Master In His Tomb

by Jack Holloway

  I consider his words, his usefulness against our friendship. Too easy to answer. “You know, I don’t suppose I would. I am sorry Tomas. Needs must sometimes, rather too often for my tastes in truth. The burden of my kind.”

  There is nothing left of him but the faintest light in the dark. A hint of regret and a little of that anger, fast fading.

  I have planned for this. I have other options to complete my acclimatisation to this world’s realities. I have planned for everything it’s just sometimes I would rather that I did not have to rely on clumsier failsafes. Some of my methods are taken from barbarians and are by their nature barbaric.

  “Farewell Tomas. Thank you for all your time my friend. I hope that what you wanted is waiting for you wherever the clouds might take you.”

  A hiss and he is gone.

  The backup then. The recording crystals I had set in the wall after I set my watcher are still here, and have acquired a touristic function which is unexpected. Maybe the local economy benefited from their presence?

  They are clumsy and it will take me a great deal of time to mine all the useful information from them without the use of a psychopomp to filter the stream, but I have all the time in the world and the Witch and Cat will have time to drop their meaningless grudges…

  I reach for one.

  It is dead, it is full. Or rather the contents, decades of arcane information captured via Tomas has been replaced with…

  Music, and pictures and… idiocy. I reach for another and then another. Each is the same. Young humans dancing, singing, theatrical comedies and histories and light entertainment. Humdrum news. Some damn broadcast technology that by some horrible coincidence has resonated at the exact frequency of my failsafe.

  I appear to have a library of “television programming” and rather than the fine-ground knowledge milled from the corn of ages I have a broken mirror of a world’s self regarding stupidity.

  I swear quietly and call Emmet back.

  “Are you on your own Master Albie?” Emmet stands up and stretches his arms, then wheels them around to loosen the joints of limescale build up, careful to avoid smashing anything nearby, including me. “I don’t see any one else around though I think there may be a witch nearby.”

  He sniffs.

  “And a cat.” His eyes flare. “Of sorts.”

  “Accurate estimation. I’m afraid our old friends have all made their final journeys to wherever it is that humans go, even dear Tomas. It’s just you, me, the witch and a cat, faced with something of a mystery.”

  Emmet accepts this with his usual equanimity. “A pity. Your former companions were fine gentlemen and ladies. I had a particular admiration for the travels of Mr. Johnson and his escape from servitude, but death of the fleshy is a fact of life and death is a fact which we must all face in the end. Except for you Master Albrecht. Shadows wait for you.”

  “What is this obsession everyone seems to have with death.” I muse.

  “There has been a lot of it going about, Master. Now, you should introduce me to your new companions.”

  True. I take Emmet back to the gatehouse to meet Ariadne and Hemlock. On the way he enquires as to why there are so many skeletons around and why some appear to have eaten each other before passing on. I explain what I can, and he seems to accept it. He is a very sensible creature, a perfect companion for times like these.

  He deserves a better greeting than what awaits him at the gatehouse.

  “Is that a fecking Golem? You brought us all this fecking way to get a fecking rock man?”

  “Not a rock man. This is Emmett.”

  Ariadne is still not happy with me but at least she’s talking, that’s progress. The day has dawned and the scarlet glow is diffused through a light storm of ice and snow as the heat from the cloud monster has been dispersed.

  Emmet is watching the clouds, assessing and cataloguing. He is much like his creator in his obsession with information.

  “Bit cloudy today Master Albie. I smell volcano ash down here so goodness alone knows what it is like up there.” He rolls his shoulders. “Reminds me of plan five.”

  “I could have got you a golem anywhere.” Ariadne picks out a fruit snack from her bag and devours it angrily before grabbing a piece of ham between two slices of bread. It is good to see the Sandwich continues its meteoric rise.

  I raise an eyebrow. “I think you may be overstating for comic effect Ariadne. Golems were always hard to come by and have next to nothing to do with witches. Stone is under other management. And this is no ordinary Golem. Emmet is the creation of a true master of the art of…” I pause. “Golem-mancy?”

  A snort from the witch. “You don’t know the word do you, Lumpy?”

  “Yet I knew the man who made this fine specimen. He went by the name of Solomon and he was a sojourner in Lemberg when we became friends. He was one of the most remarkable members of your species I ever met. And I can safely say that Emmet here is all those things too.”

  Emmet turns to look at me.

  “Other than the species thing.”

  She pulls a sulky face, feline-eyes dark and shadowed. I think she likes Emmet. “Where’s that bloody cat?”

  Hemlock has spotted Emmet and in his ineffable way has identified him as a better vantage point than the burlap sacks. He burrs softly and leaps from a strut on to Emmet’s shoulder. I pet the cat and then pass Emmet my bag which he ties to his back hooks. Tireless creatures golems. Tireless loyal and intelligent.

  And they do make excellent vantage points for an inquisitive moggy given the stability and love of cats they share with all intelligent life.

  “Made a new friend Hemlock eh?” asks Ariadne.

  And witches. Cats might be the answer to a true brotherhood of the sentient if only they weren’t so self-willed.

  Hemlock settles into a purring rhythm and relaxes in place, ready to jump for the sack in the event of rain.

  “Well that went well” I smile. “The crystal thing was a bit of a curate’s egg, but I did get a good dose of modern culture.”

  “Crystal thing?”

  “Not important.”

  And then there is a knock at the door.

  Visitors?

  18

  From Below, Above

  “What the shit?” Vulgarity from the witch. What a surprise.

  “Expecting company, Master Albrecht?” Emmet asks.

  Another knock. More of a rap, urgent followed by a voice with a request.

  “Excuse me. Would you mind coming out of there? I have news in which you may take an interest.” A harsh flat voice, English with an accent of some kind, similar to Johnson-Pole, the subtle difference concentrated in the vowels. He smells of cough linctus and mothballs even through the door as if he is hiding the smell of something different. “I am no threat, Master Albrecht.”

  “No one following us, eh Master Lump?” growls Ariadne.

  “I don’t remember saying that. I apologise if you thought you heard me say that. In fact I said that nothing concerning was following us. And he has said himself that he is no threat, so let’s see what he has to say for himself.” I can always ask Emmet to crush him into a cube of some kind should he prove hostile. Strong hands, golems.

  Ariadne rolls her eyes. “Taking the word of the ‘Rando’ knocking at the door of a castle in the middle of the Baronies. You are one dumb…”

  “Gatehouse. Not door.”

  “You open that ‘gatehouse’ and see what you’re talking to, matey.”

  I let Emmet take the lead. I would have enjoyed seeing our visitor’s face when a seven-foot-tall lump of rock and protective good intentions strode out into the icy morning, but I will have to forego that particular pleasure in the interests of safety.

  There’s a crack as the door hinges give and then the sound of snapping wood as Emmet stomps what’s left, flat.

  “Sorry.”

  “He broke the door” Ariadne mutters to herself. She’s still a little restrained in com
parison to the cheerful, colourful witch of my rescue and the forest section of our trip, but nearly being eaten by a house can do that to a person.

  At least the sarcasm is back and not directed at me all the time.

  “Hmm. Well we won’t be using it again most likely. All well out there Emmet?” I yell.

  There’s a plaintive yelp from outside. “I get it. You have a golem. Now if you would ask him to put me the hell down I can just pass on this bloody message and then I promise you I’m off. This place has too much weird going on. I would rather be back at home next to a bar heater eating mutton, even if everywhere is filled with psychopathic Russians.”

  I step out, carefully avoiding the splintered fragments of the former door – another little bit of the past smashed to flinders. The day has brightened giving me a fine red-tinged glimpse of the scenic view which drew me to this place originally, and a man dangling from between Emmet’s forefinger and thumb by the scruff of his uniform.

  He’s a tall one, a little gaunt. His booted feet are dangling within scrambling distance of the ground, even with Emmet’s arm at full extension.

  To his credit he’s not struggling too much. Maybe a little involuntary kicking to keep from choking.

  I assess our visitor for a moment and mutter a charm of finding to make sure he is alone. Sure enough there’s no one else around unless you count a small piebald pony hitched to a tree stump a little way away next to a copse.

  It looks sad, standing there in the sleet.

  Ariadne and Hemlock edge out of the gatehouse and take a longer look at him. Then the pony. Then they look at each other and Ariadne comments.

  “You must look pretty silly riding that, longshanks.”

  The man narrows his eyes. “You take what you can get around here Witch-hat. I’m not sure how else you expect a man without a fuel allowance to get around.” A snort of derision down his long Roman nose. “Carried up into the clouds and dumped in place by a giant hand? Travel by tentacle? Maybe a friendly tree will just deposit me where I want to be?”

  I hold up a hand. “Put the fellow down, Emmet.”

  Emmet being the polite gentleman he is, carefully lowers our visitor to the ground and shrugs an apology. Or he might be trying to dislodge ice build-up. The sleet is persistent and he lacks any kind of natural heat to address said build up.

  He’s a tough one to read.

  Our visitor rubs the back of his neck and gives us a rueful look. He’s dressed in the same worn green and tan uniform as the Russian cavalry of last night. Leather and cloth. Riding boots with sharp spurs on his feet and a pistol at his belt next to a knout, an instrument I despise.

  Other than that, he’s travelling light on the mundane level, and would pass for one of the Russian junior officers I observed earlier. Unremarkable bar his height and his native English.

  Looked at from the arcane he is entirely more interesting. He hums with a mix of the subtle and the obscene. His wards, the subtle. They are works of art appearing designed to channel incoming power to his own use. Some of them I simply don’t recognise at all.

  The obscene, the twist to the soul magic the runes harness. I know what is above now.

  In any event. Not what I would expect from Russians or Mr. Johnson-Pole’s Union types. A twinge of memory, an enemy of Mr. Pole?

  To distract him I tap a charm on his forefinger. “No bright flashes of light when you trip the wrong witch charm or gypsy curse, eh my good man?”

  “Ah, no. Anyway. Master Albrecht I presume?”

  “Indeed my dear fellow.” I glance at Ariadne. “Though I’ve acquired quite the stock of names over the years, some less appreciated than others. What did you make of our Emmet when he came through the door? Pretty menacing eh?”

  A side glance from the man aimed at the Golem and then a sneer. I don’t like that expression one little bit. “You do realise that you are scarier by far than your enormous friend Master Albrecht?”

  This may be true. “Only if you both know me and don’t know me if you take my meaning Mr…”

  “Thomas. Though round here I go by Alexei. And I really don’t quite follow.”

  “Well you have to know what I am to think I’m scary and I will admit to some shenanigans when I was young and green, but I’m sure if you knew me in person as I am now, you would recognise that I have moved on from my rowdy youth and regularly demonstrate an even temper and a love of humanity matched only by love of all life. So, unless you’ve either intentionally blotted out the skies or had a hand in killing a friend of mine you’re entirely safe in my presence.”

  Irritable muttering from Ariadne. Something about still being a bloody thoughtless menace. I must clean out my ears at some point. Dust build up.

  Mr. Thomas sniffs the air and exhales a cloud of mist. “Innocent as charged. So that means we’re good.” A blast of northern sleet catches him and he shivers. “Now, it’s cold and I’ve travelled a long way to be here. Could we go inside?”

  “I can’t see why not.”

  Ariadne interrupts. “Why did you want us out in the first place?”

  “Something coming out to me is easier to deal with than something that’s waiting, and there are some unpleasant things lurking around right now.” Thomas’s face is innocent as he speaks.

  “Okay,” says Ariadne, dubious as ever. A soft hiss from Hemlock tells the man he’s being watched.

  “So. That’s cleared up. Everyone in… not you Emmet – you’re cold and waterproof so you can keep an eye on that poor little pony down the hill. Might be wolves or something around, there’s definitely blood on the wind, and I don’t want Mr. Thomas’s friend to suffer due to our lax attitude to animal wellbeing.”

  I sniff again, definitely wolves or something predatory is around. There’s a big blood patch in the bushes towards the path out and some patches of what I think are pony hair. “All life, as I said.”

  That gets me an odd look from Mr. Thomas as we go back inside. “You’re not very vampire-like.”

  “Actually, I’m as vampire-like as can be. You just haven’t met any of us that have properly aged.” I smile a red toothed smile, “we mature like good cheese.”

  “And stink like one… mumble mumble.” Ariadne again.

  It’s cold inside the gatehouse. Lofty roofed, big stone buildings missing a door never seem to keep their warmth for long in the present climate.

  Or in days past come to that. That was always something of a problem with the switch from mud to wood to stone, each a step in the wrong direction requiring remedial heating.

  I miss the warmth of the mud-daubed walls and a smoky fire. The taste of peat on the tongue. The smell of stew bubbling away in a bronze pot.

  Though you can’t use an oversized tooth pick to pull down a stone wall like Assurbanipal did to the baked mud walls of the cities of my later youth, or was that Sargon? No, too early. Wrong continent.

  I have to guess what I remember. How sad.

  Poliorcetes on the other hand, clever man. Always a bit too clever for his own good. Never seemed to finish a siege. Hence the pun.

  Then there were wooden fortifications for a while. They had a habit when attacked of getting too warm, too quickly for those with a sensitive skin. An easy victory.

  Oh, so many memories. Back to the present.

  We settle down in the nasty metal framed chairs which, much like cockroaches and secret police men, appear to have survived the apocalypse pretty much unscathed.

  How must the pinnacles of the previous civilisation have looked in their prime. If this is a world of shadows of those days, what cast them must have been truly superb. Bar these abyssal chairs. No matter how you sit they pinch. Who came up with this monstrosity? Whatever were people thinking?

  Time to share the misery.

  A wide smile and a gesture of the hand. “Do take a weight off Mr. Thomas, then you can pass on your message and get back to your comfy world of beating peasants and whatever else it is you do with that Kno
ut on your belt.”

  “Mostly beat peasants. Though with less enthusiasm than my hosts. You have to fit in or they think you’re an undead monster and hand you to the witches.” He settles into the chair, legs splayed like a grasshopper, a wan smile at his referential pun.

  Mr Thomas is a lot calmer than I would have expected him to be. In my experience this level of serenity in the face of a power of my kind indicates that the viewer is either lacking in imagination or hiding quite the reserve of personal power. And he thinks I haven’t noticed.

  Wheels within wheels, and overly complicated ones too, a watch that misses the hours and miscounts the minutes. There is definitely something off about him generally and the more I look at his wards the stranger they appear. It is not just technology that has advanced, some of the concepts in the elements of meaning are occluded to an extent that I cannot follow.

  Ariadne speaks, “well you’re inside now. What is your message, longshanks?”

  There is the same obsession with protection from the skies I have seen all about. Even the buildings seem to have something of that, like lightning spikes on a roof.

  But there is also some transfiguration of power from one form to another that you would usually see in someone who falls from height regularly. Climbers and messengers might have this blend, or young vampires still learning their powers. These are not what you would have if you were an earthbound agent of the Union.

  Thomas is no Mr. Johnson-Pole. I shall query.

  “You have some intriguing arcana Mr. Thomas. Who is it you work for?”

  “Lets see how this message tastes to you and I’ll tell you after.” He’s assessing us just as we are doing to him. Faint fluttering wings of investigation cantrips flit against my outer wards. Butterflies tasting nectar to assess the bouquet, or maybe wolves tasting the air before they lunge at trapped prey.