“You can win a fight by millimetres or milliseconds,” Chert says, “and you know it was close, but the other guy doesn’t, being dead. Nobody on the Reems side thinks any part of this was close, they think they got kicked hard again and they don’t have any way to tell it wasn’t all one preeminent. They’re going to think they’ve hit a rising hegemon.”
Since that’s just what you could easily be is something Chert can’t keep off their face.
Chert makes a mute and tangled motion at the ceiling and Halt shuts the illusion off; blank boards, instead of the smooth neutral background and the output graphs of victory.
“Rust ran into Laurel early, but they were rising. You” — Chert’s speaking to Halt — “have been at least a continental hegemon at least twice. Just Blossom’s plenty, and this whole batch of students,” and Chert’s voice stops.
“Disdain the legitimacy of personal ambition,” Halt says. “Much as Blossom does.”
There’s a pause.
“Given the Commonweal’s continued survival,” Wake says, “there would one day be born in it one with such scope of talent.”
“That was Blossom,” Chert says. “Who,” and Chert stops, possibly out of tact.
“Blossom’s education barely succeeded,” Halt says, “surrounding tradition of peaceful sorcery or not. The present Creek lack of a formal sorcerous tradition combines interestingly with their robust understanding of ‘that looks like work as needs doing’.”
“So we get canals and the lower Third and a robust defense.” Chert’s voice is flat. “That’s not we get a stronger Peace.”
“Young entelechs are not known for the moderation of their wrath,” Wake says, voice dry as potash. “Yet this was.”
Wake flips a five-mark coin, absently, three metres down the table in the general direction of Halt. It lands edge-on and motionless on the blunt butt end of one of Halt’s suddenly still needles.
Halt smiles.
The coin vanishes.
“General,” Wake says, “conquest exalts the victor over the vanquished. It creates a bond that may be metaphysically exploited, which generally is so exploited, to establish a pre-eminent’s dominion. Yet there has been no conquest; Reems has met defeat, and the Commonweal has taken no territory. Nor has there been killing outside metaphysically narrow responses to specific attack.”
Chert waves some sort of abstract pattern on the ceiling.
“Which is good, if we know what we think we know. Avoid conquest, seek no dominion, not even over land or weeds, because there’s no way to not get the people caught up in that imposition. Leave all the names as they are, except those of people; those go in the Shape, where they’re guarded.”
That’s been policy and intent since before there was a formal Commonweal, the design of the Shape includes an absence of dominion even if it makes weeding harder. You have to know why you can’t conquer before they give you a banner. The standard-captains have to be sure you won’t try anyway before you join their number. This is not new stuff to Chert.
“A hegemon most typically subsumes as they rise,” Wake says. “If what Reems seeks to escape is one such, their continued political cohesion is surprising.”
Always someone who will cut a deal.
“Even,” Wake says, “if this was the old-family nobles and the magic teachers, those too staid and in too little favour to have participated in the attempt on the Northern Hills. And if what they face is a hegemon in truth, our first knowledge of pressure against Meadows Pass is fifteen years in the past. A long while to withstand any plausible continental hegemon.”
Unless Reems has one themselves. Who we might have saved by killing the last Archon we know about.
“I was young a hundred years ago,” Chert says, “and I am old for what I am. Everything I learnt then says today couldn’t happen.”
“The children are a new thing in the world,” Halt says, quite content. “Though they are nearly all each things that have been before.”
“The art improves,” Chert says, almost bitter. “Yet I wonder how much is art and how much is a hive-mind.”
“Five young people who would rather die than fail one another,” Halt says in a voice for doom and judgements.
“Publication does improve us,” Wake says into the silence. “I knew not always so much of demons.”
“Has it improved you?” Chert says to Halt.
“Certainly, General. It has improved my temper immeasurably.”
Halt sets their knitting down and shakes out their hands. Halt’s knuckles flare briefly orange. “The future retains all new harm. Our margins of population and transport are slight; our industry increasing but never free of risk, as better foci ask more skill.”
That fine line between better focuses and dead or damaged wreaking teams. The art may improve, but not everywhere and not evenly. The Galdor-gesith forbade attempts to replicate the armour-focuses after there were deaths three times.
“We can imagine a worse future,” Halt says, “where we fail and fall and come to dust. Yet we need not, to be dutiful and cautious.”
“The hell-things expended two brigades, and the auguries don’t hold them the primary threat. We duck these Reems guys’ latest best try out of dumb luck and savagery and the auguries don’t hold them the primary threat.” Chert’s troubled, enough Chert’s messenger company is reacting, all up and attentive instead of a couple files of sentries.
The auguries all say look south.
Wake does Parliament’s auguries. As a general practice it’s discouraged, because the difference between augury and summon this future is more hypothetical than anyone likes.
“South of the Creeks is nothing but flat damp land Below-the-Edge and eventual ocean,” Chert says, “plus an unknown but believed small number of folk related to Creek ancestors. I don’t believe they’re going to generate a sorcerer that would seriously trouble a battalion.”
“Many things come out of the sea,” Wake says, tone placid.
Wake did, a thousand years ago.
“You do not tax me with the accuracy of augury, General, but it cannot be certain, only likely, and the more specific, the less likely.” Nothing in Wake’s serenity slips, even through the standard.
Chert makes a dismissive gesture. “Not a question of skill.”
Several questions about resources.
Chert’s face wanders through indecision, settles on determination.
“First fights are always a surprise. Have you taught them about demons?” Chert’s asking for the record.
“We may even hope Edgar won’t eat too many.” Halt looks pleased.
“Warding?” Chert gets it out as a plain question.
“Well time,” Wake says.
“Past time,” Halt says, picking up their knitting.
Chapter 37
Edgar
Halt’s there at dinner. Eirene is worried enough to try looking stern at Halt about the whole thing.
Halt’s very clear that Dove and I, and Chloris and Constant for good measure, are to do nothing but eat, rest, and delight in one another’s continued company for the next three days, “as is proper at Festival.” Hawthorn’s two older children snicker. Halt twinkles at them, so Eirene has to look stern.
Point to Halt.
“Could there be more trouble?” Grackle asks, face calm and mind spiking worry all over immaterial senses.
“Not from those,” Halt says.
Grackle’s watched their borne-child step out of a conflagration today, the better outcome and still uncanny. Would like to be reassured, draws breath to voice doubts.
“Truly, Madame.” Halt’s very formal. “That Reems was so frightened or so hopeful or so desperate was a true surprise, but we have been most entirely thorough.”
Eirene’s eyes narrow. “If they didn’t run.”
Public sentiment about the plague, the attacks, is running against the ur-law’s prohibition against aggressive war.
Halt t
winkles generally, all merry grandma. “The children do better, and trust.”
There are nods, not our nods, but plenty of them.
“Skill may yet suffice.” It’s not slips, it’s still Grandma Halt, no one’s going to go mad, but the ages and the empires and the uncountable dead sort of lean in from the depth of history, just a little.
Works or hurts Blossom says, meaning any attempt at a big offensive ritual. Hurts lasts.
Hurts was abrupt, Halt says. Commendably so, children.
Then we have nibbles enough for a meal; wheat flour waffles with butter and heavy peach syrup.
It’s really good.
Nobody says anything about Constant taking up a table-space, or asks how Chloris can lean on spectral Constant.
Nobody says anything about Dove and I eating with just our outside hands.
Chapter 38
Zora
It’s impractical to take Pelōŕios anywhere in a canoe. This lets out one of the increasingly traditional picnic spots, even if we were feeling brave about the weather, and the presence of an infant makes Halt’s cottage inadvisable. Not a relaxing location for anyone non-sorcerous trying to remember what’s safe to come in contact with, even if they were of years to remember warnings.
Our kitchen table in the Round House seats eight because we made eight chairs. More chairs around a four metre table is still not enough to seat five of us, Constant gets a chair, with eight visitors and four teachers, not even if we went to half-metre kid-width seating for everybody, which would almost work if we didn’t need the kitchen table. Halt can conjure the next course as it’s needed, right at the dining table. We’re not going to try it, none of us are that fast and keeping food warm or cold is easy to do.
Seventy-five-centimetre spacing means you can seat four people on opposite sides of a metre fifty table section, if it doesn’t have any legs getting in the way; we decide on two metres long, given the curve at the top of the legs, and get all our visitors watching quietly after awhile. Takes some time to agree on leg-shapes, whether we gain enough from a small arch or if straight and a stop and some sort of tabletop corner reinforcement works better, and then there’s the chair problem, Halle’s going to want a chair and Halle’s only a bit over a metre tall. Constant’s two metres. And we ought to make some large-lad chairs, our successors will need them eventually.
The kitchen table is beautiful, but it’s really not very tough; we have to be careful about it, it’s got several cloths made out of things developed for chemistry laboratories, and we’ve got an eclectic set of trivets, some of which are made from immutability. The idea of durability gets into the discussion of what to make table tops out of, and sort of swirls around questions of authenticity in a way that doesn’t need to address anything in words.
Now we’ve got a table section design, and both Blossom and Wake are here today, so we go outside and fish out yet more titanium and tonnes of clean sand and few hundred kilogrammes of miscellaneous additives from the stuff-pile. Going to try for petrified wood tops, or at least the look. Which means the table tops are mostly Ed, and the frames are Dove and Chloris because if they both do it they can flirt.
I’m out because Halle would very much like to be tossed ten metres in the air, please, again and again. The first time Dove did that with Nimblewill I thought Mikka was going to die of concern and Halle was going to die of joy at the possibility, and then I would never be able to explain to Mother.
Somewhere around table section nine, Dove’s neeves are getting bored, and Swift asks Wake what happened to Dove. I’ve started leaving Halle at the top of the toss for a slow back somersault before dropping again. Halle utterly approves.
“Use of the Power requires a metaphysical self,” Wake says. “Great use of the Power requires a greater metaphysical self.”
Swift nods, carefully.
“Your Aunt Dove’s metaphysical self persisted after a working that used enough power to incinerate their material body.” Wake’s voice is entirely mater-of-fact. “Unless the metaphysical self retains a material anchor, this is fatal. Edgar functions as such an anchor for Dove.”
Edgar hasn’t had a material self, in the food-ecology sense, since hatching. I’m glad Wake doesn’t see a need to explain that, it’s not merely complicated. Or just how unusual Dove and Edgar’s consonance is, or, well. At least one someone’s going to write a book, just as soon as anyone can seriously say they understand what’s going on. Probably a heavy thick book that hurts to read.
“So those are really Aunt Dove’s ashes?” Swift is the only one talking, but Junco and Poesy and Nimblewill are paying strict attention.
“Those really are.” Wake made a reliquary urn, for the ashes or for Dove, it’s not something inside social custom. The urn’s done square-section in off-white porcelain with a red-and-gold band of geometrical design around the neck. Dove really likes it. I’m sure Grackle, and probably Hawthorn, would rather it wasn’t in the corundum cabinet for pretty things in the Round House, but even Grackle acknowledges the mastery of the work.
“And it’s not bad?” Nimblewill is having trouble with the idea of burning to death being an acceptable outcome, or that there isn’t any death involved, I’m not sure which.
“Metaphysical metabolic transitions are usually performed deliberately,” Wake says, and leaves off in the Commonweal. “Dove preferred winning the fight to the opportunity to undertake a deliberate metabolic transition.”
There are nods. That’s a completely plausible thing for Aunt Dove to do.
“If the ashes are real, what’s Aunt Dove now?” Junco doesn’t sound upset, but is definitely confused.
“An arrangement of matter,” Wake says. “The arrangement is arrived at by the interaction of the metaphysical with the material, rather than by the accumulation of material history through heredity.”
That’s a chewy sentence when you’re ten. It takes Junco some time. “So really iron?”
“Iron and smoke and magic,” Swift says, I think trying to be more correct.
Wake nods. “Though the magic is not matter, only what arranges the matter.”
“Aunt Dove feels the same.” Nimblewill is looking at their feet.
“Dove would not wish to hug you strangely,” Wake says. “There is considerable choice available to the individual sorcerer making such a transition.”
There are nods. That makes sense, too. Dove’s neeves have developed a conviction that the Power can do anything.
Halle’s stopped, I’ve stopped Halle, ten metres up, because glee is interfering with breathing. Not in an urgent way, I shouldn’t let the glee grow greater, is all.
Table sections all done.
Offers to help carry from the kids founder on the individual table sections weighing half a tonne. Decimetre-thick stone tops on frames and legs, however elegant, that are just a little overdesigned. You could put two of Eustace on one of those Blossom says. Blossom approves.
The kids are all impressed at watching the tables float through the air. First thing they’ve seen us do with any associated sense of substantial mass.
I set Halle down, Pelōŕios carefully doesn’t offer to carry Halle because Mikka and Grackle and Hawthorn have all come up together and Halle hugs Mikka’s legs still in an inarticulately joyous state.
“Halle’s going to want you there to do that all the time,” Mikka says, voice carefully light.
I take a five hundred metre step away, past the last blast pit, wave, and then step back. “If I graduate, that’s practical.” The pause of honesty. “For some values of all, anyway. Much more often.”
I have to explain to Halle that I can’t do that with Halle, or carrying Halle; it’s a thing you’ve got to be a grownup sorcerer to do, and not all of them. Halle sighs like utter heartbreak, but nods.
“If I graduate, I won’t have to bring a teacher with me, which is why I can’t just get on a barge now.” That, at least, makes sense. Halle’s belief in arbitrary restrictions on
fun is intense.
Hawthorn says “You know how to do that because they know how?”
I nod. “How do you think the rest of us know butterfly names?”
It really was that simple, taking a long stride was just there when I looked for it. Probably because I wouldn’t have had any difficulty learning on my own.
In the house, Ed’s explaining to Swift that Wake’s actual form, what Wake’s really like, made Ed faint just from distant perception on the first day of classes. Asking a sorcerer what they’re really like isn’t precisely polite, though entirely acceptable given the recent circumstances and worry about their Aunt Dove.
Dove grins at the collected neeves and drops being embodied, the matter tucks itself away down precisely the same inexplicable distance Dove uses with that bird-structure. Blossom does the same thing, and they do almost match, Blossom’s many shades of white and Dove’s red and gold, but they’d be really hard to tell apart visually otherwise.
“I’ll just give you sunburn,” Dove says. “Chloris and Zora aren’t switched yet, Constant’s all metaphysical, and Ed’s,” there’s the inevitable chorus, “some sort of horror from beyond the world,” before Dove goes on “and too many dimensions to be good for you to look at.”
Then it’s Dove and Blossom looking human again, four initially cautious hugs, the explanation that hugs are a big part of the reason to keep a human form, and then a decision about whether to walk in the Tall Woods before or after lunch. Grackle says “Before,” firmly. “Food after a little otherworldly.”
Chloris, rather formally, invites Wake and Blossom along. Wake demurs; there are ongoing auguries, and Wake’s metaphysical departure, even in a very limited sense, will not benefit the working.
Too many bad things have been happening too easily to believe it’s all mere chance, so Wake’s looking for causes. I don’t think any of our visitors catch the implication. Mikka certainly doesn’t.
Pelōŕios doesn’t make any noise on the carpet of leaves. Dove’s family clusters up, Mikka carries Halle, everyone’s quiet. We don’t go forward very quickly, it’s too strange to everybody who isn’t us. Obviously not a bad strange, but that makes it stranger still. This little pocket of woods malice has never got to, in any way at all.
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