Paenar lay motionless on the bed, saying nothing. Vailret became uncomfortable enough with the silence that he spoke again. “Delrael can strike up a conversation with just about anybody, though. He’s got a good charisma score—but I don’t think any of that goes very deep. He doesn’t like to have to depend on people.”
“What about Bryl?” Paenar asked. “You worked well together against the Spectres.”
Vailret shrugged. “Bryl doesn’t open himself up to anybody. I guess he’s a friend, though he is rather strange. But he’s sharp and willing to help out when you force him. Especially now. I think this quest has been good for him, to make him feel useful again.”
Paenar sounded desolate. “I wish I had known people like you. Before.” The blind man sat up, facing Vailret.
“I became a Scavenger because I wanted to be away from people. I wanted to be alone. My father was cruel and forced a family’s worth of work out of me. My mother allowed her children to be beaten as well as herself. Both of my parents were killed when our dwelling burned down—Father was too drunk on spring cider to wake up, and Mother ran back to save him. The other villagers came out to watch my home burn, but no one tried to save it.
“Later, the woman I wished to marry chose a richer man instead—he was an excellent gamer and had won most of his wealth through dicing. She did not love him, but she expected me to understand that simple love could not keep her fed. The others in the village taunted me because of it.”
Vailret fidgeted, not sure he wanted to hear the blind man’s confession, afraid it might forge a bond between them.
“So, I became a hunter and a wanderer. Early on I encountered a band of the Black Falcon Troops. They were perfect examples of how bad human nature can be, aiming to kill every non-human race on Gamearth, even the friendly ones. I was ashamed of my own people—even I did not have such wholesale hatred. I just wanted to be left alone.
“Later, I found I could be useful by uncovering artifacts from the old Sorcerers. I did not need the coins the artifacts brought me . . . but I did need an excuse for my life, a purpose. I wandered along the Spectre Mountains, up to Sardun’s Ice Palace and down to Sitnalta. Then I stumbled upon the deserted Slac fortress and the Spectres. Now my eyes have been taken from me, and our world is doomed, and I am still alone.
“But just watching you, your attitude and your ambition to do something—that stirs things in my heart. It feels strange.”
Vailret fidgeted, embarrassed and awkward that a stranger had opened up to him so much. “So why did you volunteer to stay here in Sitnalta? When we were deciding who would ride in the balloon, you said you needed to ask for something. But you’ve made it quite clear you don’t like these people.”
Paenar stood up from his bed and unerringly strode over to the window. He opened the shutters and breathed the damp air. Vailret could see that mist had swirled down the streets, making the gas lights look like glowing pools of butter.
“I will challenge them to make me new eyes.”
Bryl clutched the edges of the balloon basket so tightly that the wicker bit into his fingers. He didn’t like being so high in the air, especially not when the craft’s own inventors refused to ride in it.
The balloon ropes creaked with the weight of the passengers and the shifting temperatures of the air. If he was going to gamble, Bryl preferred to do it with dice, not his life. The half-Sorcerer kept his fingers crossed, hoping the contraption would hold itself together. He thought he could hear the gas leaking out even now. He knew they were going to fall.
Since the wind pushed them along at its own speed, the air around them was calm. Though they could detect no motion, the three clustered hexagons of Sitnalta’s city terrain soon dropped away. The buildings grew smaller, the people looked like black specks, as the balloon pulled away in smooth silence, moving with a deceptive speed that made Bryl dizzy. He could still hear the clanking sounds of Sitnalta in the still air, snatches of conversation carried up in a pocket of wind, the noise of the manufactories.
Delrael moved from one side of the basket to the other, peering at the world below. The balloon swayed, making Bryl ill, until he begged Delrael to stand still.
Below them the jagged edge of land met the sea, giving way to an interlocked network of blue hexagons of water. In the other direction the island of Rokanun showed plainly against the blue of the sea, three hexes distant.
Bryl had no way of telling whether they continued to rise or not. The sea below seemed so far away that he could no longer tell the difference. Through the holes in the wicker of the basket, he could see the long drop beneath his feet. He tried shutting his eyes, but that didn’t help at all, just left his imagination open to picture worse things. By watching the line of Rokanun, he noticed they had begun to drift in the wrong direction.
“Trial and error, I guess,” Delrael said. “We know we were heading in the right direction a while ago. Maybe if we go up a little higher, we’ll reach an airstream to take us toward the island. Or when the day starts to cool we should drop down again. That’s what Professor Verne said.”
Delrael untied the end of one of the sandbags and let the sand run out. Bryl leaned over to watch the tan grains pouring down, vanishing in the distance before he could see them hit the water. He thought he could feel the balloon jerk upward again.
“Not so much! Be careful.”
Delrael tied the sandbag again.
The afternoon swept on, the sun fell toward the western edge of the map. The towering dead volcano on Rokanun, Mount Antas, jutted up like a festering elbow on the far side of the island. Gulls flew far below them in the still air. Bryl kept an eye out for soaring, fire-breathing, fang-filled, scale-covered—
“Look!” Delrael flexed his kennok limb, climbing on the edge of the basket. “I can move it again!” He seemed so relieved he wanted to dance. But the gondola was crowded with a cumbersome metal tank in the corner. The tank contained enough of the mysterious buoyant gas for their return journey.
The half-Sorcerer widened his eyes. “If the magic in your leg works again, the we must have passed the technological fringe . . . and the balloon isn’t going to fall apart on us!” Bryl wiped his forehead and sat down in relief.
Hours later, Rokanun loomed below and in front of them. The balloon puttered aimlessly in the eddies around the great island. They could not control its course and hung suspended over the first hexes of grass terrain on the shore of Rokanun. With dusk coming on, they began their descent.
Delrael bent to the task of letting the lighter-than-air gas escape from the balloon. He scrambled up the rope mesh around the balloon’s body, using his kennok leg with ease. He opened sealed flaps on opposite sides of the fabric, just as Verne had taught him, allowing the gas to escape and keeping them from going into a spin.
The red-and-white balloon sagged inward, settling toward the ground. Bryl sat in the basket, yelling against the hissing sound and trying to be useful by directing Delrael to adjust the rate of their fall by opening and closing other flaps. Stray winds drove them closer to the shore as they came down.
The basket struck the brown beach grass, knocking Bryl to his knees. The balloon was still buoyant and bounced upward again in a gust of wind. Everything seemed-to be moving so slowly. Bryl grabbed the side of the basket and held on until his fingers cramped. Delrael rode on the fabric of the balloon itself, sliding to the ground as the red-striped bag settled like a giant floating blanket. Bryl crawled out from under the cloth, gasping for breath. He stood up and brushed himself off.
The ocean crashed against tall rocks near the shore of a hex of grassland. The winds were gusty, but the air felt warm. All around them, the island of Rokanun was eerie and empty.
“Help me get the balloon over by that big rock where we can hide it. Sort of. We should be able to move it while there’s still some gas in it.” Delrael grabbed a fold of the waterproofed fabric and tugged with both hands, flashing red with the effort. “And then we’re goin
g to get a good night’s sleep while we still can. “Tomorrow we’ll go rescue Tareah.”
Early the following day, Mayer led Vailret and Paenar back to the central Sitnaltan square. The fountain sent its feathery jet of water into the air. The water clock filled slowly and regularly, marking the exact hour of the morning.
Mayer had arrived at their doorway at sunrise, just as the city began to stir. Vailret had been sound asleep, comfortable in a real bed for the first time in weeks. Paenar had been sitting and thinking on his cot. He opened the door immediately after Mayer’s knock.
“My father has asked that I show you more of our city.” Mayer did not seem pleased with the chore. “Though I have my own calculations to continue.”
“Are you sure we wish to see more?” Paenar asked.
Mayer raised her eyebrows at him. “Yes, I am sure.”
The clanking, industrious sounds of Sitnalta filled the air as the three walked across the hex-cobbled streets. Paenar held onto Vailret’s elbow.
“Let me start by showing you something important.” Mayer pointed to a low building with a massive, ornate doorway that had artificial columns standing on either side. It looked like an ancient Sorcerer villa. “Inside is the one thing that fills all Sitnaltans with pride.”
“What is it? A listing of your father’s seventy inventions?” Vailret remarked.
Mayer glared at him.
They entered the small building with lush draperies and ornate furnishings. Propped on a pedestal against the far wall stood a leather-bound book with yellowed pages. Two curved brass pipes protruded from the wall, jetting blue gas flames that cast a glow on the volume.
“This is the original book, written by the great inventor Maxwell, in which he derived the first set of the Great Rules, the equations dealing with electromagnetism.”
She looked at Vailret, expectant, but he did not know what she meant. Mayer scowled. “It is also Maxwell’s treatise and charter for Sitnalta, with his hypothesis that we cast off magic and superstition because these have brought only pain and destruction to Gamearth. The Outsider Scott changed the Rules in this area of the world, allowing human characters access to technological discoveries. Have you never found it unfair that you could not use magic, just because you weren’t born a Sorcerer? Magic is for the few—technology is for everyone.”
“Technology works only if you live in Sitnalta,” Paenar said.
Vailret pursed his lips, embarrassed, and he did not want to answer. He hated to admit Mayer had a point. “Yes, I have thought that was unfair. I’m not a magic user, but I’ve studied more than most Sorcerers have.”
Mayer smiled at him. Vailret couldn’t tell if she was condescending or not.
“When we adopted Maxwell’s hypothesis, we agreed to focus our efforts on the furtherance of science, the development of technology, and the betterment of the human race. We have chosen to isolate ourselves, to avoid involvement in any wars. Let me tell you a secret—” she lowered her voice. “We are working to develop a way that we can activate our own Transition! Mechanically! Without magic.”
Her eyes glittered. Vailret thought it was a grand dream for human characters. But none of that would take place if Scartaris destroyed Gamearth.
She reached her thin fingers toward the enshrined volume, but did not touch it. “Every person in our city has an annotated copy of Maxwell’s great book. It has been printed time and again, but this is the original manuscript, in the handwriting of Maxwell himself.” Mayer’s voice was filled with reverence.
Vailret smiled at her, chiding. “So you’ve given up superstition, eh? Your attitude toward that old book sure reminds me of religious awe.”
Mayer turned red. “You are confusing reverence and deep respect for a silly superstition.”
“Is there a difference between unquestioning reverence and silly superstition?” Paenar asked.
“Yes, most certainly!” Mayer snapped. “Come with me.”
She hustled them back out into the sunshine. Angry, she continued to talk out of the corner of her mouth.
“We spend our time thinking. Ideas are our greatest product. One of Sitnalta’s scholars has suggested a logical reason for the existence of the hexagon-lines on Gamearth—that they are manifestations of an orderly, crystalline structure in the crust of the world, like the equal angles on a gemstone. Just think of it! The intuition and imagination that went into such a hypothesis, and of course it makes sense.”
Paenar remained silent, but Vailret nodded to himself. “I never thought about it.”
“Well, we did.”
She led them into the main room of another building. Dozens of people stood along tables that stretched from one wall to the other. Shoulder to shoulder, the characters picked up dice and rolled them into individual rectangular wooden bins. After each throw, the Sitnaltan made a meticulous notation of the results on a pad beside his or her station and picked up the dice again for another throw. The rumble and clatter of dice hitting dozens of wooden boxes struck Vailret’s ears like thunder.
“We are gathering data,” Mayer said, raising her voice. “One day, we will learn the true mysteries of the Rules of Probability. Ah, then the world will be in our grasp!”
Mayer put her hands on her waist, kneading her hip bones with her long fingers. “And would you mind telling me why you must see Professor Verne and Professor Frankenstein? They are very busy you know.”
Paenar stood expressionless and immobile. “I prefer to tell them myself.”
Mayer appeared frustrated from their reactions and attitudes throughout her tour. “You must show proper respect for them! We have strong evidence to suspect that the two professors are actually being Played—directly by the Outsider Scott. They are important. Important to us and important to the Game. The professors are not here to answer your every whim—”
“This is important, Mayer,” Vailret decided to intervene. She acted frightened when she spoke of Verne and Frankenstein. “I promise.” He tried to smile at her. She didn’t seem to know how to react.
She turned away and walked off, leaving them to follow.
At one of the doorways, she stopped and lowered her voice. “Since you don’t want to go where I wish to take you, I must not be an adequate guide to our city.” Mayer looked smug. “I have more important work waiting for me. If you have any trouble finding your way back to your quarters, use one of the speaking tubes and call for help.”
She hurried off and turned a corner before Vailret could think of anything to say.
“Typical,” Paenar said.
Vailret frowned, puzzled. “I just think she’s not used to anyone who isn’t amazed by their inventions. I am impressed at the opportunity their technology offers, especially to someone who can’t use magic—like me. But she doesn’t know how to defend herself against any questions we raise. She’s afraid of us.”
“Let us hope we can get something better from the professors.”
Vailret and Paenar stood baffled at the mad confusion in the workshop of Frankenstein and Verne. Incomplete machines lay in piles of gears and sheet metal, half-assembled or half-dismantled, surrounded by the smell of grease. Rambling equations had been written all along the walls, extending beyond the blackboard and onto the bricks themselves.
Professor Frankenstein crouched low over a table under the bright light of a gas lantern, dissecting something on a mounting board. At his side lay an immense open book in which he made meticulous notes. From where he stood, Vailret could see intricate and detailed sketches of parts of the body and the brown stains of dried blood on the paper.
Professor Verne sat on a lab stool away from the worktable, puffing on a pipe and gazing off into space. Coils of gray tobacco smoke floated around his beard, giving the inventor a surreal appearance. He twiddled his thumbs and blinked at the two men as they entered. He stood in surprise. “Welcome, travelers! Forgive me—I was deep in thought.”
Frankenstein glanced up from his dissection, stared
a moment, and turned back to his work.
Verne’s eyes sparkled. “Ah, do you bring news of the balloon? So soon?”
Vailret fidgeted. “We came to see you at work.”
Verne spread his hands. “Well, as you can see, Victor and I work well together. We were born with complementary skills. We make machines to mimic living things—he deciphers how the living things work, and I invent gadgets to function on the same principles.”
He scratched at his beard, then set down his pipe on a slanted work surface. It slid down, and Verne tried to catch it but only ended up with a handful of warm tobacco ash. He stared at the pipe, perplexed, then took great care to balance it properly.
“Victor, remind me to invent a pipe stand.”
Frankenstein did not look up from his work. “We already have. It goes before the Council of Patent Givers at the next meeting.”
Verne looked pleased. “Do we have any in production yet?”
Frankenstein shook his head. “Low-priority item.”
“Too bad.” He sighed. “Well, as you see, we have a great many inventions in the mill right now. Some are from Victor and myself brainstorming. Occasionally, though, we cannot take full credit.” He looked sheepish.
“I get ideas from dreams, too—someone, perhaps even the Outsider Scott himself, comes to me as I sleep and puts suggestions in my head. I remember him clearly when I wake—he looks very young, brown hair, and freckles, by Maxwell! Whoever heard of an Outsider having freckles!”
Verne shook his head. “Well, he does have good, workable ideas. In fact, the Outsider Scott suggested how we might make the great balloon your friends are riding and how to obtain the lighter-than-air gas to lift it. We take a large battery, you see, and discharge electricity into sea water. The electrical charge breaks down the water into its most primal forms, two kinds of gas, which—”
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