Blade of Tyshalle

by Matthew Woodring Stover

  In his daydreams, he was never this frightened.

  He placed his hands on the desk in front of him and tried not to notice how they trembled. He breathed deeply, in and out, in and out, until he became quite light-headed—but still, when the Report Center's friendly stenographer dissolved into the armored knight on the back of the winged horse, rampant, that was the official logo of the Studio, he knew that all the deep breathing in the world wouldn't melt the ball of ice that grew in the bottom of his throat.

  "Artisan Keller. Expand upon this transfer that Michaelson ordered by threat of force."

  That simply, that coldly, with that precise lack of ceremony or pre-amble, Gayle Keller found himself in the telepresence of the Board of Governors.

  Chairman Michaelson had spoken, now and again, of the digitized, electronically neutral voice that represented the Board of Governors, so that one never knows precisely who's talking or whom one is talking to. One never even knows who is on the Board at any given time, only that there are between seven and fifteen of them, drawn always from the Hundred Families, the elite of the elite of the Leisure caste. Their identities are carefully protected, so that the Studio System as a whole maintains its status as an unbreathable public trust—no private pressure can be brought to influence the Board members' decisions if no one knows who they are. It was rumored that even the Board members were unaware of each other's identities, that the entire Board met only in virtual space, each member participating from his own private screen.

  To Keller, this had always seemed a sensible, full explanation of the blank anonymity of the Board. Only now, faced with the static logo on the screen and the passionless neutrality of the voice, did he gather a glimmering of some larger truth. The absolute impersonality of the Board had a power of its own.

  "The, hrm, the, the transfer?" Keller stammered. "Mmm, yes—" He made the tale as concise as he could manage; rather than becoming more easy as he spoke, he found his fright inching toward blank terror. Without any of the visual cues—no nods of the head, no smiles, no frowns, no hint of posture or demeanor, none of the encouraging Mmm-hmm or Yes, go on of ordinary conversation, he couldn't tell if his report was being received with warm paternal indulgence, lethal fury, or somewhere inbetween.

  "Do you have any analysis?"

  "Uh, analysis? I, uh—"

  "Do you know, or are you able to guess, why Chairman Michaelson was determined to make this transfer, to the point of threatening physical force, and then arbitrarily changed his mind?"

  He rubbed his palms together below his desk, trying to wipe away their thick slimy coating of sweat. "I, uh, no, I guess ... I mean, I can't guess, I haven't really thought—"

  "These real-time communications. With whom did he speak?"

  "I don't, I can't, ah—" He stopped himself and forced a deep breath. "Ordinarily I, ah, copy the Chairman's communications files from his deskscreen while he's out of the office, but ... well, the data cores, you know—"

  "Do you have any evidence, documentary or otherwise, that the data erasure was an intentional act of sabotage?"

  Did they think he was lying? Or did they want something they could hold over the Chairman's head? How much trouble was he in?

  "I, uh, I, well—no, not directly. B-but, why would he have threatened me, if he wasn't trying to hide something?"

  His voice trailed off; his face green in the light cast from that still logo. The motionless knight on the winged horse stared back at him for an unreasonably long moment.

  Then, finally, blessedly, he heard, "Artisan Keller. You are dismissed. Return to your duties."

  Keller stared at the blank grey rectangle of his deskscreen for a long time, then jerked as though he'd started from a doze and jumped to his feet. He really, really needed to use the toilet.

  5

  The lift opened onto a service hallway of blank white walls, steel-colored doors, and nondescript carpet. There was age here, mold tracks on the walls and dust in the semicirculated air, a sharp contrast to the immaculate public areas of the Studio. Hari marched some distance along its wide curve, Rover whirring at his heels. A palmlocked security door let him onto the skywalk.

  The skywalk between the Studio and the Curioseum was little more than a transparent tube a half-klick long with all-weather polyester carpeting laid along its narrow floor. A low grey overcast spat drizzle that rippled the view through the armorglass, and the whisper of atmosphere control was barely audible above the patter of raindrops. Hari walked fast over the honeycombed car hive twenty-odd meters below, over the ten-meter-high security fence that ringed it.

  He reached the Curioseum's security door and pitched his voice to his chair's command tone. "Rover: Stay." The chair settled in place and locked its brakes; Hari sat down, shifting his weight from side to side, grimacing—it was bad enough, using this thing when he needed it; he couldn't get comfortable, couldn't make himself settle into this chair, with a pair of working legs.

  He reached up and flattened his hand against the palmlock's screen. The security program's voder replied, "Access denied. Persons dependent upon bioelectronic implants may not enter this facility pursuant to the Liability Reduction Act of—"

  "Michaelson one override."

  "Please present sample for matching."

  " 'Then it's Tommy this and Tommy that and "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?" ' " Hari said with flat dispassion. " `But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll. "

  The door hissed aside, revealing a small airlock-type compartment, just large enough for three or four people to stand in comfortably. On the far side was a steel door secured with a large drop-latch instead of a palmlock. "Welcome to the Curioseum, Administrator Michaelson."

  Hari made a face; he hated this part. The boundary effect was murder.

  He took a deep breath and rolled across the threshold. As soon as the skywalk door hissed shut behind him, his legs began to jerk and twist like the galvanic response in a dissected frog muscle. He snarled under his breath as he maneuvered the chair around so he could swing up the bar on the inside door; his legs knotted into cramps that felt like somebody had sunk dry ice meat hooks into his thighs.

  Crossing the boundary between Earth physics and the Overworld-normal field of the Curioseum was always a race between his hands and his asshole: he had to get that inner door open before he lost control of his bowels. In the boundary, the ON field sort of mingles with Earth physics, and the goddamn bypass just goes berserk Once he was all the way into the ON field, the bypass just surrendered.

  After what felt like an hour, he managed to lift the drop-latch and push open the door. Instantly all the feeling drained out of his legs. He thumped his thighs a couple of times with his fists to make sure they weren't still cramping. They seemed to be relaxed; the muscle jiggled slackly under his hands.

  Just meat, now.

  Like having a couple dead dogs strapped to my ass, he thought. Except I can't eat them.

  He rolled on along the hallway; heading for the balcony that ringed the Hall of Fame. When he rolled out onto the balcony, the immense exhibition hall suddenly blazed with light. Hanging in the center of the hall, suspended from thin, almost invisible guy wires, was a dragon.

  Thirty-five meters of sinuous power, her titanic wings spread a translucent pavilion over the entire hall, and her scales shone iridescent diamond. Her long saurian neck arched high, her titanic mouth gaped with hooked teeth as long as Hari's forearm, and from that mouth gouted flame like a solar flare, scarlet and orange and yellow bursting from eyesearing white at its core. At the center of that unimaginable fire, on a small circular dais twenty meters below, a figure in shining armor knelt in an attitude of prayer, hands folded upon the hilt of a broadsword. A Shield of shimmering blue warded the flames that melted the very stone on which he kneeled.

  Hari gave the scene just the barest glance. The armor there was real; it had belonged to Jhubbar Tekanal—the Actor Raymond Story. The dragon was real, too, most of her;
he'd sent the expedition himself to the site of the battle and salvaged her scales. He wondered briefly if Kris Hansen had ever watched the recording of Story's legendary three-day battle against Sha-Rikkintaer. He had a vague recollection that Story had been Hansen's favorite Actor.

  He rolled on, faster, scowling.

  He hated this fucking place. He'd fought the whole idea of a Hall of Fame, but he'd been overruled by president Turner with the support of the Board of Governors. Turner had said it would be a valuable tourist attraction, and the Bog had agreed, and Hari had to admit they were right: the Hall of Fame was less than a fifth of the Curioseum, but it was the primary draw for 90 percent of the visitors.

  He turned the chair and pumped its wheels, rolling along the balcony toward a long spiral ramp that led down to the ground floor. He had to keep his ass moving: this place would open at noon, and he had a lot to get done before it filled up with tourists. He pushed the wheels harder, gaining speed even before he swung onto the ramp. He coasted all the way down, half braking with his palms against the wheel rims. He rolled off the ramp and bled velocity in a long, slow curve that brought him to a stop in the middle of the gallery that led to the Caine Hall.

  Small in the distance, waiting for him at the far end of the gallery, was Berne.

  Inside a large case of armorglass in the middle of an archway, he was posed in a fighting crouch. He wore clothes of close-fitting serge, once red but now faded to strawberry—the same clothes he'd had on when Caine killed him. He had a snarl on his face and both hands on the hilt of Kosall, the wide-bladed bastard sword angled before him as though he guarded the arch against a fierce enemy.

  Hari forced himself to roll the chair forward. I always think I can cruise right past here, not even think about it, just roll on by

  And I am always dead fucking wrong.

  The armorglass case was overpressured with some kind of preservative gas—a faint chemical stench always lingered in the air around it. Taxidermy was a very efficient art these days: the Curioseum staff had simply cleaned him up, patched the slices in the clothes, covered the hole. in his skull with a wig, posed his corpse, and shot him full of something to rigidify the muscles.

  And there he was: the real Berne. The real Kosall.

  The most popular single exhibit in the whole Curioseum.

  Hari stopped beside the case and forced himself not to read the plaque. He knew it by heart, anyway. He stared up into Berne's glittering eyes.

  Sometimes I have trouble remembering that you lost, and I won. He set his teeth in a silent snarl and pushed on.

  6

  The broad mission door that fronted Tan'elKoth's apartment stood open, and Hari rolled through the arched doorway without knocking, without even slowing.

  The apartment was huge and open, converted from one of the Curioseum's exhibition halls. Smaller than the titanic halls devoted to Jhubbar and Caine, it nonetheless towered a full three stories to the thick skylight of armorglass. On the ground floor was an immense entertainment area scattered with furniture custom-designed for Tan'elKoth's enormous body, arranged to create the feeling of separate rooms: a living room, a kitchen, a den. A simple sweep of staircase would take one up through the open light well to the second floor, which held Tan'elKoth's bed and personal spaces; a second sweep would take one to the third floor, where Tan'elKoth maintained his studio. On that third floor, in the full sun that streamed through the skylight, he sculpted the statuary that dotted the apartment—and that also graced the homes of fashionable Leisurefolk around the world; a Tan'elKoth original had become a hallmark of good taste.

  At least that's what Tan'elKoth said was up there. With no ramps in the apartment, Hari had never been above the ground floor. He'd never had a reason to go up urgent enough to make it worth the humiliation of asking Tan'elKoth to carry him.

  Tan'elKoth's kettledrum rumble echoed hollowly through the cavernous space, though he was at the farthest corner of the apartment. "No, Nicholas, green. Not chartreuse. Green. The green of young oak leaves in April."

  He knelt in seiza on the carpet in the den area, at the head of a small oval of two men and three women in similar posture. He wore precisely faded dungarees and a polo shirt that stretched like latex over his enormous chest and shoulders, looking every inch the casually stylish Professional. The other five in the oval wore the short-sleeved white shirts, neckties, and chinos of junior Professionals; none of the five looked very much at ease, and a couple were openly sweating.

  This was Tan'elKoth's graduate seminar in Applied Magick. Every year, the top five Battle Magick students from the Conservatory were awarded the opportunity to come here and do advanced study under Tan'elKoth. The Studio was not in the business of giving out free rides, even to political prisoners. In the mornings, he taught; in the afternoons, he did two matinee lecture/demonstrations per day for the crowds in the Curioseum.

  He conducted his seminar in his home, because the Overworld-normal field that sustained his phase-match with Earth also allowed the use of Flow. Only the most minuscule amount was available here—generated by the plants in the arboretum and the animals in the bestiary, as well as the tiny energy traces left behind by the Curioseum's innumerable tourists—but it was enough for tiny, basic effects.

  "I, I, uh, haven't, I mean, I've seen pictures of an oak—" the pale student began.

  "Less yellow, then. Can you not see the color your classmates project?" "But sir, this is the color that I've always—"

  "And that is why you are last in this class, Nicholas. Any fool can enchant a bit of herb; to master the molding of life itself, one must use green! This green. If you cannot summon the hue for yourself, at least try to open your blurred and misty consciousness long enough to perceive mine."

  "Why can't I just memorize the spell?"

  "Spells are for fools, Nicholas. They are a crutch for adepts who lack the discipline of a true thaumaturge. The true master of magick forms his intention and charges it with Flow by the pure action of his will: make it real within, and the Flow will mirror your reality without. That is true—"

  "Hey," Hari said flatly. "Didn't I tell you to dismiss your fucking class?"

  Tan'elKoth's leonine head turned with ponderous, inhuman deliberation: a temple guardian of stone coming slowly to life. He gathered a cavernous breath and unfolded smoothly to his feet. "Students. Rise for the Chairman."

  The students scrambled upright, four of them blinking at being so suddenly roused from their meditation. All five stood at attention, their faces reflecting various degrees of awe and dread. "Class dismissed," Hari said. "Beat it. All of you."

  The only movement any of them made was to cast dubious glances toward Tan'elKoth. Tan'elKoth stood with arms folded across his ogre-sized chest. "This is my home," he said. "These are my students. I fulfill the task that you have given me. Chairman or no, do not presume to give orders here."

  "Here's a fucking order," Hari said sharply, leaning forward in his chair. "Sit down and shut up. This is too important for us to waste time on your shit."

  Tan'elKoth didn't move. "You cannot comprehend how offensive this is." "Yeah, maybe not. You've known me how long? And you still expect me to have manners?"

  "Manners? Hardly. Thoughtfulness, perhaps; consideration of the few shreds of dignity that you have allowed me to—"

  "Drop it," Hari said flatly.

  "I can only hope that you bring me glad news: perhaps this HRVP of yours has broken out among the elves, and you have come to help me celebrate."

  Fuck it, Hari thought. He wants it standing up, he'll goddamn well take it standing up. "That's right," he said. "There's been an HRVP outbreak among the elves. And you know what? That Actor I was asking about, the one who might be exposed? He's in Ankhana."

  Tan'elKoth's eyes went wide and blank, and his breath escaped in a fading hiss. He groped for the back of a chair into which he could lower himself, missed it, and stumbled like a drunk.

  "I told you," Hari said. "You shoul
d have sat down."

  He looked at the students. "Last chance. Beat it."

  Again they glanced at Tan'elKoth; he covered his eyes with one hand and waved them away. They scattered without a word,. gathering up their belongings and hustling out the door.

  "Caine ..." Tan'elKoth said weakly. "Please say this is but a cruel jest." "Yeah, sure," Hari said. "I'm famous for my sparkling sense of humor. Pull yourself together. We have work to do."

  7

  The keys to Tan'elKoth's deskpad felt alien under Hari's fingertips: a strange mechanical resistance, as though the pad itself fought back against his touch. Instead of an electronic pad, Tan'elKoth's was a mechanical rod-and-lever linkage, like an antique typewriter. The rods sank through the well cut in the center of Tan'elKoth's immense rolltop desk, down into the shielded receptacle in the floor where the actual electronics lay, protected from the effect of the Curioseum's ON field.

  Hari stared at the angled mirror propped on the desktop by an ornate stand of wrought brass. The mirror reflected a rectified image of a screen that actually sat beneath his feet in the subfloor receptacle.

  Tan'elKoth lay flat on the floor beside Hari's sandals, one massive arm stretched downward into the receptacle, his forefinger lightly brushing the cube in the screen's socket. The cube held the recording of Hansen's performance with J'Than.

  The unfamiliar feel screwed up Hari's typing; it took him a couple tries to key in Clearlake's priority access code. And the speaking tube down to the audio pickup altered his voice enough that he had to repeat the Caine quote three times before the security program recognized him. The mirror finally assembled an image of Clearlake's face.

  "Hey, Jed," Hari said with a tight smile. "Ready for this?"

  "For that story you were talking about? I did a little analysis on what you sent me already from some of the bodies, I'm seeing signs—"