Mobius

by Garon Whited

  “Perhaps I should, at that.”

  We left without incident, but I had the distinct feeling of being watched.

  Bronze waited outside. Hazir blinked at her for a moment, wrapping his head around her presence. She was parked outside the Hall of Ruling when we left. She made her way to the pub when we settled in.

  “Is this…?”

  “Bronze. My horse.”

  Hazir reached out to touch her and paused. He looked the question at me and I nodded. He touched her neck, patted it, looked perplexed.

  “This is a metal horse.”

  “Well spotted. Yes, she is.”

  “She is beautiful. Where can I get one?”

  Despite our initial meeting, I kind of liked Hazir. At that point, I distinctly liked him, and for three reasons. He checked for permission to touch Bronze. He automatically referred to her as “she,” rather than “it.” And, of course, he complimented her.

  Bronze liked him, too.

  “I’m not sure you can. She’s been in my family for a century or more. The wizard who made her… well, she’s a one-off, unique. I’m not sure she can be duplicated.”

  “A pity,” he said, sadly.

  “I agree. You were going to show me to the warmeet?”

  “Yes. This way.”

  I walked with him and Bronze followed us.

  “You need not walk,” Hazir pointed out, stopping at another tavern and banging on the door.

  “It would be rude of me to ride while you walk,” I replied, “since we’re companions rather than summoned and summoner.” A man inside the tavern stuck his head out, nodded at Hazir, and vanished inside again. Moments later, his sword-and-shield bearers popped out and reported for duty. We all trooped along the street.

  “If I may,” Hazir began, “you are an odd mix of civility and rudeness. One moment, you are as polite and proper as a Court Master, the next, you are abrasive and rude. I do not understand you.”

  “Neither do I. Maybe it has to do with being under a lot of stress.”

  “Possibly.”

  “So, tell me about the warmeet.”

  “What do you want to know? It’s a warmeet.”

  “I was thinking in terms of what’s-his-name. Tobor of the I-can’t-high, or whatever.”

  “Toe-bar,” he corrected, “of the ack-an-thigh.”

  “Tobar. Got it. He’ll be at the warmeet?”

  “He is a warrior of the first rank, born to the class of warriors, well-trained, and gifted. He lives in the city and has a position to uphold. He must attend, as should you.”

  “Even though I’m not from here?”

  “If you would wear the trappings of a warrior of the first rank, yes. You will be tested, I feel sure.”

  “Because I was rude to, uh, Tobar?”

  “Yes. You would be tested as a newcomer, regardless, but perhaps you will also be challenged.”

  “Hazir, I haven’t had much sleep recently—” an understatement if ever there was one, “—and I don’t sleep well when I do. Due to circumstances, I haven’t been to a warmeet in a long time, and never anywhere near here. Break this down for me, will you?”

  “Hmm. Well… all right. The testing is to prove you are a warrior worthy of the first rank, since no one here knows you. You will be judged by the council of nine in a series of single combats to demonstrate your skill. So much is unavoidable, but the challenge—if there is one—will not be judged.”

  “Oh?”

  “No. If you are challenged as an impostor to your apparent rank, you will have to defend yourself to the death. An impostor will die, of course, being insufficient to defeat a warrior of the first rank. I can’t remember the last time someone tried to assume the mantle unearned.”

  “But Tobar won’t challenge me unless he’s certain I’m an impostor, surely. If I really am a first-ranker, he’s risking his life.”

  “There are members of the first rank,” Hazir informed me, “and then there are members of the first rank. I am one, but I know I am not Tobar’s equal. If we were to fight, I could be victorious, but I would suggest you bet on him.”

  “I see. Tobar is the best?”

  “One of them. He normally sits on the council of nine in judgment.”

  “Got it. How likely is he to challenge me?”

  “Not likely, in truth. My concern is of another sort.”

  “Oh?”

  “If someone does issue you a challenge, are you… that is to say, I know the station of your birth. Circumstances may force you to assume a lower status, for now, but can you… ah…”

  “When I’m tested—or challenged—can I acquit myself well?”

  “Not to put it so bluntly, but yes.”

  “I don’t have any special fears on that score.”

  “Are you certain? Forgive me, but you would seem to be a warrior of the first rank.”

  “I recognize it’s a big deal, Hazir. I assure you, I’ve been well-taught.”

  “Would you be willing to show me?”

  “I understand your skepticism. I would rather not.”

  “I worry for you,” he admitted, and he sounded sincerely concerned.

  “Then take comfort in the fact I am not worried.”

  “Very well. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “So do I.”

  The warmeet was not in a building, as such. Instead, it was to take place in an open-air arena used for games. It was a big, round theater, not quite on the scale of the Colosseum. Still, it must have had room for forty thousand people. Hazir led us in through a smaller entrance, one for contestants or competitors, not for the public. Underneath the place, he navigated a maze of twisty passages, all alike. I hoped their animal pens didn’t include a grue. I don’t feel up to dealing with one during the day.

  Wait a minute. At night… am I the grue? Maybe I shouldn’t think too hard about it. I might not like the answer.

  We went up the carved steps to a door. Hazir slid aside a metal plate in the door, bringing the holes in the plate into alignment with the holes in another, allowing us to see. A fifteen-foot wall surrounded the main arena, separating it from the tiers of stone benches. The sandy floor of the arena between events, so dozens of people with rakes and basket-sized sieves roamed about, cleaning and sifting. Hazir grunted and opened the door. We went out on the sand.

  We made one circuit of the arena floor, Hazir pointing out where the beasts entered, where the slaves or criminals entered, and where the warriors entered. A large balcony area dominated a short arc of the front five rows. The seats above it were bumped forward to prevent the roofed-over area of the box from blocking the view. Maybe a quarter of the seats were occupied with people waiting for the next event.

  “The mahrani and manzhani who attend the games often use the box,” he told me. “The council of nine use it during the warmeets.”

  “What if a mahrani wants to watch the warmeet?”

  “They are permitted, but the council sits in judgment on our own. Others will sit elsewhere.”

  “Good to know. Is this a public thing?”

  “No. Oh, some few will come to watch, but our practice and our testing are usually more boring than the games. We do not sell seats.”

  “These are the rehearsals, not the performances, to borrow a theater metaphor.”

  “Yes. Although,” he added, “it is not unusual for families, guests, and servants to attend—in the seats, not on the sands. Down here, a shield-bearer or two is all we permit, and then only for the First.”

  “Good to know.”

  I jogged through the sand, testing the footing and the traction. It was a good, gritty sand, not some fine-grained slick stuff. It crunched nicely underfoot. It was a good choice.

  “What’s the process, here?”

  “Process?”

  “Do we all show up at dawn, march into the arena, salute the council of nine—as befits their rank—and form ranks? Or do we sit on the benches along the walls? Or do we a
rrive whenever we get around to it, walk past the buffet table, snack and drink and talk for a while, and eventually pair off into practice partners?”

  “I see what you mean. I don’t know how they did things in your town, but we adhere to the customs. We will all arrive within the first hour of dawn and form a circle. If there is business to discuss, it will be discussed. We will then see testing and challenges. After this, we will have demonstrations and training among ourselves.”

  “Got it.”

  “How did they do it in your town?”

  I cast my mind back to the practice sessions of the Knights of Shadow.

  “I recall the practice swords were double-thick, although blunted,” I said. “Men in armor would form groups, two or more, and fight until someone lost. The injured would be dragged from the field and tended while the rest formed up again to fight some more. Sometimes, someone would pair off to learn a new maneuver, or practice it, rather than fight. And there would always be a game of sicaricudo, somewhere.”

  “I do not know this game.”

  So I explained the rules to him, what few rules there were. Two armored men protect a third man—his armor being optional. These teams have one goal: to have the last “live” target on the field. That’s pretty much it. Hazir looked impressed.

  “And how do you tell when the ‘target’ is killed?”

  “Usually, someone hits him with a blunted sword. Any broken bone is considered acceptable as a lethal hit, even on the defenders.”

  “You routinely break bones in practice?”

  “If your practice doesn’t hurt, how are you going to react in the field the first time you get a boo-boo?”

  “I see your point, but I do not see how people can delight in this game.”

  “It’s surprisingly popular.”

  “Is it? You will have to show me.”

  “Day after tomorrow, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “I look forward to it,” I lied.

  Back at the mine, I cracked open gates, snatched a double handful of osmium ingots, and put crystals up to charge. A couple of spells, a lot of pounding, some ridiculous level of heat from Firebrand, and I was well on my way to having a smooth sheet of metal. I didn’t want a smooth sheet of metal, of course, so I started shaping it by hand and by hammer, allowing the spells to correct the cracking in their own good time. It kept me busy for the rest of the day.

  After nightfall, we headed back into town.

  Sarashda is a big place, easily a half-million people or more. It doesn’t close up for the night. People come and go through the city gates at all hours, which makes me think there are either a shortage of wars or none nearby. I like this. Part of it, I’m sure, is the size of the city and the harbor district. Business won’t wait, and the ships also come and go at all hours. It would also seem the majority of wagon-loaded goods are driven around when the daytime traffic is off the streets. I don’t know if it’s an ordinance or simply sensible, but it works. Either way, Bronze clears a path by her presence.

  The city’s magic is all over the place, from doors with alarms or magical locks to glowing globes of streetlights. I don’t see many spells qua spells in use, if any. Everything is enchanted. I’m not sure if that’s a cultural preference or simply the state of the art, here. Do the local wizards not know how to cast spells? Or do they take an unreasonably long time to cast? Or do they prefer to enchant objects rather than rely on their spur-of-the-moment powers? Given the cultural tendency toward elaborate and highly-decorated everything, I suspect it’s simply a preference for better items. Surely they know how to use spells. I would think you have to in order to put one in an object, but I could be wrong. It’s possible they don’t want to demonstrate their techniques to the uninitiated. Given the guild or class or caste system around here, spells might be secret, hidden away from prying eyes.

  We had some problems along those lines in Karvalen for a while. We adjusted.

  We paused outside a church, a small one, serving a small sector of the city. It had the same design I’d seen on others. It reminded me of Celtic knotwork with a circular theme. Sort of braided, twisting lines in a circle. Or maybe just one line. It was hard to trace any line through the design, especially when I was seeing it in black and white. Clearly, it was supposed to symbolize the whole life-death-rebirth of reincarnation recycling.

  I’m never going to look at a “Reduce, Reuse, Recycle” logo the same way again.

  The building was circular and the looping, braided lines were painted on the stone court around it. From the look of it, people would start at the obvious end, near the street, follow it in a loops around the building a few times, and finally get to enter. It seemed a lot of work just to talk to a statue or a priest, but it’s not my religion. I didn’t see a priest, but the doors were open, so I got to see the statue in the center of the room. I didn’t expect to recognize the deity and was not disappointed.

  I considered testing the holy ground, but I reconsidered. I might visit during the day and do some deity evaluation. It would also give my altar ego another day to pull himself together. I might even have a second divinity dynamo enchanted for him by then.

  As for the city and the people, I didn’t see anything to keep me from having a late dinner. I didn’t see anyone wearing protective devices against something like me, although some of the buildings had suspiciously unpleasant auras. The buildings, themselves, didn’t seem enchanted, but an object inside might act as a reverse bug light to repel monsters from the dark. I counted six out of bunches—call it less than one percent. Still, clearly, such things could be made, they knew how to make them, and they saw a need to do so.

  Why didn’t the local temple have such an aura? The ground might be a tad incendiary, sure, but why didn’t the knotwork circle radiate a blazing Go Away at me? Was it not hostile to my kind? Or did it require the active attention of a worshipper?

  Add it to the list of things I don’t know how to test without risking spontaneous combustion.

  For my evening reconnaissance, I also discovered there were sections of the city less fanciful and ornamented. A jam-packed area with less lighting, money, and scruples wasn’t hard to find.

  We stuck to the lighted—and wider—streets as Bronze walked through these less-desirable areas. I wasn’t out hunting. I was out surveying the hunting ground. The more I looked, the more I felt this shouldn’t be a problem. I would have to be alert, of course, and disposing of a body or two could be difficult without sewers with convenient manholes…

  My cloak fluttered, as in a stiff wind, and flapped around me, plunging me into a nothingness as empty as a politician’s promise. I still sat on Bronze, still had feet in the stirrups, could see the ground past her shoulder. From the outside, it must have looked as though she wore a black horse-blanket… with nothing under it. From my side, I was sticking out through an oddly-shaped hole into a total absence of everything.

  My cloak fluttered again and settled behind me normally.

  Ah. Right. Body disposal would not be a problem. Sometimes I forget things.

  I’ve been meaning to stick my head inside my cloak and look around. Is all the stuff it’s swallowed still in there, somewhere? I mean, I watched things go in and keep on going. I presume there’s an infinite emptiness, somewhere, rather than a complete disintegration of all matter. Then again, perhaps I shouldn’t presume. Maybe the space—if it is space—ceases to exist until my cloak “opens” again. All I know is I didn’t see anything in there. No ray of light, no hard-flung apple, no tumbling zombies, nothing.

  I want my altar ego back. He has a lot to answer for.

  Content in the knowledge I could find dinner, I let Bronze do the walking while I tried to learn my way around the city. I still can’t read the street signs—I don’t usually need so sophisticated a translation spell—but I can recognize streets and buildings. I won’t know my way around the city from touring it for one night, but I should at least avoid being comple
tely lost.

  In our slow cruise through the streets, we found the slave market.

  To be fair, my allergy to slavery isn’t as bad as my allergy to sunrise. I simply object to it. I’m not even going to argue about whether or not people should be forced into any sort of servitude under any circumstances. Sentencing a man to a life at hard labor may be warranted, for example, depending on what he did. But a convict making little rocks out of big ones is still a man. He may be in custody, in prison, and have severe strictures on what he can and cannot do, but he is not property. He’s a person. You may punish him, you may kill him, but you can’t own him.

  There’s the difference. I won’t blink at a chain gang on road detail, but I’ll forever feel my teeth itch when someone is owned.

  The slave market was open. From the look of it, it never closed. There were no auctions on, of course, but one could walk in and buy someone “off the rack,” so to speak. Not that any of them were in a rack. Inside the walled market area, there were pens for the more housebroken and manacles for those less so—criminals and the like. A factor even offered to rent me some well-behaved slaves. Looking for labor for the evening? Goods to load or unload? A wagon to be pushed along? Perhaps a torchbearer to precede me?

  I ignored him. It was either that or eat him. It was a tough call. What worked in his favor was the lack of children. Maybe they were all kept somewhere else, since they were unlikely to be hired out as labor overnight. Or maybe all the ones rented for the night were already out. Nevertheless, out of sight, out of mind. I could tell myself there weren’t any. It worked, at least for the moment.

  The rest of the city was as I expected, mostly. Many businesses were restocking and dealing with things you don’t want customers around for. Other businesses were open and thriving, from theaters to brothels, street sweepers to garbage collectors.

  A city never sleeps. Villages, yes. Small towns, sometimes. But cities? There’s always something.

  Tauta, 13th Day of Varinskir

  Since I had a day to kill before the warmeet, I popped open a couple of portals. Money always goes well, of course, but my main concerns were a couple of gas bottles. I considered using tanks of hydrogen and oxygen on the theory they would burn, raise the pressure, and shoot the Orb out even faster. I decided against it for two reasons. First, it would spoil what limited calibration I’d managed before, and, second, nothing has ever gone wrong in the history of mankind with burning hydrogen.