“Nor I,” the female guard answered. “But are we overlooking fugitives, because they were our temporary comrades? Or because we old married folk admire romance?”
“Or is a kiss just a kiss?”
“That is not so important right now,” she replied, looking down into the chasm, “when we must remember This.”
There was a mansion. It was unlike most mansions in a number of ways. That it was small enough to be worn around a raven’s neck was not even the strangest thing about it. The inhabitants, like the interiors, were composed of crackling magical impulses, but they did not perceive themselves thus.
One of the inhabitants even now perceived himself as looking out a billiards room window.
“Is she gone?” said his companion.
Lord Raz nodded, twisting a cue. “We’ve reached the summit, and she has reincorporated. And so we stand and wait. My shot?”
“Yes,” Lady Cynthia said. “You’ll find it difficult, sinking that Blue Moonball.”
“Intriguing game,” Raz said. “Thank you for inventing it.”
“My pleasure. I appreciate spheres. I often think our world should have been one.”
“A strange thought,” Raz said as he sighted various approaches. “Why?”
“Elegance. There are times when our approximately disc-shaped world seems rather hodgepodge. Were it a sphere, night and day could be a matter of simple rotation, not a complex matter of the sun wandering its way around one face of the world and then the other. And it gets worse. Did you know that the sun plunges into canyons or caverns no less than six times daily on our face of the world alone? Thus many more parts of our the world experience a dawn and a dusk than they would otherwise.”
“To be honest,” Raz said, “I think little about the motions of the sun. The Earthe could circle around it for all that it impacts my work. It is the motion of people and nations that concerns me.”
Just before he was about to shoot, every reflective surface in the room shimmered with the image of Sarcopia Vorre. She was in the windowpanes, the glassware, the bottles, the ice bucket, and even dimly in the billiard balls. Her voice vibrated glass lanterns and suits of armor and even the boards of the mahogany door. “Spymaster. Report on this Snowheart.”
Raz stood at attention, cue aimed at the ceiling. “True name Eshe, family name uncertain. Class Three threat.”
“Class Three? But she lacks any sorcery. Jargo XIII himself is a Class Three.”
“She is unique, mistress. Chief agent of the Whispering Hunt of the Kpalamaa Federation. Absurdly skilled. No one is sure how old she really is, perhaps not even her.”
“Weaknesses?”
“A degree of sentimentality.”
“The fatal one. Loremistress, report on the competition.”
Cynthia held out her cue as though about to duel. “Jargo XIII arrived first. The oncoming apparitions of storm and snow match the proclivities of the Archon of Night and the troll-king Skrymir; each are Class Two threats. I estimate their arrival in three hours. Three more manifestations are apparent in the etheric currents but the signatures are as yet unclear.”
“What of the thieves of Eyetooth?”
“The man’s description matches one Imago Bone, thief, base of operations Palmary, Class Ten threat.”
“Class Ten? I thought the scale only went down to Nine.”
“We created Class Ten to account for certain beings with unusual gifts who nonetheless do not rate a place on the Ledger.”
“And the woman?”
“Persimmon Gaunt, poet, base of operations Palmary, not on the Ledger.”
“And these two nonentities recovered Eyetooth?”
“It is a puzzle, great one.”
“All puzzles have answers, Lady Cynthia. Solve it, if you value your eyes.”
“Of course.”
The echoes faded, and the reflections vanished.
Without comment, Lord Raz took his shot. The Sunball connected; the Blue Moonball came within a finger-width of plunging into a side pocket but bounced off the rail. “But what of seasons?” he said. “Would your spherical Earthe have those?”
“There is probably an elegant solution I haven’t discovered yet.”
“You sound as though you’re planning a world.”
“Sometimes I think I am,” she shot back, before shooting ahead.
Atop Starfang, Eshe listened to overlords sparring.
“Ill met by starlight, Archmage,” said the tiny Jargo XIII, “and nameless agent of the Ghana of Kpalamaa.”
“We declare for magic,” Sarcopia said. “Do you?”
“Of course. We are the best at it, we followers of Klarga.”
“Inventors of Klarga, you mean.”
“Humankind is always following what it invents. Laws. Customs. Loves. Dreams. If we invent more deliberately than most, what of it?”
“True power is kept in one’s hands, not invested in puppets.”
“Who is more powerful than a puppetmaster?”
“Any child running with scissors.”
“It has really been too long, Sarcopia.”
“Yes, hasn’t it just, Jargo? A shame my cavern and your island aren’t more neighborly.”
“Oh, give it time.”
“I will.”
“I would vomit,” said the seagull, “if I hadn’t lost it all on the ascent. Sorry, beautiful crystal-topped mountain at the heart of everything! I believe I puked a saint or two on you.”
“Death!” croaked the raven.
Eshe wordlessly fed her Olitiau a whole mango, careful with her poison-tipped gauntlet.
“Do you know anything about these thieves?” Sarcopia asked.
Jargo shrugged. “They didn’t rate the Onyx Wall of Graven Enemies.”
“We simply call it the Ledger,” Sarcopia said.
“The Portfolio,” Eshe murmured.
“Regardless of the name,” Jargo snapped, “we all understand the score—there are those who rate, and those who don’t.”
He waved a hand, and fragments of the crystalline summit splintered and swirled upward like reversed snow. They spiraled around his miniature wizard form and snowballed, so to speak, until the homunculus of Jargo was encased in the head of a full-sized crystalline Jargo.
“They are bird food,” said the seagull. “All beings secretly desire whatever happens to them. A delicious fact.”
“Indeed, Johann Sebastian,” said Jargo with a smile that the crystal apparition mimicked. His voice emerged through the figure’s nose. “These new players must be terrified by now, wondering how they can survive the key and conceive a stratagem that can dispatch we elite. Even now they must be hatching plots, covered in sweat, studying the key with all the desperation of the mad.”
“Again, Bone. I am ready. Mm. If you are...”
There came a clatter in their dark room in the Tilted Windmill.
“What was that?” she asked.
“I think I knocked Eyetooth off the nightstand. I, uh, think it’s still dimensionally stable. Now... hm, where were we?”
Gaunt gave a long sigh. “We are being irresponsible, aren’t we?”
“I think we left irresponsible behind some time ago. Other relevant adjectives might be, uh, hungry, eager, seeking, lovely, curvaceous, uncovered, giddy, teasing, shivering, quivering, shaking, gasping, coiled, grinning, sighing, dozing...”
“Are you all right over there?”
“I think I am ready too.”
“Alas, dear Bone, we have much to do.”
“Two out of three. Well. It’s not ninety-nine out of ninety-eight but it is nevertheless memorable...”
“I was wrong. It is not we who are being irresponsible; it is I. I am angry at the price levied by the delven, and I will not pay it.”
“To be precise, they’re not asking you to pay it.” Bone sat up. “I must deal with my own foolishness.”
Gaunt rose and framed his face in her hands. “You are changing, Imago. It
is almost alarming. For all I know I will turn around and find you an honest man.”
“Never. All who knew me would mock me.”
She folded her arms and studied him in partial jest, but only partial. “I will tell you a thing, Imago. The more fully you live, the more ridicule you get... and the more admirers too. There are those who long to become big by knocking others down. But there are those who long to grow. By growing yourself, you help them.”
“Can a thief grow?”
“What if you are not a ‘thief’ but a quick-thinking man who steals at times—but at other times also saves? What if the second quality defined you and not the first?”
“You make my head hurt, Persimmon. But my head endures for my heart’s sake. And my head tells me this responsibility, this price, belongs to me.”
“You will not pay it, I will not let you. I’ve been thinking.”
He smirked. “Is that what it’s called?”
She gave him a teasing slap. “Silence your ego, man! I am woman, I can think of more than one and a half things at once! In widderspace I thought I learned something, and the delven have confirmed it. Opening a portal with Eyetooth, while aiming near a person, can open a realm keyed to the thoughts of that person.”
“It... creates places?”
“As the delven put it, there are so many corners of the—metacosm? So many corners that it’s possible to find one that suits our thoughts very well. I think Eyetooth can seek places. Remember, we spoke of bluemoss, back in widderspace...”
“We did?”
“Trust my memory, old man. We did, and between us Eyetooth opened up a realm of blue jungles and forests. I had you open a portal near my head...”
“That I remember. It was strange, and I’d meant to ask you about it later.”
“I concentrated upon a nursery rhyme about the broken egg-man Yokel Swell. And Eyetooth opened the way to a world shattered like an egg.”
“Coincidence?”
“I don’t think so. I think from widderspace we can open a portal to reach the Logos Lock and honor your promise.”
“Ah. There’s a snag.”
“Yes?”
“Time passes more slowly in—widderspace? The opposition will be well and truly dug in.”
“Or they’ll have killed each other, Bone.”
“Are we ever that lucky, Gaunt?”
“Perhaps the time difference is controllable. Perhaps there is a relationship between time and hypergeometry. Perhaps Eyetooth can influence this relationship.”
“Three perhapses in the same argument?”
“Perhaps,” Gaunt said.
“All right. When we select our destination we also ask for minimal time difference. And for a pony.”
“There’s no call for sarcasm, Bone.”
“Who’s being sarcastic? As long as we’re facing an angel, sorcerers, and higher dimensions, we might as well get something out of it besides motion sickness.”
Gaunt said, “I will need to doze and ponder and rest first.”
“Hm. I know what might help with that...”
“Men!”
He mimed reaching for his daggers. “Where?”
“You are impossible, Bone. But alas you are also charming. Do you think This will return?”
“What? Oh. I suppose it may... but it will have some difficulty escaping the mountain. We have time, then?”
“Mm? For what?”
“You torture me! Of course, if you are no longer interested...”
“Ah, the mournful voice, Bone! I cannot resist the mournful voice, with its overtones of chill winds howling over cenotaphs and its hints of lustful desperation.”
“Hints?”
“We must take it slowly, is all. I have much to consider.”
“I am grateful,” he said, “you can think of more than one and a half things at a time.”
“You should be,” she said. “Cover Eyetooth,” she added.
Bone had another dream. In it he carefully broke into a manor. But he wasn’t there to steal, for all that glittering things teased his eyes in all directions. No, he filled a pitcher from a courtyard pump and tended the plants.
No one had asked him to do this. Some higher power he could not name compelled him to creep up to violets and orchids and lilies, ambushing them with water. He spilled not a drop. He ducked at each window, froze at each creak in the floorboards, blended with the shadows of coat racks, chandeliers, and half-opened cupboard doors. He was the secret waterer, ghostly guardian of thirsty flowers. It thrilled him with illicit delight.
Do you know why you‘re here? came a voice.
He turned very slowly. He could have heard a drip drop.
The teenaged girl looked like a warrior of the Bladed Isles, complete with steel byrnie, round shield, and wickedly sharp spear. She had braided red hair and eyes of frosty blue.
Bone raised his watering can in answer.
The girl smiled and shook her head. You are inside a metaphor. An approximation of what you‘re meant to do.
So, Bone said carefully, you‘re not going to skewer me?
She laughed. Imago Bone, ever practical in his own absurd way.
That is a no, then. What am I meant to do? Awaken, and use Eyetooth to break into all the gods‘ mansions and water their plants?
Your skills will come to be used in the service of life, old man, not greed.
That sounds suspiciously like altruism.
You‘re the one with the watering can. Shoulder your pain, thief.
What?
And he was awake. He rose restless in the sunset. Gaunt still slept. She was snoring, though of course she’d deny it later. Luckily he’d always viewed a woman’s snores as a kind of fine music, and he a privileged audience.
He studied her in the rosy illumination. She’d dressed in case of trouble, as had he, once the evening’s other agenda was done. She was no less beautiful for that.
This once, he thought, don’t be greedy, Imago. For treasure, for love... or for years.
He looked out across a chasm at the Otherfolk Quarter. It was late now, with sun drooping between mountains and casting smoldering red glows and long smoke-like shadows everywhere, and folk were scurrying to their homes or favored night spots. Bone saw the observatory’s telescope pointed, not at a sky as yet parsimonious with its stars but at the Tilted Windmill. Hm. Impertinent of them. But useful.
He plucked Gaunt’s wax writing tablet and stylus and wrote between her lines. He held the tablet to the window.
I said, Gaunt’s first line ran, I do not trust skulls. But truly, skulls we all are.
I CHOOSE YOUR OFFER, Bone had written underneath, BUT WITH A TWIST. I INVOKE AN OATH-TO-BE...
Skulls disguised, ran Gaunt’s second line. One day we‘ll shed our costumes...
I OFFER 1/4 NOW FOR PROTECTION, Bone wrote, 1/4 IF LATER WE GIVE THE KEY TO YOU FOR SAFEKEEPING...
And grin, Gaunt had written, at each others‘ nakedness...
AND ANOTHER 1/4 IS IN THE OFFING, Bone dared write, FOR A FUTURE BOON OF MY CHOICE...
Embarrassed perhaps, Gaunt had continued, at how we treated one another...
WHICH COMES TO 3/4 OF MY AMAZING FUTURE, Bone went on, THE BARGAIN OF THE AGE!
During the masquerade, Gaunt had concluded, at least for now. Bone realized as he held the wax tablet up to the window that she must have composed this the night before This had attacked in the snow.
The great telescope spun with a rumbling he could hear dimly even from across the gorge. Through the tiny eyepiece, now pointed directly at him, flashed a gleam of flickering silver-and-gold light. An assent? Well then. He should consider how to erase—
“This!” screamed a voice amid the shattering of glass.
Gaunt, too, dreamed.
She lived in some manner of rustic place, both like and unlike her family’s home in Swanisle. That manse had been a teetering remnant of nobility, a relic of brittle pride. This place was simply what it was.
It represented no ongoing legacy. To be a home was pride enough.
Her favorite spot within (she knew, with the strange knowledge of dreams) was beside the fire, in a place where, with the impractical arrogance of artists, she kept her scrolls and codices. A small but quietly loved fraction was Gaunt’s own work.
A sudden movement caused her to peer outside. Beyond a glass windowpane wound a dirt path among evergreens, between deadfalls. And beyond these woods stretched a rocky landscape dotted with mosses, bushes, and the occasional copse of trees.
Bizarrely, out on the path a red-haired boy was riding one of Richard Thomas’s wheeled contraptions.
She somehow knew (in the way of nightmares) that a heavy branch was about to collapse, intersecting the path at the same instance of time and space as the boy. It was going to kill him. She knew this even as he grinned. She shouted, but he couldn’t hear her. He’d already turned away.
She also somehow understood that if she left the room now, a scroll she’d left foolishly beside the fire would catch a stray spark and ignite. Flames would consume her home and life’s work.
And, Swan help her, she hesitated to leave all this.
In that moment of indecisiveness she knew she’d lost any easy way of saving the boy. Wildly she looked at the scroll and as it began to smoke she read its title: If You Could Be Your Best Self, What Would You Be?
And she leapt through the window glass.
Gaunt awoke to see the shadowy tangle of This assaulting Bone beside a shattered window. She leapt up and threw Bone aside with a strength that surprised even her.
And words in Vuuhrr came unbidden to her mind, as if she’d worked out a complex translation problem while she’d slept. She hissed, “You can be reunited with the key when we are done! Just let us use it a while longer!”
And the angry blot of language paused. It said something that shocked her: “Gaunt?”
As the three of them fell into silence, there flashed a light from the observatory. Startled anew, Gaunt reckoned the telescope had been spun the wrong way and was now absorbing light from within the observatory and focusing it outward, onto this room. A mix of gold and silver, like that shed by Sunspool and Moonwax, filled the chamber. What could it mean?
Chris Willrich - [BCS314 S01] Page 6