by Tim Pratt
"I should think so."
"Does the messenger have one of the boxes as well?"
"No. He does not travel by conventional means. In fact, he'll be back in Starfall by tonight."
"Wizardry?" Alaeron said. "A portal of some kind?" Such magics were expensive, though upon reflection there was no reason to think Zernebeth would balk at the price. Captains of the Technic League didn't need to worry about money. Having a whole population to oppress and a whole nation to loot was profitable work.
"Not exactly. We found a device in one of the wrecks that enables the instantaneous transportation of certain materials across a vast distance."
"Ah," Alaeron said. "Given how much the average wizard charges to teleport valuable items in the course of trading, the cost-saving opportunities for an import/export business with a device like that—"
"Are a bit limited, since it doesn't work for distances of fewer than hundreds of miles," Zernebeth interrupted. "It could have applications for long-distance trade, though I don't imagine the caravan masters and sailors who already work in that business would take to such innovations kindly. Knowing that, I've invited several such traders to pay us handsomely to stay out of their business. There are, of course, obvious uses for the device—exile, banishment, disposing of unexpected toxic experimental byproducts, and so on. It's a formidable tool. Alas, there are...side effects...when it's used on living people."
"Such as?" Alaeron was beginning to remember what a pleasure it was to talk over the arcane and the mysterious with Zernebeth. She had a searching and quicksilver sort of mind.
"You haven't noticed? My messenger is partly incorporeal. He didn't start out life that way. The controls on the device aren't perfect, or else we don't understand them completely. We can choose a destination roughly, but precise positioning is difficult. Once, we accidentally sent my messenger into a space occupied by a stone wall. It should have killed him, and possibly destroyed the wall, forcing two forms of physical matter to share the same space, fusing them together or blasting them apart. Instead, the device activated some sort of protective or defensive mechanism, and made my messenger into the ghastly, ghostly creature you see before you. He passed through the wall harmlessly at his destination, but we've been unable to make him solid again. If there's a reverse switch, I haven't found it."
"Mmm. The composition of the transporter device—it involves inubrix, I suppose?" Inubrix was one of the seven known forms of skymetal—far less well known than the "Numerian steel" more properly called adamantine, which was the most common—and had peculiar properties, occasionally passing through solid objects or becoming incorporeal.
"We have not torn the device open to examine its inner workings—destroying something that works perfectly well just to understand it better isn't always necessarily in my best interest. Though if I found another device like it, I might sacrifice that one for knowledge."
Alaeron suppressed a sigh. Zernebeth had a greater sense of inquiry and thirst for knowledge than the average member of the Technic League, but she still cared more about the merely practical than he did. Speaking of the practical..."Why doesn't your apprentice fall straight through the ground? If his body is incorporeal..."
"That is also a subject we're studying. He can control his vertical pitch, rising and falling at will, though he is not very good at expressing himself when we demand to know how. The tools we have to extract information from his brain directly are useless since he doesn't have a physical form we can interact with. If you look closely at his feet, you'll see they hover slightly above the floor, though. He's obviously surrounded by some kind of energy field, but I haven't been able to determine its precise nature or limitations. Some distorting effect that moves him just slightly out of phase with our physical reality, I assume. He can still do useful work, of course. He can pass through the world entirely like a ghost, but, if he wills it, anything he touches—or that enters his energy field, perhaps—becomes intangible to the rest of the world, but tangible to him. So he can still eat and drink, and his piss and shit and other emissions turn solid once they leave his body."
"And he can reach into a man's heart and pull it out through his chest, presumably," Alaeron said.
Zernebeth laughed, rather musically, all things considered. "If a merciful death is called for. Removing the kidneys is an option if we prefer his victims to suffer and die slowly."
"So this fellow is your personal guard and enforcer, then?"
"Mmm. Sort of. He's my new you, Alaeron. My apprentice. His name is Char, and he's even brighter than you were. But his...medical condition...limits his ability to lead the expedition I have in mind for you. My employees and slaves find him too unsettling, and he's more useful to me if he's a figure of mystery and terror anyway. ‘Zernebeth's ghost,' they call him."
"But he can go anywhere, can't he? You could have him walk through the walls in Silver Mount. He could penetrate to the very center, no mystery would be hidden to us—"
"Do you truly think that didn't occur to me?" she said. "It was the first thing I tried when I discovered his condition. Alas, the presence of skymetal interferes with his power. Trying to pass through any known variety gives him blinding agonies. Perhaps it's a security precaution, or merely a coincidental chemical reaction. Fortunately, most of my allies in the League haven't realized Char's limitations, or I'm sure they'd be building walls laced with skymetal to keep him out even now."
"Hmm. Perhaps there's a solution to reversing the process, there. If skymetal is immune to his phasing, then the secret to that immunity might be—"
"It is a problem for another time," Zernebeth interrupted. "As far as that goes, I wouldn't want to reverse the changes in him; though it would be nice if he could turn the incorporeality on and off at will. He misses sex, I suspect. He could engage in such congress, perhaps, bringing at least part of his partner into phase with himself, but it would be very uncomfortable and strange for the young lady or gentlemen so altered, and no one is lining up to be an experimental subject."
"Ah. I see I haven't entirely thought through the—"
"Fantasize on your own time, Alaeron—which you don't have anymore, by the way. Your time is mine now. When do you expect to reach Numeria? I am eager to begin the expedition. While my sources of information about the wreck I want you to pillage are...nontraditional...it's always possible one of the other captains will discover the wreck's whereabouts and launch an expedition of their own."
"I will make all due haste," Alaeron said. "My associate Skiver is going to accompany me—"
"Associate?" she said sharply. "Another alchemist?"
"Ah. No. More of a...businessman."
"Oh, a criminal," Zernebeth said. "Hmm. Just as long as you know I'm not responsible for his health, wealth, or welfare. For that matter, I'm not even responsible for yours. I suppose bringing a bodyguard isn't a bad idea—the River Road hasn't gotten any less dangerous since last time you came, and nowadays you have a lot more to lose if you die on the journey."
"He's not exactly a—"
"Keep me posted on your progress. I'll make preparations for the expedition."
She fell silent, and Alaeron tentatively said, "Ah...goodbye?" but there was no answer. Which didn't mean she wasn't listening, necessarily. He turned back around and gave Onionskin and Char a smile. "Thank you, gentlemen, for your assistance. Char, perhaps I'll see you again in the future—"
"Apostate," Char said. There was no malice in his voice, but there was no warmth, either.
Alaeron blinked. "Ah. The first Kellid who came after me, hoping to drag me back to Numeria, used to call me ‘runaway.' You, too, disapprove of my sudden departure from the League's employ, I take it?"
"I trust Zernebeth," Char said. "I am sure she has some use for you. But you left her for dead. When she returned from the Mount, and was revived, she was taken by a terrible madness. The rest of the League locked her up, unwilling to let her die because of the mysteries her mind might contain.
I was sent to care for her, because she was deemed too important to be given over wholly to the care of slaves. I nursed her back to health. I helped build the replacements she designed for her lost limb, and to repair her damaged body, following her instructions. She saw some aptitude in me then, and took me on as her apprentice, and she..." He trailed off. Onionskin gazed at him in open wonder, and Alaeron supposed this was by far the most words Char had spoken in a row to anyone. "I would die for her," he said. "I would kill—I have killed—for her. If she had seen fit to take me with her into Silver Mount, I would not have fled like a terrified youngling and left her alone there in the dark."
"Ah," Alaeron said. "That...is easy to say. You weren't there."
"No," Char said. "You were there, and Zernebeth nearly died because of it. But if she thinks there is some use to be squeezed out of you, I will trust in her wisdom." He stepped toward Alaeron with startling speed—did being incorporeal allow one to move more quickly? There would be less air resistance, presumably, but that wasn't likely to matter when it came to sprinting the mere length of a room—
Char reached out, and his fingers sank into Alaeron's chest. There was an immediate, uncomfortable tingling and stinging sensation, like being swarmed by fire ants. The alchemist swallowed hard, wondering what it would feel like for this man's none-too-clean fingernails to close on his heart. But after a long moment of staring into Alaeron's eyes, the Kellid withdrew his incorporeal hand, gripped now in a fist. "If you ever endanger Zernebeth's life again, I will take out your heart, and show it to you, and you will die watching my teeth bite into the still-beating flesh."
"A very vivid image. You should have been a poet instead of an arcanist." Alaeron reached into his pocket, where among the assorted vials, bits of dried plant matter, and scattered coins, he had a twist of adamantine wire no longer than his pinky finger. He withdrew it and—with, he thought, perfectly creditable speed of his own—jammed the wire into Char's face.
Chapter Five
The Road, Again
The metal wire disappeared in the vicinity of Char's left eye, passing through his incorporeal skin. The Kellid howled and dropped to his knees, clutching his head, and Alaeron dropped with him, keeping the wire in the Kellid's out-of-phase brain. Char tried to pull away, but it was as if the wire were somehow hooked into him, and he wriggled like an eel in a net, unable to escape or phase through the floor to freedom.
Alaeron felt not even the slightest hint of pull or pressure on the metal as Char writhed, his ghostly form snagged on the hook of skymetal. "Interesting," he said. "I suppose you didn't overhear Zernebeth telling me your weakness—that trying to pass through skymetal causes you terrible pain. You could choose to make this metal tangible to you, isn't that right? A bit of solid metal in the brain might end your suffering, but I doubt that's the route you'd prefer to follow. Now, why would Zernebeth tell me your weakness? She isn't the sort to make mistakes, so I'm sure she armed me with that information for a reason. Probably because she knew you were the sort to let his emotions run away with him and make threats against business associates. I think there was probably a test here, and you failed it. Ah, well. We all fall into error sometimes. No reason to dwell on it, though. We do have to work together, after all."
Alaeron withdrew the metal and Char immediately dropped through the floor, out of sight. Sighing, Alaeron put the twist of wire away. It would be very expensive to construct a mail shirt out of skymetal, but he supposed it might be a good investment. Even if he only made every third link skymetal, that would be enough to prevent Char from reaching into his chest again. Perhaps once he got to Numeria, if there were time...
The alchemist hated crass shows of force, which was why he'd felt compelled to respond to Char's threat in kind. To do less than push back as hard as he could would only embolden the incorporeal apprentice to further threats and bluster. The whole conflict was so foolish, just a needless distraction. Why couldn't they move forward in mutual pursuit of forbidden knowledge, without all the petty and annoying emotional games?
Char probably wanted to sleep with Zernebeth, Alaeron mused. It was an impulse he could appreciate, and it was also a classic case of a nurse falling in love with his patient. Now the poor bastard was incorporeal—which at least complicated the possibility of a sexual relationship, if it didn't preclude it entirely—and his object of worship didn't even want to cure him. And, of course, any apprentice would be jealous to see a former student return, and fear usurpation.
Just because Alaeron understood Char's feelings didn't mean he had to be nice about it. Hence the hook in the brain. Skiver would be so proud of him.
∗ ∗ ∗
"I'm so proud of you!" Skiver slapped Alaeron on the back. "Antagonizing a man who could kill you with a flick of his wrist. That's boldness, or maybe foolhardiness, but either way, well done."
"We'll have to keep an eye on Char when we're in Numeria." Alaeron stood gazing at a shelf in his lab, debating whether to take the vial of ooze ichor or the vial of gelatinous slime, and decided to take both; they were small, and he had plenty of room, after all.
"Lucky for us he's not invisible, then. So what's this wonder you were planning to show me?"
"Mmm? Oh, yes. Come and see." Alaeron led his partner to the corner of his lab where the magic box rested—now that he'd determined the box wouldn't explode or turn into a portal for demons, he was willing to activate it inside the house. "Observe." He crouched, pressed the red button, and stood back as the device expanded, watching silently with Skiver.
"Hmm." Skiver walked around the coffin-sized crate once it had finished whirring and clunking into place. "If it were a bit smaller we could slip it into someone's food and then, after they ate it, turn it on—if we had a way to turn it on besides pressing the button, though a punch in the stomach might suffice—and then they would explode as it expanded in their gut. Not as elegant as a knife between the ribs, though I'm sure this box was a lot more difficult to make than a knife."
"It's not a weapon, and I didn't make it. Zernebeth sent it to me. It's a...Here, go inside." Alaeron opened the door and gestured toward the inky blackness within.
"Must I? I knew a fella who was claustrophobic once, a forger who wanted to quit forging, even though many other fine upstanding criminals depended on his work for their livelihood. One of his friends found out he was terrified by small spaces, but it's not like his friends were all that reliable, so word got around. Knowing what he was afraid of made it easy to get him do whatever you wanted—just shove him in a box a bit smaller than this one for a few minutes, with Fat Harald sitting on the lid to keep it closed, and he'd do nearly anything if you'd just let him out. We only wanted him for forgery, but he'd have done murders, arson, all sorts of things outside what you might call his area of expertise. The old box trick worked every time, until he had a heart attack once, and was dead inside when we lifted the lid. Kind of curious how he never got used to the experience, but people are funny that way. After seeing him all curled up in that box, I must admit, I felt a touch of claustrophobia from time to time, afterward."
"I take your point, though you could have given it to me a lot more briefly. Fine, follow me inside—there's room for both of us." Alaeron stepped inside the magic box, and a moment later Skiver did the same.
The thief let out a low whistle as he looked around. "And all this was inside the box when it was small, too?"
Alaeron nodded, taking in the scene with pleasure. He'd decorated the interior of the box with a four-poster bed, a dresser, two armchairs, a few bookshelves, and even a rack of alchemical supplies, including a few compounds too volatile to take on a journey that would entail bouncing on horseback or in carts or on choppy river waters. Alaeron had included the explosive elements only after shrinking the box with furniture inside, shaking the cube vigorously, and expanding it again to find none of the contents had shifted so much as a hairsbreadth. (He'd made chalk marks on the floor, and he measured with calipers, just to be
safe, and the configuration of the interior was identical and stable every time. Which didn't mean it always would be, but it was a working theory.) As far as he could tell, nothing moved inside the box unless he moved it. "We can stay in here," he said. "We won't have to pay for inns or sleep in hedges or on the decks of ships—just find a dark bit of forest, or a nice hole in the ground, put in the box, and rest in comfort no matter what the weather or other conditions are like outside. It's like carrying a bit of home with us everywhere. As far as I can tell, the exterior of the box is impregnable, so it should be safe enough."
"Unless we step out and find ourselves ringed 'round with pikemen." Skiver flopped into one of the armchairs. "But at least then we'd have an invincible box to hide inside. I do like it, Alaeron. It's just a shame the box is black. Don't misunderstand, I like a good greasy assassin black, I just think it would look jauntier in a brighter color." He kicked one foot back and forth and gazed up at the distant ceiling and the floating lights. "Of course, you haven't mentioned the possibilities that most interest me about this toy of yours."
"Mmmm?"
"Smuggling leaps to mind. Fill this box with—oh, whatever people in one place want to buy, but aren't allowed to, or can only get from the local price-gouging monopolist. Collapse the box down, hide it at the bottom of a trunk, take it over the border, then open it up, and there you are—you've transported unspeakable quantities of your contraband of choice and opened up lucrative new markets."
Alaeron grimaced. "That hadn't occurred to me. It's dangerous—what if the border guards seize the magic box? It's not exactly replaceable."
Skiver shrugged "That's a possibility anytime you're smuggling, or even if you're not. Any border guard might steal anything at any time, and your box is at risk whether it's filled with crates of relics or not. Sure, I'd lose my property too, but every business has an element of risk."
