by Ember Lane
Frank, Desmelda, and Billy wandered around, clearly in search of a cart they could purchase, and appeared to give up in mere moments. They headed straight for the inn. Merl thought it a good plan. If they were going to find a cart anywhere, asking in the inn might give them a clue. He hunkered down, trying to get comfortable. They were taking an age to ask, and Merl couldn’t understand how it was so busy in there.
“Just us three,” Merl told Gloomy Joe and Quaiyl.
The dune dog growled at Quaiyl. All three looked down at the hamlet from their lofty position in the surrounding woods. Quaiyl was his customary three feet away, at a heading Merl assumed was just a little east of north, but appeared to be altering all the time. It didn’t surprise Merl. It just meant that Stobart Torped was moving around.
The inn’s chimney started spouting smoke, like someone had just struck a hearty fire. The smoke-laden waft of roasting meat then teased Merl’s twitching nostrils. Gloomy Joe’s saliva glands cried thick tears of hunger. Quaiyl waited, though constantly shuffled behind Merl.
“Just the three of us in a cold, dark forest without a hint of steaming broth about.” Merl sat on a rock. He decided to ponder on Quaiyl. Just what was it? Was it an it? Why was it protecting Merl and how had it caught him? It was obviously quite strong as it had up-ended Billy without any problem, and thrown Frank over the bar counter.
“What are you?” he asked Quaiyl, deciding it was worth a go. “Just what are you? Are you a beast? Or are you a creature?” But the creation didn’t answer.
Merl sighed.
“He’s a construct. That’s what he is.” The soft-spoken words hit Merl’s ears in a hail of piercing syllables.
Every bone in Merl’s body jumped. His heart leapt into his mouth just before he froze.
“I said, ‘He’s a construct.’ Do you know what one of those is, Merl?”
Merl wondered if it was a building that had been constructed but constructed as a word was near enough brand new to him. His father had known it, and he’d told Merl about it, but then he’d said, “Only fer learned folk, that one. I’d stick with built.” Merl had tried to stick with built, but the Power of Built didn’t sound like much power at all. Now he wondered if they hadn’t all got it wrong, as the nasal voice behind him clearly knew a bit about stuff.
He wondered if it was a trick question. Trick questions were buggers, because you thought you knew the answer, and when you said it everyone laughed at you. If it was a trick question, it was mighty rude to start out with it rather than say hello.
“Might,” Merl said.
The owner of the voice crouched next to Gloomy Joe and fed him a morsel of bacon. Merl knew that Gloomy’s allegiance had now been brought and paid for until such a time as the man’s pockets stopped smelling of pig. Merl snuck a glance at the man and relaxed.
He had a shiny bald head with gray hair surrounding it like a wispy horseshoe. The man was also as old as the hills, as thin as a twig, and had a nose that could core an apple with one peck. Merl swallowed his heart and restarted it as his fear of the man evaporated.
“If Quaiyl is a construct, then tell me, what is a construct?” the man continued on. His voice still had its woodpecker quality, and Merl decided that it was attempting to drive knowledge into his head with every question.
Good luck with that, he thought.
Merl had the feeling, ‘funny little man’ wasn’t the answer. He decided to come clean.
“I don’t actually know what Quaiyl is, other than something that follows me around and finds things. I was hoping it had something to do with construction, but to be honest, it was a stretch.”
“May I?” the man asked, indicating the rock next to Merl.
“What’s your name? Is it Stobart?”
The old man clicked his fingers. “See, you do know stuff.”
“So, what is a construct? Shall we start with that?” Merl asked.
Merl wanted his confusion thinned a little. Since the man had come, it had just gotten thicker and thicker. There wasn’t much point in knowing Quaiyl was a construct without knowing what a construct was. But he knew some folk could be just plain confusing.
Stobart opened his palms. “It is many things, but for us, it’s an interactive being created solely for a function within a specific environment. In other words, it’s an NPC that doesn’t think beyond its prime directive.”
And that answer confirmed Stobart Torped was one of those types of people.
Merl raised his eyebrow. “Oh.” He looked upon Quaiyl with new admiration. It was, after all, a hell of a lot of things to be. “You must be very intelligent, Stobart. Tell me, what in Andula’s name does all that mean?”
Stobart shrugged. “Not a clue, I was actually hoping you could tell me.”
Merl’s heart had been quite busy of late. It had recently been in his mouth, and now it sank to the depths of his belly. Guardian had told Merl that Stobart would be able to explain everything, but that hope appeared to have been dashed immediately.
“But, I do know where I read it,” Stobart then said.
“Where?”
“My dwelling. Shall we go join your friends for a bit to eat?”
“Ah, well, about that. I’m supposed to wait here so we don’t spook the locals.”
Stobart’s ensuing laugh was like two sheets of ice scraping against each other. “Oh, they don’t spook easily. They’re used to me so I’ll sort it out. You coming?”
He sprang up and set off toward the little hamlet. Merl had the feeling Stobart was as mad as a box of frogs. For a moment he wondered if he should stay put, but he did fancy some food. Stobart continued forward in a flutter of gray cape and wispy gray hair. He resembled an overdressed broom as he swept down the slope in front of Merl. Within a short while, Stobart was holding the door open for Merl, and he skulked in with Quaiyl and Gloomy Joe following closely behind. Now that they’d found Stobart, Quaiyl seemed happy to just stay in the vicinity of Merl.
The inn was cozy, just like Merl had imagined it would be. A warming hearth glowed its welcome. Hearty smells wafted from behind its small counter. It was a place of straw-strewn flagstones and timber beams, rosy cheeks and pipes-a-puffin’. Billy, Frank, and Desmelda were eating, drinking, and laughing, while seated at an ample-sized table just to one side of the roaring fire.
Desmelda’s mouth gaped open as soon as she set eyes on Merl. She dropped her fork onto her plate, signaling Merl’s entrance to the other two by coughing and nodding in Merl’s direction. Frank and Billy turned, their stunned gazes falling on Quaiyl.
The other dozen folk gawped at the construct, and then at Stobart Torped. The minute they saw the old man accompanied the construct, their interest in it waned and they returned to their own business.
“How come they aren’t worried?” Merl asked.
“Because it’s not the first time they’ve seen a construct. I’ve brought many a creation in here. At first it caused quite the stir, but now, not so much.”
“You have a load of these?”
“Not anymore. They all died—well, ceased to be. Every one I’ve created has existed for a limited time span.” He marched toward Frank, but Merl tugged on his cape. “Is Quaiyl going to die?”
Stobart patted Merl on the shoulder. “I shouldn’t think so. I didn’t create him.”
“Oh.”
“You must be Frank. Stobart Torped,” Stobart said, holding his hand out for Frank to shake. “And you must be Desmelda, and you must be the fearless Billy. So nice to meet you all. Merl, are you eating? Because I could eat? Does Gloomy Joe want a bone, anything? Really, say what you need, and I’ll sort it. The folk here are glorious. A bit surly sometimes, but glorious.” Stobart sat. “Now, I’m sure you have questions—lots of question—but let me answer the most important first. No.”
Frank looked at Merl, who shrugged.
“No… what?” Frank ventured.
“No, you’re not close to my dwelling yet. I saw the giant ship in
the bay and headed out to meet you. I know how stiff some of the Alarians are, so I though it the least I could do.” He leaned over the table. “If you’re going to waste your time, might as well waste as little as possible. Now, where were we?”
Frank seemed to process Stobart’s words as fast as the strange man said them. “Why are we wasting our time?”
Stobart signaled for more ale, two lunches, and a bone for Gloomy Joe. “Well, as I was telling Merl, I don’t rightly know a lot, apart from what Quaiyl is. He’s a construct. I’ve made a few, but nothing as complex as Quaiyl. And before you ask, I really haven’t got a clue about the Arthur14579 stuff.”
Desmelda perked. “Are you saying that you have the magic to make one of these?” She pointed at Quaiyl.
“A very basic one. As I said, not like Quaiyl, mind. Nothing like him. Mine are far simpler in conception and barely last a few days. Quaiyl is immortal—that is until he’s enacted his primary function.”
“And that is?” Frank asked.
“Not a bloody clue, if I’m honest. I know he’s got a proper soft spot for Merl. No idea why, but then I hardly know the boy. He can fall from a tree, I know that about him, but not a lot else.”
“How do you know about the tree?” Frank asked.
Stobart arched his overgrown eyebrows. “I watched you for a while. Just to make sure you weren’t brutes. Prophecies can be buggers sometimes. They don’t seem to care what type of person follows them anymore. It’s not like the old days when you could rely on a good prophecy to only send you a decent chap of modest means and shady parentage.”
“Merl’s a nice fellow,” Frank said.
Stobart grunted. “I’m not saying he isn’t but is the prophecy about him? That’s the problem.”
“Have you seen the prophecy?” Desmelda asked abruptly.
Merl thought her patience was already brittle. She tended to snap in and out of her moods quite quickly.
“Nope, but I know it exists.”
“So, you don’t know what the prophecy says, and you don’t know what Quaiyl’s about. What do you know?” Desmelda asked. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
Stobart thought on her question. Lunch was served with a grunt and a dumped plate. Gloomy Joe was thrown a bone.
“If you’re asking me whether I know the secret to unlocking the wards of Arthur14579, I’d have to tell you no. But you know that already—or at least, you suspect it. Did you really think Arthur would make it easy to open his wards? If you did, you are sadly mistaken. I am one piece and one piece alone, though if you’ll indulge me, I will prize my part of the lock open for you.” He turned to Frank. “You’re getting close, Wizard of Quintz, but you’re not quite there yet.”
Torped’s hut was nestled in the foothills to the north, just before the rise of the mountains. The journey was a long one, part cart, boat and then finally a small hike up a valley resplendent with rough grazing. Torped knew every Alarian that they encountered. He had arrangements with most and bartered for their passage all the way up. It took them two days. Apparently, it took longer to go up than down.
Torped was fond of cryptic phrases. He liked leaving things half explained, which really irked Merl, as he had enough of a job understanding stuff that was fully explained, and so during the journey they learned nothing more of Torped’s likely influence over their task. If they brought it up, he merely told them to wait and enjoy the ride, or baffled them with half explanations and long words.
His hut was a remote one. Despite knowing everyone, privacy was, according to him, his thing. Torped’s passion was constructs, and all the while they traveled his entire focus was Quaiyl. He watched the construct’s every move, and it was only as they walked the final stretch that he suddenly began to open up to them.
“Firstly, eyes and ears. Alaria is thick with spies for The Dark Ones. The tavern we ate in, for instance, had at least two that are accepting coin from Daemon Mercer, thus I spoke in riddles and feigned ignorance of all things. Daemon Mercer already knows you have Merl, and he also knows you have succeeded in rousing The Origin—the one you call Quaiyl. He must, therefore, assume he has lost The Staff of Morrison White too. Like you, Daemon Mercer seeks the power of Arthur14579, but unlike you, he’s not relying on it.”
Merl partly listened to Stobart and partly gazed around the foothills. In some ways, they reminded him of home. Heavy pasture was punctured with jutting, gray rock. Thrusting cliffs lined all, only topped by the sky. He could only imagine how bitterly cold and wet it must be when the nights grew longer. Stobart lived in a hard land, yet it didn’t make sense. He was far too learned, and he was far too fond of his own voice.
Sometimes, when Merl’s dad had stayed over in Morgan Mount, Merl hadn’t talked to anyone at all. He was so used to it, he often didn’t bother talking to himself. When your nearest neighbor was an eagle, you accepted that. But Stobart barely took a breath between spouting a fresh load of words. He’d chatted to everyone they’d met on the way, asking about their families, crop yields, trade, and the likely coming weather. Merl found talking hard, for the most part. He just wasn’t interested in how big someone’s carrots had been the last growing season.
Stobart wasn’t a mountain man, Merl concluded. So, what was he doing up here?
Merl was just running out of fantastical theories about Stobart Torped, when Gloomy Joe started barking. His fur stood on end, and the dune dog tensed. Then Merl spied it. A small, featureless, scarlet construct was busy ploughing a field. The construct took absolutely no notice of them as they passed, but Merl stood still and watched it for a while. It was coming to the end of the field, yet the field was already plowed. As it finished the last furrow, the construct didn’t stop—it began plowing the field again.
Then he saw another, and this one was shepherding a small flock of sheep. It was slowly leading them across the valley’s side. Once it reached the end of the grass, it turned and started back the way it had come.
“What are they doing?” Merl asked, hurrying to catch up with Stobart.
“Farming,” he replied, “but I haven’t got it quite right.” His shoulders slumped. “They don’t stop. I don’t know how to get them to do it right. I’m missing something.”
“But you made them yourself?” Desmelda butted in.
“I channeled the energy, bound the matter, added the suggestion, and assigned the task, yes. I did all that.”
“Then surely it’s just a nudge?” Desmelda ventured.
“A nudge?” Stobart threw his hands up in the air. “It’s no nudge. I need them to plow the field, sow the seed, water the crops, and then harvest. I need them to load a wagon, drive it to a warehouse, and then unload it. I need them to start again. Cyclical, endless, that is what I need. How far have I got? Plow, and then plow, that’s how far. Plow, and then plow.”
They reached his little homestead, and he let them in. “I’m missing something.”
Billy started laughing. “You’re missing seed, water, a scythe and pitchfork, a horse, cart, and a warehouse. How in Andula’s name d’you expect them t’finish if you don’t give them the stuff t’finish with in the first place. It’s like askin’ me to spread muck without any muck.”
Billy strolled over to the homestead’s hearth as if he owned the place. He popped some kindling in it and then stacked some logs on top. Using his strike, Billy lit it, then turned back to the group. “Well?”
Stobart looked crestfallen. He slumped onto a chair by the warming hearth. “Could it be that easy?” He slapped his forehead.
Billy roared. “Don’t be soft in tha’ head, like. I just made that up. Yer might be as ‘telligent as a wizard, but yer as daft as a dune dog, that’s fer sure. No offence, Gloomy, like.”
Frank stood in the doorway looking in. “But just what are these constructs? Why use them? Why not just use ordinary folk?”
Stobart waved him inside, then bid them all to sit. Frank and Desmelda joined Billy, and Merl sidled across the room and
sat at a small table to one side. Gloomy Joe took one look at him, another at the fire, and chose the latter, seemingly accepting Billy’s apology. The dune dog soon had his belly warming. Quaiyl stood a yard away from Merl, unmoved and unaffected. Stobart vanished into a side room and soon returned with mugs of juice.
“The question is the bones of the problem. I presume you know that the lords used to occupy hundreds, even thousands of castles, and that they waged war with countless soldiers and farmed innumerable fields, drew stone from infinite quarries, and chopped lumber like the forests were endless? But tell me, Wizard of Quintz, did the word how ever come up in your numerous debates in that fair city of Quintz? Did Ricklefess or the others ever postulate theories on how all these soldiers died and yet the local populace still survived, and how not a soul has a single ancestor who ever fought in these great wars?”
“What?” said Frank, and then he said it again for good measure, “what?”
“You heard what I said.” Stobart delivered his words like an assassin would deliver their blade. “Ask them. They’ll have great, great uncles that were blacksmiths, crafters, or cobblers, but not a single one will know of a pikeman or a sword. Why? How can we have part of the history, and not the rest?”
Frank stared at the growing fire like it was consuming all of the knowledge he’d hitherto held dear. “Are you saying that these armies didn’t exist?”
