by Mark Jeffrey
Max ripped his gaze away with an effort that felt like he was tearing his eyeballs from their sockets. Then together, he and Logan made their way along a path in the Garden that led deeper into the city.
There were no people here that Max could see. Sky Chambers floated in the far off, sliding in and out between the spires with a lazy slowness.
Nobody was guarding this place.
Of course not, Max kicked himself. The Bondsman never expected anyone to ever get in.
Without warning, Logan whooshed, tugging Max with him.
Max was surprised by this; he did not know whooshing was something Logan was versed in. But Max kept up easily enough once moving. Together, at the blurred speeds of Pocket-time, they crossed the terrain.
Quickly they came to the edge of the Garden next to the outermost grouping of spires — and stopped, still shrouded by lush greenery.
Men in military uniforms milled around here, bored. Several Sky Chambers were parked on a sort of golden landing pad. Two tall blonde men in suits — twins — disembarked from one that had just landed. Max guessed they were dignitaries of some sort.
“Ah, Mr. Veerspike! And Mr. Veerspike!” another man in a white robe called out as he sort of walked-ran to greet them. So. Not dignitaries. Members of the elite Veerspike banking family. “How good of you to come.”
“We serve our Bondsman always,” one twin said blandly.
“His will is our will,” the other finished. Max couldn’t tell if he were sincere or not. But he was certainly afraid: Max caught him flick a glance upward at the castles of despair towering above them all.
“Then come,” the white-robed man said. “His Lordship Simon will be meeting with you today.”
Simon? As in Fell Simon?
That slimy snake from Iron Valley. The Bondsman’s right hand man.
Then, another thought occurred to Max: Did that mean that the Bondsman wasn’t here?
He didn’t dare get his hopes up just yet.
“Come. Our business lies elsewhere,” Logan said, as if he could read Max’s thoughts. Hell, he probably could, Max realized. The blind man who sees. And whooshes. And teleports.
Logan got out the stick again. He pointed it probingly in several directions and then, to Max’s surprise, the stick visibly bent.
“That way,” Logan said smugly. He replaced the stick in his cloak and touched Max’s shoulder and then —
— again, Max felt no transition, but noticed a distinct change in the quality of sound around him when they moved. This time, they were indoors somewhere.
Inside a spire?
Max’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim lighting. Logan, who saw with the Strong Eye that did not need to adjust, began moving immediately. He tugged Max by the sleeve.
By degrees, Max saw that they were in a long narrow hallway that was as tall as a skyscraper.
Fire burned in wide oil pans set into walls of gold that reached to the heavens. And the carpet was red — the exact color of blood from a fresh cut. Max had seen that particular shade too many times to mistake it. Red and gold, crimson and auric, blood and brass: the twin colors of the Bondsman filled his eyes from every direction.
Once again, the City-State of the World Emperor was empty as a tomb. Max looked up: there were clouds far up near the ceiling: the chamber was so vast that a micro-climate had developed in here.
“Nobody’s home. But someone is keeping these lamps lit,” Max mused.
Logan snorted darkly. “For the glory of the Bondsman. For the sheer waste of it, while everyone starves. For the cruelty of it.”
Again, Logan placed his hands on Max’s shoulder and again they were translated to an altogether different place.
This time, they were back outside, but next to a parapet on a balcony. It was very windy: they were up high, near the top of one of the spires. Other spires — lights ablaze in multiform shapes and colors and manifestations — spiked all around them, reaching both up and down into infinity.
Two Sky Chambers drifted between the jewel and glass canyons below.
With a snarl, Logan drew a gun from beneath his pancho. It looked like an antique.
A gun? You have a gun? Max thought.
Why do you have a gun?
But Max just shouted into Logan’s ear through the howling wind, “What — are you going to shoot a Sky Chamber?”
“No,” Logan scowled. “I thought I sensed …” His voice drifted off. But Max took the hint. Quickly, he spun to look behind them, but there was nothing but two long plush purple curtains snapping in the wind. They led to a small empty room beyond.
Before Logan could protest, Max charged into the room, ready to summon thunderclaps from his fingertips if necessary.
There was no need. There was no one and nothing in here.
The room had a domed ceiling, painted in fine detail with all kinds of scenes of the Bondsman’s various triumphs and deeds, a sort of Sistine Chapel dedicated to him. There was a depiction of Sky Chambers attacking Jadeth’s armies; the Bondsman accepting the adulation of the crowds of the earth; the building and founding of the City State, with a massive bust of the Bondsman watching over it all approvingly.
And there were more curtains here, hinting at other rooms beyond this one.
Max eyed them, looking for someone perhaps hiding behind one of them. But there was no one and nothing but a breeze.
What was this? Max thought. An entire castle, lush beyond belief, filled with room after room after room of nobody?
It was eerie. Max realized that just the room in which he stood had taken tens of thousands of hours to hand-paint. A room no one ever saw. And this was only one of possibly millions of rooms throughout the entire City-State?
“Not what you expected,” Logan said, stepping into the room behind him.
“No. I figured it would be a capital city, buzzing with people and activity stuff.”
“Parts of it are,” Logan confirmed. “The residences of the Bondsman are. But most of the City-State is like this: magnificence with no purpose but to make gluttony and waste an artform. Yet it is continuously cleaned and kept up by an immense workforce of service.”
“That is just obnoxious,” Max said finally.
“Yes. Yes, it is.” Logan agree. “Now come. We are getting close.”
IT TOOK THEM three more jumps to arrive in a deep catacomb somewhere very far beneath the surface of the City-State of the World Emperor. The tall tunnels here were made of brick. Archways opened into more tunnels in every direction; it reminded Max of an old train station. The lost deeps in which they stood in were lit by myriad jewels that gave off a soft white light — Sky Chamber lighting, Max recognized immediately. Niburian lighting.
There is another world beneath this one.
You bet your behind there is, Max panted to himself.
Well, now we’re getting somewhere.
Logan pulled out his Y-shaped stick again. But this time, the stick bent in several directions. Logan muttered louder, as though he were chastising his implement.
“I am … perplexed.” Logan said. “We are near, I am certain of it. The stick should be stronger now, not weaker. But it is saying that the path to the artifact we seek is in several directions at once.”
“But … that doesn’t make sense.” Max said. Logan shrugged. “Okay. Okay. Maybe there are several paths. Or several … parts to the path. Exactly how many hits did you get?”
“Three.”
“Okay. Three. Three’s not too bad. Why don’t we just check them out one at a time?”
Logan looked doubtful. “I sense a trap.”
“Well, it probably is, yeah. I doubt the Bondsman just left this thing laying around. We knew he probably had protection around it. We just have to deal with that when we run into it. Or why else did we come here?”
Logan muttered again but seemed to agree. He spun Max and touched his shoulder and —
— They appeared in a small room, lit by a single
jewel. It was tiny as a prison cell. And there were no doors or windows.
Logan appeared shocked. If he had had eyes, they would have been wide as saucers.
“I did not expect …”
“Teleporting is the only way to get to the artifact,” Max finished his thought. “The Bondsman can teleport like you can.”
Logan nodded slowly.
“So what now?”
Logan produced his stick and took several long minutes with it this time. He examined every possible direction — up, down, downish-left, uppish-right-near-the-middle — everything.
When it was done he said, “I can no longer sense the passageway we just left. Instead, I sense a multitude of single cramped rooms like this one, all around us.”
“You said there were only three!” Max exploded.
“I know what I said,” Logan replied, scowling. “It appears I was mistaken. Or there is a bafflement set upon this deep stone which glamours even the Strong Eye.”
Max paced as much as he could in the small room and considered. “Okay. So it’s a maze. A teleport maze. You have to know the right rooms. Maybe even in the right order. That’s the only way to get to his stupid artifact.”
Logan nodded again. “Yes. And consider: some rooms are probably traps. Or not there at all.”
“Oh, great!” Max threw up his hands. “Hadn’t thought of that.”
“Well I guess we’ll ‘just have to deal with that when we run into it’,” Logan said with a smirk.
Max almost barked something at the old Indian, but then instead he cracked a smile and said, “You and Europa Romani would have got on just fine.”
“We did get on just fine,” Logan replied, to his surprise.
“Huh?” Max said, startled. “You knew Romani?” Logan opened his mouth to answer but Max cut him off. “Wait. Of course you did. You people all know each other. You’re like this little club, up and down the centuries. You just —”
“She was my wife,” Logan said.
That got Max’s attention. He almost forgot he was lost in the Bondsman’s maze.
“Your … wife.”
“For a time,” Logan added. Max just stared at him with incomprehension. “I was younger then,” Logan said. And to Max’s open jaw he said defensively: “I didn’t always look like the old shriveled up raisin you see before you now, you know. Once I was — the word you use is ‘buff’ — like you are now.”
Max almost laughed. “When was this? Where were you in 1912?”
Logan shook his head. “This was centuries before then.”
“So you weren’t with her by 1912.”
“No.”
“Why’d you break up?” Max ventured.
Logan’s head snapped towards Max like he’d just been popped in the jaw. Then Logan said curtly, “Never mind that,” and touched Max’s shoulder —
— And they were underwater.
Max had already gulped dirty sludge into his lungs in surprise. He opened his eyes — only to have them sting with soot and who knew what else floating around in this cesspool. He flailed for the surface — and found only stone. Then Max understood: they were inside of one of the trap-rooms, one which was completely filled with water.
Drowning.
Thrashing violently around, Max snatched out greedily for Logan. The room wasn’t that large — assuming it was like the last room, anyway. Logan had to be nearby.
And then he felt a shoulder blade. He tugged it towards him feverishly. But it was slack.
Was Logan unconscious?
Oh dear God, no. How were they going to jump again? They had to jump now and Max had no idea how to do it himself —
He spun the body around in the sludge and pulled it close. Then he risked the stinging in his eyes again and opened them.
And found himself staring into a skull. He wasn’t holding Logan. He was holding a skeleton.
Someone else had died after jumping to this room, long ago.
He thrust the thing away in horror. The black water enveloped it quickly, accepting it back like a gaping maw, mercifully making it vanish from Max’s sight.
In his urgency, Max felt his skin boil with star-fire. His power with near the surface, ready to burst. But it had nowhere to go: a blast now would only rain untold tons of rock down on Logan and him.
He couldn’t help himself. Panic slammed through his heart. He was going to explode …
Then, he felt the tap on his shoulder —
— and he was somewhere else.
Somewhere with air!
Max lung-puked water and gagged and coughed for several minutes, unable to focus on anything else. When he was done, he breathed blessed, sweet air again and fought the spangles across his vision to keep from passing out.
By degrees he realized it was completely dark in this room. He tried to stand — and couldn’t. This room was significantly smaller than the last one.
“Logan,” Max said at last. “Logan. Are you here?”
“Yes,” came a weak voice nearby.
“Thank God,” Max said feeling around for him. “Let’s get out of this hellhole. I’m feeling really claustrophobic in here. I’m over here, shift the —”
“Max …” Logan said with wheeze. “I’m … injured. My legs …”
“What happened?” Max asked, finally finding him with his hand. But after just a moment, Max understood. He had found Logan’s pant leg … and it terminated in solid stone.
Logan’s legs had materialized in rock. He was stuck there.
“Logan!” Max exclaimed. “Are you …”
“No,” Logan replied. “Not in pain. My legs are numb.” He stopped for a moment and then said, “This room is quite a bit smaller than I was anticipating,” and managed to laugh a little. “And I did that last jump in hurry.”
“Can you … jump yourself out of there?”
“I think so,” Logan said. “But I’m not sure what shape my lower legs will be in. They may be … too damaged.”
“Then let’s hurry up. Do you have a direction in mind yet?’
Struggling, Logan pulled out his stick again and consulted it. “Yes. This way.” He grabbed Max’s arm —
— And they were in a tall vaulted chamber, brightly lit, filled with clean air and warmth.
Quickly, Max looked down at Logan. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that Logan’s legs seemed to be in one piece. He wasn’t sure if they’d even be there at all, or suffused with rock or something. But they looked okay.
Yet the look in Logan’s eyes told Max that the old Indian was now lame as well as blind. He couldn’t stand.
“Logan …” Max began, water in his eyes. “Oh Logan. I’m so sorry …”
“We’re here!” Logan announced. “There it is!”
Max stood and turned, pushing his wet hair back from his eyes.
A round, cylindrical stone table stood in the center of the vaulted chamber, lit by a bright jewel affixed to the ceiling. Its light streamed down on the table like a benediction.
And in the middle of the table was a small Polaroid photograph of the Bondsman, propped up by a small easel. He stood against a flag of the world, in a suit, with his arms crossed. His hands wore crimson gloves with delicate small chains attached to a gold ring on each finger. And his entire head was encased in the golden mask, like a modern-day Pharaoh.
Max approached and examined it. This was the mysterious artifact? This was what imprisoned the Bondsman’s true name and made it literally unknowable?
He hesitated for a moment and then lifted it up. There was no signature on the photo or writing of any kind he could see.
“Egomanic,” Max muttered. He sensed nothing odd about it. He turned if over: there was nothing on the back, no writing of any kind.
“This isn’t it,” Max said dejectedly. “We’re in another one of the trap-rooms.”
Logan shook his head fiercely. “No. Let me see it.”
Max surren
dered the painting. Logan examined it — and then tasted it with his tongue. Then he spat out the taste. “Gah! The stink of Archontic magic is upon this thing. This is it. Here. Place it back on the stone.” Max did so.
“Okay. Now what?” Max asked.
Logan did not answer. Instead, he drew himself into a seated position — painfully, and by moving his legs with hands. When Max moved to help him, Logan snarled: he insisted on doing it himself.
Logan White-Cloud was in a kind of cross-legged lotus position. Then he placed his hands together as if in prayer. Max stepped away; he had been between Logan and the object, and he sensed whatever Logan was up to, he didn’t want to be in the line of fire.
Without warning, Logan clapped his hands. The sound was much louder than it should have been. It seemed like a thunderhead had dropped into the chamber. Max felt his pant legs snap from the concussion, as a ripple visibly crashed through the atmosphere in front of him.
At the same time, Logan shouted, “Change!”
And at once, the photo began to ripple. It oozed and bent like it was melting — and then the entire thing lurched larger in a sudden growth spurt that made Max take several steps backward. It was now several feet large on either side.
Soon the colors of the photo began to rearrange themselves into another pattern. And the flat photo paper became a canvas stretched across a wood frame about an inch deep.
It was turning into a painting, Max realized with a start. Although the content of the painting was still forming, he saw that the style of the work was Renaissance — very dark colors against a black background. Max knew this intimately … it was intensely familiar.
As the content of the canvas solidified, Max realized it wasn’t just the period, it was the actual style of the painter himself he recognized. Somewhere deep in his mind, neurons long dormant danced with new life.
This was a work by Johnny Siren — Jonathan Roseblood Cyranus — Giovanni di Cyranus. It was done sometime in the early 1500’s.
And it was a painting of his daughter, Venetia, when she was thirteen.
She was there, seated in a red dress, her rosy cheeks and lips cherubic. Her blue eyes were bright with life and love of life. She held a crush of roses in her hands as though they were the most precious things in the world.
