Manx

by Greg Curtis

  “They are deep in conversation with my Mistress at the moment. They should not be disturbed. And in the morning if they're still here, they will remember nothing.”

  Manx thought about that for a moment as he stared around his darkened room. Then he asked the question that really mattered. “So you really are the shaman of Ao? And the cat isn't a liar?”

  “Of course the cat's a liar!” She retorted with a snort. “All cats are liars! And fools!”

  Whitey ignored the slight. Instead she just took her place at the doorway, clearly waiting to be led into the kitchen and to her promised meal.

  “But I am a shaman.” The woman emphasised the “A”. “A shaman of Ao. There is no “the”. Shamans serve all the different gods and goddesses. However, the question is, who and what are you?”

  “Pardon?” Once more he was caught off guard. The woman was in his home after all.

  “I've just escaped nearly four hundred years of captivity along with a few others, to discover a world that's turned into something cold and mechanical. A world without a soul. My family is trapped, I hope, in the same prison of time and space, and I don't know if the walker who freed me will be able to free them. Whoever he or she is. And I'm ill. Then this cat comes calling, and tells me that there's a wizard out here, who wants to see me. One who somehow lives in this cold, dead world of bad air. I'd like to know who and what you are that you can survive in this place. And why do your eyes not glow blue?”

  “Oh.” Manx supposed she had a point, though he didn't understand what she meant about the eyes. Why would they glow blue? But he still didn't like the fact that she was little more than a shadow in the darkness. So he went to the fire which had nearly died completely away and started poking at it. It would provide a little more light in time. And it gave him a chance to think of the obvious question.

  “You were in prison?” Yet even as he asked, he knew it was exactly what he had thought – based on what a lying, self-serving cat had told him. A cat who it turned out, might actually have been telling him the truth.

  “Did I not just say that?!” She stood there in the darkness, sounding for all the world like a school teacher talking to a recalcitrant child.

  “Apologies. I'm Maxwell Smythe of Clairmont,” he answered her original question realising that that was what she was waiting for. “But mostly I go by Manx.”

  “A Smythe!” she exclaimed. “I should have known.”

  “And I'm She With The Sharp Claws Who Must be Adored,” Whitey interrupted, obviously unhappy to be left out of the introductions. “Now there was talk of food?!”

  “If any of the magical could have escaped the prison it would have been a Smythe!” the druid continued, ignoring the cat.

  “I'm not four hundred years old,” Manx pointed out as the ashes finally caught fire. Then he tossed a couple of small logs on them and hoped they'd catch without the need for kindling. “I didn't escape anything. No ones tried to put me in a prison. And I'm not a wizard either.”

  “No. You're a thief.”

  “What?! I am not a thief!” he objected, incensed by the accusation. “I've never stolen a damned thing in my life!”

  “But are you an honourable monkey?” Whitey asked. “Do you keep your promises? And where's my dinner?!”

  “You'll get your damned dinner!” He snapped at the cat. “Now just hush!”

  “Really?” The shaman's voice rose a little. “The world truly has changed. The kings of the larcenous fingers have given up purloining coin.” She took a breath. “But you still talk to cats. And I'd guess you still hide in the mist. And have a thousand other tricks at your fingertips.”

  “Actually I restore books in a library,” he told her. But she knew about his calling the mist? He truly hadn't expected that.

  “Books?” The scepticism in her voice was obvious. “You repair books with fingers made to filch pockets? Not even stolen books?”

  “Not even,” he agreed. But all the while he was studying her, and as a little more light from the fire caught her, he could see a few more features. Things that surprised him. Things like the way her ears stuck out from the side of her head like spears. He didn't remember reading that about shamans. And she didn't seem to mind having a roof over her head, nor were her feet bare. So obviously the books had got a few things wrong about shamans. He wondered if she really did have an aversion to iron.

  “Truly you are a strange creature for your kind.”

  “But then you're not exactly normal either, are you?” he retorted.

  “What do you mean?!” Her voice suddenly became hard.

  “Your ears. They're not exactly normal. And surviving for four hundred years in a prison? That's a little odd too.”

  “I've been called to the magic,” she told him coldly. “Like all matured spell-casters my form represents that. All shamans have glorious ears so they can hear the words of the gods. And as for my survival for so long, time has not moved so quickly for those of us who were locked away as it has for others. In fact it hasn't passed at all.”

  “I see.” But he didn't really. The only thing he did understand was that she was upset with him, though he didn't quite know why. He'd said something wrong. Obviously. But how could she be so sensitive about her ears when they were on display for everyone to see? Still there were more important things to talk about.

  “I asked Whitey to find you,” he began –

  “She With The Sharp Claws Who Must Be Adored!” the cat corrected him again. “And she who was promised food!”

  “Because I have some problems and I thought you might be able to help with them,” he continued, ignoring the cat.

  “Problems?”

  “I hoped you might be able to help with my scarring and health. And the Silver Order, or at least Lady Marshendale, seems to be intent on executing my family. I'm not sure why. But as I seem to be on their list, I'd like them to stop.”

  “I can't help you,” the woman told him bluntly. “You're a Smythe. A thief and black-heart by blood and your very birth. No shaman will help you. And the Silver Order probably hate you for the same reason. You're a Smythe. The only magical family that is not transformed by the magic that calls them. The only ones who can pass as mundane. That makes you dangerous. In fact I'm not sure why they didn't end your lineage centuries ago, the moment they realised who you were.” And by the tone of her voice she would be completely fine with that.

  Manx's mouth fell open. Refused aid simply because of his blood? That was beyond belief! His family were almost nobility – not that he'd ever claimed any sort of title because of it. Not that that made them decent people either – they weren't. But still, they weren't common cut purses and brigands. And he certainly wasn't. But then again, were they magical? He'd assumed it was just him. That he was a freak.

  “I'm not asking for miracles.” He tried again. “Just a little help. And I can pay for services rendered. In coin or information. Whatever you prefer.”

  “I'm a shaman of Ao. I can offer you the blessings of the Goddess, and perform certain rites and rituals, but I can't heal you. And it is not why I came.”

  As the fire caught a little more and he could see her face more clearly in the light, Manx realised there was no point in asking any further. There was no doubt in her eyes. Instead only the cold hard determination of absolute certainty shone from them. He would get no help from her.

  “Enough ugly monkeys talking,” Whitey interrupted. “I was promised food! Stew with lots of gravy! Proper food! No more mice!”

  “I see.” Manx continued ignoring the cat. “Then could you tell me why you're destroying Winstone? This is my home after all, and I'd quite like to be able to walk to work without being eaten by wolves. I'm sure everyone else would too.” Actually there was probably little chance of that. He hadn't heard the wolves howling for a few days now. The city guards had obviously done their job well. But as if to make up for that success, more problems had appeared, most of them in the form of vin
es that had started climbing over buildings. There had been no announcement about it and there were of course no papers to read to tell him the news, but when he looked at the heart of the city from his upstairs windows he could see them. Tall buildings, slowly turning green.

  “We're fighting a war and freeing the others. The druids are using their most powerful spells of summoning to protect us, but for some reason they can't command the beasts of the world as they once did. Four hundred years ago they would have called an army to their aid and then sent them home when they were no longer needed. Now the creatures are breaking free of their command.”

  “Others?” That was the important word in what she'd said, Manx eventually realised. There were more coming.

  “Our fellow casters. Other shamans, druids, soothsayers and many more. When the Silver Order came for us, they came for all of us. None were left behind as they hungered for our power.”

  “Except the Smythes, I'm guessing.” It suddenly occurred to him why she had said his family were dangerous for not having been called by the magic. The lack of pointed ears and whatever else she and the others might have, meant that they looked like normal people. They weren't so easy to spot. But how did releasing all these wild animals on the city help to free the other prisoners?

  “The prison still holds our loved ones,” she continued, ignoring his comment. “And we have to free them.”

  It probably hadn't been very helpful as comments went he guessed. But then he wasn't feeling in a very helpful mood just then. “I see,” he told her.

  “I'm not sure how any of us escaped. The trap we were held in is diabolical. It steals our own magic from us and uses it to hold us in a state of something near sleep in a dimension without reason. Somewhere where time barely passes. But there are thousands more still caught in it. And a great many more prisons so we've heard. One in every city at least. There must be a walker out there. No other could have freed us. I had hoped you were he.”

  “You might ask the fiend,” Manx told her, not knowing what she meant by a walker.

  “Fiend?”

  “Several days before you escaped, or at least before the wild creatures came to Winstone, the city was overrun by hell beasts. Three headed dogs that breathed fire, horses with hooves of flame, and dark knights. The Silver Order arrived the same day to battle the horrors. But a great many were killed and a lot of buildings were burnt to the ground.”

  “And the walker – he or she got away?”

  The only answer Manx could give the woman was a shrug. It seemed that walker was her actually term for fiend, though he couldn't for the life of him work out why she would call them that. But he had no idea what had happened to him or her.

  “If anyone was going to free themselves from that place, it would be a walker,” the woman mused. “And surely this walker is also the one who freed us. He or she has not yet revealed themselves. But their magic is so esoteric that it would be little use against the Silver Order and their forms are so distinctive that they could not remain unnoticed out in the open. They're probably hiding. Unwilling to reveal themselves until enough of our people are free and they don't have to fear the order riding in.”

  “Only Lady Marshendale has come so far,” he answered her, wondering just how distinctive these walkers had to be for a woman with spears for ears to comment on it. And what did esoteric mean when it came to magic? He shuddered a little at the thought. “She rode on her unicorn and destroyed the creatures with her flashing silver sword, but as far as I know she was alone. The rest were the city guards.”

  “She rode a unicorn? The druids are not going to be happy about that!”

  “The very next morning I was pulled away from my work by the city guards, and the Lady started to try me and my entire family for having brought the beasts to Winstone. She even had witnesses ready to lie in her cause.”

  “But why? You're a Smythe! None of your family have three eyes? Do they?”

  “Not that I've noticed,” Manx replied dryly. Walkers or fiends had three eyes? That had actually been in one of the books he'd read, but he simply hadn't believed it! Still it was one of the things that he remembered clearly from his reading because it was so strange. “And no markings either.”

  “Markings?” She stared curiously at him.

  “Demonic script all over the bodies of the fiends.”

  “Are you touched?! Walkers don't have demonic script all over their bodies! Unless they choose to of course. They look just like everyone else, with a third eye of course. But sorcerers sometimes mark themselves. Not with demonic script though. There is no such thing!”

  “One eye, three – who cares? I want my stew!” Whitey interrupted again, louder than before. Clearly she'd had enough of sitting in the doorway, waiting.

  “Fair enough,” Manx told the cat. “You did as I asked you to, and we're finished here. But it'll take a few moments to heat it.”

  Then he turned back to his visitor to check on what really was the only thing that mattered. And obviously it wasn't confirming all the details he'd read in the books about the various spell-casters. Clearly there was no point. It seemed they were all wrong. “So, you won't help me, simply because of my birth.”

  “Of course not.” She stood up a little taller. “No one will help a Smythe. And certainly none would ever make a deal with one!”

  “What do you think I am? Some sort of demon?” He was actually offended by what she'd said. But unfortunately her refusal to help was what he'd expected to hear after she'd already said much the same thing before. It was wrong, painfully so, but it seemed to be absolute. He had no friends among the magical, and the Silver Order hated him too. How much worse could his life get?

  The shaman didn't reply to his question, but Manx realised, that was actually an answer in itself. As far as she was concerned he was some sort of demon – or at least something you didn't make deals with. He had to work hard to keep from groaning out loud. But he knew there was no help to come from her.

  “Which suggests that we have nothing else left to say. Unless there's anything else?” He didn't think there was. He'd already told her what he knew, and she'd refused to help him. What did that leave?

  “You seem upset?” Strangely she sounded a little surprised.

  “All I wanted was to talk and maybe get a little help with some things, and I would gladly have paid. And maybe I wanted to know why my city's being torn apart. But instead I get accused of nameless crimes I haven't committed and told I'm some sort of scoundrel or worse who nobody should deal with, simply because of my birth. How would you expect me to feel?”

  He shook his head in self pity more than anything else.

  “In any case I have a cat to feed,” he told her a little brusquely. But he was upset. Or maybe just disappointed. Nothing in what he'd learned from her had been of any use to him. And she couldn't heal him and worse those who might be able to, wouldn't. After he had had a little hope. “You have learned what you came to find out?”

  “Yes.” She nodded – a gesture that allowed the firelight to catch more of her ears and show the entire room just how odd they were

  “Good. Then you can let yourself out?” She had after all let herself in he realised. Unless the cat had somehow worked out how to open doors instead of crawling in through partly open windows.

  “I can.”

  “Then I bid you farewell.” He left her then, heading for the hallway and the kitchen beyond, while Whitey hurried along beside him, almost getting trod on in the process. She really was hungry, he gathered. And he didn't even bother to ask about the people who were watching him. Because even though it was shocking to think that there were such people, it didn't matter. He could do nothing about them.

  But she'd still have to wait a little while he told her as he put the evening's meal in its crockery pot back on the stove. She wanted it warmed through and that took time. But then he put the kettle on the hot plate beside it, and his coffee would take time too.


  As for his visitor, she didn't follow them into the kitchen. Instead he heard the click of a lock a few moments later which he guessed was her letting herself out of his front door.

  Ten minutes later he was sitting in front of the fire in the still dark living room, drinking his coffee, while the cat was eating in the kitchen, and occasionally shouting complaints at him about her ill-treatment. And he thought she had a point – though not the one she intended. It had been a complete waste of time. He had learned very little and gained nothing. No help at least. And on top of that he had been labelled as a criminal simply because of his birth.

  The Smythes, an outwardly respectable, well to do family of merchants were actually brigands from ages gone by. That made him smile. Almost nobility? Huh! But then maybe many of the nobles of the world were also descended from criminals. There was a reason they used the phrase robber baron he supposed.