pyramid would react and rattle about inside. He ran the smooth bottom of the pyramid over the face of the card.
Nothing happened. The card had not recently been to the Astral Plane.
Determined to be safe, he lost interest in it. He tossed it aside; he had no time for such intrigues.
He put his pyramid away. He sat down.
The clock near the door ticked. Through the window, he could hear traffic floating down the street.
He thought about it some more. Lilly asked him to try and make friends. Lilly had taken the time to reach out for him and start the process; Bannaster and Alitrix�
�an odd sort, but still.
He picked the card back up. “All right, Lilly, for you, I’ll give it a go,” he said into the air.
He looked at it—plain and white—what was he supposed to deduce from it? He considered Lord Bannaster and Lady Alitrix, two obviously gentile types who enjoyed a spot of mystery and gothic flaunt in their stuffy, blue society circle. They encoded this card with information of some sort, and he was supposed to be suitably mystified and would have to labor to discover its secret, matching his wits against theirs. It was a tawdry game he truly didn’t feel like playing, but, for Lilly . . .
He took the card into the bathroom and held it up to the bright lights, hoping something would be revealed. Nothing was.
He looked at it in the mirror, again nothing. He held it under the faucet and ran the water over it—nothing.
He thought about Lady Alitrix’s parting words:
“Only those of good blood may join—that shall be your first test.”
Blood …
Oh dear—the thought crossed his mind that he might actually have to smear blood on this card, and some cryptic lettering might react and show up. Bannaster and Alitrix seemed slightly off-putting, and they appeared to have a thirst to boldly break little rules that had no punishable consequences, as with Bannaster’s smoking in the library.
Stenstrom sighed, cleaned off his shaving razor, and cut his finger. He squeezed the small cut and allowed several drops to fall on the card.
Something appeared on the face of the card. He rubbed the blood around.
“22 Stang at 24 bells” it read.
* * * * *
Stenstrom stood there on the deserted street holding the bloody card. 22 Stang—here was the place. The building was a neo-Remnath design, being constructed of grayish sandstone in a boxy footprint, boldly windowed and framed, with a domed roof of metal and glass popping out of the center. In front of the building was a gated yard landscaped in low hedges and beds of colorful flowers.
Number 22 was placed at the wooded end of a quiet side street named “Stang,” just off the main drag in downtown Bern, about twenty minutes walk from the university. Surrounding the street on all sides were the capped domes and tall, squarish buildings of Bern, lit up in the evening air. An orderly string of quiet residences lined the street, and, though there was a large bustle of activity at the mouth of the street (traffic coming and going, blinking lights from the shops, people walking), its tree-lined lengthy interior was rather sleepy.
He was dressed in his best: a fine gray Tyrol coat and shirt, black knee britches, and his beloved, Tyrol boots shined to perfection. Tyrol boots sometimes caused a stir in Bern for they, at first glance, looked rather like Hala ranchers’ boots. They had a very elongated toe area and always had a mix of leather and metal, the finest using generous amounts of silver, gold and copper at the ankle and the tip. They looked like boots from a suit of armor.
The rustic stocks of his duel NTH pistols stuck out of his sash, and the MARZABLE was hidden, untraceable somewhere in the folds of his clothing. As usual, he was hatless, his wavy, black Belmont hair combed and cut short.
Also hidden in his coat was a special white Holystone—one that would warn him should any Astral travelers become present.
He grappled with his thoughts a moment and truly wished to be elsewhere. Again, Lilly won out—he imagined the door to 22 Stang swinging open and lovely Lilly coming out, bounding down the steps in her festive gown and parasol to great him. He went through the gate, climbed the marble stairs, and tried the main door.
It was locked. He banged on it with his fist.
After a minute or so, the door unlatched and slowly swung inward. A thin man in servant’s attire stood within. He gazed at Stenstrom impassively. “Do you have your invitation?”
Invitation? Stenstrom didn’t have an invitation—only this bloody card. He held it out. The servant took it and opened the door wide. “If you please,” he said, motioning for Stenstrom to enter.
He walked in. The interior of the building was well appointed, scented in the savory aroma of expensive foods and knee-deep in idle chatter. Fine lengths of polished granite and marble lined the floors and the walls. Rich fabrics draped the walls, and vast hangings decorated quiet sitting rooms. Young people, all dressed in their best, roamed about, holding drinks and smoking scented cigarettes. They turned and looked at Stenstrom as he passed, neither approving of his presence or disapproving.
“May I check your weapons, sir?” the servant asked. “They shall be well cared for and returned to you as the evening concludes. It is a House rule. I shall even request our attendants polish and clean them for you.”
Stenstrom pulled the NTHs out of his sash, pocketed the cinnabar strikers to prevent an accidental misfire, and handed them over.
“Thank you, sir. Do you have anything else?”
“No,” he lied, knowing full well he had his MARZABLE hidden in his coat.
The servant placed the NTHs on a small table and produced a scanner. “May I? Again, it is a matter of House procedure.”
Stenstrom raised his arms and the servant waved the scanner about his chest and legs. He knew the scanner could never locate the mystical MARZABLE.
The servant seemed satisfied and put the scanner away. “This way, please,” he said. Stenstrom followed him through a maze of sitting rooms and luxurious halls. A steady stream of foods and drinks came and went from the kitchens as they walked deeper into the building.
Stenstrom knew what this was: an exclusive club—a den of the rich. His mother and father had belonged to such clubs at various times. It was just a place to pay extravagant dues and sit with other rich people, talking about nothing and feeling superior.
The servant led Stenstrom away from the main area to a large, oaken door carved with some type of sunburst design. He opened it with a creak, and motioned for Stenstrom to enter.
At the end of a short, dark corridor was a circular room about sixty feet in circumference, domed, about three stories high. The curving walls were painted a sooty black and were lined all around with books and various arcane decorations. The walls were so black and lusterless, in fact, that it looked as if a fire had raged in the room at some point. Above, two evenly-spaced wooden catwalks ringed the room and, beyond that, the glass dome at the top admitted the starlight outside. Shadowy hints of telescopes and other astronomical equipment were placed all around the dome. He’d seen the dome from outside—this must be the very center of the building. At floor level, axes and halberds, morning stars, and pikes of various sizes hung on the walls, giving the place a torture-chamber sort of feel. There was a hint of spiced incense floating about, and its woody smell quickly became unpleasant in his nostrils. The floor was a smooth green marble with a golden design hammered into the center.
It was an odd design. He looked at it further as he stepped in.
It was a Xaphan symbol.
Four people sat spaced out along the perimeter of the wall. They sat in the shadows in large, throne-like gothic chairs—two gentlemen and two ladies.
He noticed all four were wearing black from tip to top: black coats, black gowns, black shirts, black shoes. And, not only that, they had painted their faces and hands black so that the only thing that stood out on them was their well-cared for teeth and their eyes—blues, browns and greens on beds of white.
One of them spoke. “Good evening, Lord Belmont. This is our sanctum sanctorum—the heart of our club. Here you soul is at risk.”
“Is it?” Stenstrom replied.
“As you have probably guessed, this is an exclusive club. The best of everything can be had here … should you pass muster.”
“Here, we do things abhorrent to the Sisterhood,” someone else said. “Here, we openly mock them, and deliberately violate their tenets. We are not afraid. Here we do what we will. Here, we are free.”
“I see.”
“We know your mother’s House of Tyrol is on the Sisters’ list, for sorcer
y. We find favor with that. That makes you of interest to us. We would, if you pass our tests, like you to join our club. It is an exclusive offer, and not presented to many.”
Stenstrom looked around. “No thanks. I’ll have a pass.”
One of the women smiled, her white teeth lighting up as if back-lit. “Are you afraid of the Sisters? Are you afraid for your soul?” Her accent was heavy and slightly unpleasant.
He thought of the Sisters, coming to him, their fingers digging into his flesh, their legs around him …
“I have nothing for or against the Sisters,” he said. “And there is nothing here that endangers my soul. This is a place of spoiled indulgence and fathers’ wealth ill-spent to entertain wayward children.”
The woman laughed. “Allow us to put your courage to the test.” She produced a black box which she placed on the floor. With a flick of her wrist, the box slid across the floor on its own accord and stopped a few feet in front of him.
The box gave a shudder. He sensed danger and backed up a step or two.
The box lid opened, and a black leg popped out, padded and spider-like, followed by a second, then a third. Each leg was quite a bit larger than the box that had been confining it.
Soon, ten black legs waved in the air, followed by a hairy bloated body and glittering, jewel-like eyes.
“Have you ever been to Onaris, Lord Stenstrom?” the woman asked, watching the creature emerge from the box. “If you have, then you might have encountered one of these before—it’s a demonweb, and I assure you it is quite poisonous and rather bad-tempered.”
Stenstrom looked at it with horror: huge, with a leg span nearing four feet and a belly sac full of poison.
“I thought you said you were from Hoban,” he said to the woman, who was clearly Lady Alitrix from the library. She cocked her head and gave a slight titter. She raised her hand again and, either through TK, some arcane method, or cleverly hidden technology, began pushing the huge demonweb toward him without touching it.