Sands of the Solar Empire (The Belmont Saga)

by Ren Garcia

  Stenstrom knelt down and put his head up Lady Miranda’s skirt. “The baggage, except for the chest, should be unlocked. Go ahead and open them—don’t be afraid, it’s me they want, not you.”

  “Will they not see you?”

  “Not like this.”

  Stenstrom could hear Lady Miranda opening the trunks, her smooth legs flexing slightly as she worked. Her skin smelled of soaps and powders.

  “I don’t see anything,” she said with a hint of disappointment.

  However, there was no question they were there in the room with them at that moment, coming out of the baggage—he could feel it. “You’re not looking correctly. Look to the shadows. Forget the obvious and mundane; see the improbable and the half-formed around you and you will notice things few have ever seen.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said, rocking back and forth.

  “Relax, close your eyes, and then open them—truly open them.”

  She stiffened up a little. Then: “Oh, what is this? I see them! I see them! They appear rather ghastly. Are they evil?”

  “No. No, they are not. They simply appear rather odd. Do you have all the trunks open?”

  “Yes, all except for the wooden chest. It’s locked.”

  “How many are there?”

  Lady Miranda counted. “Twenty-six. They seem to be sniffing about.”

  “Let them sniff their fill. They will then present themselves to you. When they do, simply tell them to go away, and they will. It’s me they want, not you, and they cannot detect me clothed in your scent.”

  Lady Miranda then did something he never would have expected. She suddenly crossed her legs, trapping his head between her thighs, her muscles cabling up in a taut manner. His ears muffled, he could vaguely hear her saying “Go away. Do go away, please.”

  She wrenched up the pressure, and then finally released him. He came rolling out of her skirt, face red gasping for air, the Black Maidens gone. Lady Miranda didn’t say a word. Instead, she fell on him, tearing at his clothes, grabbing his hands and moving them to rather private places on her person. Apparently, her sexual desires and her intellectual curiosities were strongly linked together—as discovering new things deeply aroused her.

  They had a rather torrid night, Stenstrom taking her several times, discovering for himself that she had a rather sadistic side to her, as he found himself scratched and rather bloody as the night wore on. Her voice changed. She uttered obscenities as they had sex. She performed fellatio upon him and demanded he take her from the rear. She then demanded lengthy cunnilingus.

  In the morning, she plied him with questions. She wanted to begin research on a new book uncovering the hidden truths of the world—Black Maidens and sorcery chief among them. She insisted he check out of the inn and come with her, to her home on the hill north of the city. She said she was alone, a widow, and would be glad to have him. “Think of the things we could do for each other … and to each other …” she said.

  He promised he would consider it and sent her on her way, she first securing his various Com, holo-mon and holo-mail account information, and a flurry of promises that he visit her soon, for research … and other things.

  At last, he was alone with his baggage. The important one, though, his chest of books, was still locked—he’d forgotten all about that one. Lady Miranda couldn’t open it.

  He grabbed his NTHs and cocked them. He touched the surface of the chest, for he truly didn’t want to hurt a Black Maiden. They were kind and benevolent, and though they were a tad gaunt, they were a glad presence. His sister Nylar knew how to tickle them and make them laugh. It wasn’t their fault Mother had sent them after him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said as he pointed and fired. The throbbing mass of green energy passed through the wooden lid of the chest and didn’t come out the other side. He took a deep breath and unlocked the chest, revealing the cache of books within.

  There was no indication that anything had been in the chest waiting for him—perhaps it had been empty after all. He kept that thought with him as he unloaded his books. He vowed he would never point his NTHs at a Black Maiden, ever. He would run, he’d confound and divert them, but not kill. They didn’t deserve that.

  Finally, with his arcane library in hand, he set up a small apothecary in his room. He bought brass pots, tripods to hang them on, flame burners, mortars and pestles, an assortment of knives, tongs and other required utensils, and a laboratory’s worth of salts, chemicals, flowers, herbs and metals. He also bought bags of plaster for Holystones.

  The first thing he did was create a bolabung, which was a small bit of wormwood infused with a few chemicals. Bolabungs were normally used to shield one’s mind from unwanted telepathy, but with a little modification, they could protect one from a variety of things—Black Maidens included. He infused the bolabung with a healthy amount of Lady Miranda’s scent (he acquired a fair amount of it during their previous night together), strung it on a leather cord, and put it round his neck. The bolabung would require refreshing. Cooking down various oils and bees wax, he made a salve of her scent, strong and odorous, which he could smear on the bolabung every day.

  Thus equipped, he began making Holystones.

  Holystones were marvels of chemical design, and could be made to perform any number of useful, one-time functions. They took a skilled hand and a learned mind to properly make them—Mother had spent three years teaching their lore to him and his sisters. He prepared the plaster and cast them into hollow spheres, not too thin, not too thick, and readied them for filling.

  Some of the more basic ones were quite easy to create:

  Yellow: Creates a soft light equal to four or five candle power. Duration: 1 hour.

  Ingredients: Tungsten, Salt (sodium chromate)

  Red (rose): Creates a hot, energetic fire and shall burn until chemicals are used up.

  Ingredients: Hydrogen-infused gel, kerosene, flint;

  Green: Creates an expanding, sticky substance similar in appearance to a spider’s web.

  Ingredients: Titanium, Bromine, Mercury, Silk and Whisperwill (a flowering plant)

  Blue: Creates a powerful Vitriolic acid.

  Ingredients: Sulfur, Pyrite, Manganese and water.

  Those Holystones were nice to have and fairly easy to make. In one afternoon of crushing and stirring and heating over a fire, he had quite a few of them ready to go. Then he set to work to the more advanced ones—ones that could aid him in the detection and defeating of demons and invisible spirits. Those were the ones he needed most:

  Purple: Oscillates or “Rumbles” in the presence of invisible creatures.

  Ingredients: Cadmium, iron, Henbane (a flowering plant), Yew

  Black: Detects mystical objects or persons.

  Ingredients: Hornblende, antimony, zinc, Monks Hood (a flowering plant), beryl (crushed), natron, bismuth, Hardaway (a flowering plant), quartz, and obsidian

  Pink: Renders those who touch it for too long unconscious.

  Ingredients: morganite, carbuncle (garnet), gypsum-weed, beeswax, rose oil, peyote, nightshade berry

  White: Prevents the body from going into shock.

  Ingredients: granite (crushed), manganese, rhodium, and menthol.

  The pink ones, or “Pinkies,” were difficult to get used to, as in handling them he could just as easily be incapacitated as the person he was planning to use it on. During his training, he had gotten used to its effects to the point where he could hold one for an extended length of time and not be addled. His sister Virginia, for all her various failings, was a champion Pinky holder, easily able to out-last both him and Lyra back-to-back.

  He purchased several silver candlesticks and ground them down a little, ensuring they were perfectly level. He then placed a Purple and Black Holystone on the top of the stick where a candle would normally go. If the stones started rumbling, or if they jumped off the stick and began rolling on the floor, he would have immediate warning. Those, along with his Astral Plane detecto
rs and his bolabung, should keep him reasonably safe.

  Now he could relax a little and continue his business.

  He now felt he had more than enough false papers and fake tenure to sustain him. The matter of officiating a public financial deal was a bit more challenging, as he needed witnesses.

  A visit to one of the drop-down waterfront bars in Bezzel easily corrected that problem. He slid up to the bar one noisy evening, nursed a watered-down bottle of spirits, and kept a sharp ear. Before long, he eavesdropped on two toughs in great need of arbitration.

  “Garh, Morbagg, you Xaphan-spawn! I rolls sevens, sevens!” a painted-over merchant-man spat, pointing his crooked finger at a pair of grubby dice. “Ye’ owes me the lot and more!”

  The man sitting across the table begged to differ. “Ye’ rolls sixes, Nosspin. See, three e’ four equals six. Now hand over the till, lest I feels inclined to char-broil yer lungs!”

  Stenstrom pulled a chair and sat down. Two pairs of blood-shot eyes turned to him. “Gentlemen,” he said. “Well met. I am Stenstrom, Lord of Belmont-South Tyrol, and I couldn’t help but overhear your small financial dispute. I would like to offer my services and assist you through this unsettling situation as a fair and impartial arbitrator. What do you say?”

  “I says ye’ best be moving’ along, ‘squire, les you be findin’ these dice knockin’ about inside yer body.”

  “Yeh’,” Nosspin said, “an’ you’ll not have eaten them, either.” The two men laughed in a phlegmy fashion.

  Stenstrom was unfazed. “Yes, well, I think we can clear this up pretty fast, gentlemen. You see, Sir Morbagg, four plus three indeed equals seven, as currently displayed by these dice here. However, these dice appear to be rigged to unfairly land on seven a disproportionately high percentage of the time, and, therefore, the roll is invalid.”

  “Yo’ sayin I’m rolling loaded dice, Slime-hauler!” Nosspin shouted.

  “Yes, I am. My judgment in this matter, therefore, is swift. This roll is invalid, as are any previous rolls using said loaded dice, and you two shall receive all payouts back and let the matter be forgotten. The dice in question shall be impounded or replaced with fair set of dice with all speed. I additionally rule that you two shall be entitled to a small reimbursement equaling four thousand sesterces each for your inconvenience.”

  Stenstrom plopped two small moneybags down on the table.

  He smiled. “There, that was easy. Now, I require that you two follow me down the street to the office of Notary Gissel, where you shall sign a sworn affidavit that I, Stenstrom, Lord of Belmont-South Tyrol, fairly and promptly arbitrated this matter in a public place.”

  The two grubby men gawked at him a moment. They suddenly drew a set of dirty blades. “Get out o’ town, Wench-wanker!”

  A massive brawl broke out in the bar. Courtesans screamed, things flew out the windows.

  Sometime later, a rumpled Morbagg and bloodied Nosspin arrived at the office of Notary Gissel and signed, at gun-point, the sworn affidavit Stenstrom had asked for.

  He was now all set.

  22 The Quest for IBBAANA

  His next stop was to join the IBBAANA brotherhood. The problem was that there was not an IBBAANA office anywhere in Bezzel, or in the whole of Calvert for that matter. The nearest office was in the Remnath, city of Mercia, about twenty-five hundred miles to the west. Apparently, one had to present oneself in person to join.

  Armed with his dubious stack of notarized papers and phony affidavits, Stenstrom made his way to the station.

  The purple Holystone hidden in his coat rumbled so hard in its pocket he thought he might go into palpitations. The station was blanketed with invisible entities, and he caught glimpse of gaunt maidens in black occasionally lifting their heads and sniffing the air.

  If he went into the station, he would be overwhelmed—even his bolabung would not protect him from them all. Dragging his baggage, he headed north and wandered into Bezzel’s small town square. He needed to think; he needed a plan. He thought about running to Lady Miranda, but quickly thought better of it. She was becoming obsessive and rather demanding as of late, and was starting to treat him like a lowly husband. She might not be inclined to let him go should he enlist her for help. He needed something else—something his mother wouldn’t have expected and pre-saturated with Maidens.

  An opportunity soon presented itself. He saw a modest caravan of ten weather-beaten float wagons covered with faded white tarpaulins. The tarpaulins were decorated with a series of red and green symbols and squiggles, highlighted in gold. Stenstrom easily recognized the designs—he’d seen them all his life adorning the old Merian ruins dotting his manor.

  It was a caravan of Pilgrims of Merian. The Merians were sect of religious zealots preaching non-approved Elder lore. They roamed the countryside of Kana delivering good news, that the Elders were not gone and that all one had to do was look up into the sky to see them. They were tolerated at best, jeered and censured by the Sisters at worst.

  They were sitting out in front of their caravan dressed in their usual: loose-fitting, white smock-like garments that went down to their knees. Over that, they wore longer green robes sleeved in gold cloth. They wore numerous thin necklaces of wooden red and green beads. The women all had their long hair held up in elaborate combs, while the men’s long hair went down unkempt past their shoulders. They were all either shoeless or shod in simple sandals.

  They’d set up several modest stands before their wagons and were attempting to sell hand-crafted trinkets and bolts of homespun cloth to the masses assembled in front to gawk at them.

  As per usual wherever they went, the Merians were getting laughed at, and, worse, the uncouth of Bezzel were turning out in force to harass and torment them.

  “You want to sell something, missy—I’ll pay for something of yours all right …” a lout said.

  “I’ll buy the lot of you, and make you into fine street-walkers … You men too …”

  The various people in the crowd who appeared to want to buy some of the Merian’s wares were being overwhelmed by the hecklers and the uncouth gropers.

  One burly man strode forward and seized one of the Merian females by the cheek. “Lemme’ have a look at you, missy!”

  She struggled. “Please … sir …” she stammered, trying to pull away.

  “Hold still!” he yelled, knocking her little stand aside, scattering her trinkets.

  None of the Merian men and nobody in the crowd seemed to want to help her as she struggled.

  “Now, let’s see yer’ goods!” the man yelled as he began ripping her clothes.

  He’d seen enough. Stenstrom pushed through the crowd. “Take your hands off her!” he said with authority.

  The man gave him a quick look, snorted, and returned to what he was doing. Stenstrom produced a pink Holystone in a blur and casually dropped it down his shirt. Immediately, the lout went limp and fell to the ground.

  Everybody turned to Stenstrom.

  “He killed Gasser!” someone yelled. “Get him!” A dirty fellow drew a Hertamer energy gun out of his coat.

  Stenstrom drew his NTH and stuck the iron muzzle in the man’s face. He cocked the hammer. “Care to join him?” he asked.

  Another man raised his fists and rushed Stenstrom from behind. In a moment he was webbed up solid with a green Holystone.

  With that, the crowd backed up and gave Stenstrom space.

  “But he killed Gasser!” the first man protested. “Where’s the justice?” Most in the crowd appeared unsympathetic.

  “He’s not dead, just incapacitated,” Stenstrom said. “Take him and clean him up, will you, and make sure he gets a shower with plenty of lye to defeat his stench.”

  The man began dragging the fallen Gasser and the webbed-up fellow away in stages, moving one for a time, and then the other. “We’re going to be looking for you, mate—mark my words! You’ll be seein’ us again!”

  “Grand, I’ll be happy to serve you up the
same a second time.”

  Stenstrom turned and helped the Merian woman right her table and gather her scattered trinkets. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

  “Yes, yes, I think so.”

  “Why did none of your group help out just now? That man could have hurt you.”

  She gazed at him, her eyes serene. “Our Star would not have allowed him to harm me.”

  “But, had I not been here, you might have been …”

  “But, you were here. The Star sent you to me, and I was not harmed.”

  Stenstrom couldn’t really argue with the logic and hope to get anywhere. “May I ask—what are you doing in Calvert? Not a place I’d expect to see a band of Merians.”

  The rest of the Merians gathered around. “Several of our wagons are in need of repairs,” she said. “We stopped here to try and raise money to have them properly serviced.”

  “In Calvert? Nobody has money in Calvert.”

  “Our Star will provide. We must simply have faith. If we do that, then we shall be provided for.”

  He checked his coat—the Holystone within was quiet—so far he’d been unnoticed.

  “How much do you need?”

  “A thousand Calvert solaris. That’s what we were told the price would be.”

  He had a thought as he looked at the unassuming Merians gathered around him. They appeared to want to thank him, that they were grateful for his help, but truly didn’t know how to respond. Apparently, they weren’t used to people being kind to them. He reached into his coat and pulled out several notes. “A thousand Calvert solaris … Here, this should be enough.”

  He handed the girl the money. She stood there holding it. “Our Star has indeed provided. If I may ask, why have you done this for us?”

  “Because I wanted to. Because my home is on the grounds of an old Merian monastery and I’ve always felt a bit of a kinship with your order. Also, my sister can see the star you claim exists.”

  “Your sister? She can see our star?”

  He had to be off. “Yes. She says it’s in that direction,” he said pointing to the northwest. “And, that it is a large yellow star with a red cloud swirling around it.”