Humans’ Special Power

Seriously, wouldn't all you people rather be elves?

So, the other night I was at a party (for the release of Croak by Gina Damico) and I had a conversation with my friend, John Perich and various others about the portrayals of humanity in fantasy and science fiction stories and games. He brought up the whole trend that puts humans in the role of the ‘default’ race and that all other races (be they sci-fi aliens or the cohabitants of a fantasy world) have built-in qualities that define them somehow as ‘other.’ Dwarves are stubborn, Klingons are violent, elves are beautiful and noble, Vulcans are logical, etc, etc. Everybody’s got their schtick–everybody, that is, but humans.

The reason for this, as I pointed out in the aformentioned conversation, is that it is phenomenally difficult to portray alien species as anything other than slightly more specialized versions of human beings. This is because we have no other analog for intelligence or sentient beings and, even worse, have no way to think or conceive of things that are alien to our own way of understanding. Much as we might like to claim to ‘understand’ a dolphin, we do not and cannot. It’s thought process, no matter how advanced, is fundamentally alien to our own. Therefore, in order to get our head wrapped around it, we start with a human intelligence, remove some parts, add some other parts, and we get our dwarf or elf or Ferengi or whatever. Of course, such beings aren’t really alien in the same way that a 2010 Corolla isn’t a wholly alien object to a 2008 Corolla–same basic framework, but with a variety of cosmetic and minor functional differences. Even if we try really hard, the best we wind up with is a comparison between a Corolla and a Ford Mustang. If we really want to talk aliens, we’d need to find a way to compare the Corolla (us) with a blimp (them). Good luck.

Anyway, because humans are the default setting–where we begin, necessarily and ultimately, to paint our picture of alien life–efforts have been made across the specfic genres to give humans something special to make them unique. After all, if there’s nothing special about us, that means we aren’t awesome, and we’re obviously awesome, right? The trouble is, when everybody else is better at certain things than we are (Klingons are better warriors, Vulcans are better thinkers, Betazoids are better diplomants, Ferengi are better buisnessmen…), whatever are we better at than everyone else? Here are some of the more common theories:

The Human Spirit

Yeah, we haven’t got super strength or wings or ageless lifespans, but we’ve got spunk, dammit! Humans never give up. They are adaptable, optimistic, and have that special something that gives them the edge over the competition. They don’t believe in no-win scenarios, man!

In RPGs, this is often represented as some extra skills or a bump in versatility. Sometimes it shows up as a variety of bland special edges that give humans mild statistical advantages over their buddies. In general, this one always bothers me because it’s based off of the principle that humans don’t like to lose and adapt themselves so they don’t. This, however, is fairly common with all successful lifeforms, since you don’t survive in the big, bad world without some ability to Outlast/Outplay/Outwit.

Human Ambition

Humans are always striving for more, see? They, above all things, desire power. Dangle a magic ring under their nose, and they grab it. They expand, like a virus, filling up their environment with all the stuff they accumulate and spread across the cosmos like a plague. They’re never satisfied.

This one isn’t bad, but it rather hamstrings the ability for humans to interact with other aliens, doesn’t it? Like, if none of them are as ambitious as us, then don’t they just kinda get pushed aside? In some settings, they do, actually (in my own setting of Alandar, in fact), but to rob all your aliens of the capacity to be equally ambitious makes it easy to either demonize or glorify humanity in a way that makes things unfair. In Avatar, for example, humanity’s ambition is demonized as destructive and cruel. In Star Trek, it’s glorified as the thing that makes us the leaders of the Federation. In both cases, we are seeing human uniqueness being used as a symbol for what the authors think of human behavior, rather than a realistic portrait of those cultural or physical qualities that make us distinct.

Hardy Vermin

One of the other popular ones is to have humans be pervasive, hardy, and numerous. This is an easy trick–humans happen to be physically hardier than other species, or reproduce faster, or what-have-you. I use a version of this myself in The Rubric of All Things, in which humans are extremely tough and disease resistant (we do take our immune system for granted, don’t we?).

Of the three ideas, I prefer this one myself, since it’s the easiest and most plausible. I don’t think it needs to be pigeonholed into humans being ‘hardier’, per se, but if you are inventing aliens, you can pretty easily make them all so physically different that their uniqueness becomes clear. In order to do this, though, you’re going to have to think harder about how your aliens work. So, like, if humans are the only intelligent bipeds around, what does that mean for how all those aliens construct their buildings and castles and spaceships? Stuff is bound to get weird fast (which is how I like it).

So What if We Aren’t That Special…

Ultimately, however, all aliens are going to be versions of ourselves–distorted reflections, if you will–or otherwise will be the unknowable ‘other’. Middle ground is extremely difficult to establish (though I’m trying, believe me!), and is the subject for some really profound and interesting stories. Still using other species as metaphors for aspects of humanity has a long and colorful history, and I can see no good reason to stop, so long as it’s kept fresh.

The Prophesy of Hann

Taken from Chapters 177-179 of the Book of Hann, the Verisi Standard Translation, in the 23rd year of Keeper Estherick II

So it came to pass that the  Hann, God of Men, called Longstrider, came to lead mankind out of the Taqar and to the shores of the Sea. Long had been the journey from the Hearth, and the race of men had swelled to many multitudes. The young men had become grandfathers; ancestors of great families, accomplished in deed and bravery.

The land was as Hann had described it–lush and alive with fruits and game. The great beasts of the Taqar were behind them, as were the barbarous children of Melich and of Xarn. They pitched their tents, and a great cheer went up among the people. There was feasting and dancing. Hann’s great pavilion was at its center, and there the chiefs of men attended him and heeded his counsel. This continued for days.

Then came Ulor, the Lone Wanderer, Speaker of Truths, to the great camp. The faithless God, the cause of the Exile, was waiting for them here, in the promised land of Alandar. Though the sentinels of the camp challenged him, none could hinder his passage, for he was the blood of Ozdai, All-Father, and no mortal was his equal.

Hann welcomed his brother, as was fitting, but all knew that Ulor, the Thankless, held no love for his brother. They went outside the camp, and there strove with one another with word and body and art, for three days. The people dared not come close, for the skies cracked and thundered with their anger.

On the morning of the fourth day, Ulor was gone. Hann returned, weary from his struggle, seated upon Equ, the Father of Horses. When the people had gathered, he spoke to them.

“I must leave you now. A father must always know when to let his children earn their own place in this house. So I have led you out of suffering and hardship and into the sun, and now I leave you to make your own fortune. Remember my wisdom and my faith in you; be not greedy and selfish, but defend one another and love one another as I have loved you. Guard your souls from the predations of the world and the temptations of darkness. Seek not ease, but kinship. When you die, I shall come to guide your spirits home to the Hearth, where you shall sup with my Father. This I swear.”

“In time you shall fall upon one another with dagger and club. You shall spill the blood of your cousins and your sisters’ children. You shall take dominion of the world and squander it on yourself, for deep in your hearts Ulor has placed a dark seed–love of yourself. This I say will come to pass, and those who succumb to the dark whisperings of my brother I shall not guide to their reward. They shall be left to wander back alone and lost. This I swear.”

There was much weeping. Hann silenced them with a thunderclap, and spoke a final time.

“When, after the long age of struggle, you have once again united yourselves; when my children stand united against the lesser beings of the world and when you join again as one tribe under the wide sky, then I shall return to you. For at that time the goodness of your hearts will be smiled upon by my father, and the Exile will be at an end. Then we shall once again travel across the vast wastes of the Taqar, and brave the same dangers, and walk the same stony paths, but this time to return to the Hearth, and there dwell for all time.”

Yldd

There is a price to knowledge.

It is more dearly bought than thou thinkest.

A son wishes to know his father’s secrets. To learn them is cheap–time, patience, vigilance, cunning are all in ready supply. These are not the price. The price is in the knowing.

The son learns the father is a cheat, an adulterer, a coward, a liar. Or the son learns the father is a hero, a paragon, a faultless man of integrity. Or the son learns his father is exactly as he appears, and nothing more. The exact fact does not matter.

To know is to cease to hope. Learn, and kill possibilities with broad strokes. Slay thy dreams with every learned fact. Build thy prison out of truth and evidence. Watch thy youth die at a pace with thy tutelage.

Think thou that I and my brethren were ever thus? We once walked with men in an age before thy reckoning. We were scholars, prying at the seams of Truth, seeking the answers to all questions. We learned them. We Know.

The Knowing had a price. Death became our slave, pain our tutor, power our currency. We were undone; our humanity withered with our imagined wisdom. We cared not. We wished to Know, and there was no price too high. It is only now, with the perspective of aeons, that we can savor the rich irony of our quest. We wished to become gods through our learning. Instead we have become servants; slaves to the Truth. Custodians of the Answer.

The wonder in our souls is but a half-remembered whisper. Our curiosity is as dead as the cities that birthed us. We are men no longer. We are husks, hollowed out with secrets. Thou cometh hither to seek such secrets; for them thou shalt pay. This, though, I give thee for free:

Ask not. Let thy secrets lie. Dwell in the possible.

The Mad Prince of Dellor

The plain, wooden letterbox on Banric Sahand’s desk was so nondescript that a visitor to his voluminous field pavilion might have noticed it anyway, given that everything else in the tent was unforgettable. An educated person would quickly note that the contents of his bookshelf  ran in two varieties—military strategy and proscribed magical texts—and that the vast majority of the books there had long been thought lost or had been banned throughout the West. A businessman or merchant would have noted the ostentatious quality of the Kalsaari rug that covered the ground, or the expense and rarity of the iron-and-mageglass chair that loomed behind his massive, hand-carved desk. A soldier would note the rune-inscribed broadsword on the rack by the fire not only for the weapon’s quality, but also because it was clearly kept sharp, oiled, and in regular use, as were all of the various weapons and armor supported by racks and stands and attended to by invisible specters bound to Sahand’s will. An uneducated person, meanwhile, would have likely been distracted by the imposing person of Sahand himself—his heavy fur cloak; his polished, silver-shod boots; the dark, iron circlet resting on his rugged brow; the goblet he drank from, made from a human skull. All of these things were amazing, terrifying, and incredible to varying degrees, and then, as some kind of strange, mundane joke, there was the plain wooden letterbox, sitting alone in a corner of the desk of a man who had once sought to conquer the West.

Of course, few ever noticed it, or anything else at all about the room. They were usually too busy lying on their faces before the Mad Prince, groveling for their lives, to take in the finer points of His Highness’s personal living quarters.

            On this particular afternoon, the groveler was a warlock from Ayventry named Hortense. Hortense was perhaps forty, with a wife and a teenage daughter, and had come highly recommended as a man of skill, principle, and noble bearing. Sahand’s right-hand man, the towering Gallo, pressed a heavy boot into the small of the man’s back, pushing his face towards the floor; watching this, Sahand noted yet again how quickly one’s ‘bearing’ slipped when faced with imminent death. Hortense was weeping tears, drool, and snot on Sahand’s expensive carpet. “Pl…please, Your Highness, permit…just…just permit me one more chance….I, I, I know we’re close…”

            Sahand sighed and looked out the open tent flap, where the snow was falling in heavy sheets along the upper slopes of the Dragonspine mountains. “Hortense, what did I tell you last fall?”

            Hortense tried to look up, his eyes blinded by tears, but Gallo pressed his face back down. “Oh! You said…that…that I had one year to get the machines to work.”

            “And how long ago was that?” Sahand asked calmly.

            “Fourteen months…but…”

            “Silence.” Sahand nodded to Gallo, who pressed harder on the engineer’s back. “Now, I am not certain how they read contracts in Ayventry, Hortense, but if it is anything like in the rest of Eretheria, twelve months equals a year. That means you are two months behind schedule, which means I am two months behind schedule. This strikes me as unfair, Hortense. Doesn’t that seem unfair?”

            “V-very unfair, milord…”

            “I agree, it is very unfair. It seems that you are in a breach of contract, even after I so graciously granted you an extension to complete your work and even went to so great a length as to kidnap numerous thaumatuges to assist you and procured literally scores of wild beasts from all over the world to make your work possible. Are you aware of how much such activities cost me?”

            Hortense’s voice was mangled by his cheek being pressed into the carpet. “A great deal, milord.”

            “Do you hear yourself, Hortense?” Sahand asked, standing up. “Are you aware of just how cavalierly you just uttered the phrase ‘great deal’?”

            Hortense’s breath heaved in heavy sobs. “I…I didn’t…I don’t…”

            Sahand crouched besides the prone warlock. “Of course you don’t, Hortense—this, I believe, is the problem we are having in our professional relationship.” Sahand grasped the man by his hair and jerked his head back until Sahand could see his eyes. “You simply do not appreciate my problems. My goals, my aspirations, my operations, my finances are abstractions to you, aren’t they?”

            Hortense didn’t answer save to produce a nasal whine through his running nose.

            “I have a solution to this problem—a way to bind your self-motivation more closely with my own interests. Now, of course, you are too valuable to punish physically—an injured, ill, or starving man does not work well. However, I have found men with families in jeopardy show a great will to succeed in their tasks.”

            Hortense’s bloodshot eyes widened and his face crumpled into an even less flattering expression. “Oh…oh please, Hann, no! Anything! Anything but…”

            Sahand permitted himself a tight grimace. “For every day you do not meet the goals I set for you, on that night I grant my officers access to your daughter. It is my understanding that they are not gentle lovers.”

            Sahand rose and nodded to Gallo, who released the sobbing warlock. Hortense simply sat in the center of the room, tears streaming down his face, his palms upwards in his lap. “It’s…it’s impossible! It cannot be done! I…I…can’t!”

            “Well, then, Hortense,” Sahand said, sitting behind his desk, “Congratulations—you will soon be a grandfather.”

            Gallo seized Hortense by the scalp and dragged him from the room like a sack of grain. The tent flap closed behind him, leaving Sahand alone. He glowered at the dark stains on the rug where the warlock had been. Ten years! He had spent the past ten years of his life painstakingly preparing for this winter, and now to think he might fail just when success was closest. He wanted to flay the skin of that inept fop of a warlock himself. He wanted to make the entire city of Freegate wade in rivers of blood. He wanted to call down all the powers of the world to crack the fortresses of Galaspin open and feast on the flesh of the fools inside like a bird cracking open a snail. He clenched his fists and teeth until he heard the leather in his gauntlets cracking and heard his teeth grinding with the stress.

            He stood up and released his rage into The Shattering. The heat and raw power of the Fey roared through his blood and blasted forth into one of his bookshelves with a spectacular boom, reducing the shelf and the books to flinders and torn pages. The Mad Prince watched the paper flitter around the tent for a moment before taking a deep breath and sitting down. Then he heard something drop into the letterbox.

            On the inside of the lid of the plain wooden container was a spider web of intricate astral runes that, when the lid was closed, linked the interior of the box with a spatial rift through which secure messages could be sent. It was, without a doubt, the most expensive object in the room. Even the mighty Arcanostrum of Saldor did not possess such devices. The Sorcerous League, however, possessed many secrets the magi of Saldor did not.

The letter inside had a red seal, marking it as important and specifically addressed to him—the whole League would not be privy to its contents. Waving his hand to seal the tent from intrusion, Sahand broke the seal with the proper word of power and flipped open the letter:

 

6th Ahzmonth, 33^rd Year of Polimeux II

 

Esteemed Colleague,

            Our friends in Freegate have come upon a unique and unusual opportunity regarding your operations in the mountains. A meeting is requested this very night for those involved to discuss the situation.

 

Curse the Name of Keeper,

The Office of the Chairman

 

Sahand frowned, pondering the implications. The vague wording wasn’t unusual for a letter from the Chairman, of course—it was the highest priority of the League to maintain its secrecy, and so any official correspondence would lack detail in case the message were intercepted. The League was, of course, aware of his actions in Freegate—they had afforded him material support in the form of a variety of magecraft—but what they would consider a ‘unique and unusual opportunity’ was very much a mystery. Especially since they had no idea what his real plan was, else they never would have agreed to support him in the first place. Whatever the reason, the meeting would have to be attended. As usual, the timing was very poor.

Sahand summoned Gallo back into his tent. Gallo was a man of similar stature to his lord, but far less social grace. Even in this cold, he wore dull and dented plate and mail with a wolf’s-head helm that only partially hid his horrendously flame-scarred face. His breath was a choking rasp that gurgled and wheezed constantly, as though the man were constantly drowning in his own saliva. His face was a ruin of burn scars, with only a ragged hole for a mouth and two, dark, fish-dead eyes. Of all Sahand’s underlings, he knew he could rely on Gallo. Gallo was that rarest of creatures—a man without ambition or compassion. Whatever fire had melted off the warrior’s face had also taken with it whatever made him human.

“I am not to be disturbed for the remainder of the evening for any reason, on pain of death.” Sahand ordered. He found threatening death to be the most reliable way to keep his idiot underlings away from him for any lengthy period of time, and he knew Gallo would follow through without hesitation. Referring to the spirit clock in his tent, he saw that he had only seven hours before midnight—just barely enough time for the ritual to be completed. Again, he wondered what could be going on for the meeting to be called on such short notice.

Gallo’s voice was a hollow rasp. “Is that all?”

“No. Keep Hortense working, and inform the city that we will need to get the idiot more help. You are dismissed.”

Gallo executed a stiff bow and went out.

“This had better be good.” Sahand grumbled to himself. He sealed the tent, threw the letter in the fireplace, and got to work.

Author’s Note: This is the first half of a chapter from Tyvian Reldamar and the Iron Ring (working title), an Alandar novel I’m currently putting through it’s final revision (hopefully) before it’s healthy enough to send out. Sahand is one of the major villains.

The Player, Part 3

            CHING! Chance clattered to the ground. Tyvian’s hand was numb from the disarm.

            “No more playing, Reldamar.” Remieux edged Tyvian away from the sword and waited. “Go on, plead for mercy, thief.”

            “Remieux, don’t kill him!” Jaliette’s hands were balled into fists as she watched, rooted to the spot by her father’s hand on her shoulder.

            “Kill him.” Lady Velitiere glared at Tyvian’s back, her fingers playing with the empty clasp that held the Eye.

            Remieux was breathing heavily—more heavily than Tyvian. That much, at least, was going in his favor. His blade lay four paces to his left, Remieux was but two paces in front of him. Artus was rapidly being discounted as a factor in his plan. This fight had to end, and now. Oh, and it was rather integral that Tyvian win. Being run through would muck up the remainder of his plans quite a bit.

            Tyvian made as though to dive towards his sword. Remieux moved his blade to intercept, but realized too late that it was another feint. Tyvian stepped past LeMondeux and, with all the force of his momentum, kicked Remieux in the groin.

            Remieux whimpered and collapsed like a cut-string marionette. Tyvian kicked him in the chin and then kicked LeMondeux away. He left Remieux to bleed on the floor so he could get Chance back in his hand.

            No sooner had he snatched the weapon up than the hiss and crackle of Etheric energy cooked the air around him. Chance went very cold as it absorbed the brunt of the invocation. Tyvian escaped with a slight singe to his tunic.

            “Nice shot, Orsienne. I must confess, my mother’s a bit better at deathbolts than that. Keep practicing, though.”

            The exertion of channeling the Ether had left Lord Orsienne green around the gills. He flapped his hands and pointed wildly at Tyvian. “The blade is warded! Guards! Get him! Don’t let him escape.”

            “As though the guards were thinking I was to be let go…”  Twelve men, all armed to the teeth with firepikes, thunder orbs, and a variety of other expensive magical weapons, surrounded Tyvian.

            They all tightened the ring a pace. “Artus, if you’re out there, I’d just like you to know that I’m very displeased with you right now, and I am strongly considering releasing you from my service.”

            The ring tightened. The blazing tips of the firepikes were close enough to feel. Tyvian forced a smile. “Now then, gentlemen, no need to go setting anyone on fire.”

            Lord Orsienne managed one last bullfrog croak. “Set him on fire!”

            The chandelier fell. Tyvian, who was half expecting it, saw it before it hit the ground, and afforded his closing captors a wink. Everyone else was stunned. The collective screams of the noble audience was almost more frightening than the awful racket made by the chandelier itself.

            Over years of adventuring, Tyvian had found that the funny thing about distractions was that, no matter how prepared an enemy is to not be distracted, they always, always are. The guards, all twelve of them, looked in the direction of the chandelier.  Chance struck once, twice, crippling two men and creating a window wide enough for Tyvian to dart out.

Artus, his broad-bladed pokk knife in one hand, ran an intercept course with him, dragging some blonde tart by the wrist. “It’s about damn time!” Tyvian swished Chance at a few noblemen who looked enterprising enough to get in his way.

            “I got distracted.”

            “Ah, the stupidity of youth!”

            “Shut up.”

            Tyvian ran directly for Lord Orsienne, who dove behind a potted plant for cover. The plan was to go up the stairs at the back of the ballroom and move along the second floor to the other side of the mansion, where Marik would be waiting for them outside the window. That was, of course, provided Marik hadn’t found a blonde tart of his own.

            On the way up the stairs, Tyvian put his free arm around Jaliette’s waist. “To remember me by, darling.” He swept her into a quick kiss. Jaliette’s knee went for the right spot, but Tyvian had been expecting it and twisted away. “Good bye.”

            Jaliette’s expression was half smile, half scowl. “You ruined my wedding, you boor.”

            Tyvian shrugged. “You ruined mine.”

            A ball of fire hit the banister next to Tyvian. Artus rushed past him, pushing the blonde up the stairs. “Time to go!”

            The guards arrayed themselves in a firing line and readied the firepikes for a volley. “Not in my house!” Lord Orsienne wailed.

            Tyvian caught up with Artus. “Lose the wench, I don’t want a hostage!”

            “She’s not a hostage, she’s coming with me!”

            Tyvian looked at the girl—she was pale, shivering, weeping. “Don’t be an idiot! Give her a goodnight kiss and say goodbye!”

            Chance flashed through the air to deflect a pair of thunder orbs back towards the guards. They exploded with a bass rumble, shattering windows and sending men flying.

            At the top of the stairs, Tyvian turned one last time and caught the eye of Lady Velitiere. She was angry, but it was the good kind of anger—hot, passionate. “The old girl’s still got some fire. Good for her.” 

            He darted through the door and slammed it behind him. “Artus, do you know any spells to prop this door?”

            Artus glared at him over the girl’s head. “I’m a shepherd. The only spells I know ward off fever and scare wolves.”

            “I thought I told you to lose the girl!”

            “I’m not! I love her.”

            Tyvian rolled his eyes. This was just great. “Go find something to prop this door, all right?”

            Artus paused, but only briefly before darting into a side room. Once he had gone, Tyvian smiled at the girl as sweetly as he could muster at the moment.

            “What’s your name, darling?”

            She choked back a sob. “Ysabette.”

            “He’ll come back for you one day, Ysabette.” She smiled then, and it was a beautiful thing. Tyvian didn’t savor it. He planted a hand on her back, opened the door, and shoved her into the arms of the advancing guards behind.

            Artus came back, dragging a chaise. “Where’s Ysabette?”

            Tyvian manufactured a sigh. “Run off. Sorry.”

            The blade of a firepike poked through the door, narrowly missing Tyvian’s shoulder and igniting part of the doorframe. The discussion was over, the chaise pushed into place, and they ran down the hall.

            Tyvian threw Chance through the bay window at the end and followed it out. He landed roughly in the dirt.

            “’Twas a fine sort of party, I see.” Marik looked like as much a beast as a man in the saddle. He drew a mammoth broadsword and tossed Tyvian the reins of one of the two mounts beside him.

            Tyvian smiled. “Ah, Marik. I could have sworn you would have run off with a woman.”

            Marik laugh was deep enough to shake the ground. “Bah, the wench wouldn’t have me!”

            Artus dusted himself off. “Let’s go.”

            They were in the saddle in a moment, and galloping through the streets of Akral even as Orsienne’s men shouted after them. Tyvian felt the weight of the Eye against his flesh, and didn’t look behind him for a long, long time.

 

* * * * * * * *

            “This may be the most attractive thing I’ve seen all night.” Tyvian breathed deep. The innkeeper had scented the bathwater with cinnamon, just as he asked. It sat there, steaming in its great wooden basin, calling to his aching muscles.

“By the name of holy Ozdai and his holy Hearth, what a ride that was!” Marik’s sank his great, bear-like form into one side of the great tub, the steam beading on his thick beard in great shimmering globules.

Tyvian slipped into the opposite side and let out a long, slow breath. In the end, it had been a close thing. Orsienne’s guards had pursued them into the streets, and it was only by Pit-spawned chance that they had lost them.

“I don’t know how you two can relax like that.” Artus sat by their gear, sharpening a the short, broad blade of his pokk. “They could still find us, you know.”

Marik shrugged. “Take it while you can get it, kiddo. Time’ll be tense soon enough.”

“Besides, I seem to remember you relaxing at a rather inopportune moment earlier. You owe us one.” Tyvian opened one eye to look at Artus.

Artus stuck the pokk into the floor. “You would have done the same thing if you were me. She was beautiful.”

“Beautiful women are everywhere—you’ll meet another one. Better to leave her now, Artus, than to have her leave you later. I’ve done you a favor, I daresay.” Tyvian inhaled deeply. “Marik, doesn’t this smell simply wonderful?”

Marik smiled to show the gaps in his teeth. “Tickles the nose, I’ll grant you.”

Artus worried the dagger. “You don’t believe in love, do you?”

Marik climbed out of the tub. “Ah, the simple man’s cue to leave. Good night, you lot—we leave in three hours.”

Tyvian nodded to Marik as he stomped out, and watched Artus carve a nothing shape in the floor. “Is something bothering you, Artus?”

“I’m having some trouble understanding why the hell you did what you did tonight. If you loved Jaliette, why did you ruin her wedding night? If you didn’t, why did you even bother to try?”

Tyvian ran a hand through his hair. “Are you mad at me for making you leave that pretty blonde thing crying in the hallway? Come now, you know as well as I that we couldn’t take her along. You would have gotten bored with her in a week, and then where’d we be? Mailing some scatterbrained girl home in a less-than-marriageable condition, I imagine, if not caught and hanged by the neck.”

Artus pulled up the pokk. “It isn’t about Ysabette…well, maybe it is, a little. It’s mostly about you, Tyvian. What did Jaliette do to you to make you want to risk your neck like that? You don’t need any giant diamond, Tyvian—you’re richer than any three of those people at the party tonight. Was it revenge? For what?”

Tyvian turned the question over in his mind for a moment, blowing bubbles in the bath. When he came to an answer, he reached to retrieve the Eye from a pouch. It sparkled in the lamplight, like a hundred stars set in glass, and painted patterns on the bathhouse walls. “This represents a price. A price all of us, sooner or later, have to pay, one way or another—the price of life. You and I, Artus, we keep what’s ours and lose what’s taken from us. Our lives, our fortunes, our fates are our own—they’re held in our pockets and our packs, in our heads and in our hands. Not many are the men and women who can live like us, and even the very strong can succumb to the lure of a safe, boring, stable life. They sell out, just like Jaliette sold out. Tonight, on behalf on the world, I exacted her payment and showed her, in no uncertain terms, the life she was missing.”

“The gambler’s adage,” Artus nodded, “’He who has played, will be played.”

“Yes, well, I don’t think she’ll be playing again. She’s retired from the game to become a space on the board. Oh well.”

“Tyvian, would you sell out?”

Tyvian’s smile was faint. “I might have, if she had asked me.”

Artus’ mouth fell open. “Really?”

“No, not really. Go to sleep—we’re leaving soon.”

Artus stood to leave. “I might sell out one day, Tyvian. Marik will too. What happens if you’re the last one playing?”

He left without an answer. Tyvian took his time in the bath, turning over the jewel in his hand even as he turned over he thoughts. Finally, when he couldn’t stand the silence any longer, he answered the question.

“Then, Artus, I win.” He dropped the Eye into the bathtub and left. To his knowledge, it was still there when the three of them rode out under the murky grayness of the dawn mist.

THE END

The Player, Part 2

            When the music changed, Artus noticed. He entertained the notion that the change was, in fact, the signal, but since no one was screaming and none of the guards were yelling ‘get him,’ he figured it wasn’t.

            Artus was something of a musician himself. In the fields as a boy he had taken up the daer whistle to pass the time. It was a simple instrument with a sweet, pure voice, and he still carried one with him when they were on the road, much to Tyvian’s chagrin. Tyvian had told him, in no uncertain terms, that the whistle was ‘a crude, mechanical instrument lacking the capacity to capture true human passion of feeling.’ Artus had never really known what he was talking about, considering the violins and cellos that Tyvian favored to be squawky, fancy, and womanish. When the music started, however, Artus thought he might have changed his mind.

            The sound produced by the quartet was immediately sensual and tragic at the same time. The two violins wept with a bleeding passion, rising and falling as the beating of a breaking heart, whilst the cello and bass set a deep, thrumming beat. As one violin sang to another, as two lovers bidding farewell, Artus could actually feel himself blush.

            The dance floor had emptied with an almost frenzied haste when the song began. It was not until it was completely empty that Tyvian, the Lady Velitiere held close in his arms, stepped out. Artus barely suppressed a yelp. “What the hell is he doing?”

            Tyvian always said that ‘the dance is nine-tenths of courtship,’ and Artus would never have believed him had he never seen Tyvian dance before. He had, as it happened, and he knew Tyvian was good—very good—and no man would practice that much if he didn’t think it was useful. Even still, Artus had never seen, much less heard of the dance Tyvian was doing now—if he had, he would have demanded that Tyvian teach it to him a long time ago.

            Tyvian and Velitiere held one another cheek-to-cheek, hip-to-hip, and slid across the floor as one person. This was not a dance of formality, this was a dance of passion. As Tyvian manipulated the lovely noblewoman around his body, her hands sliding up his arms and through his hair, Artus began to get worried. Hann, she was enjoying it! A married woman nearly twice his age!

            Artus looked around and tried to gauge the audience’s reaction. There was nothing but staring.

            “Tell me, monsieur, who is that man?”

            Artus turned around. A pretty young Akrallian woman, no more than seventeen, was gazing at the couple with her dark eyes wide. Looking around again, he discovered that she must have been talking to him. “Uhhh…who, him?”

            Her tight blonde ringlets bobbed as she nodded. “Oui, monsieur. The one who is such a fine dancer.”

            Artus swallowed and then adopted his best Tyvian-esque swagger. “Well, madame, he is actually a good friend of mine.”

            “Truly?”

            “Artus Vedda of Jondas Crossing, madame, at your service.” He managed a bow and kissed her hand.

            She giggled. “Aren’t you the gentleman? You’re a northerner, aren’t you?”

            Artus blushed. How did they always bloody know? “Yes, ma’am…madame.”

            She clapped. “How exciting! Do tell me about it.”

            Artus began to.

 

* * * * * * * *

            Velitiere was a good dancer, but out of practice. It took several bars on the floor before Tyvian got her to loosen up, but when she did, it was all he could do to keep her under control.

            She tried to lead, she pulled him closer, she brushed her lips along his neck. As the Revien Nu’Kasaar reached its stride, Tyvian began to lose himself in the dance. It stopped mattering who she was, it only mattered that she was there. When he spun her, he spun her hard, and when she returned, she clung to him like an old lover. They moved together, beat by beat, phrase by lovely phrase.

            Her eyes passed before him, and he dove into them. Gods, they were Jaliette’s eyes. Refracting in them was the same spark that he remembered when they spent four days on that ship to Ihyn. They had rested in the captain’s cabin, and the shinh’ar wanderling on board taught her to catch fish off the side. Back when they were partners, back when Jaliette was free…back when Jaliette was his.

            The Revien Nu’Kasaar’s final movement was more energetic than the others, and it was here that the dance grew taxing. Velitiere was out of breath, but was not to be stopped. Tyvian dipped and swung her like a doll, sliding from move to move with practiced grace. Her hair had come undone, her chest heaved, and her elaborate dress had been shedding jewels like leaves in autumn. As the music reached its crescendo, Tyvian’s dexterous hand slipped up Velitiere’s back, plucked the Eye of H’siri from its fastening around her neck, and secreted it in his sleeve. In the heat of the moment, and as the Revien Nu’Kasaar died a fiery death in a deep, deep dip, the Lady Velitiere never noticed.

            The music stopped. Silence, a single clap, then another…and another. The whole of the ballroom erupted into applause. Tyvian, smiling to himself, pulled his partner to her feet. Everything was going according to plan. All he had to do now was walk out the door.

            Then she kissed him—a deep, Akrallian kiss, tongue and all. It was a good kiss. It was also about then that everything started to go wrong.

            “Mother!” Jaliette, handfuls of wedding gown bunched in her hands, rushed between Tyvian and his dancing partner.

            Tyvian couldn’t resist. “I’m sorry, Jaliette, but I’m too winded for another dance just now. Maybe you and Remieux could go on a march.”

            Jaliette slapped him. Remieux, in a brand new doublet, was barging through the crowd his way. The bubble of open space the dance had created was collapsing at an exponential rate.

            “Monsieur!” Orsienne’s voice was thick with wine. “I would wish that you make your intentions towards my wife clear!”

            Velitiere broke away from him, her chest still heaving, her eyes distant, lost. Tyvian wagered that he had approximately five seconds until she noticed the Eye was gone. He started a countdown.

Five.

            Jaliette was before him. “What are you trying to do, Tyvian?”

            Four.

            Remieux was closer, but the gawkers, bless them, were in the way.

            Three.

            Tyvian caught her hand. “Jaliette, do you really love him?”

            Two.

            Jaliette’s mouth dropped open. “What…I…”

            One.

            “AHHHHHHHHH!!!”

            Everyone stopped to look at Lady Velitiere. She was shaking, a hand pawing absently at the empty clasp at her throat. “I’ve lost it!”

            Lord Orsienne held up his arms. “A thousand marks to the one who finds the Eye!”

            Half the guests bent over. Jaliette was with the other half. “Tyvian, you didn’t…”

            “First answer my question.” Tyvian looked to see Remieux was less than three paces away. “Quickly, please.”

            She inhaled, held it, released. “Of course not.”

            Remieux pushed Tyvian in the chest. “Get away from my wife, Reldamar.”

            Behind them, he could hear Orsienne yell. “Did anyone see it fall off? Velitiere, perhaps it’s in your dress somewhere.”

            Tyvian looked at Jaliette, then at Remieux. A little voice inside him piped up. “Oh, what the hell.”

            He spit in Remieux’s eye.

            Remieux roared and pulled a blade-less hilt from his belt. “Veris’hassa’i LeMondaux!” At the sound of the incantation, a rapier of mageglass grew out of the hilt like some shimmering thornbush. “I call you to the field of honor, Monsieur. If you haven’t a weapon, one will be provided.”

            Tyvian slipped Chance from his boot. “Veris’hassa’i Chance!” The two blades were very similar, but Chance was clearly the higher quality. Its hand guard was far more ornate and as it moved, the air sang around it.

            “Remieux, don’t!” Jaliette stepped between them.

            Remieux’s black eyes narrowed. “Is he your lover, then? Would you take his side over mine?”

            Jaliette’s face fell as she began to speak. Tyvian could almost hear the tears coming. “Remieux, I didn’t want to tell you, but…”

            Tyvian cut her off. “What she means to say, Remieux, is that she fears for your life. She’s seen me fight, you know.”

            Lord Orsienne looked up from his search. “Great Gods, whatever is going on now?”

            Between the dance, the kiss, the lost diamond, the duel, and the restrictive nature of the corset, some women at the ball passed out from the excitement. This, of course, led to more excitement, which in turn led to more women passing out. The end result was that of mass chaos. Men called for water from all over the ballroom. The women who managed to remain conscious tried very hard to find somewhere to sit down. Guards carried the unconscious to the guest rooms upstairs. Lord Orsienne tried to console his panicking wife. Jaliette tried to console a panicking Lord Orsienne, and, in the middle of it all, Remieux and Tyvian faced off across a strip of well-inlaid ballroom floor.

            “To the death, is it?” Tyvian assumed the en garde position.

            Remieux did the same. “I’ve no wish to kill you—first blood.”

            “Coward.”

            “To the death then!”

            “A little drastic for a spit in the eye, wouldn’t you say?” Tyvian grinned.

            “Silence!” Remieux flechéd, which is to say, he performed a running leap with his sword out. Tyvian parried effortlessly and turned him aside.

They squared off once more. Remieux moved like a hunter, each foot placed deliberately, every motion of his blade precise. Tyvian danced, his blade a consistent blur of motion. They clashed in a quick series of attacks and counter-attacks once, twice. Remieux was strong, and Tyvian could feel the force of his blows travel through Chance and up his arm. If the captain connected, Tyvian was spitted like a hog and he knew it.

“Why are you here, Saldorian?” Remieux’s sword twisted to a pronated position. “Trying to steal Jaliette from me?”

“Something like that.” Tyvian lunged, Remieux was ready. He retreated past Chance’s reach and counter-lunged. The point of his blade, LeMondaux, made a ribbon of blood across Tyvian’s cheek.

“You are no kind of man, Reldamar.” Remieux continued, changing his guard position again. Tyvian had been expecting to fight a man who was using Bon’chaire, the Akrallian school of fencing, but the military officer kept switching from style to style. Until Tyvian could nail down a pattern, he wouldn’t know what to expect. If he wasn’t careful, he could walk into another trap.

Remieux kept talking. “A man should get a woman and keep a woman. He should give her a home and a family. You? You are nothing but a toy they play with and throw away.”

Tyvian feinted, Remieux fell for it. He could have gone for the heart, but he simply cut a ribbon along the captain’s cheek. “Look, Remieux, we’re twins!”

Remieux attacked hard and fast. Tyvian parried blow after blow, retreating quickly. He fell backwards over a servant, still searching for the Eye. Remieux shot forward for a final blow. Tyvian threw himself to the right as the tip of LeMondaux buried itself in the wood floor. As Tyvian scrambled to his feet, the Eye opted to slip out of a hidden sleeve pocket and inconveniently skitter across the ballroom floor.

The Eye could not have been more conspicuous if it had been accompanied by war drums. It clattered against the floor in a staccato rhythm, breaking the crowd into an awkward silence. Everyone saw it, and everyone saw Tyvian run over to grab it.

Lord Orsienne yelled the first obligatory word. “Thief!” He then followed it up with the second. “Guards!”

Before ‘seize him’ managed to cross Orsienne’s mind, Remieux stepped in the way. “No! He’s mine.”

Tyvian entertained a few theories as to how Remieux could have become so ridiculously stupid. “Artus, now!”

Nothing happened.

Remieux attacked, Tyvian defended. “Artus, now!”

Tyvian was driven back again. He’d figured out Remieux’s pattern now, he could take him at any time, but killing him wouldn’t solve anything. The longer they fought, the more time he had to figure out an escape. If the captain fell, the guards fell on him. Still, pattern or no, he couldn’t hold off Remieux forever. “ARTUS!”

 

* * * * * * * *

            Her name was Ysabette, and she was perfect. Perfect little turned up nose, perfect delicate hands, perfect gentle voice—everything was just perfect. Ysabette had invited Artus out to sit in the garden until the song was over, so they could talk some more.

            She was actually fascinated with his common past. She kept asking questions about the sheep, and about all his brothers and sisters, and about whether he had ever seen a real arahk or not. He told her story after story, and she just kept laughing! It was simply amazing. Artus didn’t think noble blood could produce such girls.

            “Artus, why did you run away from home?” Ysabette nestled her head against his shoulder.

            Artus looked through a space in the branches of the briarleaf tree above them and watched the half moon. “I didn’t want to go to war, like my brothers did.”

            “Why? You weren’t scared, were you? I can’t imagine you being scared.”

            “No, I wasn’t scared…well, not really. I didn’t want to put Ma through it. I was the last boy in the house—I had four brothers, and all of them went to fight the arahk. Marik was the only one come back. I figured, if I ran away, at least I’d be alive, and Ma’d know that, and she’d be happier than if I was dead in some marsh in Roon.”

            “Oh.” Ysabette took his hand and traced the tendons on the back with one finger. “I would love to have a sheep. My mother won’t let me have any pets except stupid birds, and they always die. It isn’t my fault, either—they just get a chill and then drop dead.”

            “Mmm-hmm.” Artus closed his eyes. He heard a lot of noise coming from the ball room. He wondered vaguely what Tyvian was up to.

            Ysabette perked up. “Did you hear your name just now?”

            “Don’t think so, why?”

            She shrugged, then shivered. “It is a cool night, Artus. I love it.”

            Artus stood and gave her his jacket. “Here. Where I’m from, this is a hot summer day.”

            Ysabette giggled and curled up under the coat. In the background, the roar of the ballroom faded into his subconscious like a crowd that cheered only for him.

The Player, Part 1

 

            “It’s a bad idea.”

            “Artus, are you suggesting that I cannot do it?” Tyvian Reldamar surveyed the glasses of red wine on the tray offered him by a powder-wigged servant. He dipped a finger into one and tasted. Making a face, he waved the tray away.

            “I didn’t say you couldn’t do it, I just said it was a bad idea.” Artus scratched under his lace collar for the twelfth time that hour.

            Tyvian slapped his hand. “Please, Artus, try not to look so pedestrian.”

            Around them, in a grand ballroom of shimmering mageglass and ivory, the ball progressed much as it had that last hour. As a string quartet played a Saldorian waltz, women floated through the dance in massive dresses like a fleet of galleons on maneuvers, their hair and sleeves glittering with enchanted jewelry and illumite. Watching from the sidelines, wealthy old men smoked imported tracco from Ivistan, and clapped their hands to send black-liveried servants scurrying. Voices were polite and muffled; the smiles were plentiful and insincere.

            “Is this the whole reason you came here?” Artus was doing his best, but was still uncomfortable. Not a year ago he was just some northern peasant boy, running from home, trying to dodge the draft, knife-fighting in the streets of Freegate, eating only what he could steal. Now he was shoe-horned into some frilly gentleman’s outfit standing among people whom, upon a whim, could buy all the possessions of his family farm five times over and not even skip a meal. Hann’s Boots! They wouldn’t even have to skip an hors d’oeuvre.

            Tyvian smiled. “I don’t think she’d even miss it.”

            “It’s a two-pound diamond resting between her breasts. She’ll miss it.” Across the room from where they stood, the Lady Velitiere Numeux du Akral stood beside her husband, Lord Orsienne. She had chosen this evening, the night of her daughter’s marriage, to showcase her most infamous of possessions, the Eye of H’siri. Until now, Artus had been confused as to why Tyvian insisted upon coming to Jaliette’s marriage celebration. Now he knew.

            Tyvian fiddled with the plain iron ring on his finger. It seemed out of place when matched with his incomparably exquisite clothing, but then he was never without it. “Is Marik waiting with the horses?”

            “Yes. Is this really necessary?”

            Tyvian gave Artus a wink. “Is anything?”

            Artus snatched a glass of wine from a passing tray and downed it in one gulp. “This won’t get you Jaliette back, you know.”

            “Who cares? Jaliette’s just a woman.”

            “Right.”

            Tyvian slipped into the crowd.

            Artus surveyed the layout of the ballroom for the fifth time since entering. Four chandeliers of mageglass and illumite, which wouldn’t break, but they’d fall readily enough; sixteen windows, approximately twenty feet tall and very breakable; twelve guards in plain sight, all breakable to varying degrees. Of course, then there was Lord Orsienne Numeux du Akral himself—a former initiate of the Arcanostrum who could have been, had he chosen that path, a staff-bearing mage. He might be trouble, real trouble.

            Artus sighed. “Why does every party end like this?”

 

* * * * * * * *

Tyvian coasted across the dance floor, noting the intricate pattern in which the wood had been inlaid. Good workmanship, that. He’d have to remember it for that far distant day when he was too old to do anything else but buy a house.

            He spotted Jaliette on Remieux’s—no, make that her husband’s—arm. A military fellow, was Ramieux, which on this side of the Dragonspine meant broad shoulders and a barrel chest to hold in all the hot air. Tyvian set a direct course for their position, cutting through a few waltzing couples. A few of them complained, but he didn’t tarry long enough to listen.

            “Jaliette.”

            She turned around. “Tyvian?” A white gown with sapphires to match her eyes, her midnight hair bound atop her head by an elaborate marital apparatus of pins and pearls. To think he’d almost had her. She could have ruined his life, and he might have let her.

            He bowed with a grace born of blood and the tutor’s lash. “You are stunning, as ever, milady.”

            She had the temerity to blush. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

            “I wasn’t expecting to be invited.”

            “You weren’t.”

            Tyvian smiled. “I know.”

            “Monsieur Reldamar, I presume.” Remieux extended a gloved hand. “Jaliette has spoken of you. I had the privilege of meeting your mother last spring—a truly brilliant woman.”

            Tyvian took his hand, and Remieux gripped hard. “The pleasure was all hers, Captain, I’m sure.”

            “You should come visit us sometime.” Remieux squeezed harder, smiling.

            Tyvian put one leg back in time to trip a passing servant. With a clatter, the poor fellow’s tray of soft Eddon cheese and cocktail wafers splattered all over Remieux’s immaculate uniform. “I’ll be sure to.” Tyvian returned the captain’s smile.

            “Clumsy fool!” Remieux glowered over the groveling servant. He even went so far as take off his glove to strike him. Fortunately for the servant, the quizzical gazes of polite society stayed his hand.

            Tyvian examined his sleeve for crumbs—none, thank Hann. Remieux, of course, looked like a buffet. “It seems as though your doublet may have suffered a fatal wound, Captain. Perhaps you ought to attend to it.”

            Remieux wiped away his rage long enough to favor Jaliette with a tender kiss. “I’m afraid he’s right, my lovely. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

            “Hurry.” Jaliette let her eyes linger on Remieux’s wide back for a moment before turning to Tyvian. “You haven’t changed.”

            Tyvian moved a strand of her hair back into place. “Ah, but I have, my dear. I seem to be short one lover.”

            Jaliette stepped back. “Ex-lover, and you never seem to have a shortage.”

            He caught her hand in his. “Come, introduce me to your parents.”

            Jaliette searched Tyvian’s face for the joke. He composed his face into a mask of earnestness, but he could tell she saw the sparkle in his ocean-blue eyes. “What are you scheming?”

Tyvian laughed. That was what he liked most about Jaliette—she always knew when he was planning something. It had made the chase that much more interesting. “Nothing drastic, I assure you.”

            “Since when do you do anything that isn’t drastic?”

            “Since now.” He kissed the back of her hand so lightly that she couldn’t even feel it through her glove. He backed the gesture up with his most winning smile. “Please?”

            Jaliette growled something under her breath and led him off.

 

* * * * * * * *

            Artus’s pickpocket hands twitched as he shouldered through the wealthy throngs to where the ropes that held up the chandeliers were tied off. He would have put his hands in his own pockets to stem the urge, if only he had pockets. Bloody pants cost fifty gold marks and didn’t even have any bloody pockets.

Tyvian’s ettiquete lessons welled up in his head. ‘Pockets are the province of those too poor to have porters. If it’s too precious to give to your man, it’s too precious to be carrying about, anyway.’  Easy for him to say, what with Artus and Marik carrying around all his junk, but what if you were the man? What then? Bloody stupid nobles and their bloody stupid rules.

Artus made it to the chandelier tie-off and along the way only snatched two wallets, a bracelet, and a truly foul tasting meat pie off someone’s plate. He wasn’t sure, but he thought it had spinefish in it. It figured—only Akrallian fops and lunatics would spend that much money to put a poisonous fish in a pie.  

Having no pockets, Artus simply deposited most of his booty in the corner by the chandelier ropes. He selected the fattest of the wallets from the bunch to stuff in his shirt. It was now his job to wait for Tyvian’s signal. Of course, he had no idea what that would be. Tyvian had only said it would be ‘obvious.’ Artus hoped he was right. Between all the money and all the girls, this was an easy place to get distracted, and he didn’t feel like waiting all night.

 

* * * * * * * *

            Lord Orsienne Numeux du Akral was built like a porcelain teapot—squat, pale, and decorative. Tyvian entertained the notion that, were he pushed down the stairs, the Akralian noble would start rolling and never stop, his stubby little arms and legs flapping like the fins on a turtle. His wife, as though through the artifice of some storybook convention, was tall and graceful despite her years. How the spheroid Lord Orsienne had secured such a beauty for a bride was utterly beyond Tyvian, though he was grateful that Jaliette took after the Lady Velitiere. He had a rule about bedding egg-shaped women.

            “Very pleased I am to meet you, Monsieur Reldamar. I had the privilege of being instructed by your mother whilst at the Arcanostrum. Never was an archmage so skilled at conveying the intricacies of Etheric enchantment.” Lord Orsienne passed Tyvian a glass of his atrocious wine. Tyvian took it and resolved to find a convenient plant in which to dump it at his earliest opportunity.

            “My mother spoke of you as well, milord.” Tyvian lied.

            Lord Orsienne’s painted eyebrows shot up an inch. “Really? I’m flattered! It was nothing bad, I hope.”

            “Of course not.”

            Orsienne poked his wife in the shoulder. “Did you hear that, Velitiere? Maybe I should have stayed and been a mage, eh?”

            The Lady Velitiere smiled. “How is it that you know my daughter, monsieur? I’m surprised that she did not bring a man of such good family to our attention sooner.”

            Jaliette pounced on the question. “We do not know each other well, mother. I’ve only met Tyvian a few times, and then only briefly.”

            Tyvian smirked. “And we didn’t do much talking.”

            Jaliette scowled.

            “I see.” Lady Velitiere put a hand on the Eye. The big diamond, made her hand look thin, almost sickly.

            The conversation progressed at a plodding, predictable rate. Tyvian was consistently amazed at the consummate worthlessness of so-called ‘noble’ conversation. He would have taken the company of a hundred drunken criminals over a single lord if for no other reason than the criminals would have something interesting to say. Of course, it would be stupid and interesting, but that was better than stupid and uninteresting, which appeared to be the overriding motif in Lord Orsienne’s anecdotes.

            “…and then the footman said, ‘yes monsieur, if you please!’” Orsienne erupted into a fit of laughter. Tyvian conjured the picture of him rolling down the stairs again, and laughed along.

            Jaliette’s laughter was light and airy. Tyvian knew that laugh—that was her fake laugh. She had used it before when the two of them were together—‘partners,’ as she called it—and they were caught by pirates or about to be roasted by a firedrake or some similarly dire situation. Tyvian could hear her sarcasm before it arrived. “Oh, Father—you tell that story so well. You must excuse me, I think Remieux must be missing his bride by now.”

            “Who wouldn’t?” Tyvian smiled. Before she left, Jaliette shot him a glare.

            “Now, Monsieur Reldamar…”

            “Please, milord, call me Tyvian.”

            Lord Orsienne clapped his hands. “So be it, Tyvian. And for you, a Reldamar, I shall grant the privilege of addressing me as Orsienne! What of that, eh?”

            Tyvian bowed. “I am flattered, Orsienne.”

            “Naturally, Tyvian. Now, as I was saying, I remember back in the fifty-seventh year of the Keeper Polimeux—the last time a son of Akral was privileged with the Seat—I was a young boy and I had this falcon…”

            Tyvian let Orsienne drone on, nodding when he thought it might be appropriate. He let his eyes drift to the Eye of H’siri and, more importantly, to that which cradled it. Velitiere may have been a woman some twenty years his senior, but her bosom seemed none the worse for wear. She was, in fact, better endowed than Jaliette herself, which, he reminded himself, was only natural for a woman who had borne a child…at least, he was relatively certain that was natural. He was a nobleman, not a midwife, so he didn’t know all the intricate details of such things. Maybe when Jaliette had popped out a brat or two, he could conduct a comparative exercise.

            Ordinarily, Tyvian would eye an attractive woman for recreational purposes alone, but this case was different. He wasn’t about to bed Orsienne’s wife, though not out of any respect for Orsienne. Rather, it was based off the assumption that a woman who would willingly submit to a union with some vapid penguin of a man undoubtedly was afflicted with a mental or emotional deficiency that Tyvian wanted no part of. No, Tyvian’s discerning examination of Velitiere’s more womanly attributes was based solely in his wish for her to notice him doing so, and to secure her enthusiasm when he asked her to dance.

            “…and the falcon, it flew away! Ha!” Orsienne had finished his glass of wine and immediately began another. Tyvian smiled and nodded.

            They were midway through another tedious anecdote when Velitiere noticed. She blushed and put her hand to the Eye again. “A nervous habit…” Tyvian licked his lips ever so subtly, “…I suppose I’ll just have to make her comfortable.”

            Tyvian met her eyes. They were Jaliette’s—clear crystal blue. As Orsienne droned, Tyvian and Velitiere had a conversation of looks and expressions. At first, Tyvian did all the ‘talking.’ With subtle twists of his lips, the careful motion of his head, and the practiced flicker of his deep eyes, he spoke:

            “You’re beautiful. Don’t you know that you’re beautiful? Come closer to me. Please, I’m begging you.”

            At last, Velitiere let out a breath, and her eyes began to speak back.

            “Don’t…”

            Tyvian inclined his head.“Why?”

            Velitiere shrugged and nodded towards Orsienne. “My husband…”

            Tyvian let his lips twist into the barest smirk and shook his head. “Him? He doesn’t care. He doesn’t even know.”

            Velitiere shook her head. “I don’t like this.”

            Tyvian fixed himself with the barest pout—a manly pout, but still a pout.“Please?”

            Velitiere played with the ends of her hair absently, glancing around.“I’m flattered but…”

            Tyvian let his eyes fix on hers.“You are beautiful.”

            She let her hand brush her neck and inclined her head.“Thank you.”

            Tyvian shot Orsienne a dismissive look and smiled at her.“He doesn’t appreciate you. How will it hurt?”

            She sighed just enough.“Speak to me.”

            “…and that’s why I never go to Iyhn without a…”

            “Orsienne?” Tyvian interrupted.

            The nobleman tripped on his words. “Yes?”

            Tyvian never took his eyes from Velitiere. “May I ask your wife to dance?”

            Orsienne blinked, downed his wine. “Well…uhhh…certainly Tyvian. Is that all right with you, my dear?”

            Velitiere extended her hand. “Are you a good dancer, Monsieur Reldamar?”

            Tyvian called to the string quartet. “Conductor, play me the Revien Nu’Kasaar.”

He was pleased at the gasp.

On the Holy Hill

Author’s Note: This is a discarded chapter from a novel I’ve been working on the past few years. Hool’s story has changed somewhat, but this little scene is still worth a gander, I suppose. Not perfect, but not bad, either.

Snow. Not yet, but very soon. Brekhool could smell it in the air—a clean, fresh scent that burned her nostrils. She looked up at the sun—a cold metal plate shining through the gray autumn sky—it was early in the year for snow. A long winter was ahead.

            “Hool.” Hapta growled. Brekhool laid her ears back against her broad skull as she looked over at her pack-sister’s whelp. Hapta was ten years old now—practically grown—but he was lean and his gray fur was thin around his back and shoulders. She hoped he would not survive this winter’s frost.

            Hapta flared his nostrils and showed his teeth between black lips. “Momma waits on the hill, Hool. Jump.”

            Hool closed her left paw into a fist and rolled her broad shoulders into a backhand slap that sent Hapta tumbling into the dirt. When he rolled to get up, she put her knee on his back and pinned him. Twisting his ear to her muzzle, she let her snarl rumble around his flat head for a moment before speaking. “You are not so big to show teeth, pup. Next time you try, I will skin you.”

            Hapta went limp, but did not beg. Hool thought about making him, but he was right—everyone was waiting on the hill, and they had been waiting long enough.

            Settling down on to all four limbs, Hool trotted off to the south across the vast grasslands of her home. Ahead, she could see the holy hill named Adoo—the highest point for a very long way. At its top stood the grotto of sacred trees where the whole of Hool’s pack was gathered around, watching her approach. In the crowd, she could pick out her eldest daughter, Groodan, and her second son, Hoodrad, but the pups were nowhere to be seen. Sniffing the breeze, she could catch the barest hint of their scent, and guessed they were near the center of the grotto—probably to get a better view. She reminded herself to scold Groodan for letting them slip away again. The girl-pup would be a terrible mother. Half her litter would end up griffon food for certain. 

She stood and climbed on two legs up the slope of the hill. The pack, their eyes down and ears low, parted around her, some rattling bone charms and muttering to themselves. Hool could only catch pieces of their prayers, so it was difficult to say who was with her or against her.

It was cold at the top of the hill. She wished she could have brought a hide to wear, but Mogro the shaman had been very specific—no hides, no charms, no weapons. A shaman speaking from a holy hill was not to be denied, and so she came naked. As she suspected, she spied her youngest—Brana and Opa—sitting quietly at the front of the pack. Their ears perked up when she passed by and Brana opened his mouth to speak, but she stilled him with a hard glare and he sat down again—such a good pup, he was.

At the center of the grotto, in a ring of dirt and dry leaves, waited Broda. She had shaved parts of her black fur to the skin in the traditional patterns of a warrior, though the effect was not flattering—Broda was always too bony to look menacing. As Hool entered the ring, Broda showed her teeth and stomped on the ground. Hool did not meet her gaze, and instead looked at Mogro, who came to stand between them.

 By comparison with Broda, Mogro was a giant. Though old and graying around the muzzle, he was broad as a stallion and stood head and shoulders above all the gnolls present, even Brekhool herself. He wore many necklaces of holy bones that clattered in the wind, and he leaned upon a great staff that bore the ears, fingers, and teeth of defeated foes on long rawhide strings. It was said that when Mogro grew angry, even the earth trembled.

What little noise there had been before Hool entered the ring at the center of the grotto was now gone. All eyes were on the shaman. For long moments only the rustle of the dead leaves in the wind and the faint clatter of Mogro’s holy bones disturbed the silence of the hill. Then, some of the younger pups began to grumble and whine at the delay, and their mothers snarled for them to be quiet. Behind her, Hool knew that Brana was fidgeting, but he made no sound. Such a good pup! She would make certain to hunt him a fine scatterlark for breakfast tomorrow.

“Do not listen for your children, Brekhool. You have other worries at this moment.” Mogro’s deep voice was like a thunderclap. Dead silence followed his words. Even the wind died.

Hool bowed her head. “Sorry, Wise Mogro.”

He held up a hand and then raised his staff. “Brekhool, daughter of Agmor, why do you come to Adoo?”

“I come to be First of my pack.”

Mogro shook the staff twice. “Your pack has its First, and it is Broda.”

Brekhool’s ears flattened against her head. “Then I will throw her down.”

Mogro shook the staff twice more, and turned to Broda. “What say you, Broda, First of your pack?”

Broda’s yellow eyes burned. “Let her come.”

“So be it.” Said Mogro, and he drove the staff into the earth.

             Broda roared and leapt at Hool. Bearing her teeth, Hool threw her shoulder into her rival’s path, and knocked the lighter gnoll sprawling on the ground. Teeth bared, Hool pressed her advantage, leaping on Broda’s back and bringing her fists down on the back of her head. Flipping over, Broda and Hool grappled and rolled in the dirt.

Around them, the yips and barks of the pack cheered them on. Hool heard Opa singing, “Momma mighty, big and tall! Momma mighty make her fall! She is ugly, she is mean! Break her bottom, make her scream!”

Brekhool was far stronger than Broda, but Broda was very quick, and so the two wrestled for some time without either gaining the advantage. Finally, Hool managed to wrap her jaws around Broda’s forearm and bore down, breaking it. Broda yelped and punched Hool in the nose hard enough to make lights dance in her eyes. They broke apart, and circled one another around the ring.

Broda snarled, nursing her arm. “You will not win, Hool. The sky and the earth are singing for me.”

Brekhool wiped blood from her nose. “The sky and the earth sound a lot like my pups.”

Broda charged in again. Hool evaded her jaws and kicked her in the knee. As she went down, Hool was on top of her, raining blows on her face and neck. She heard Brana and Opa cheering as she smashed Broda’s head into the ground over and over.

Sitting on Broda’s chest, Hool roared in her face. “You killed Agmor so you could be First!”

Broda twisted and tried to scramble away, but Hool grabbed her ears and wrenched her back into the hold, still roaring. “You killed him with poison, like a dirty human!”

“No!” Broda yelped, weakly trying to ward off the blows.

Rage thrilled through Hool’s body, and she smashed her rival’s head against the ground so hard that one of Broda’s teeth came loose. “You will say it! You will say you poisoned my Dadda, or I swear I will take your throat, and wear your skin as a coat!”

Broda made another escape attempt, but did not get far. Hool sat on her chest, her golden eyes blazing with anger. This was it! This was her moment of triumph! A whole year she had waited for this moment, waited for the murderess to be at her mercy. No more being called a liar. No more ugly whispers behind her back, no more vicious rumors being spread by Broda and her brood. It all ended here and now.

“Say it!” Brekhool roared, striking Broda again. One of her rival’s eyes was swollen shut, and blood was pouring from her nose and mouth.

Broda coughed and barked a single word, “Wind!”

At that moment, a great gust blew through the grotto and hit Hool with such force that she was thrown across the ring and against the trunk of a tree. Her breath rushed past her lips, and she fell to the ground, dazed and gasping. Her thoughts screamed, “No! Get up!”

It was too late. Hool rolled to her feet just in time to catch Broda’s charge in the chest. Her head hit the tree trunk with a crack, and the world spun. She heard the pack howling, but whether it was from joy or shock, she couldn’t tell. The next thing she felt was Broda’s teeth at her throat.

            She had lost.

            “Enough!” Mogro took his staff from the ground. “The challenge is ended.”

            Broda released Hool’s throat and limped to Mogro’s side. “Thank the wind and earth.”

            “She is a liar, Wise Mogro!” Hool had pulled herself up by the tree and was still dizzy.

            Broda growled. “You are not First, pup! You are defeated!”

            “You nasty, dirty human-pet! You used magic, that was human magic that threw me!” Hool looked around at the pack. Their eyes were downcast. “Listen to me—the wind does not pick gnolls up and hurl them against trees. Don’t be stupid!”

            Only Mogro looked at her. “The wind does what the wind wills, Brekhool. All the stories tell this. Did not Broda call out to the wind for aid?”

            Hool snorted. “The wind does not obey Broda.”

            Mogro nodded his head. “It did just now. You must accept it.”

            “I will not. It isn’t possible.” How could it be? Broda? A wind-master? No. Never—she cheated. She had to have cheated. This couldn’t be happening.

            “You will submit to me, Hool.” Broda said, showing her bloody and uneven teeth.

            Hool looked to the rest of the pack. “Are all of you blind? Can’t you see what happened? It isn’t possible! She is a liar! I have seen her with the humans—she makes deals, she trades with them, she goes to their cities. How can you follow her?” Her voice cracked, and she realized she was close to howling. She closed her mouth and took a deep breath. “Mogro, please.”

            Mogro shook his head. “The battle is finished, and you are the loser. You must obey Broda.”

            “She will never obey me.” Broda snorted. “She thinks that just because she was Agmor’s favorite pup, she is special.”

            “Do not speak his name, Broda. I will kill you for it.”

            Broda looked to the pack. “You see? Even when beaten she threatens me! This is against the laws of the pack. Brekhool is dangerous, and a threat to us all.”

            The pack kept its eyes lowered to their First, but there were a few snorts and yips of assent. Hool looked at Brana and Opa; their eyes were not dropped. They glared at Broda, and showed their teeth. Broda saw them, and growled. “Look at her pups—even the littlest ones defy me!”

            Hapta was the first to speak, “What should we do, Momma?”

            Broda turned slowly to Hool, her battered face leering. “Brekhool, daughter of Agmor, you are not our pack any longer.”

            Gasps and barks of shock all around. Brekhool herself blinked. “Wh…what?!”

            “You heard me, Hool. You are not of our pack. Go away and never come back.”

            “No.” Hool looked to Mogro, “She can’t do that!”

            Mogro heaved a great sigh that caused his jowls to flutter, and shook his staff three times. “It is so. Broda, the First of her pack, has banished Brekhool. She is never to return.”

            “No! My puppies!” Brekhool yelped.

            Mogro’s black eyes were stern, impassive. “You must go. Your puppies remain with their pack, as it should be.”

            Terror made a knot in Hool’s stomach. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. “But…where? Where can I go? There is nowhere else!”

            One by one, the pack turned their backs. An older gnoll picked up Opa and Brana and turned them around as well, even as Brana’s soft voice asked, “But why? Why does Momma have to go?”

            Broda, snickering, turned her back as well, leaving only Mogro. Hool threw herself to his feet. “No, I won’t go! I won’t leave!”

            Mogro kicked her back. “You must go.” Then he turned away.

            Hool remained at the top of the holy hill named Adoo for many hours, howling at her pack to look at her, but none did. Brana and Opa had to be carried off, so that they could not speak to her. Finally, weeping, she slowly made her way through the crowd and down the hill again. Every step was heavy, and with every foot she drew away from her family, her home, her people, she felt an unbearable anguish build in the depths of her body. It was as though she were slowly tearing off an arm, so great was the desire to turn back, to stop the pain growing greater and greater. When she finally turned to look, the pack had moved on and the hill was empty, but for one.

            Brana sat at the edge of the grove, his fluffy mane of gold fur waving in the wind. The little gnoll, no more than two years old, raised his head and howled.

            It was the last time Brekhool heard his voice.

Selkie

There is much and more you do not understand, Earthchild, Awkward Wanderer, Child of Woman. You have seen me before; you know my people by our bright eyes and sharp laughs, by how the wind plays in our many-colored hair, and how we dance upon the sea. Yet you have not seen me for all this. You do not know. You dwell upon the surface.

            Many things have I been called by your people. Selkie, they say, foul siren, windborn and too free. Or thief. Or murderer. Or sneak or cheat or liar. I laugh at these petty jibes—weak chains of words by which you would bind me, as you have yourself been bound. I, though, am shinh’ar, speaker of the Secret Tongues, ancient beyond your reckoning—I will not be bound. I fly with the wind or against it, as it suits me.

            For long ages have I plied the waters of Alandar and dove in her depths. I know more than you. I know how the sun rises over each horizon, and how to read the future in the stars and clouds. I know the taste of fear and the sound of cold; I can speak with birds and gamble with the waves. Your sorcery of which you are so proud cannot do this; it is dissection of the Truth, distortion of what is Real. It is but another kind of chain.

            You do not see your chains, do you? It is strange to me, for I have watched you and your ancestors forge them with great care over centuries—always improving their strength, always testing their power, sundering them only to reforge them again. You are bound from birth—to land, to kin, to country, to king, to philosophy and religion and god. It saddens us; for all that you revile us, we pity you. With you it is ever what cannot be done, what ought not be allowed, what must be stopped. There is no end to your bondage or the burdens it lays upon you.

            Could you but sail the waves as we do and taste the bounty of the Mother of All Things! To wander free of care, to fight or to run as passion dictates, to be a mote in the wind—present and full of promise. I have taken many lovers, killed many foes, lost many battles, wept many tears; when it has ended, though, I have laughed. How can you not? Is this not beautiful? You wonder at the magic of our singing, you speak of how our voices might tempt sailors to founder on the rocks, but have you ever thought that the wonder you feel and the joy our songs bring is not our doing, but your own? It is your souls, bound and docile within your hearts, screaming out for their freedom!

            Ah, but what grand jest this is. You will not listen; I have told you this before. If not I, then another of my brethren; if not you, then one of your fathers or father’s fathers. You are bound—you are Earthchild, doomed to live and build and die for duty or honor. I am shinh’ar, windborn, Speaker of the Secret Tongues, base selkie, siren, and foul cheat and liar. I make a game of your struggles; I mock your pain. Why would you heed me? Where would be your profit?

            Call me mad. You I shall call slave.

Party Petrified, Part 3

Tyvian had always found the city of Tasis to be without a sense of humor, and nowhere was this state of affairs more evident than in the middle of the night. Where other great cities had taverns filled with music and shouting, gambling houses packed with smoke and the jingle of money, or bustling burlesque houses lit up like midday, Tasis was quiet, dark, and still. Before the war it had been a city of tents, bright and jolly and gay, or so Tyvian had been told. After Mudboots Varner and the Grand Army of the West had sacked the place, the Emir decided that permanent, defensible buildings should be constructed, and the slaves of the Empire had obeyed, pushing the caravan tents and open-air bazaars to beyond the city limits. What started as fortified brick houses had, over the last decade or so, degraded into row upon row of tumbledown adobe tenements. Every door was locked, every shutter closed, every light extinguished, and even the streetlamps were put out by midnight. Tyvian supposed the local inhabitants thought of it as ordered or even ‘safe.’ He found it frightfully depressing.

            Sand, blown in from the desert, hissed through the dark alleys and sifted its way into Tyvian’s boots as he piloted Milo to the alchemist’s shop. It was this same alchemist who had sold him the oil that had gotten Tyvian into this mess in the first place, but he tried very hard not to let that very bitter fact skew his judgment. The man was, after all, the only alchemist in the city willing to do so much as talk to him—beggars and choosing and all that. Blasted alchemists! If it weren’t for them and their ridiculous professional pride, he would never have wound up in this situation in the first place.

            “Where…where are we going?” Milo spoke for the first time since they had left the artifactory.

Tyvian could tell by the artificer’s cow-eyed looks at his surroundings that he had never been outside the artifactory walls. The fellow was owed an answer, he supposed. “I’m going to drown you in the river, Milo.”

Milo went limp and sprawled like a rag doll in the street. “No…you can’t! That isn’t decent! That’s not fair!”

Having spent half the evening dragging the scrawny monk around, Tyvian lacked the energy to pick him up again. He sighed. “For the love of Hann, Milo, the river is two miles in the opposite direction. I was kidding.”

Milo didn’t get up, but he stopped whining. Tyvian gave him a few tugs, but the artificer didn’t move. Finally,Milo hissed. “That wasn’t funny.”

“My mission this evening has had nothing to do with your entertainment, Milo. Get up, will you?”

Milo lifted his head from the cobblestones. “Why should I? You’re only going to kill me.”

Tyvian rolled his eyes. The alley where the alchemist’s shop hid was only a few yards away. “Milo, I’m not going to kill you.”

Milo hooked his free arm behind his head. “Yes, you are! You’ve been threatening my life all night.”

Tyvian brushed the sand away from a spot on the street and sat down. “You were a rather cantankerous sort when we first met, if you’ll remember. A measure of violence has done you some good. Oh, and I never actually threatened to kill you.”

Milo sat up. “You are not going to kill me?”

Tyvian grimaced. He sincerely hoped the scrawny artificer wouldn’t take this as a cue to go stating ultimatums again. “My intentions are to get my arm back to its normal, fleshy self, and never, ever see you again. With any luck, your blood needn’t have anything to do with it.”

Milo let out a long breath. “I thought the Teeth of Kroth were to come for me. My death loomed before me.”

“Don’t get comfortable—you did turn my arm to stone.”

Milo showed his teeth. “You were robbing the holy labyrinth! It’s your own fault! It was but luck. All of you should have turned to stone!”

Tyvian poked Milo in the eye. The artificer squeaked and clutched his face. “There,” Tyvian smiled, “now I feel better. Let’s go.”

“You blinded me!”

 “You’ll feel better in a minute. Stop whining, Milo.” Tyvian, rested, threw his energy into hauling Milo up. The artificer stood, but dragged his feet as they squeezed down a narrow, trash-strewn alley and reached the alchemist’s door.

Tyvian pounded for all he was worth. “Basil! Basil! Wake up, you tooka-smoking charlatan! WAKE UP!”

The alchemist’s shop was a narrow, one-story hovel squeezed between a pair of narrow, two-story hovels. When Tyvian knocked, he was fairly certain he was doing some kind of structural damage. Inside, he heard some pots fall off a shelf and clatter on the ground. Still, no one came to the door.

“Son of a bitch!” Tyvian wiped the dust off a dirty little window cut into the door at a crooked angle. “WAKE UP!”

Milo was prodding his eye for damage. “Your friend seems to have abandoned you to your fate, thief.”

Tyvian waggled a finger at him. “You’ve got two eyes, you know.”

Milo covered his face with his hands, yanking Tyvian’s stone arm over his head. The sensation on Tyvian’s end was much like someone yanking on a tooth not yet ready to come out.

Tyvian forced Milo’s hands down and the two of them tumbled into the sand and grime, wrestling. It ended up with Milo on his back and Tyvian sitting on his chest, both of them panting and covered in trash. Looking at the dust and grime now caked on his shirtsleeve, Tyvian began to think very seriously about murdering the artificer. “You dirty little wretch! Look what you’ve done to my shirt! Do you have any idea what this cost me? Dammit! There isn’t a decent launderer in this whole blasted city, either!”

Milo kept his free hand in front of his face. “Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me, please!”

Tyvian sat back and pulled out a handkerchief to dab at his head. “This is getting rapidly intolerable, Milo. I think you may be the least pleasant person with whom I have been forced to interact for quite some time.”

“I am well liked in the artifactory.”Milo squeaked.

“Milo, I’m going to make you a deal.”

Milo peeked out from behind a hand. “You have nothing I want, thief.”

“First off, my name is Tyvian Reldamar, not thief. Second, I will stop hitting you if you promise to stop squirming, whining, lying down, and saying stupid things.”

Milo scowled. “I am not stupid.”

 Tyvian pursed his lips. “Milo, you somehow managed to get yourself attached to a man who was trying to rob your artifactory because you fell for the ‘look out behind you’ trick and dropped your dangerous wand. Trust me, you are very, very stupid. You are also, by denying that fact, in violation of the fifth clause of our pending agreement—that which states that you will stop saying stupid things. Now, do we have a deal?”

Milo’s face fell into a droopy-lipped sulk. “Yes.”

Tyvian nodded. “Wonderful—I will now break into Basil’s shop. Try not to sweat too loudly.”

Milo sat up in the dust. “How are you going to break in? His door must be locked!”

Tyvian motioned forMilo to get up. “I need you stand just next to the door there, Milo.”

Milo obeyed, so that, with his arm outstretched, Tyvian could stand just about a pace from the door. “Are you going to pick the lock? Can you dispel locking enchantments? How can you…”

Tyvian kicked the door in with one try. “The doors around here are made of wicker, Milo. Come along.”

Inside, the dark, narrow confines of Basil’s shop were hot and damp. The air was so thick with oily tooka smoke and the burned off remnants of botched potions that both Tyvian and Milo found themselves coughing and blotting at their burning eyes. Tyvian fumbled around the tables and shelves in the dark until he found a candle and lit it with the spark-crystal in his pocket. “There. Now, where is that alchemist…”

The weak light from the candle was mostly consumed by the cloudy air of the narrow shop, but from what Tyvian could make out in the gloom, it was clear Basil had been enjoying himself with the bag of silver Tyvian had paid him for his shoddy invisible oil. The charred remnants of quite a lot of dried tooka weed were still smoking from the bowls of several pipes scattered around the tiny shop as well as several bottles of very cheap wine. Towards the back, Basil himself was lying unconscious on his straw sleeping pallet, a half-naked girl curled up next to him.

“She’s…I can see her…you know…”Milo pointed at the girl.

Tyvian sighed. “They’re called breasts, Milo, and I’d advise you not to look at them too long. They’re likely to strike a man like you blind.” He kicked Basil in the thigh. “Alchemist! Wake up!”

“Unggghhhggnnn.” Basil opened one eye halfway. The eye was bloodshot, dilated, and failed to focus on anything. Then it closed again, and Basil belched at such a volume that the house shook.

“Is he poisoned? Dying?”Milo asked, eyes still fixated on the nubile form of the half-nude girl.

“He’s both drunk and drugged. I’m fairly certain I could cut off his toes and he wouldn’t wake up.” Tyvian sighed. “This keeps getting worse.”

Milo was still staring. “Yes.”

Tyvian snapped his fingers in front of the artificer. “Milo, stop looking at the advertisements if you can’t afford the wares. Focus.”

Milo blinked. “You mean she…the girl is a…”

“Whore, yes—do you think a man like Basil there beds a girl like that on his own merits? Focus, dammit—look at me.”

Milo looked at him, and the adolescent lust dropped off his face like a loose hood. “You’re mocking me.”

“I need you to undo the petrification, Milo.”

“What…of your arm?”

Tyvian slapped him. “No, idiot, of my cold, stone heart. What the hell do you think?”

“You said you’d stop hitting me!” Milo whined.

“You said something stupid, thereby violating our agreement.” Tyvian snarled. “Now, can you or can you not undo the petrification of my arm?”

“I’d need the proper materials.”

“We are in a bloody alchemist’s shop.”

Milo looked around at the cluttered workbenches and disordered shelves. “I don’t know where anything is.”

Tyvian grimaced. The flesh around the base of his arm was starting to itch, which he gathered was a bad thing. He knew that petrification was reversible, of course, but he wasn’t sure if there were any lasting side-effects that might become more severe the longer something remained stone. “Milo, let’s sit down and have a talk, you and I.”

Milo eyed Tyvian warily as they perched themselves on a pair of stools. “What are we talking about.”

“We’re talking about you, Milo, and your career. How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“And you’ve been with the Artificers…”

“Ever since I was a small boy. I was an orphan! They took me in!”

Tyvian nodded—he had suspected as much. “So, naturally, you’ve not left the artifactory since that time and you feel a deep and abiding loyalty to the monks and their organization. I completely understand. So, here is my question: what were you doing in the labyrinth so late at night?”

Milo’s expression froze. “I was running an errand.”

Tyvian smiled gently. “For whom?”

“Master Acroto.”

“And the nature of this errand?”

“None of your business.”

“Did it involve messing around with a wand of petrification?”

Milo blushed. “N…no.”

“You weren’t on any errand, were you,Milo?”

Milo dropped his eyes to the floor. “No.”

“You were playing with the wand because they wouldn’t let you touch it, otherwise.”

Milo took a deep breath. “Master Acroto forbade me to. He said I haven’t the touch to work the artifacts. He says I’m too clumsy.”

“Not doing well in your training, are you?”

Milo glared at Tyvian. “I know what you’re trying to do. It won’t work.”

“And what am I trying to do, boy?” Tyvian grinned at him.

“You’re trying to convince me that I haven’t got a future with the Artificers. That I’ll spend the rest of my life as an acolyte.”

Tyvian shrugged. “Let’s be honest, Milo—you don’t. If you had, you would have petrified all of me, not just my arm. Right?”

Milo looked at his feet. “It’s not true.” His voice was a murmur only.

“Prove me wrong.” Tyvian hoisted his stone arm onto a workbench, Milo’s wrist still clutched in its petrified grasp.

Milo looked at Tyvian’s arm and wiped a tear from his eye. “This is just a trick.”

Tyvian leaned closer. “Prove Master Acroto wrong.”

Milo’s face hardened. He bared his filed teeth. “You just want your arm free.”

“And you want your arm free, Milo. When you go back, you can tell them all about me—crow from the temple heights how you, a mere acolyte, stopped the world’s greatest smuggler from robbing your wretched artifactory blind. You’ll be a hero! Think of the story, Milo—you waited until I fell asleep, looted the supplies of a black market alchemist, undid the spell trapping you to me, and made it back to the artifactory without having your throat cut by bandits. Who else can claim such a feat inside those walls? Not even Acroto, I’d bet!”

Milo clutched his throat. “Bandits?”

“Forget the bandits part, Milo. I’m embellishing, of course.” Tyvian grimaced. He really wasn’t embellishing. “Are you man enough to do it, though? Are you?”

“I am.”Milo said, then nodded firmly. “I am!”

Tyvian slapped him on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit—now, off we go. Let’s start undoing this spell!”

That was all it took. Milo was infused with a new level of energy. The young acolyte began looting the shelves of Basil’s shop with the practiced eye of, well, and Artificer who had spent his life fetching ingredients for his betters. Tyvian played the role of assistant, grinding this and mixing that. Basil contributed by belching and farting on occasion, just to remind them of where they really were. At some point the whore woke up, pulled on her clothes, and slipped out after robbing Basil of all his silver. Neither Tyvian orMilo said a word; everyone politely ignored each other, as was civilized in situations such as this.

Finally, after nearly an hour, the poultice was done. It was thick and blood red, like the clay on the banks of theTassad Riverthat ran past the city. Tyvian looked at it dubiously. “You’re certain it will work?”

Milo scowled. “I know my work, smuggler. Rub it in carefully—all of it. Not an inch of your petrified arm can be missed.”

Tyvian scooped up a handful of the sticky paste. It was warm to the touch and tingled his fingers. “I assure you that I will be thorough.”

He was—Tyvian rubbed the stuff over every square inch of his petrified arm with the silent determination of a soldier oiling his sword before a battle. He felt it beginning to work—the heat was building in his arm. He felt his arm! He smiled at Milo. “You appear to be a man of your word,Milo.”

“It’s working?”

Tyvian nodded—the stone now had the consistency of thick clay, and it was softening every second. “Seems to.”

Milo jumped up from his stool. “Kroth spare me! I didn’t think I could do it!”

Tyvian ignored him, focusing instead how his petrified arm was able to extend slightly asMilo moved. He could almost feel his fingers…almost…

Milo leaned in and hugged Tyvian. “Thank you! Thank you, sir!”

Tyvian found himself patting the artificer on the back. “Errr…yes, that’s quite all right, Milo. Thanks for fixing my arm.”

Milo didn’t let go. “I never would have guessed I could do this! I was certain I would die! No one in the artifactory thinks I can do anything right! I can though! I can!”

Tyvian tried to push the acolyte off, but he still only had one arm to do it with. “Milo, if you don’t mind—you’re interfering my ability to enjoy the return of my arm.”

Milo let him go. Tyvian’s arm, at this point, was completely flexible. He could feel it now—cramped and painful, but it was sensation, and that was good. With a grimace and a grunt, he uncoiled his fingers around Milo’s wrist, releasing the acolyte. “There you are, Milo—free at last.”

Milo literally leapt for joy, striking his head on the low crossbeams of the shop. Tyvian showed him outside, the acolyte thanking him profusely the whole way. “Wait until they hear back at the artifactory. They’ll be so impressed! You really think I’ll be a hero?”

Tyvian smiled and shrugged, stretching his re-fleshed arm and wiggling his fingers. “You’ll be the closest thing they’ve ever had, at any rate. Run along home now.”

“Oh thank you, sir, thank you!”Milo turned and ran back in the rough direction of the artifactory. Tyvian wondered whether he ought to have given him directions.

He walked back inside to find Basil sitting up and scratching his bloated stomach. “Reldamar? Say, when did you get in here. What…what happened to my door.”

Tyvian regarded the door impassively. “The whore broke it. She robbed you, too.”

“That bitch.” Basil belched, but showed no other sign of being upset. “Was your robbery a success.”

Tyvian slipped a hand inside his shirt and drew out Milo’s wand and held it up to the candlelight. The workmanship was good—not wonderful, but good. “Yes…I’d say so.”

Basil looked over his shoulder. “You’ll make a tidy profit on that.”

Tyvian stretched his recently petrified arm again. “Ah, Basil, the things I do for money…”

THE END