Smoke in the Glass

by Chris Humphreys

  He circled the tower, glancing into the room each time. Flames stirred but nothing else. On his fifth circuit, he reached out his claws, grasped the ledge and thrust his head inside.

  The room was unoccupied – but someone had been there, and recently, for steam rose from two mugs of spiced ale, placed on a large oak table with chairs either side of it. The vessels sat amidst many cured skins, some rolled in cones, some open and held down by stones. Like the one from the assassin’s bag, Luck recalled, which Stromvar had realised was a chart of their land. Other cones on the table were white, looked lighter than the skins – shown to be so when a gust of wind came through the window and they moved. One of these was open too, also held by weights on its corners, and upon this one Luck could see different kinds of markings – rows of them, tiny symbols, some repeating, many different. They reminded him of the shapes he would carve to see the future, or tell someone’s fate, his tala. But he never put more than seven tala together at one time. Upon this sheet were hundreds.

  He looked about the room again. There was a door, opening onto a stairwell that spiralled up and down the tower. To one side of that was an alcove with a bed, blankets furled upon it. The ceiling was wooden, flat, beamed. It creaked rhythmically, had to be the floor of the room above where people were pulling the bell ropes, bending up and down, the toll still clear. Perhaps it was where the drinkers had gone, leaving their hot ales behind. With a raven’s hearing he would note the men, if men they were, returning. With a raven’s speed, he would be out of the room in a flash before they arrived.

  He hopped into the room, and dropped onto the back of the chair behind the table. From this vantage, he looked around … and saw it.

  The globe, far larger than the ones he’d already seen, was in an alcove opposite the one with the bed, beside the window. Not visible from it, or Luck would have seen it, been drawn to it, straight away. Smoke spun within it, and Luck felt an instant craving. He wanted to go forward now, gaze into the swirling depths. Would have done … were it not for a man already standing behind it, whom he’d not scented, heard, seen, so well was he folded into the shadows, with his black hooded cloak, his black teeth, his black eyes.

  Luck shot straight up, spread his wings for flight. But as he did the window shutters were slammed shut. Too late did he notice the ropes attached to them trailing to the stairs; while the four men who had pulled them now ran in. Each had nets. And though he eluded the first two thrown, weaving around the room, he could not dodge them all. Snagged, he fell upon the table, and the net tightened around him.

  The dark man came forward, a raven’s black eye meeting one even blacker.

  ‘Welcome,’ said the man, bending low. ‘I have been expecting you.’

  Luck blinked. He looked like the same man he’d seen in Peki Asarko’s globe. But how could he know that Luck was anything other than a bird? Surely it was best to stay within his feathers and await the chance for flight?

  The man smiled. ‘I know you can understand me. How well do you think I speak your language, I am wondering. I have been practising it a long time. Waiting for this moment.’

  The voice was low, smooth, the accent not from anywhere in Midgarth, not even close, though the words were clear nonetheless. Still, he didn’t see that he needed to reply, not yet.

  Until the man spoke again. ‘Come now. You came here to learn us, yes? Easier if we speak, man to man. Or priest to god? For you are god are you not … Luck of Askaug?’

  The shock of it. How was he discovered? It was impossible.

  He squirmed within the net. Luck … and the raven too, which had begun to struggle even harder at its possession, trapped within the trap. Sharing its body had given Luck … not fondness for it, exactly, but sympathy. He would like to see it free again.

  Within most beasts, gods could only speak to other gods in thought. But in his boyhood, he’d kept all manner of birds. Ravens could be taught to talk. So in the bird’s voice, he shaped some human words. ‘Bird go.’

  The man leaned closer. ‘What did you say?’

  Luck tried again. ‘Bird go.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’ The man smiled. ‘Yes. We only want one of you here.’

  Releasing possession was always easier than taking it, the occupied so wanted to be free. The raven closed its eyes, Luck opened his inner eyes, and then there were two in the net, and the four other men in the room gasped, crying out in their own tongue, at the man and bird suddenly side by side upon the table. Only his interrogator seemed unmoved. He said something in another language, and gestured with his hand.

  The men came forward at his command. A blanket was laid over Luck’s head, outside the netting, while the bird was lifted from beside him. He realised why he was blinded – to possess you had to see. The leader here knew that – and Luck knew who had told him: that traitor, Peki Asarko.

  He heard shutters opening, the sharp bark of the raven, calling as it flew away. Then the blanket was pulled back. The man was looking down. ‘You see?’ he said. ‘The first bargain kept. The first of many, I hope. A truce shall be the second, yes?’

  ‘Truce?’ For a moment Luck’s own voice seemed wispy to him, after using the bird’s. He coughed to clear his throat. ‘A truce for what?’

  ‘For you to learn all that you desire.’

  Luck looked at the other men, their normal, mortal faces. They could have come from Askaug, from the south, where the darker-haired people lived. The main difference was in the hair. His people let theirs grow long, braided it or let it fly wild and free. These had shaved theirs off, save for a short circle of it around the crown. They were also beardless.

  They were staring at him, fearful. He couldn’t blame them – he had just emerged from a bird after all. Their terror told him this was not something they’d seen before. Which meant that there were no gods there – or at least none that possessed beasts. Yet something else was also in their eyes, behind the fear. Hatred. Why, he didn’t understand, one of the many things he didn’t understand. And their leader had been right – to learn was why he had come.

  ‘Truce, then,’ he grunted. ‘I will do you no harm, nor will I attempt to escape, until we both declare the truce to be over.’

  ‘And you are a people who take truces seriously, are you not? So. I will not harm you – until a time you force me to. Which I hope will be never.’ He shaped a smile, lips parting over his black teeth. ‘That is the last thing I want.’ He looked up, moved his hand again. Immediately the men bent and unwound Luck from the net. Two went to stand by the door, which one shut. Two went to close the shutters.

  Luck rolled off the table, stood, swayed. It was never easy emerging from possession. Like waking the morning after a feast, still drunk. There was a chair beside him and he pulled it out, sat. On the other side of the table, the man sat too. ‘Ale?’ he said, indicating the steaming mug.

  ‘What is in it?’

  ‘Ale. Spices. Not—’ he gestured to the globe in the alcove. ‘Anything like that. That would not be in the spirit of the truce, would it? Drink.’

  ‘Will the man whose drink this is not be angry?’

  ‘The drink is yours.’

  That was something to be questioned – but later. First … the ale smelled wonderful, and he’d been frozen for weeks. Luck drank. ‘It is good?’ the man asked.

  ‘It is very good.’

  ‘I am pleased.’ The man steepled his fingers under his chin, shaven like the rest of his head, without even the same small circle of hair the others had. ‘I hope this will be the first of much conversations between us. You want information on us, so you can fight us. I want information on you so I can make you understand why you do not need to.’ He gestured back and forth. ‘You call this a … deal, yes? But please, your questions first. You have many, yes?’

  Luck studied the man. It was hard to guess at his age. The eyes, like those of the assas
sin, were impenetrable darknesses. The black teeth distracted, as if they were somehow fake. His skin was smooth, with few lines or wrinkles. He could be young or old. Or, he thought suddenly, he could be immortal. And the man was right. He had many questions. Settled on one. ‘You called me by my name. How could you know that?’

  ‘By the globe you carried with you. Which also told me you were near. So I was ready.’ He smiled, waving at the beer, then again back to the alcove, where smoke still shifted within glass. ‘It is far more than a way to talk over distances. It is, in its own way, alive.’ He turned back. ‘I have globes everywhere in the world. Have done for years. Through them I learn your language. I speak it good, yes?’ He frowned. ‘No, I speak it well, yes?’ He waved again at the globe. ‘I am aware of all of them, where they are, who is with them. As long as the bearer has tasted Sirene but once.’

  ‘Sirene?’

  ‘The sweet smoke.’

  Everywhere in the world, did he say? Implying places beyond Midgarth, and beyond whatever they called this land he’d sledded into? That one answer led to dozens more questions. One more would lead to another crossroads, yet more choices. He must be careful with them.

  To give himself time, he looked down to the tabletop. ‘These,’ he said, tapping one of the white square sheets weighted down with stones. ‘These … squiggles. They are everywhere. What are they?’

  ‘They are letters.’ The priest shook his head. ‘I was surprised that in Midgarth you do not have them.’

  ‘Why would we? What are they?’ Luck repeated.

  ‘They are magic.’ On Luck’s grunt of frustration he continued, ‘Each letter is a sound, and a symbol.’

  ‘Like my tala then?’

  ‘Your way of seeing the world, the future, cut into stones or wood? Oh yes, I have seen that too. In a way they are.’ He steepled his fingers under his chin. ‘But imagine your tala joined together and used not just for fortunes but to explain the world.’

  ‘Explain it how?’

  Instead of answering, the priest bent over a sheet, placed a finger. ‘You read your tala, yes? I read this.’ He cleared his throat. ‘“Next month, on the day before Pregor, a shipment of iron will be sent to the foundry at Maak. It is lower grade, so only to be used for spear tips and lances, not swords.”’

  Luck gasped. ‘You read that there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You could be lying to me.’

  The priest laughed. ‘Shall I send for someone to read it to you again?’

  ‘One of these?’

  The priest looked at the men in the room. ‘These are servants. None of them read.’

  Luck shook his head. There’d been times over the centuries when he’d wondered if somehow his tala could be joined together. Other seers read tala too – but no two ever got fixed meanings from them, as this writing gave here. It was magic, he saw the power of it immediately. How it could unite people. How it could … persuade them.

  It was as if the priest part-read his thoughts. ‘Yes. I was puzzled that you did not have writing. Only when I saw how distracted you were – by fighting, by your spoken tales of heroes and gods – did I understand. And realize that for all your strengths as a people you were also,’ he shrugged, ‘weak.’

  There was no need for defiance – partly because, Luck realized, the man was right. These joined symbols, this ‘writing’? He felt a craving, as he always did with anything new, of exploring it immediately. ‘Do many read in your world?’

  ‘Very few. Power is best kept by those who know how to use it, do you not think?’

  A crossroads of questions lay before Luck again. He took a swallow of the heated ale, took a deeper breath. But the man spoke first. ‘May I ask you a question now?’ Luck nodded. ‘This.’ The other leaned forward, fixed him with his black eyes. ‘Are you happy?’

  Luck blinked. This was not anything he’d expected to be asked. ‘Happy?’ he echoed.

  ‘Yes. Are you happy?’

  Happiness? It was not a state of being he ever considered. He did not strive for it, nor seek to hold on to fragile moments of it, as many men did, in drink or love-making. Because he’d learned: moments always passed. He’d been happy with Gytta for a time – such a short time, as he watched time take her away. Greying her hair, wrinkling her face. In the end, eating her body.

  Luck was startled to find sudden tears in his eyes. He looked down. Too late.

  ‘I know. I know!’ The man’s voice came soft, gentle. ‘It is hard to consider it, when a lifetime’s seeking does not produce it. It must be even harder for a god, when you have had so many lifetimes to try, and still not succeeded.’

  He knew he was weak from the journey. This man would know it too. But pity was such an obvious tactic he would not fall for it. Instead, he took another deep breath and sucked back his tears. ‘I am … content. It is all I have ever sought to be. Is that answer enough for you?’

  ‘For now.’ The man smiled again. ‘Sometimes answers come in forms other than words. But the seeking—’ He shrugged. ‘I am sorry to interrupt you. Ask what you will.’

  Luck took another sip of ale before he spoke. There was a game they played in Askaug during long winter nights. A war game upon a grid, pieces moved to overcome the enemy, and capture his god. It was called Dagat, and it required careful strategies. It was a game you got better at the more you played it. And Luck was suddenly aware that, even in the short time that they’d spoken, this black-eyed man had got better in the speech of Midgarth. He would, Luck suspected, be very good at Dagat. As was he. So he made his next move, carefully.

  ‘You said we might speak to each other as priest to god?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I know that I am a god. At least, that is what I am called in Midgarth – but, if you have studied us as you say, and as your speaking of our tongue betrays, you will know we are not so different from the people we live among.’ He put down the mug. ‘But how do you know you are a priest?’

  There came a long pause. ‘It is a good question, Luck. A deep one, behind its simplicity.’ He grunted. ‘You are wiser than I expected you to be.’

  ‘I have lived four hundred years. You pick up one or two things. Will you answer it?’

  ‘I … can?’ The reply came out more like a question. ‘Yet I do not think you crossed the mountain to talk about my faith. You came to discover us.’

  ‘It is simpler than that. We are a simple people. I came to find out who is killing my fellow gods, and why. So you are right, idle talk can wait.’

  The priest nodded. ‘Then let us talk no more. Words are … a maze, yes? We can wander through it for days and still not find a way out. Instead,’ he smiled, ‘how would it be if I showed you?’

  ‘Showed me what?’

  Black eyes glinted. ‘Everything.’

  ‘Everything?’ Luck grunted. ‘That is a lot to offer at a first meeting.’

  ‘It is. Would you like it?’

  ‘Perhaps. I am always interested in knowledge. How would you do it?’

  ‘In a way you will appreciate. You, who have already seen behind the veil of things as they seem. You, who have travelled in dreams, had visions. Oh yes, Luck of Askaug, I know some things about you.’ He stood and for the third time gestured to the alcove beside them. ‘I will show you in the smoke.’

  From the moment he’d seen it, part of Luck’s attention had always been on the globe in the corner of the room. ‘Will that liquid be poured upon it?’

  ‘It will.’

  ‘So you would drug me?’

  The priest shook his head. ‘I would open a door. Only you can decide if you wish to step through it.’

  ‘Do you enter with me?’

  ‘I will be your guide.’

  ‘To show me only the things you wish me to see?’

  ‘Oh no, god of Midgarth.
’ He laughed. ‘Sirene cannot be controlled like that. Sirene … controls. And she liberates. As you will discover.’

  She? Luck took another gulp of ale then sat back. Ever since he’d first gazed into the globe in Askaug, and seen this man’s face in it, he’d wanted to gaze again. Yet he’d carried the stoppered vial with him all the way from home and had not opened it. That first time had shown him the hold it could have upon him. He knew he would crave it more each time until … until perhaps his eyes would be black, his teeth – and perhaps his heart too. Yet this he also understood: he had not left his home, climbed that mountain, suffered all that he had, only to refuse the very thing he sought – knowledge. To know the extent of the threat to his world. This man was offering it to him. For his own reasons, of course. However, Luck thought, I have spent four centuries reaching my own conclusions. And no drug, nor black-eyed priest, is going to alter that.

  He lifted the goblet again, drained it, set it down, stood. ‘Let us do this,’ he said.

  ‘Let us.’ The priest rose too, saying a single word to the four men who had just stood and silently stared. They left the room.

  As the last one closed the door behind him, Luck said, ‘You do not fear that I will try to do you harm?’

  The priest answered as he crossed to the alcove. ‘Why would you, when I am going to give you everything you came for? Besides, and forgive me, you are not really shaped for harm, are you? Whereas, you see,’ his black eyes glimmered, ‘I am.’

  The globe rested on a wooden stand on a smaller table in the alcove. There was a chair either side of it. ‘Come. Sit.’

  Luck did as bid. The priest sat opposite him, the large globe between them. ‘Now,’ he said, and reached into a drawer in the table. From it, he drew a glass vial – bigger, more ornate than the one Luck had brought with him. Its cork was sheathed in silver and attached to the neck of the bottle with a silver chain.

  All Luck’s exhaustion was gone. It wasn’t simply the craving. All his years he’d delved into all life, never content to simply live it. When he carved his tala upon stones or wood and cast them onto the ground, he read the world in them, in trance, in dream. Here he was being offered another way in; or, as the priest had said, a glimpse behind the veil drawn over life-that-seemed. If he did not trust his guide’s words, knowledge was the one thing that would give him the weapons he’d need to oppose him. Not physically. It was true – he was not really shaped to do a man harm with his body. But with his mind … ?