Dissension

by Cory Herndon

  “You’re experimenting on them?” Crixizix said. “Doctor, when I found you in the wreckage, I brought you here to help these people, not see what you can learn about cytoplasty. Hardly seems the time, does it?”

  “Every moment is a chance to learn,” Nebun said parochially. “And I find it curious that you, of all beings, would object. But no, this is not an experiment. It’s simply a lucky coincidence that my supply was not destroyed. She will come to no harm. Assuming the nephilim are through with us, that is.” With that, he slipped the small amoebalike shape onto Giburinga’s forehead, and it flattened, smoothed, and soon formed a sort of helmet that glowed a soft, bluish green. Crixizix put her ear to the woman’s chest. She was breathing steadily.

  “Very well,” Crixizix said. “I need to get back out there.” She sighed. This part was starting to hurt. She trundled over to the pyrogenerator she’d retrieved from the Cauldron, attached the jury-rigged pyromanic tubing to the slots in her heels, and charged up for another flight.

  As she did so, she closed her eyes and searched for the Firemind on instinct. But the Great Dragon was still gone, leaving Crixizix with his secret. The dragon had been afraid, afraid for his own life. That or he did not care for the Izzet one bit. Either way, the knowledge of the Great Dragon’s actions could destroy the very foundations of the Izzet belief system. No, Pivlic’s idea was an elegant solution—at least until the dragon returned.

  “What the hell is that?” Kos said.

  “I think it’s Stomper,” Pivlic said.

  “Stomper?” Teysa asked.

  “He stomps,” the imp said, “looks like a cross between a mountain and a crab, with a statue’s head floating on its—Look, it will make more sense when you see it, friends. And there are at least two more headed this way.” Once he had explained the monikers Slither and Brain, Kos grew even more concerned.

  Teysa, on the other hand, was not sure whether to be furious at Pivlic for allowing her barony to be flattened or grateful that the imp had been loyal enough to find her and bring her the news. She admitted to herself that she was surprised Pivlic had made the journey. She hadn’t thought the imp had that much sand.

  The roar sounded again, more distant. “Sounds like he’s not heading toward us,” the imp said. “Just passing through.”

  “Kos,” the Grand Arbiter interrupted. “This is immaterial. You have your orders. Pierakor, you must stay here with us, and together we will find a way to deal with the nephilim threat.”

  “I’m going to help with that, I think,” Teysa said. “If you don’t mind, your honor.”

  “Your input would be welcome,” the judge said.

  “I’m not sure I can do this alone,” Kos said, not to Teysa but to Pivlic.

  “What do they want from Pivlic?” Pivlic muttered under his breath. “I bring a roc, I bring the news. ‘Thank you, friend Pivlic.’ ”

  “Kos,” Feather said, “I have the utmost faith that you can do this. You must be strong.”

  “I’m not doubting myself. I just mean, no offense to Obez, here, but he’s no fighter. I doubt he’s a roc-rider. If I’m going to take this bird all the way to the greenhouse—and get in the way we planned—someone will need to wait with the bird.” Kos looked at Capobar for a moment, but the old thief held up both hands, palms out.

  “No way,” Capobar growled. “I was here as a witness, and I’m going to go home while it’s still standing.”

  “Where did you live?” Pivlic asked.

  “What?”

  “Where did you live, my friend?” the imp repeated.

  “Eighth Section, the Parshan block. Why?”

  “It’s not. Still standing.”

  “Look, I don’t care!” the thief said, panic taking over as he stumbled backward over his own feet. “This isn’t my fault! I told you where to find that shadow thing. Now just leave me alone. I’ve got a—a ruined life to get back to. Think it’s about time I got around to drinking myself into the grave.” A few seconds later he had turned, scrambled over the wreckage with surprising spryness, and disappeared through a gap in the far wall, one of many, before anyone present could catch him.

  “Well,” Teysa said, “it appears you’ve volunteered, Pivlic.” She permitted herself a smirk before she locked him with smile number fifty-three, a special and rarely used Orzhov expression: No good deed goes unpunished.

  “Come on, Pivlic,” Kos said, slapping the imp on the back. “Just like old times.”

  “In old times, my friend, Pivlic would be home behind the bar,” the imp said. “I am not an imp of action, despite my admittedly heroic efforts this day and many days before. Besides, Kos, how do I know that is really you?”

  “It is him,” Teysa said. “Trust me. Now get going, we’re going to try and—What are we going to do?”

  “Rally the city,” Feather said. “Evacuate as necessary.” As if to punctuate the urgency, another, different, roar echoed down the urban canyons to the ruins of Prahv and the ears within.

  “But first,” Teysa said to the judge, who had remained ominously silent for almost a full minute, “we need a plan.”

  The judge finally raised his head to watch the roc and riders leave the Senate hall through the most obvious exit—the missing roof. Teysa followed his gaze. The bird wobbled a bit, but then the imp regained control and they wheeled out of sight.

  “Yes,” the Azorius said, “a plan.”

  * * * * *

  Capobar emerged from the remains of Prahv sweaty and cold, like something was grabbing at his soul. This was ridiculous, the wiser part of his mind said.

  “There’s no one after me,” he muttered aloud, challenging fate to contradict him. Indeed there did not appear to be anyone in pursuit. Yet his statement was more of a declaration to stave off the inevitable than a real belief.

  Thing was, he’d felt someone following him since he’d fled the Senate chambers, but every time the thief whirled around to see who it was, there was nothing there. There were people, and ghostly Azorius guardsmen, making their way into the rubble, but no one going his way or really paying him the least heed. And why should they? An unassuming old man in a cape, yes sir, that’s all he was. Big disaster? Back that way. Me, I’m out of here.

  If something invisible was following him, he didn’t want to think about it. But he did spare a moment to mourn his lost mana-goggs.

  Where was he going to go that the shadewalker—if it was a shadewalker—couldn’t find him? If the imp was right, he was now homeless. In fact, he was probably also completely broke, at least until the Orzhov assurors checked out his home and central office. And the payments could take weeks, probably much more than that, all things considered. Assuming he was covered. Assuming Ravnican civilization survived to see another dawn.

  It was a testament to Capobar’s addled state of mind that he then ran headlong into a stone wall. He jumped back in surprise. Not a wall—another toppled column, with rough, haphazard brickwork laid out in a curious pattern that resembled an armored—

  “Oh, Krokt,” Capobar whispered as he gazed down the length of the “wall,” followed it up the smooth, almost graceful curve that grew into a distinctive, crustacean leg. The floating statue’s head that topped the mountainous nephilim—the one the imp called Stomper—swiveled on its floating axis and stared down at him with blank malevolence.

  He turned and bolted and was met with another living wall, scaly and coiled around the based of a crumbling apartment tower. Bodies lay everywhere, and as he took in this second nephilim a screaming man came to an abrupt, messy stop on the cobblestones not far away. That would no doubt be Slither. Capobar wished he’d thought of naming the bloody things, he might have been able to turn a profit on that somehow.

  Capobar backed away from the second nephilim’s coils. Then it paused, as if listening for something. A second later, a distant roar split the darkening sky.

  The thief heard it too. A roar, not from any of the nephilim but from somewhere far below
them. It carried through the stone and shook the street under his feet just as another wave of screaming people careened past him. Could there possibly be yet more of these things, ones he had not yet seen?

  Capobar was fed up. It had started out as such a simple job. Then he’d been betrayed at every turn by employees and employers, and even been forced to testify. To testify. His license to steal was doomed. The union would revoke it out of hand just for the confession, no matter the duress or circumstances.

  The thief’s mind snapped, and he turned his face to the sky.

  “All right!” Capobar cried. “You want me? Is this it, damn you? Here I am, right out in the open! If you’re going to destroy me, destroy me already!”

  The impact left a crater the size and shape of a small amphitheater. What remained of Capobar would have fit in a good-sized syringe.

  “Kos, if that is really you, what is my favorite drink?” Pivlic asked.

  “Your favorite drink is ten-year dindiwine, served in a bumbat glass with three cloves of crushed garlic and half a pickled cibuli onion. The onion’s cut across the middle, not top to bottom,” Kos said. “And it’s disgusting, in case you were curious.”

  “Convincing,” Pivlic said. “But an imposter might know that. When did we meet and under what circumstances?”

  “We met when I arrested your bartender at the old canyonside place for selling spare parts to the zombies. You were the one who helpfully pointed out that it was proof they had sold the spare parts to the zombies without paying the proper shipping dues, which was why the bartender went to jail and you didn’t. You said it was principle, even if it meant the extra cost of hiring a new bartender. I appreciated that. You might have let him go free.”

  “I do not suffer fools in my employ,” Pivlic said. “Yet a lurker could have been there at the time, my friend. You just don’t know. You could be a lurker now.”

  “Pivlic, it’s me,” Kos snapped. “Either accept it or don’t. You’re right, an imposter might know all of this. But an imposter would have eaten you by now.”

  The imp burst into laughter that Kos estimated was at least seventy percent nervousness. Still, he appreciated it. “All right, my friend, of course it is you. Certainly. You just look so strangely different.”

  “Well, dying, having your corpse burned on a pyre, and jumping into the body of a fat lawyer will change your looks a bit,” Kos said.

  Lawmage, the voice in his head said. And ectomancer, thank you. Please, no mere lawyer would be able to master the mystical energies necessary to—

  All right, Kos told Obez. Point made.

  I’m not fat.

  Point. Made.

  “But you—died—just a few weeks ago,” Pivlic said. “You could show a little sympathy. I lost a good friend. For a while. This wound cannot be healed by your reincarnation—”

  “I was never completely unincarnated. I didn’t go to the afterlife. I went to Prahv. You might have tried looking there. Don’t get metaphysical on me.”

  “You don’t get metaphysical on me,” the imp said.

  “I tell you what, Pivlic,” Kos sighed, “next time I sign a contract of any kind, I’m having you read it top to bottom.” He tapped the imp’s shoulder and pointed at a rising silhouette blocking out the setting sun. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “It is Novijen. That large structure atop it is the greenhouse,” Pivlic confirmed.

  “Can you take me in fairly close?” Kos said.

  “I believe so, my friend,” the imp said, “but I cannot vouch for much else. I think the roc may be getting hungry.”

  “You didn’t feed her?”

  “How was I supposed to know how to do that?” Pivlic said. “I assumed that they ate on the wing.”

  “Poetic, but no,” Kos said. He had never served as a full-time skyjek, but he’d taken the training every other recruit had. “After this, we feed her. You can’t just run a trained mount like this into the ground.”

  “That is not my intention.”

  “Very well. Then I guess I won’t be but a minute,” Kos said. “At least, if this works the way Obez says it will. Just get us there.”

  You know, I could just go to the front door and knock, he told the lawmage.

  There is no time, the voice of his anchor replied, and there is no guarantee you would ever see the progenitor.

  I guess you’re right, Kos told the voice, but I’ll be honest with you, Obez. This scares the hell out of me.

  Just remember, you have to wait at least half an hour before jumping again.

  What? Just remember? I can’t remember what you never told me.

  I’m sure I mentioned it, the voice sniffed.

  Whatever. Why? Kos asked.

  Magic, Obez said. Just how it works.

  Kos passed this information on to Pivlic. “Damned inconvenient,” he added.

  “You mean I circle around out here for half an hour or more and wait for you to wake up?” the imp said. “What will the fat lawyer be doing?

  “He’ll be …” Kos paused. “He said he may be in and out, and please don’t let him fall off of the bird.”

  So really, what happens if you fall off? Kos thought. What happens if I get stranded?

  You will become stuck where you are, unless you can make a blind jump into another host. And then the host must match your spectral and spiritual frequencies in such a way that you are not violently rejected, Obez replied. Without contact with a trained—trained, I say—ectomancer, your personality will eventually merge with the one in the person or creature—

  Person or creature? Kos interjected.

  Perhaps both, Obez said. You have been given a great gift, wojek, a true afterlife of sorts. And you treat it like a burden. You could be more cooperative.

  “Kos, we’re almost there,” Pivlic said, “as close as I would like to get if you want a guarantee we will still be here when you return.”

  “Almost ready, Pivlic,” Kos said. “I’m still trying to—Hold on.”

  So how do I find the right person to—what, possess? Take over? Kos asked Obez.

  ‘Possess’ is appropriate, the voice replied. And please be patient. I’m finding your new temporary home now.

  Can I help?

  Yes, you can let me concentrate, Obez retorted. Please.

  Kos tried not to focus on anything and let his host do the work. He felt his attention wander, and without thinking about it he felt his feet start moving in a steady rhythm. He walked free of the ectomage’s body, picked up his pace, and leaped. Kos, disembodied, sailed over the city. Novijen rose up to meet him with impossible speed, then the greenhouse that sat atop its organic spires filled his mind.

  His mind wasn’t wandering. It was going along for the ride. In Murzeddi’s spectral eye, the living Simic inside the greenhouse went about their business with an unreal air—they looked more like blue-green light given a vaguely human shape—that he could see even before he passed effortlessly through its outer walls.

  The interior of the greenhouse appeared equally unreal, and quite alive. A steady glow of magic and intelligence shone from the distorted cluster that was the neuroboretum, overhead and still somewhat far away.

  Kos and Obez wandered down passages, stopped occasionally at one shape or another. It reminded the wojek of a dog tracking a scent. Finally, Obez found one he liked, a shape with a vaguely a duller color of life than the rest.

  Clear your mind. I am going to place you in the target.

  “If I’m not back in half an hour,” Kos said aloud to Pivlic, splitting his attention between the here and the now, “wait another half hour, would you?”

  Please, clear your mind.

  “This is taking advantage of my famous generosity,” Pivlic said, “but all right. After that,” he said, pointing out the just-visible head of Slither coiling up another tower that crumbled under its weight, “I don’t think we have any guarantee of a city to bother saving.”

  Clear your mind! Obez co
mmanded.

  All right, all right. Clearing, Kos thought, clearing.

  No, you are not, Obez’s voice replied. You are thinking of—

  I’m trying, Kos thought.

  Listen, I’m going to count down from ten. Just listen. Ten. Nine. Eight …

  Kos kept the count with him but lost it in a rush as his ghostly form was wrenched from Obez’s body and slammed into his new home.

  The first thing he noticed was that his hand, which gripped a wicked-looking pike, appeared an unpleasant shade of green. The second was that he was not even remotely human, nor elf, vedalken, loxodon, even. Not an imp, not an ogre. Not a zombie, thank fortune’s small favors. He was alive, at least. Or rather, the body he was in was alive.

  The third thing he noticed was that his new body smelled like an infirmary during a plague outbreak.

  And so the happy little dromad, the mother dromad, and the father dromad ate the farmer and his family, went home to their pasture by the bubbling, blue brook, and lived long and contented lives. The farmer had learned a valuable lesson, and his ghost would wander the wilds of the undercity until the end of the world, telling all who would listen: ‘Never get between a happy little dromad and his parents.’

  —The Happy Little Dromad, by Evkala Belott

  (Matka Children’s Press, 7290 Z.C.)

  31 CIZARM 10012 Z.C.

  “I was wrong,” Fonn said. “We’re not under attack from all sides. Just the two.”

  “Yes,” Jarad said. “I take back what I said about you taking up huntressing.”

  “We were spotted up there,” Fonn said.

  “Yes, but now you’re getting us more spotted,” the Devkarin corrected.

  “You kicked the first goblin.”

  “The cages are at two o’clock. Get there. I’ll keep them off of us.”

  “We’ll both keep them off of us,” Fonn replied and drew her silver long sword. She considered removing her glove, but even after all this time she didn’t completely trust the grip of the cytoplastic hand. And it still itched. Jarad matched her movement, drawing his kindjal long knife. He had left his bow behind when they made their way down here as it was too awkward to bring along.