Time of Breath

by Paul Mannering

  “Information is exactly the same,” Drakeforth nodded. “People always believe that there is something essential they do not know. It’s like a fish worrying that they don’t have enough water. Or a billipede counting its feet.”

  “So…the perception of scarcity, even in the abundance of information, is what gives it variable value?” I was relieved that Eade remained silent. I took it to mean I had made a decent contribution to the conversation.

  “Sure, why not?” Drakeforth shrugged. “It’s also because Pathians have developed a finely tuned and well-functioning economy based on the idea of an idea. Now it’s so entrenched that they can’t for a moment consider that it’s all ridiculous because then the entire place would collapse into chaos overnight.”

  “But that’s true for most… Oh…” I fell silent. There are some things that people aren’t meant to look at too closely. Ideas and the systems that keep everything ticking along, the lights on, and the bills paid, are among them.

  Drakeforth nodded at my realisation. “There are some abysses that you shouldn’t stare too long into. If you do, then they stare back, and you start wondering if they are staring at you, or if it’s someone behind you. Then you might think you should say something, or is it that the abyss said something and you didn’t hear it? The important thing is to remember, that way lies asparagus.”

  “Asparagus…?” I whispered.

  “Best avoided,” Drakeforth nodded.

  I mentally grabbed the steering wheel and did a handbrake turn on the conversation, “I saw a sign on a wall. It looked like a credit stick.”

  “Where?” Eade asked sharply.

  “In the street, outside the hotel.”

  “Lore Officers will remove it. It’s the symbol of a terrorist group. They call themselves The Credit Union.”

  I waited in silence, determined not to ask the stupid question for once.

  Eade looked disappointed. “The CU want Pathia to abandon the knowledge economy and adopt the more universal credit system. Electronic banking in the form of digital currency, rather than the more tangible knowledge that is currently used.

  “They are considered a terrorist organisation because their ideas are potentially disruptive to the economy and society as a whole.”

  “Do they blow up buildings or kidnap people?” I asked.

  “No, but they are growing in influence, and more people are starting to consider their ideas.”

  “Maybe they kidnapped Professor Bombilate?”

  “Maybe they didn’t,” Drakeforth said.

  “Oooh… That would make a great conspiracy theory. They didn’t actually kidnap Professor Bombilate. They just want everyone to think they did.”

  “They have a lot to answer for,” Drakeforth agreed.

  “It was more fun when I didn’t know who they were,” I said with a sudden pang of seriousness.

  “It was joyous when they didn’t know who we were,” Drakeforth said dryly.

  Neither of us had noticed that Eade had left.

  Drakeforth sighed and suddenly smiled. “Sofa cushions.” He chuckled in a way that sounded like someone who had never chuckled before thought it should sound. “That was good.”

  Chapter 10

  “She was here, wasn’t she? I didn’t imagine it?” Hysteria wasn’t included in any of the verbal communication styles I had studied, so I told myself that I wasn’t being hysterical. Adamant? Certainly. Insistent? Definitely. Weeping and gibbering? Not on your life!

  “Who?” Drakeforth asked.

  “Eade Notschnott?” I said.

  “Yes. Eade has left the building.”

  “What did you mean, who?”

  “I meant Eade, obviously.” Drakeforth’s gaze skittered across my face like an eel on ice-skates.

  “Of course,” I nodded, and looked around the room. The dark-haired woman had been inconspicuously absent since we left the terminal. Not knowing where she might be made my skin crawl.

  Drakeforth rubbed his hands together.

  “Right then. When you are ready, we should get on with it.”

  “Let’s assume that I will be ready by the time you have finished explaining exactly what it is,” I replied, and opened my first suitcase.

  “Professor Bombilate. Informist. Missing. Eade needs us to find him. Or at least, find out why he can’t be found.”

  I hung a colourful dress in the closet provided.

  “Yes, I heard. Where do you find someone who isn’t where they expect to be?”

  “A wise woman once said anything lost is always found in the last place you look, so look there first.”

  “The trick is knowing where the last place to look is,” I suggested.

  “Probably,” Drakeforth almost agreed. He sat down on the edge of the bed and with the sudden determination of someone leaping off a building in the fervent belief they can fly, he lay down.

  “You’re taking a nap?” I asked, my arms folding in disapproval.

  “I’m thinking,” Drakeforth replied, his eyes closed.

  “I’m going to take a shower,” I said.

  “Good for you.”

  I opened a door. It turned out to be a smaller closet.

  “Yes, nothing like a hot shower after a long trip.”

  “Quite right,” Drakeforth replied.

  “Makes you feel like a new person…” I opened the fridge again. The lack of voice interaction from the appliance was really strange.

  “Through the door to your left,” Drakeforth announced.

  “There’s no door on that wall, I would have—Oh.” Of course there was a door on the wall, just to the left of the fridge. Of course there hadn’t been a door there a moment ago, either.

  My experience with foreign bathrooms is limited. I had always assumed they all followed the same principle: some kind of toilet, hot and cold running water, shower nozzle, or maybe a tub with taps.

  If I ignored the shower floor’s resemblance to a litter box, and the larger than necessary pipe above, it could have been a bathroom. At least a modern-art installation interpretation of one.

  I pulled the lever on the wall. The pipe rattled, gurgled and then coughed a cloud of fine dust. Taking a deep breath, the pipe warmed up and disgorged a flood of dust. I slapped the lever closed and the flow stopped.

  Brushing myself off, I stepped out of the room.

  “Very funny,” I snapped.

  “I thought you were taking a shower,” Drakeforth said from his position on the bed.

  “There’s no water!”

  Drakeforth opened his eyes and addressing the ceiling, said: “You’re in Pathia.”

  “I am aware of that.”

  “Pathia is a desert country. There is no water.”

  “Clearly there is, I’ve drunk several bottles of it since we arrived in this room.”

  “Imported, they call it. Slavery would be a more accurate term, of course.”

  “Slavery?”

  “Do you think anyone asked the water if it wanted to be transported half way around the world and put in bottles?”

  “Well no, but it’s water.”

  “Exactly.” Drakeforth’s eyes closed again.

  “The shower…?” I ventured.

  “In Pathia, you bathe in dust.”

  “Surely the point is to remove the dust?” I replied.

  “Don’t worry, the dirt is very clean.”

  Sometimes stubbornness is like a suit of armour. You put it on, even though it is uncomfortable, cumbersome, and not best suited for most day-to-day activities. You wear it to make a point.

  I returned to the bathroom, hung my clothes up and turned on the dust.

  “Better?” Drakeforth asked from the bed when I returned.

  “I feel…oddly polished.”


  “We should go.” Drakeforth swung his legs off the bed and stood up.

  “Yes, the missing man is not going to find himself.” I reached for my coat, and then remembered we were in a country where their idea of water was sand. I wondered if I should take a shovel instead. We donned our dark glasses and hats and left the hotel.

  Chapter 11

  It was still hotter outside than inside, which made going back inside something to look forward to. I followed Drakeforth through the dusty streets, carefully avoiding eye contact with the irregular paving stones.

  “Yes, quite different,” he said.

  “What?” I hurried to catch up.

  “Nothing.”

  “Where are we going to start our search?” I asked.

  “Bombilate had an interest in forbidden things. So we will go to the source and work our way backwards or forwards from there.”

  “That sounds… What’s the term for something that isn’t lethally dangerous, but is hugely inadvisable?”

  “Crocodile dentistry?”

  “Not exactly what I was thinking of, but metaphorically appropriate, I suppose.”

  We descended into a swirling maelstrom of brightly coloured people wearing dusty clothes. They clumped together around a variety of market stalls sold a variety of food and vacuum cleaners. Most of the trading seemed to done in low murmurs, punctuated by the occasional exchange of folded notes.

  I truly felt like a tourist among the natives with their loose-fitting dust-and-wear clothing. Keeping track of Drakeforth in the bustling market was easy enough: his hat and his air of general contempt for the world glowed like an aura.

  Flies swarmed and buzzed around a section of the market selling meat. I raised a hand to brush away a fly intent on examin­ing my eyelashes. A breath of chill air raised the hairs on my neck and the dark-haired woman stood beside me. Her icy hand held my wrist in a death grip, and I gasped at the sudden shock of it. She shook her head as the fly finished its inspection and flew off to crawl on someone else.

  With a deft dip she retrieved the guidebook from my bag and held it open, displaying an easy-to-follow infographic that detailed how flies are sacred in Pathia.

  The punishment for the crime of striking a fly looked to be painful and messy, even rendered in clip-art icons.

  “Thanks…” I whispered, looking around furtively to see if anyone had noticed my brush with the law.

  “Put that away.” Drakeforth pushed the book back into my bag.

  “Sorry, I almost hit a fly. Apparently that would be a bad idea.”

  “Very bad. Worse is flashing a book around in public. It’s like waving your credit stick or fanning yourself with bundles of cash.”

  “Oh… She’s here again, the woman.”

  “Try to keep up, Pudding.” Drakeforth took me by the arm and guided me through the crowd. We left the silent woman standing in the market, until the crowd and flies obscured her from view.

  “Where are we going?” I asked. “You mentioned a forbidden place?”

  “The centre of the Pathian civilisation. The single most import­ant place in the entire country.”

  “An ice factory?”

  “The ancient ruins of the city of Errm.”

  “That’s the source of all forbidden things in Pathia?” I whisp­ered.

  “Exactly. It is also where we start our search for the missing informist.

  “Perhaps he went to a pub?” It seemed like a long shot, but hope insisted I suggest it.

  “Unlikely, though I applaud your lateral thinking, Pudding.”

  “Is it far, this ruined city?”

  “It all depends on how you perceive distance.”

  “Drakeforth,” I said in as sweet a voice as I could muster. “Tell me how far it actually is, or I swear, I will not rest until your name and contact details are on every Arthurian mailing list I can find.”

  “You wouldn’t!?” Drakeforth fell silent as I smiled beatifically at him. “It’s a few miles. Would you rather take a litter than walk?”

  “In this heat? I would rather stay in the hotel and build an air conditioner out of toothpicks. Though if we must go, then, yes, by litter, please.”

  We reached the edge of the market, where it bled into the surrounding maze of narrow streets and sandcastle architecture.

  Drakeforth whistled at a group of young, athletic types who were leaning against a wall, a covered platform beside them.

  “Two for the ruins of Errm,” Drakeforth explained.

  “Whaddyaknow?” one of the youths asked, sizing us up with the contempt of the adolescent.

  “I know plenty,” Drakeforth replied.

  “You don’t say?” the youth countered.

  “No, I don’t. Not until it’s time to pay the fare.”

  “From here to the ruins? That’s gonna cost you.”

  “Well, get your litter mates and let’s get moving then. Pay attention, you may earn something.”

  The youth nodded slowly and then jerked his head at his lolling friends. They got up and lifted the litter onto their shoulders. In a synchronised movement, they sank to one knee, positioning the litter for us to board.

  “Thank you for choosing Kitteh’s litter services, we believe in the human touch,” the youth said in a practiced way as we took our seats under a canopy of light fabric that protected us from the glare.

  I gasped, reflexively clutching Drakeforth’s hand as the litter rose, and our carriers swayed under us.

  “Relax, Pudding. We are on the shoulders of professionals. Besides, it’s against the law to drop litter in Pathia.”

  Chapter 12

  We hurried down narrow streets that linked up to wider arterial routes, where modern cars coughed like a cat bringing up a hairball as they farted a steady stream of grey smoke. My self-conscious feeling at using an archaic form of transport like a litter quickly faded with the smooth ride. We glided past the occasional traffic jam like ants with full bellies.

  In the heat and dust, everyone was bustling, going about their business with an intensity that made me feel exhausted just watching it.

  “Makes you think, doesn’t it?” Drakeforth said.

  “It does?”

  “It makes me think people are really stupid.”

  “I think you envy regular people.” I ignored Drakeforth’s derisive snort and continued, “The ones who go through their entire lives, with all the normal problems that people face. The tragedies, setbacks, the ups and downs. The stuff that we all deal with. You, on the other hand, are walking around sneering down your nose at all these people who are getting on with living.”

  “I am not,” said Drakeforth, waving my rant away.

  “You’ve been doing that since the day we met. It’s what drives you.” I made a vague gesture. “This eye-rolling dismissiveness is your thing.”

  “You dropped something,” Drakeforth said.

  “What?” I looked down.

  “Your argument,” Drakeforth replied. “You started out with a strong attack and then completely apologised for it. You dropped it.”

  “Do not change the subject.”

  “It’s frustration,” Drakeforth announced.

  I did a quick mental tally on the last few moments.

  “Did you just change the subject back?”

  “Really, Pudding, if you can’t keep up, take notes.”

  “You’re saying you don’t like people because you’re frustr­ated?”

  “I’m not frustrated, people are frustrating.”

  I went back to watching the scenery, or at least watching the people and cars that blocked my view of the scenery.

  Drakeforth sighed. I stared harder into the beige haze. There comes a point in every conversation when staying silent is the best option. Accord
ing to the dialectic teachings of Master Qualtagh, all dialogue exchange is a form of combat. For Qualtagh, the one who breaks the silence first better have deleted their browser history.

  Right now, I felt I could remain shush until the cows not only came home, but also had their dinner, watched some TV and went to bed.

  A jigsaw wall of massive sandstone blocks marked the edge of the city. We passed under an archway and into the desert, which looked like the city wall, but laid on its side.

  The desert looked like every picture of a desert I had ever seen, except more realistic. Our bearers bore us down the road that passed through the dunes without breaking stride.

  My guidebook said trees hadn’t been common in Pathia for thousands of years. Instead of trees, a hardy variety of grass grew in vast plains, eaten and fertilised by the goats herded across them. In the last few centuries, the demand for free-range goat products had declined. Without the goats to fertilise the plains, the deserts had spread. The cause of this change wasn’t covered in the book, probably because it was obvious.

  After an hour, the endurance of the litter bearers would have impressed anyone who hadn’t spent that time with Drakeforth. Neither of us had said a word, and I was itching to say something.

  Kitteh’s crew came to a halt and lowered us to the ground. I eased out of the litter and stretched until I yawned.

  Drakeforth exited and made a whispered transaction with Kitteh. Our carrier’s eyes went wide, and he did a double take at Drakeforth. Then he went and shared his apparent good fortune with the rest of his team.

  Mid-stretch, I blinked. She stood on a nearby dune, her hair flowing in the light breeze like dark seaweed wafting on unseen currents.

  “Drakeforth, look!” I blurted.

  “Ha!” he whooped and slapped his thigh.

  “Gargle!” I swore. “Look! It’s that woman again.”

  “You lose!” Drakeforth crowed. “Lose-her!”

  “Yes, you are very clever. Now pay attention, drammit.”

  “Personally, I think Qualtagh was just socially awkward and terribly shy. But he is popular with devotees of dialectics, so I knew you were waiting for me to say something.”