Ghosts of Sanctuary

by Robert J. Crane

  “‘Hark, peoples!’” Vaste cried. “‘Cyrus Davidon has returned, and in his vengeance he will be stealing lots and lots of shit, and burning much more of it! Woe betide you should you live or have your business next to one of these terrible Machine hideouts, for your shit will perhaps also be burned—you know, ‘by accident’!”

  “Your duncery is growing entirely too pronounced,” Vara said.

  “I am merely pointing out that our control of fire, and Curatio’s of water, is not nearly what it once was,” Vaste said. “Cities have burned with less spark applied. We should exercise great caution here.”

  “I thought you wanted to scourge my worshippers from the very earth,” Cyrus said dryly.

  “Oh, you of all people should recognize I was being dramatic,” Vaste said. “I have no more desire to leave Reikonos a scorched ruin than I do to go live in the ragged boneyard of Gren, a lonely hermit with none but the dead for company.”

  Alaric nodded. “We shall throw this all to the crowds, and burn the rest.” That said, he nodded, and Cyrus stepped forth, shattering the window with his gauntlet while Vara and Curatio began to gather up the bills and coins.

  The Ghost, meanwhile, stepped closer to Vaste and leaned in as the shattering sound of Cyrus clearing the glass from the corners of the window nearly covered his whisper. “And what do the dead here have to say, Vaste?”

  Vaste paused, listening carefully. “Very little,” he said. “But unlike the muted effects of magic, I find them entirely absent.” He listened, but there was only silence. “Strange things are happening in this place, Alaric.” He had heard little else to suggest that there were any dead lurking—a curious thing for a city of Reikonos’s immensity.

  “Indeed,” Alaric said as Cyrus scooped up a handful of gold in front of them and turned to the window, shouting something at the crown below and then loosing it all. “Many strange things are happening in this place. The silence of the dead is merely another disquieting one. The dampening of magic, the rise of this Machine … these infernal ‘pistols’—”

  “Don’t be such an angry old man, Alaric,” Cyrus said, scooping another armful of gold and money.

  Alaric merely grunted. “Concern yourself with your honor and not my age … whippersnapper.” The Ghost smiled. He glanced at Vaste, “We should, perhaps, help them,” he said, and moved to do so, seizing vast bundles of the notes. Taking his turn at the window, he began hurling them out.

  Vaste could hear the shouts and squeals of the crowd below. “Reminds me of the sound pigs make at a trough,” he mused, not bothering to assist. The others had a formed a chain of sorts, and the money, gold and jewels were making their way out. He could do little to assist; they had a system worked out, and his bulk would only get in the way.

  And so he watched, instead, as they threw their pilfered treasures down unto the crowd, showering them with largesse. Something about the whole spectacle unnerved him, leaving him unsettled and longing for the days when the whispered voices of the dead came to him in moments like this, providing a strange comfort by their very presence.

  18.

  Cyrus

  “Do you truly believe this coal yard is the place that this Machine has chosen to hide Shirri’s mother?” Vara asked as they threaded their way down the stairs. The noise of the crowd from outside was surging wildly, shouts and cries echoing into the building through some of the windows they’d broken in their ascent.

  “Hell if I know,” Cyrus said. “Everything about this Machine is muddled thus far. We don’t know who they are, other than some criminal brotherhood. We don’t know where they make their headquarters, only that they seem to have a heavy presence in the streets of Reikonos.” He shook his head. “There’s so much we don’t know.” The scent of blood and stink of death washed the hallway they passed through, and Cyrus saw the bodies of the five men he’d slain on his climb, sprawled across the floorboards as they moved toward the downstairs. “This whole world is a great mystery.”

  “Time has merely had its way with the world you knew,” Alaric said from behind him, causing Cyrus to pause at the top of the stairs. The Ghost approached. “The players and places may be unfamiliar to you, perhaps the world has grown wider since we left, given Shirri’s talk about lands beyond the seas, and the distance these airships can sail … but it is still the world we knew, with other elements simply layered atop it. We will find our way, in time.” He drew himself up to a commanding height. “And we will start by knowing Reikonos as you once did.”

  “Glad you didn’t say as I once did,” Vaste said. “Because my experience with this town was very poor. Did I ever tell you about the time I went drinking at a dark elven establishment down by the docks with Terian? I thought the patrons were going to try and make me their mistress.” He slapped his backside. “You know, because of this.”

  “I assumed it was because of your pretty face,” Cyrus said.

  “I’m sure that was a factor.”

  “We’ll need to ask Shirri about this coal yard,” Cyrus said. “We can start getting to know Reikonos again by ripping this Machine up by the roots.”

  “‘Roots’ doesn’t really work for a ‘Machine,’” Vaste said, pensive, and almost quiet with the crowd noise seeping into the building. “Perhaps … ‘destroy it down to the gears’ might be more apropos.”

  “Where’s Curatio?” Cyrus asked realizing the healer was not present. He heard thumping footsteps above, and then sniffed; smoke was in the air. “Oh, that’s right.”

  “Yes, he’s carrying out our dictate of scorching the Machine’s resources,” Alaric said. “I imagine it’s going to take a more sustained effort than usual because of the magical constraints.”

  “It is taking quite a bit more effort than usual,” Curatio’s voice shouted from somewhere above. “In fact, if any of you would care to start a fire or two on that floor and the ones below, it would aid me greatly.” There was a pause, and something shattered above. “I suggest aiming for a ripe pile of bedding to allow your spell to catch—and it will catch quickly.”

  Vara stopped, looking into one of the rooms. Cyrus glanced in as well. It was a bare-bones sort of dormitory, with a few bedrolls spread on the ground. Vara took one, he took another, and they both conjured fire that lit them.

  “This is disappointing,” Cyrus said with a frown at the small fire he’d started. “I’d just gotten good at magic, too.”

  “Well, you’d gotten adequate, at least,” Vaste said. “For a warrior.” And he sent a spiraling little ball half the size of Cyrus’s fist into another bedroll, lighting it up. “It would appear that in addition to the denizens of this world deciding to go insane and back Cyrus, the natural order has gone mad as well in a bid to equalize our spellcasting abilities.”

  Cyrus summoned a ball of fire roughly the same size as the one Vaste had commanded and sent it into yet another bedroll. The heavy scent of smoke was beginning to fill the air thickly here; black clouds were seeping up to the ceiling. “Yet I remain a stronger swordsman.”

  “And I can smack you with this staff as many times as I—” Vaste started to say.

  Cyrus drew his blade and rapped Vaste neatly across the knuckles on one hand, then the other, causing him to drop Letum in surprise. The Staff of Death tumbled from his grasp and Cyrus snatched it out of the air with ease, then rapped Vaste lightly once upon the forehead.

  “Oww!” the troll said, hands racing to the place where Cyrus had struck him. He looked down at the warrior with one eye squinted closed in pain. “Well, I don’t care for that at all.”

  “It’s not much better through a helm,” Cyrus said, tossing the staff back at him. Vaste caught it.

  “Brothers, I suggest you expedite your fire setting,” Alaric called up the stairs. “Things appear to be … heating up down here.”

  “First I’m struck on the head by this dunce,” Vaste said, still squinting in pain, “and now Alaric deals a horrifically pedestrian pun. My disappointments cont
inue to abound.”

  “I would think that would pale next to the knowledge that Cyrus is a god and your people may be extinct,” Vara said.

  “I was just speaking of the disappointments of the last two minutes,” Vaste said. “I just assumed you’d had enough of the earlier ones by now.”

  “I should like to hear no more complaining about extinct species and friends worshipped as gods,” Curatio said, descending the stairs to join them in the hallway, “as I have gone through that before and you didn’t hear me bitch about it.”

  “I think people simply had greater emotional fortitude in our day,” Alaric said.

  “Yes, this younger generation is forever complaining about something,” Curatio said.

  “On the plus side,” Vaste said, “no one can accuse us of holding back critical information, like, say, ‘The gods are not really gods,’ ‘They really want to kill you, Cyrus,’ or maybe, ‘Anyone can learn magic.’”

  “Or, ‘Your mother is still alive,’” Cyrus added.

  “I’d perhaps add, ‘I have lived nearly forever,’” Vara said, “or, ‘Our guildhall is a sentient life force with the ability to magically allow me and others to turn ethereal.’”

  Alaric and Curatio were silent, and Cyrus noted much looking around from them, some study of their own shoes.

  “Well,” Alaric said at last, gesturing to the stairwell, “shall we?” And he hurried to take the lead, Curatio following just as swiftly thereafter.

  “Oh, we busted their asses,” Vaste said with mild glee. Then, with a quiet pause, he added, “Do you think they’ve told us everything now?”

  Cyrus looked at Vara; she looked back. There was a small flicker of reserve. “I hope so,” Cyrus said, unwilling to commit to anything further. “But either way …” He shrugged. “It all comes out, you know—in the fullness of—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Vaste said, following their elders down the stairs. “I wish it would come out sooner. You know, when it might be helpful to know in advance?”

  “If wishes were horses, we wouldn’t have to walk to the coal yard,” Cyrus said, heading down after him, letting Vara lead. “Which brings up a gripe I have—the reduced size of Sanctuary’s grounds leaves no room for a stable.”

  “I’m sure you could put in a plea with Sanctuary to let you have Windrider again,” Vara said, “were you so inclined.”

  Cyrus frowned. “I would like to see Windrider again—though I know Windrider is not naturally a horse.” He smiled, just a little. “How curious that we spent a thousand years with Sanctuary in the ether and I don’t feel I know that much more about it or its aims than when we first went in. A thousand years to end up with—well, this.” And he made his hand fade, just slightly, and only for a second.

  “I can do little more,” Vara said, and her entire body became hazy for slightly longer than Cyrus’s hand had, but she slipped right back into solidity, the haze evaporating like an early morning fog. “What about you, Vaste?”

  “I can do at least as much as you,” the troll said, half a staircase down, “but I don’t wish to make this natural beauty vanish.” He waved a hand to encompass his whole body. “There’s just not enough of it in the world, especially now. It’d be a crime to remove more.”

  Cyrus let out a dry chuckle as they descended the last staircase into the shop. It was still a chaotic mess, but quiet inside. Outside, though—

  That was another story.

  It looked to Cyrus’s eyes like a near riot was breaking out in the street. People were stooping and shoving, trying to lay hands on every piece of gold and scrap of money that they could. Alaric and Curatio had paused just inside, surveying the scene.

  The Ghost spoke first. “We must do something about this.”

  Vaste slapped the head of Letum into his open palm. “Like crack some skulls?”

  “No,” Alaric said tightly, “I was thinking a bit more along the lines of peacefully solving the problem, not making it worse through violence.”

  “Are you sure?” Vaste asked. “Now that my healing spells are encumbered, I’m finding violence is really the only thing I’m good at.” He peered at Cyrus curiously. “Is this how you feel all the time?”

  “You’re good at quite a number of other things, my darling,” Vara said, patting Cyrus on the shoulder. “As he should know by our open door policy.”

  “Oh, thanks for reminding me of yet another affliction I’ve dealt with in the last few hours.” The troll sighed. “It’s injustices all the way down here, I tell you. It’s as though the universe or the God of Good, or whoever’s left smiling—no, frowning—down on us, studied my entire life and said, ‘Oh, you dislike your own people and their stupidity and their violent aggression? Wouldn’t it be hilarious if you came out of your thousand-year slumber to find that the intelligent troll girl you’d always hoped to find has been wiped off the world with the rest of your kind, guaranteeing that your beautiful light and wonderful arse will never be passed on to glorious, fat troll babies. Oh, and you’ll also lose that magic that makes you so special and be forced to beat people with sticks like a common troll.” He sighed loudly. “Next thing you know, I’ll be afflicted with stupidity, and perhaps scarred.”

  “You are scarred,” Vara said, pointing the marks on his forehead and face.

  “Yes, but these scars add a rugged, manly quality to my face,” Vaste said. “They’re character builders that only add to my handsomeness. I’m talking about the kind of scars where someone just rips your face nearly off—you know, like your husband did to Orion.”

  “His face was my canvas and my fist was like a brush,” Cyrus agreed.

  “’Twas beautiful work,” Vaste agreed. “Or hideous, rather.” He looked over the crowd. “So … no busting heads? This is a real shame. I have so much disappointment and anger to work through. Also, some sexual frustration that—”

  “Perhaps Alaric and Curatio might have been right about our generation’s emotional incontinence,” Vara said.

  “Agreed,” Cyrus said. “There are some things that would be best kept to ourselves.”

  “That is how I feel about almost all of our conversations that involve a free exchange of emotion,” Alaric said. “Perhaps we should adopt a ‘stiff upper lip’ policy, at least in public? We can always trade confidences back at the guildhall.”

  “This idea sucks,” Vaste said, “because I know that really, you’re all just looking to exclude me from your confidence-sharing circles. Alaric and Curatio have each other to confide their secrets in, Cyrus and Vara share not only secrets and a bed, but a free exchange of revolting innuendo—”

  “We share a lot more than that, big fellow,” Cyrus said.

  “But I—I am the fifth wheel in all this,” Vaste said. “I have no one to confide in, unless Vara is feeling merciful—and I think we all know that this is a state unlikely to come but once every thousand years, so—”

  “This riot is getting worse,” Curatio said. “And we have business to attend to elsewhere.”

  “Shut out of emotional support everywhere,” Vaste said. “So much hate.”

  “We’ll talk later,” Cyrus said, and stepped up to look over the crowd, moving past Alaric. “This could be a challenge, but if I can get their attention—”

  An earsplitting whistle shrilled from behind Cyrus’s ear and he cringed. Glancing back, he saw Vara with two fingers in her mouth. A hush had fallen on the street, and everyone had stopped right where they stood, awestruck at both the sudden noise and the sight they’d now seen beyond it.

  Cyrus surveyed the stunned crowd, and then nodded his thanks to Vara before raising his voice to address them. “You know who I am,” he said, and whispers ran through the lot of them, every eye fixed on him.

  “The world’s biggest bag of human feces, wrapped up in black armor?” Vaste whispered.

  “I have liberated this money,” Cyrus said, trying to set his mind to the task of oratory, knowing there would be more from Vaste that
he would have to ignore, “for you, the people. From the Machine. And yet … here you stand, fighting amongst yourselves for scraps of paper.” He stooped and grasped a fistful of gold, lifting it up as he stepped down onto the sidewalk in front of the building. He offered it to a woman in haggard clothing; she stared at it for a moment before taking it gently, no sign of the vicious squabbling that he’d seen only a moment earlier, before Vara had commanded their attention.

  Cyrus looked over the crowd easily; not one of them stood anywhere close to his height. “Is this what you’ve become in my absence? Chickens pecking at each other over mere seeds? For what is this paper, these notes?” He gestured to a man who’d filled his hands and his pockets with them; they were stuffed and overflowing. “They’re seeds. Seeds you hope to plant, to exchange for what you perceive to be a better life. And if you are starving, then perhaps they will find use in that way.” He looked over the crowd. “Are you starving?”

  There was an uncomfortable murmur. Looking up and down the street he decided this was not a district of utter poverty and despair, though it was certainly grimy from the ash. “I thought not.” He took a few of the notes out of the man’s pockets, and handed them to another woman, one who looked thinner and more careworn. “Is this good reason to plunder and destroy each other, then? For paper?” He waved one of them. “For chunks of metal?” He pulled a small coin out of his own purse; it was from before he’d left with Sanctuary. “What does this mean to you? What are you willing to do to get it? Kill your fellow humans? Harm them? Strike their eye from their head?” He made a motion as though to throw his elbow, miming a hit he’d delivered a thousand times. “Is that who you are here? Someone gets in your way … you strike at them?” He listened to the silence. “Is that who you think I am? Some coarse plunderer who would kill or harm anyone for a piece of gold?”

  A woman in front of him shook her head, then lowered her eyes from him. “No, Lord Davidon.”

  He handed the coin to her, and she took it, looking up at him. “You are right. That is not who I am.”