“That’s it,” she said, leaning back in her seat so far her eyes were on the ceiling of the plane. Her feet stretched out from her body like a pair of loose snakes, at ease, resting. Talk about bored. “We call it the Earthquake Baton.”
I sneered. I didn’t deal with batons. The name was going to have to change.
I flipped open the file. Inside I found a pair of pictures of the thing. No info at all. That sucked. I was hoping for Artificer notes. Something concrete. Vampires wouldn’t care about them though. Not like they could use the baton. To them it’s just another treasure. And it was a stick, a green stick somewhere between a foot and two feet. It had markings—mountains—chiseled up and down it.
That’s got to be jade, I thought.
It also had lettering on it, Asian stuff that gives every American a headache. “Chinese?”
“Japanese.”
“Huh.”
She somehow rolled her eyes despite her recline. “I’m so lucky working with such a genius.”
“Not much to say when I don’t know anything about it. Jade, words I can’t read, you call it the Earthquake Baton, and I know the anima it produces. But not much else.”
“It’s ancient,” she mumbled.
“How ancient?”
“Older than me.”
My eyebrows went up. That’s old. “Not like artifacts break, but to still have pool power and be so old—it’s some straight impossible stuff. Plutarch had a vase designed for hydromancers that dated back to the Roman Empire, but it was so old it actually not only lost its recharge, it was reworked enough times it had lost the ability to recharge and now it’s just like any other vase.” I thought about it. Be nice to have something you make last so long. Time . . . humanity’s biggest enemy. Way worse than vampires. “We still use the same design today though . . . only its metal vases. Cheaper and quicker than learning how to bake clay.”
“You can’t pre-buy it?” she asked, curious.
“Not if you want the anima to hold.”
She thought about it for a bit, then gave me what I guess you would call a briefing. “The baton is originally from Japan, at least 16th century, maybe before that, made by an obviously very talented Artificer. That Artificer eventually died and his family fell into hard times, his belongings sold and sold again, eventually ending up in the hands of the Emperor himself, passed on, prized as a great weapon of the Mancy. It was stolen back from the Emperor’s treasure vault after the turn of the 20th century by one of the creator’s descendants, who happened to be a geomancer and wanted his family’s property back, if not for honor then for his own personal use. This man escaped to San Francisco hiding as a poor immigrant in 1906 and decided he’d use the baton the morning he arrived.”
I put two and two together. Four’s not very good. I studied the pictures of the thing. “Looks like a Shaky Stick to me. Better name, don’t you think?”
Her eyes found mine. Rather a miracle given she sat almost horizontal and had a very perky pair of tits to try to look around. “I just told you it caused the 1906 Earthquake and that’s all you have to say?”
“Doesn’t it look like a Shaky Stick though?” I asked, shifting the picture back and forth like it was going to change. “Earthquake Baton takes itself too serious.”
“Neither is the real name, which was lost in history . . . like many other facts about a person’s life and death and what they left behind . . .”
“Obviously. And yeah, causing an earthquake . . . that’s something. Gives me a big ol’ geomancer stiffy.” Folding the picture, I slid it into my coat pocket. I was going to need it later. A plan formed in my larcenous little brain. Making an earthquake . . . not even the most amazing part about it. The way it used anima was. I downplayed my reaction. No reason for Annie B to guess my interest in this artifact. “Not very useful thought. You say weapon, and yeah, it could destroy a city’s infrastructure, but something personal would be much more useful.”
Her eyes went back to the ceiling of the plane. “Since this was before the Institution’s foundation, a group of local geomancers who felt the artifact in action took it upon themselves to find it and when they did they hung the Japanese ancestor for his crimes against the city, taking the Earthquake Baton for themselves. They fell into infighting over where they would keep it until they decided no single geomancer could be trusted and fostered the item off to the San Francisco Vampire Embassy, where it remained housed for over one-hundred years, causing no harm except when a clumsy marquess auditing the embassy’s possessions accidentally bumped it off its podium in 1989.”
She gave me another look. I shrugged to keep off suspicion. Two earthquakes. And this thing is in Fresno. I don’t know if it was pride in my home, after all—an earthquake or two might actually improve Fresno—but my shop’s there and I didn’t like the idea of someone else having such a nice toy in town that I had no ability to control. Either I needed to make it mine or I had to get rid of it. “This wasn’t a simple theft, was it?”
“No,” Annie B agreed, “this has been negotiated for a very long time. The Duchess Antonia has removed a very dangerous item she doesn’t want in her territory and is either paying the Fresno vampires to hold it or got someone else to pay them. All the sides are pretending it’s a theft and will keep on pretending it’s a theft, since it is a crime for embassies to work together in this way. And despite the fact that we all know this . . . I have to pretend like it is a theft as well and go after the stolen merchandise.”
The view outside the window changed. My first flight or not, I’m pretty sure we were getting closer to the ground. “You’re going to die for a lie.”
Annie B’s hand reached up on its own accord to touch the B at her throat. Through every change of clothing and jewelry it was the only piece which remained. “Wouldn’t be my first time,” she said in a whisper, her eyes looking at nothing, glazed over, her pale face covered in a frown. “At least this time they won’t cut my head off . . .”
That time I almost believed her . . .
Outside of the window, the Fog formed below us. Just waiting to engulf our plane, to lock us in inescapable gray.
Session 6
It’s been two weeks since my last session. I guess I could make some bullshit excuse, like saying I’m busy with getting my shop ready.
Truth that. Boxes are everywhere.
I keep asking myself: why did I agree on an antique store for a front, out of all the possibilities I could have chosen? An old lady already came by and asked if I’m planning on having any teapots. What the fuck do I know about teapots? And if I keep this going long enough does that mean I’ll eventually know about teapots?
This shit could turn out worse for me than an STD. Breaking down what makes King Henry Price from the inside-out, one teapot at a time. Badass Artificer turned teapot expert. The crap old ladies collect, you wouldn’t believe it. Teapots. Plates. Glass chicken eggs . . . fucking shot glasses. Shot glasses are good for one thing and it ain’t collecting.
Not the shop. Not the shop at all. It’d be the best excuse, but it’d still be a bitch-out.
Problem is . . . I’ve been asking myself what the point is. Ceinwyn wanted this tape as a part of our deal. She wanted me to give you some kind of real-crime version of my time at the Asylum. ‘So the kids learn the lessons you did without all the blood and tears, King Henry,’ that’s what she told me.
I’ve been struggling. Been thinking. Been wondering what this should be about. Then, once I got myself an answer to that question and realized what it should be about . . . I didn’t know if I could do it.
I went into this whole thing thinking, maybe I’ll just give them a little bit of what life is like going into the Asylum, then a little bit of school time, that will get Ceinwyn off my ass. Here I am now after hours of this stuff and I don’t think that’s the way to go. Don’t think that’s the story.
Two weeks and I’ve been playing the first five sessions over and over like some kid with a n
ew song they’ve fallen in love with. Listening to myself talk. Each time I played them my plan went more to shit. I figured on giving you the first day of class next. Get into Pocket Landry and Heinrich Welf, tell you about some of the teachers I dealt with. About how weird the Mancy can make a man. But that’s all gone to shit.
Epiphany. Artificers run on epiphanies. At least this one does. Can’t do it the old way, got to do it better. Only way to make money. Only way to stay free of more strings than I already got. Maybe that’s some insight. King Henry Price don’t want to give the expected next. Doesn’t like to be boxed in by the constraint of narration. Instead . . . epiphany. Listening to those five sessions, this shit’s not about the last one I did. Not about the buildings, or my testing, or any of the technical explanations I wasted time on like the Ratio of Anima Dispersion. That’s me ignoring the real tale as I got closer to the point where I would have to tell it.
Me stopping at smacking down Welf, not telling about the deep shit. Not telling about how I cried myself to sleep thinking about Mom and Dad. About how I couldn’t take it anymore and got up at 3AM to write Mom the letter I promised I’d write. Not about the buildings. Not about my first day. Not about my classmates. About me. About the dagger in my heart that still pusses and bleeds to this day. About me and Ceinwyn Dale. About me and Mom. About me and Dad. The rest . . . it’s gone to shit.
Here we fucking go.
[CLICK]
It’s not like I didn’t see Ceinwyn throughout my first two years at the Asylum. Usually it was a day here or there. And always weird times. I’d be at lunch and she’d stop by my table and tease me. Or she’d pull me out of a class and spend an hour grilling me about what I’d been up to—if I’d made friends, or girlfriends, that kind of stuff. We had a relationship somewhere near aunt and nephew if I had to guess at it. Not that I have any aunts I’ve ever know. Dad had a brother but he died in a war . . . some misadventure in the 90s before war got serious again. Mom was an only child. So with Ceinwyn, it was a new relationship for fourteen-year-old-me . . . then fifteen-year-old-me . . . then sixteen-year-old-me.
Third year.
By then, I’d finally gotten over all my problems and was cool with the place. First year had been about rebellion, second year had been about finding my place, third year was supposed to be clear sailing. Supposed to be easy. Theory of Elemental Prophecy. Elementalism as a Weapon. Advanced Elementalism. I was pumped for those classes. We all were. By then, my little circle had formed. Me, Pocket, and Raj, with Jesus on the way. Welf had his too—Hope and Quinn and Jessica as the mean girls, with Jason as the muscle. His circle’s better looking. Mine’s funnier. All going good . . .
Then a grad student found me, first day of the year. First class of the year. I wasn’t even completely awake yet. Languages. Jethro Smith handed out our first book assignment. Hamlet. He always started us out with Shakespeare. I’d just touched my hands on the book for the first time, flipping through the yellowed pages of a copy older than I was, when I heard my name. No biggie. Been called out of class for things before. Bit surprised though, since it was the first time in a while I hadn’t actually done something.
Jethro Smith gave me the devil-rocker-sign when I looked his way. Dude wore a leather jacket too. Douchebag necromancers. My next glance went to Welf—expecting an expression of glee on his face over some game gone right, but instead I only saw puzzlement and trepidation, like he wondered if I wasn’t making a game myself. About the last thing I expected was to be told to go to my dorm room and that someone was waiting for me there.
I was even more shocked when it was Ceinwyn.
She sat on our couch, looking the same as she always looks. Good. Beautiful. Clean. Out of the league of every man on the planet. There were clothes in her lap, cradled like a teddy bear. A t-shirt . . . new. Jeans. Shoes. Seeing Ceinwyn Dale stopped me at the door. Focusing in on the clothes . . . I thought, what the fuck? A trip? Or something like that. Then I saw she didn’t have a smile on her face . . . and the world dropped out.
“What happened?”
She still didn’t smile. “I’m sorry, King Henry.”
“What the fuck happened?!? Just tell me! Don’t give me fucking ‘sorry’ and make it worse!”
She motioned to the couch, calm as always. “Sit down.”
I didn’t move. “Fucking tell me.”
She didn’t. She stood up and put the clothes aside. T-shirt. Jeans. Shoes. She walked over to me. Then, while I stared up at her, too frightened to move, she hugged me. Oh, shit.
“One of them dead?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Mom?” Certain I already knew.
“Yes.”
I blinked. “But . . . she finally sent me a letter . . .”
“She’s dead, King Henry.”
“But . . .”
“She’s had cancer . . . it came on very quick and nothing could stop it. The doctors gave her six months . . . but she didn’t even make that.”
And I lost it.
I cried; I grabbed on the Ceinwyn Dale like she was the only thing holding me up. I cried some more. She didn’t shush me. She knew me too well. Knew I needed to get it out. She just held on. And I cried and cried and cried like only a sixteen-year-old boy feeling a new pain can. Every wall or trap or protection I’d built up over the years were just . . . gone.
“Momma . . .” I whined between gritted teeth. “Why didn’t she wait for me?”
“It’s not your fault, King Henry,” Ceinwyn whispered as I shuddered.
“I could’ve helped her . . .”
“You aren’t ready for that yet. You know you aren’t.”
“But . . . why? Why fucking now?” I finally pushed away from her hold. “Why? Fucking why?” I started pacing the common room—repeating “why?” over and over.
I’d been writing Mom for two years. Telling her all sorts of things I technically shouldn’t have been. About the Mancy, about how I could help her one day. About my teachers. About girls. Stuff she always wanted to know but I’d never bothered with before, because face to face is too difficult.
I only got two letters back. One was from Dad saying that Mom got them and she read them but it was hard for her to write back, every time she tried things slipped away from her and it was a week straight of ‘Bad Days’. The second letter, the one I’d just gotten during August break was finally from Mom. The letter I’d always hoped for: that she’s proud of me, and read everything I wrote, and couldn’t wait to talk to me about it all once we saw each other again.
Now she’s dead.
“Fucking bullshit!” I screamed, glaring back at Ceinwyn Dale, flashing my teeth, snarling like some rabid animal.
She finally smiled at me. “It is. Death is . . . fucking bullshit.”
Everything went out of me. The bubbling anger and mistrust of the universe as a whole fell apart upon itself, crashing away into a deep pit somewhere in the back of my mind where it could stew for as long as it needed too. It was a snap, something metal breaking, as cleanly as I could with the Mancy but inside my head.
“I wanted to fix her . . .” I told Ceinwyn.
“I know, King Henry. She knew too. It was just too much to fight against.”
I sat back down on the couch, feet shaking. “People die like this every year . . . crazy from the Mancy.”
“Yes.”
“That’s why you are . . . what you are.”
“Yes. I save as many of you as I can. As many as they’ll let me . . .”
A whole bunch of silence built up.
“It shouldn’t be this way,” I finally said.
“You got smart since we last had one of these emotional discussions.”
My lips turned up reflexively. “Oh, you know, grew up a bit.”
“It had to happen eventually.”
“If I laugh, will it stop hurting?”
“No.”
I looked at my shaking feet and cried some more. “Thought so . . .”
[CLICK]
The clothes were for me. Surprise, King Henry! Mommy’s dead and you get to go right to the funeral just as you find out! Special Dispensation for Family Function, signed by the Lady herself. Two days to grieve before I had to get back to school.
Lucky little bastard.
The jeans and t-shirt felt alien to me. Go two years without something and then go back to it, hard situation to adapt to. I might as well have never known it in the first place. ‘Like riding a bike’ they say. Stupid phrase. You get yourself some forty-year-old people that haven’t been on a bike in twenty-five years and tell them to start racing. Know the results? You’ll get a lot of dead fat people.
Odd feeling, wearing those jeans and t-shirt. The uniform I’d grown accustomed to had the same fabric all over. Same feel on your arms and your legs, tailored to just my size. But jeans and t-shirts are opposites. Jeans: coarse, heavy, and restrictive. T-shirt: light, airy, baggy. Both felt weird in a different way. Yin . . . Yang. Mozart . . . Metallica. Wind . . . Earth. Least it’s something to think about other than Mom being dead.
The car was waiting and Ceinwyn Dale drove us off without any fanfare or fare-thee-wells from either teachers or students. They were all locked up where they’re supposed to be locked up. Only I escaped. Back to Visalia, along a route not so different from the one Ceinwyn took years earlier.
Car was a different color, different make, still new though. I was taller, I don’t know, probably five-foot-six by then. Still short as fuck, but the days of being mistaken for a twelve-year-old were gone. Could have grown some real-non-fuzzy-facial hair by then too, if I’d wanted it. I’d grown, but there I was. Same shit. Going to the unknown. Quiet and brooding and pissed off at the world.
Miles and miles of driving, a stop for lunch, and then more miles, but this time only one conversation took place, not so far from the Asylum.
“Did you know?” I asked her.
“Know what, King Henry?”
“Did you fucking know?” She glanced at me. Felt the anima build up in my body probably. A strong breeze at her neck. “If you fucking knew, or the Lady or Russell, or any of you knew that Mom was dying . . .”
The Foul Mouth and the Fanged Lady Page 19
