Mobius

by Garon Whited

  For someone who hates being in charge, I got the hang of this delegation thing in a hurry. I sent a message via mirror regarding the iron spear I wanted. I also got a report on the bodkin points for the crossbow bolts. Some bright lad made a mold and was cranking them out in batches. I sent a quartet of guards with a suggestion to make a dozen more molds and step up production to round the clock. With enough people also whittling sticks, tying on feathers—or those funny leaves the kustoni used—and yet more people assembling the finished product, the ammunition production is looking good.

  It amused me to have Sarcana gold sent over to motivate people.

  My altar ego, on the other hand, also has a talent for delegation. I suppose it’s a survival trait for energy beings. They have to hoard their force until absolutely necessary. Doing things here in a material realm takes too much effort for the return, in most cases.

  “Here’s the thing,” he told me, “I’ve found basically where you need to look if you want to find el dio de los magos, but I’m still in no shape for a divine visitation.”

  “What about communicating with him on the god-channels? Don’t you people talk to each other?”

  “You know, sometimes I think people are nice to you because of the fumbling, adorable way you wipe drool from your chin.”

  “Smartass. How am I wrong?”

  “He’s not up here, remember? He’s still down there.”

  “But he’s using the same forces.”

  “But he’s still not in the same geographic region.” A hand appeared in the display of dust and squeezed a virtual brow. “All right, look. You have a semaphore. You can talk to any ship you can see. It works perfectly well. But it doesn’t help when you’re on separate oceans. For that, you need to power up the radio, not just wave flags.”

  “I think I get it. In order to have a chat, we need to be on the same page.”

  “Or at least the same plane.”

  “Okay. I can do that. Is he likely to radiate order-based forces at me?”

  “Down there? He’s more likely to do something magical, I think. If he’s building up to an ascension, he can’t afford to waste energy.”

  “How would the ascension thing work, anyway? Last time I checked, it’s usually bad for the person doing the ascending.”

  “He may not know that. Most of the celestial beings I know are formed from a group consciousness imposing order on the energy plane. Transplanting a human consciousness into this mode of existence is iffy at best. Someone making the leap might manage it.”

  “As opposed to?”

  “Remember the ancestors these people deified? Whoever they were, they aren’t now.”

  “Could you help? With the single-leap transformation, I mean. I’d like to go into this discussion with something valuable.”

  “Sort of a ‘If you kill me, you’ll never find out’ kind of thing?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “I suppose I could help, yes,” he mused. “I mean, it’s not like I can guarantee anything. Is it good enough to take his odds from one percent to ten percent?”

  “It’s ten times more likely to work?”

  “That’s probably the way to pitch it,” he agreed.

  “I’ll give it a shot. Where are we going?”

  The sand table fell into a map configuration while my altar ego’s voice continued.

  “See here, on the east coast? About here—” a halo of pale dust surrounded an area “—there’s a fishing town. It’s not much of a town, but it’s too big and too prosperous to be a village. See this triangular keep? The three towers linked by walls? The power signature I traced leads to them. As further confirmation, once I got close, I detected some traces from what have to be the stolen dynamos. I’d start there.”

  “Duly noted. Anything else?”

  “That’s all I can tell you. I’m pooped.”

  “And here I was going to ask for another favor.”

  “Oh, god. What now, driver of celestial slaves?”

  “I was hoping to find some subterranean caverns near Sarashda. Hopefully at least a mile below the surface and a mile from the city walls.”

  “That’s… huh. It wouldn’t be too hard to look, I guess, depending on how long I have. Can I take the rest of the day off?”

  “Tomorrow will be fine.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “I don’t want to nuke Sarashda.”

  “I applaud your restraint,” he decided, blinking.

  “And I appreciate it. I don’t get nearly the credit I deserve for not being a genocidal dictator.”

  “Still doesn’t answer my question.”

  “I may have to impress some Temple hotshots with my determination to get Leisel back. I’ll be working on the weather, too.”

  “Fine, don’t tell me what you’re planning.”

  “Underground nuclear testing is much safer than airbursts,” I told him, “and they can simulate an earthquake.”

  “Oh. Hmm. You’ll start with smaller charges, first?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Okay, I’m in. I’ll let you know what I find. A-dios.”

  “You’re not as funny as I think I am.”

  I debated on when to visit the theoretical triple-tower of wizardry. I could go immediately and possibly get into a wizardly duel if things went badly, or go at night and possibly get into a quasi-divine duel if things went badly.

  I’d look on the bright side, but the light hurts my eyes.

  Given the fact my altar ego assured me of the relative harmlessness of the current state of divinity, I decided to pay an evening call. This gave me the rest of the day to look at the weather and fiddle with it. Most people don’t think of tornados as tactical weapons, but I do. My strategic weapons tend to not only hit the target but obliterate it, everything around it, and set fire to everything around that. I might not need an actual tornado, but a driving rain for cover and some lightning strikes might come in handy. If I do decide to go for a tornado, the Temple grounds are smaller than the Hand compound, but I’m pretty sure I can keep it all inside the target.

  I never studied meteorology. Do I have a talent for weather magic because it’s subject to the mathematics of chaos? Or is it because of the major working I did in my breakthrough period as a new wizard? If I’d had a gate spell to play with, would I be even better at them now?

  I left the weather on simmer and had my sunset shower. Afterward, I consulted my paper map for the name of the town. Vessila looked different on the map than it did on my sand table, but the map was of the Empire. At least it was accurate about where to find towns and villages. I decided to scry on the town, find a place to target with a gate, and proceed from there. I did so and sauntered down to the former shift-barn.

  Bronze was waiting, but not in her statue. It was slightly eerie to come into the barn and find her statue unexpectedly cold. While I was momentarily disturbed, she made the engine of the big truck turn over and me jump.

  “Don’t do that!”

  The rumble of the engine was a chuckle. Small puffs of flame emerged from the stacks.

  “What are you even doing in there? With the engine off, I mean?”

  It was hers, was it not?

  “I suppose it is. If you want it.”

  She was also a thaumivore, among other things, and this was a high-magic world. She could sit inside and fiddle with the vehicle, tailoring it to herself without necessarily burning fuel. It was something to do. Did I mind?

  “Not at all. Whatever clutches your gearbox. But I’d like you to come with me in case I need rescuing, please.”

  The statue stood next to the truck. When she leaped from truck to statue, I noticed the orichalcum jumper cable was no longer looped around the saddlehorn. Instead, one end was attached to the front of the saddlehorn. The rest of it extended into the gap behind the steel bumper, trailing into the depths of the machine. When Bronze leaped from one to the other, there was a flash of power, but nothing on the truc
k melted. Which, of course, was the whole point of a jumper cable in the first place. Spread out the contact as much as possible. Don’t concentrate it at one point. Avoid melting bumpers, fenders, and bits of frame.

  The cable slithered out from the truck and looped itself around the saddlehorn like a cowboy’s lariat. Bronze tossed her head and snorted.

  “Yeah, I was thinking you’ve gained a tentacle,” I admitted, laying a hand on it. It was hot to the touch. “I can’t fault the logic in having it, though.”

  Did it make me uncomfortable?

  “No, not really. I’m simply not accustomed to thinking about the ramifications of you… changing things.”

  Bronze nodded. It didn’t bother her because it was simply another feature to be added to a suit of clothes. It might bother me because I still think of her as a horse. Visually, she usually is. She understood and was sorry not to have warned me. I patted her warm neck.

  “It’s your body. You do what you want,” I assured her. “I would have thought of it, I’m sure—eventually.”

  Undoubtedly true, and could we go now?

  “One second. I’m worried about the temperature of your lariat. You jumped from one body to another through it. It shouldn’t be hot.”

  Bronze turned her head to regard me and the lariat. What did it matter if the lariat was hot?

  “It’s a magical superconductor.”

  She felt my concern was slightly misplaced. While she consumed magic, she was actually an energy-state being. Moving from one body to another was eased by the conductive pathway of the new lariat, but it was far from an ideal path.

  I hadn’t thought of it like that. If she was a spell, she would move along orichalcum effortlessly. Animating a statue magically? Orichalcum was the proper material. But as a home—or a conductor—of a quasi-celestial entity? It did fine as a place to stay, obviously. Even a steel truck made a good container. Transfers, however…

  She was of the opinion we could work out a better conductor later, if necessary.

  “Fair point. We’ll try some osmium in the alloy and see if it improves. There are other metals in the platinum group—”

  Didn’t we have other, more immediate plans?

  “Ah. Yes. Thank you for reminding me.”

  She stood at my shoulder and I aimed the gate. I also discovered one of the hazards of opening a gate.

  The trouble I had with recovering the Black Ball from its buried location was finding room for the perimeter of the gate. Since I was brute-forcing it, the wired loop I used for a locus had to be able to appear at the far end. This wasn’t a problem here, since I was using a loop at this end and a large, arched doorway at the other. They were close enough in size so it wasn’t a brute-force connection.

  The double doors I targeted were recessed in the outer wall of what probably the local city hall. The outer edge of the recessed area was the locus, the plane of my gate. Unfortunately, the two guards standing in the doorway were in the plane of the gate’s formation.

  Bronze stepped through with me and blood slithered up my armored boots. I wondered at the front half of two men lying on the ground, puzzled by their freshness. When the gate closed behind us I found the rest of them. Important safety bulletin: Scry on the target point every time. Don’t simply assume it’s clear.

  We went full stealth and hurried off, hopefully avoiding notice.

  Perhaps a quarter of a mile away, we un-stealthed and approached the triple tower. It was a well-constructed building, but I saw signs of renovation. Someone started with a tower, added another floor, then another tower, then a third tower, then started filling in the space between. It grew, apparently unplanned, from a tower to a keep, albeit using manual labor and professional masons. I liked it.

  What I did not like was the collection of magical effects on it. Scrying into the place wasn’t impossible, but I’d hate to have to try. Up close, eyeballing it, the scryshields didn’t interfere with direct vision. The stones weren’t individually enchanted, but it was easy to see how the different sections of the structure had been. They fit together well, even though the spells were different. The lower floors were all heavily reinforced with a toughening spell, while the upper floors were less so. There was a structural repair spell, as well, but it wasn’t an ongoing thing. It would have been impractical to enchant it while the tower/towers were still under construction. At a guess, it was something added more recently, designed to be manually activated in the event of damage. Possibly it was designed to be directed by someone, rather than left to run on its own.

  Each of the three towers had a door, but the town’s streets only favored one. Maybe the others were less public doors. The one nearest me was large, slightly recessed, and had a small roof or portico. A small sign hung from the portico, advertising the place as a wizard’s shop. An impressive shop, I admit. Presumably, this door was for more public, business matters.

  Since there were no spells active on the door beyond an alarm in case of forced entry, I knocked on it. There was no bell-pull or other device, so I knocked again and waited some more. Eventually, a panel slid aside, behind an iron grate, and a frowning face looked out. He was perhaps thirty, with the dark hair and eyes characteristic of the southern Empire, and he looked me up and down.

  “With spells altering your appearance, I assume you’re popular with the ladies,” he decided. “We have potions to deal with the trouble you’re likely in.”

  “No, that’s not it at all.”

  “Love potions aren’t for sale,” he stated, flatly. “They’re a curse, really.”

  “That’s not it, either!”

  “Then what in the nine signs do you want at this hour?” he demanded.

  “I want to talk to Rahýfel.”

  “Try a Temple.” The panel slammed.

  “I would,” I shouted through the door, “but they haven’t chained him down!”

  The panel slapped open again. Suspicion glared at me through the grate.

  “Also,” I added, more quietly, “I’m pretty sure he’s in here. My spinning silver-blue things are, and I’m guessing he likes them a lot. I don’t mean any harm. I only want to talk.”

  The glare looked me over again, but with my cloaking spells on, I doubted he could tell if Firebrand was magical, let alone anything else. All he could see was the shielding spell. He didn’t like it, but he also didn’t have a good excuse for asking me to take it down.

  About four feet above my head, Bronze snorted a brief flicker of fire. He turned his attention to her and she lowered her head to my shoulder level to look him in the eye. He made a noncommittal noise and slapped the panel closed again. I scratched Bronze under the chin as I reminded myself how patience is an important quality in men, kings, and bloodthirsty monsters. Even if it’s not important, it’s still appreciated. I waited some more.

  The door made wooden and metallic clunking noises. It opened, and the doorkeeper grudgingly invited me in.

  Beyond the door, I found myself in a well-lit chamber cut in half by a stone countertop. The ceiling glowed with a pale light, dim in general, but quite bright as a whole. A latching gate, held open by another man, led beyond the counter and to the door beyond. At a guess, this was a chamber for customers to discuss their needs with a proprietor. I wondered if I should have chosen another door.

  It closed behind me with a rather final sound. I wasn’t worried. If I couldn’t get out through it, I could get out through the hole Bronze would make. My bigger worry was about what I might encounter inside, not my exit strategy.

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Al, of House Lucard.”

  “You want to explain why you’re here?” asked the man by the counter. The doorman remained where he was, not moving into easy view. Firebrand kept a metaphorical eye on him while I focused on the wizard in front of me.

  “Rahýfel is reaching a point where his spirit is powerful enough to ascend to a higher plane of existence,” I told him. “The spinning meta
l things used to be mine, until they were stolen—by someone, I don’t know who, and it’s not material to why I’m here. They generate more of the force his spirit is absorbing, hastening the process. I’m on good terms with a being on the higher plane of which I speak, and, if Rahýfel wants, I can arrange for help in the transition. Of course, if he doesn’t want to make the transition, we might be able to stop or reverse the process.”

  The two traded significant looks, mostly of surprise. Why is it people are surprised when I answer a question? Am I supposed to beat around the bush? Take the long way to the answer? They wanted to know, so I told them.

  It’s what you told them, Boss. Not the fact itself.

  Really?

  They don’t have real gods here, remember?

  Ooo, good point. My bad.

  The two of them retreated behind the counter and latched the gate. The doorman vanished through the door behind the counter and the other stayed with me. Nobody said anything, not even after the doorman departed. I waited again, flexing my patience muscles. They’re getting a pretty good workout, what with my anger management issues.

  My patience was rewarded, sort of, when a younger man emerged and escorted me beyond the counter, through the door, and deeper into the fortress. I hoped I didn’t have to fight my way out. Already, I’d encountered three wizards on my way to a fourth, and this was their territory. If my own increase in dangerousness in my own fortress was any guide, I hoped we were about to have nothing but a talk. I don’t enjoy testing my magical defenses against professionals.

  I really ought to do more work in that regard. I really, really need to make time for that.

  As I ruminated on the upcoming necessities and hoped they weren’t immediate ones, we went down a floor, much to my surprise. Everyone I know wants the top floor, the penthouse, not some dungeon. Come to think of it, my bedroom and main workroom are on upper floors, too. In my case, I didn’t have a basement to begin with, and upper floors were easier. I’m actually more comfortable underground.