by Andy Havens
Give me a moment, Wallace spoke in her mind. I’m checking something.
Dude… hurry. I can see the tops of these mountains pretty clearly.
Just a moment.
Her legs pumped on. She tried, again, to slow them… but it didn’t help. She knew she was turning a little… forcing her path slightly to her left, away from the peaks. But it wouldn’t be enough…. Not tight enough, not soon enough.
It was all snow and ice now. Just like the trees in the forest, if a boulder or crevasse appeared in her path, she swerved over or around it. The world was a blur of white and gray and the cold was becoming more than unpleasant, the wind of her passage chilling her sweat.
Like being poked when half-asleep, she felt something new and abrupt. A tug at her soul. Not just the all-too-human allure of adventure and the unknown, but something much more personal and emotional.
What? Who? Who is over the mountains? Something is waiting. Someone…
Then Wallace spoke again, loudly, in her mind: Lose the bet!
What? She snapped out of her reverie and remembered where she was and what she was racing toward.
Admit you lose. Admit you didn’t teach Parrot Girl anything new.
But I did! She didn’t understand this! I do!
It doesn’t matter. She has to wait until you stop to declare you winner. Like the house in a casino. You can’t decide when you win. But you can concede. That’s within the purview of the gambler.
Not just cold, it was getting dark. She couldn’t see the tops of the mountains anymore, but could feel… something like stars on a winter night. A million eyes looking down from the other side of darkness. Maybe even a voice calling to her. Maybe? Someone’s voice. Someone…
You can’t go over those peaks, Kendra, Wallace warned, real concern coming through the connection he’d established.
But… I don’t want to meet the Brothers…
It doesn’t matter. If you go over the mountains, you’ll be… gone. Somewhere none of us understand.
What? Like a black hole or something?
I don’t know. We just call it “Beyond.” Or “Otherwhere.” Anyone who has gone over has never come back, and their Ways collapsed instantly. That’s confirmed by a number of sources, including ones…
Shut up! I get it.
She understood the pull of the other, the strange, the new. She didn’t want to go over those mountains, but she could see why others would. Everything you suspected might be there. Or nothing. All the answers, or a brand new set of questions.
Something… surprising! she thought loud enough for Wallace to sense/hear it.
Don’t do it, Kendra. Really. Please...
What convinced her was the cold. Whatever was up there, it was as cold as the ice caps she’d seen from below. But in a way that didn’t stop with your flesh. She could even feel the blue mark on her skin, the place where the sky-woman’s blood had splashed her, turn to ice. It was like a finger of frost on her collarbone, pulsing like a burn, but icy instead of hot.
So cold it hurts, she thought. I don’t want to go somewhere that cold. No matter how curious I am.
And so she said, out loud, stammering into the glacial, dark wind, “I concede this gamble.”
She instantly dropped from her insane speed to a stumbling trot. Which caused her to trip over her own feet and fall face-first into what looked like a bottomless crack in the ice.
Just as she was about to plunge down into the frozen throat of the mountain, a shuffle of green feathers surrounded her and she was lifted into the air, into warmth, into sunlight.
The last thing she heard before she passed out was her friends voice: “There's something I've always wanted to tell you and you're ready to hear it. You're not very pretty, and you're not very bright.”
The sun seemed to explode around her, and Parrot Girl added, “I'm so glad we’ve had this talk.”
* * * * *
Some distance away–measured by a gap that couldn’t be tallied in anything like miles – Wallace sat back in his office chair and took a couple deep breaths.
He’d heard her say that she was conceding the bet. He was nearly sure that in doing so she had avoided plunging into certain death.
It felt like she made it. Like she was going to be OK…
But at that point the connection he’d established broke like a brittle twig.
It had been pure luck that he’d been able to contact her at all. For the past few weeks he’d been in charge of a new group of researchers trying to learn as much as possible about Kendra White, her background, her abilities and current situation. Solomon Monday, the Librarian and Master of the House of Sight, had assigned him both the task and a squad of very able workers. Wallace had never been anyone’s boss before, though, and it made him uncomfortable, especially since some of the people working for him were much, much older. They didn’t seem to mind, but it made him feel weird.
So he kept doing more work than any two of his staff combined. Not because he didn’t trust them. In many cases, he knew they were much better at certain types of investigation. No, it was because he was too embarrassed to ask.
Which was why he was alone, late at night, sending out various Ways of Sight to try and pick up her trail. After the fight in which she’d killed both Kaolyn the Greenman and his master, Rain Vernon, she’d basically disappeared. That wasn’t a very hard trick if any of the other six Houses were looking for you… but the Domain of Sight was, dedicated to, well… finding things out.
After a few weeks in which normal, routine avenues hadn’t yielded any results, Wallace began posting a watch around known “blank areas” as he thought of them. It was the equivalent of putting a detective outside various haunts or caves and hoping the thing you couldn’t find would pop up and be spotted. Not a particularly clever device… but sometimes the most obvious ploys work best.
One of these watching Ways had picked up Kendra’s scent in a town a few miles from Bardonne’s, a Sanctuary respected by all Domains. While she clearly wasn’t in the area, it made him wonder about the inn itself. Of course he couldn’t send a Way into Bardonne’s – that would violate the Law of the place – but he could monitor the area around it.
Which he’d been doing, more or less constantly, for several days. He didn’t need much sleep – many in Sight stayed awake for weeks. Plus, he still hadn’t figured out how to get past his own chagrin at being anyone’s boss. Thus, the late night monitoring sessions.
When he’d heard her voice like a whisper in the back of his mind – What what what to do do do? – he realized she was thinking “hard and loud” in a manner that pressed against the bounds of Bardonne’s Ways. He also realized she must be near its border… which could be dangerous.
Wallace tapped one finger on his computer mouse, thinking about the possibilities. Unlike some of his coworkers, he utilized any Mundane technology that might help him with his work for the Library. He didn’t see any difference, qualitatively, between a stone tablet, a handwritten book, a CD-ROM or an encrypted, online database. It was all information. Waiting to be transformed into knowledge by action.
He recalled one of his earliest lessons with Herr Goerlich, his favorite teacher back in the German print shop where he’d begun receiving formal instruction for a career in the House of Sight.
“First,” the large, friendly fellow had said to his class of three apprentices, “we have noise. Can you tell me the difference between sound and noise… Fraulein Haduwig?”
Though her name meant “strife,” Wallace’s fellow student, Haduwig, was the most pleasant, lovely person he’d ever met. She was pretty in a nonthreatening way, always treated him as a friend and equal and invited conversation when it was socially appropriate.
“Noise, Herr Professor, implies a definable system of some kind, where sound may just be, well… that which is heard. Noise need not be audible, either, sir. It may be visible, tactile, rensible, olfactory, jaagenzdlich, vibratory…”
&nb
sp; “Indeed, my good girl,” their teacher had agreed with a nod and wave of his chubby hand. “But you need not list all nineteen of the mediative spectra. You are correct. Noise implies a system. What is next on the scale of Sight… Fraulein Viheke?”
Viheke, whose name meant “little lady,” was as brash and forceful as Haduwig was mild. She was also, despite her name, about a foot taller than Wallace and broader across the shoulders. Nevertheless, she was probably the most accomplished of Goerlich’s four students.
“When we can identify the system of noise, Herr Professor, we can establish a metric for its level, transforming useless phenomena into potentially valuable data.”
“Very good, my dear, now…”
“But…” Wallace interrupted without really meaning to.
“Yes, Herr Wallache?” The professor used the more common German version of his name, though Wallace preferred the original British. “You have a thought?” Goerlich asked with an open smile, a teacher who enjoyed discussion as much as instruction.
“It’s just that, well, noise isn’t necessarily useless, is it?”
Viheke clucked her tongue. This was an argument they’d had before. “Noise isn’t useful, per se, my friend,” she said. “It may be useful compared to other datum, though, within a known system.”
Wallace shook his head. He couldn’t quite explain what he meant, but he’d observed too many things that weren’t “precisely measurable” to believe they were all simply data waiting for an appropriate metric.
“Nevertheless,” the professor said, “Let us continue. Wallache? Data collected may be interesting, but how does it become – traditionally – useful?”
“In comparison to other, related data, it becomes information,” Wallace responded from rote.
“And, Haduwig, information put into practice allows us to increase our…”
“Knowledge, Herr Professor. The useful application of information over time.”
“Correct. Now you, Herr Bastiaan? Knowledge acquired and tested proceeds to?”
Bastiaan Huber was the fourth of the professor’s students. And if Viheke was the most accomplished, Bastiaan was, well… Not as accomplished as the others.
“Knowledge acquired leads to… wisdom?” the boy said nervously. Even when he was right, he assumed he was wrong.
“Wisdom, yes of course,” the professor agreed. “The ability to choose which knowledge is most useful, which information should be stored and applied, which data collected, and…” with a brief wink for Wallace, “… which noise should be ignored.”
The professor paused and checked the angle of the sun. Wallace knew he was thinking about dinner, which was at least two hours away.
Patting his belly (somewhat mournfully, Wallace thought) the professor asked, looking at him directly, “And finally, my boy?”
“Rechteinsicht,” Wallace replied, using the German term for “insight into the law” or “legal discernment.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Goerlich. “To move our minds from what ‘should’ be done to what ‘shall’ be done. Or, in many cases, what shall explicitly not be done.”
The four students nodded, Bastiaan somewhat later than the others. While all the Houses learned the Law, the Domain of Sight was more likely than the others to find, understand and react to its breaking or simple neglect. Over the thousands of years since the Reckoners’ War, the Law had become so ingrained into the practice and culture of the Houses’ Ways, that most never gave it much thought. The basics were taught in school and through lore, of course. But very few Reckoners ever went through the effort of crafting new Ways, and when they did, they was almost always variations or improvements on what their House had created before.
Understanding the Law as a Son of Sight was, Wallace thought, much easier than in many other Houses. At least it seemed so to him. Maybe, he considered, with some fresh insight, that only seems like the case to me because I’m used to it. Maybe the Law of Blood feels as natural to those of that House as Sight does to me… Hmm…
He realized his thoughts had floated off and the others were staring at him.
“Something to share, son?” Goerlich asked. Wallace shook his head, “No, sir. Just pondering.”
“Good boy. Nothing important ever happened without a good lot of that. When in doubt, find somewhere quiet and have a good ponder.”
Both of the girls chuckled, and Wallace knew why. The quote was one of the professor’s favorites, and one they’d amended secretly to When in doubt, find somewhere quiet and have a good snack.
Bastiaan just looked confused. He came from a good family, and Wallace was sure he’d end up with a decent job somewhere in the House. Probably a clerk or minor functionary. He was solid enough in the manipulation of Ways. And he had a good feel for reading even complex auras. But it was painfully clear that he didn’t enjoy the book work. Which was, in Sight, something of a handicap.
Wallace suspected Goerlich knew of their gossip and jokes. He was, after all, a full Master of Sight. But Wallace also assumed that after more than a thousand years of teaching, Goerlich probably understood the best way to handle his students.
Which was another insight he’d had that day… Maybe it’s all an act, he’d thought. The bonhomie, the constant snacking, the mild forgetfulness… maybe all those personality quirks aren’t just ‘noise,’ but data… Hmmm…
In his office in the Library, Wallace remembered those times. He hadn’t seen his teacher or classmates in person for more than a century. But he knew that, if necessary, he could find out where they were in the world and what projects they were working on. He wondered if he should visit Goerlich to see what the old man would make of his current assignment.
First he had to see if he could confirm that Kendra was, as he suspected, still alive and in the world.
As he considered his next possible options, he heard a familiar set of steps coming up the hallway outside his open office door.
What the hell are you doing here at this hour?
Mrs. McKey. Monday’s right-hand. According to some, the worker of his will in the world, since he rarely left the Library anymore. She was always coolly pleasant, efficient, reasonable, helpful and entirely terrifying. Maybe it was because she seemed to show no real emotion or because she always seemed to be about three steps ahead of everyone when it came to the running of the Library.
Once, when Wallace had been in one of the hundreds of sub-basements of the Library searching for an ancient carved staff, he’d looked up from the rack in which it was stored. Noticing that a water pipe was weeping a bit of moisture where its insulation had cracked, he’d reported it to the head of that section and was told, “Yes. McKey is on it. It’s due to be repaired next… Wednesday. But thank you for your diligence.”
According to the log book, Wallace had been the first person in nine years to enter that particular storage room. Yet McKey had known.
It shouldn’t have surprised him. He knew that Monday’s Ways enveloped the Library, weaving through all its rooms and passages and secrets. It only made sense that Mrs. McKey had sources of Sight that he, a mere clerk, would know nothing about.
What he did know was that her sensible shoes with sensible one-inch heels made very specific sensible clicks on the stone floors of the Library. Everyone knew that sound and could usually hear her coming well in advance of her entrance. There were very few shenanigans in the Library, but if any were going on – or if a clerk or archivist was napping in a carrel or eating somewhere they shouldn’t – that clicking gave staff time to tidy up, hide evidence of any nonsense or wake up enough to at least nod as she passed.
Which gave Wallace a new insight: Maybe her audible steps, like Goerlich’s cheery visage, is a feature, not a bug, of her behavior. Maybe it’s intentional. And if it’s intentional, it means she wants us to know she’s coming because…
He had no idea what the “because” in that sentence might be.
No time to ponder it further, as the clic
king stopped outside his office and Mrs. McKey rapped three times on the frame of his open door.
“May I come in, Mr. Bradstreet?”
“Please, yes. Please do, Mrs. McKey,” Wallace said, standing up and motioning her to sit, if she liked, in the one guest chair not occupied by piles of various media.
She shook her head at the offer, instead asking, “Are you engaged in any activities that would be negatively impacted by a few hours away from the Library?”
“Well… not at the moment, but…”
“You made contact with the girl. Kendra.”
Startled, Wallace simply nodded.
“Good work, Mr. Bradstreet. I’ve let Mr. Monday know about your progress.”
“I, uh… Thank you. I was just logging it into the system right now.
She nodded for him to proceed and he got to work. It didn’t take him long—he was very good at administrative tasks—but it was still unnerving to have her staring over his shoulder. Most of the other older workers in the Library didn’t use computers as much. But he knew McKey had no aversion to any forms of technology.
Finishing up the last few fields of data entry, he said, “I was just about to put some Ways in place to find out if Kendra made it out of her, uh… situation… after our contact was cut off.”
“She did in fact, ‘make it,’ as you were about to say. She is back inside the Sanctuary right now.”
“Ah,” Wallace replied. I’m not sure I want to know how you knew that so quickly and surely.
“Good work, Mr. Bradstreet. You may append my comment to your report and send it along.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
As he hit the “send” key, she asked, “Now… Is there anything else requiring your time at the moment?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then follow me, please.”
She walked out of his office and down the hall, Wallace scurrying to keep up. Unconsciously, his steps fell into time with hers, adding his slightly muffled slaps to her more precise clicks. As he kept a respectful pace behind her, he realized he’d never seen her wear anything other than her gray, wool skirt, white silk blouse, gray blazer and black shoes. Same outfit, every day, for all the decades he’d worked at the Library. She also had a pair of spectacles tucked into the front pocket of her blazer, but he’d never seen her take them out. Her hair was iron-gray as well, cut short in a style he’d call a “pageboy” since that was what it had been called the first time he’d heard of it. Though now that he was looking at it steadily from behind, he thought it might be closer to a pixie cut.
