by Garon Whited
“Perfect. I’d say you have a knack for this—”
“—but you don’t want to annoy me.”
“Exactly. Are you ready?”
“Ready to feel a spirit not my own move through my flesh and direct energies beyond human comprehension?”
“I take it that’s a ‘no’?”
“Correct. I’m not ready. But go ahead.”
Something moved inside me, a sensation almost of warmth, spreading outward from somewhere near my heart. If my veins were empty and someone pumped fresh blood into them, it might feel like this. I turned to focus on the cloak, seeing it not as a piece of cloth, but as formlessness, chaos, bound into matter and shape and time. The matrix of it was a complex thing of many colors and many layers, each different in its own way, controlling properties and controlled by the universe around it. But some of them were optional, and others had a wider array of options than mortals could comprehend…
“Okay, that should do it.”
“What? Are we done already?”
“It’s been at least an hour.”
“It has?”
“It has,” I assured me, smoke-face nodding.
Yes, Boss, Firebrand added. It sounded subdued and disturbed. I was less subdued but equally disturbed. Firebrand added, The sunrise isn’t for a couple hours, yet.
Good to know, I replied.
“You really need to work on that,” I growled aloud, to the smoky face over me. “Sparky doesn’t blot out the consciousness when she does it! I was hoping we could do this without you completely overriding everything!”
“I know. I haven’t figured that part out, yet,” the smoky visage replied, defensively. “Give me a decade or two. I’m still new to this.”
I glared at the grey cloud with my face as I leaned on the altar. If it had been daytime, I would have collapsed next to it, shaking with adrenalin reaction. As it was, I needed a few moments to gather my scattered wits and collect my nerve. I’ve never liked having anyone in my head, but it’s usually a case of annoyance rather than fear. After the incident with the Demon King, it’s been worse, but manageable. Now this… this was unexpected, although not unpleasant, exactly. I knew it was irrational to feel violated or angry—well, to feel it so intensely—but feelings aren’t too rational to begin with. It took me a while to come to grips with my own loathing. It took even longer to talk myself into believing I could accept it.
I didn’t believe I could accept it. Ignore it, perhaps, but never accept.
“I guess that’s fair,” I finally grudged, not really meaning it. I lifted the cloak and examined it to divert my own attention. “I don’t see any changes, aside from the not-visible-to-mortal-eyes stuff. Is it supposed to have dark veins all through it?”
“I think so.”
“You think so.”
“It’s a prototype holy artifact! I mean, holy relic. What do you want from me?”
“Omniscience?”
“Ha. Ha. Ha. You’re not as funny as you think you are.”
I swung the cloak around and clasped it. It behaved normally.
“I’m not sure I can analyze what you’ve done,” I admitted, swirling a fold of it over one arm. “It’s not the magic I’m used to. Can you look at it and make any guesses?”
“I’m looking. I think it’s… yes, it’s adapting.”
“Adapting?”
“Yes. It’s attuning itself to you. It’ll probably be your personal cloak.”
“As in, it won’t do magical things for anyone else, or as in it will actively try to suffocate anyone who steals it?”
“Could go either way. There are a lot of reality-based changes in it. That is, reality isn’t quite the same for it as for normal matter. That is, instead of placing energy into the n-dimensional volume described by—”
I held up a hand to the smoky visage and he stopped talking.
“Well, thank you for a potentially dangerous and possibly sapient relic of uncertain powers. I appreciate it,” I told him, heavy on the sarcasm. He ignored my tone completely.
“It’s the thought that counts, right?”
“Remember the bit about being not funny?”
“It runs in my family,” replied the face of god, smugly. Then he turned serious. “I would like to bring something up, though, that isn’t funny.”
I sat down on the altar. My altar. Our altar.
“Shoot.”
“It’s about the grey sashes again.”
“The whole civic versus religious thing?”
“Yes. I think you’re making a mistake in not allowing them authority over mortal affairs.”
“Maybe,” I conceded. “However, my decision stands, and I’ll tell you why.”
“I am all attention, Your Majesty.”
“Stop it, Your Holiness.”
“That’s Beltar. The deveas is leader of the whole church. He’s also the prophate, the Voice of God. Or he was, anyway, until you built this brazier’s enchantment.”
“Good point. As I was saying, grey sashes don’t have authority—not on their own. I think they make a fine set of reserves, though. Think of them like the militia, or national guard, or army reserves, or something. The various city guards handle most things. The army handles bigger things. The red sashes beat six colors of crap out of anything else. The guild of wizards backs up everybody. If anything shows up and can’t be handled by all that, the grey sashes get called on—along with the warriors of Father Sky, the hunters of the Hunter, and, for all I know, the marines of Ssthitch. But the religious troops only armor up to defend the kingdom from things the kingdom can’t defend itself from. Then they turn whatever is being troublesome into paste. Probably diced, fried, crushed, minced, and terrified paste, as well as damned by various godlike entities.”
“Hmm.”
“You don’t approve.”
“No, it’s not that… okay, yes. I don’t approve. I think it would help me do overwatch on the kingdom if I had mortal authority.”
“Work through Beltar and the other priests to talk to people,” I advised. “All the others are doing the same thing. Be persuasive rather than coercive.”
“And if they don’t play by your rules?”
“Get the ones who are playing by my rules to kick them out of the game for cheating.”
The face opened its mouth to say something, paused, and shut its mouth. He thought about it.
“You know, they would be pretty pissed if someone cheated. That is, after a while of playing. If we can get them invested in the game qua game.”
“I have faith in you. Besides, the game is simply divine.”
“About that not funny thing…”
“Oh, come on! You smiled!”
“Did not.”
“Did too. I saw it. Firebrand saw it.”
No comment, Boss.
“Traitor.”
“All right,” the face of smoke admitted, “maybe it was a little funny.”
“Good god.”
“But that wasn’t.”
We said our goodbyes and I returned through the tunnels to my workroom. I had enchantments to finish, a quasi-holy relic to play with, a bunch of canals to think up in the west, some more city planning to do on the arena place in the northern Eastrange…
Distractions. Lots of distractions. Things to finish before doing important things. So I did them.
Which brings me up to today, Monday.
I’ve delayed all I can. I’ve spoken with Bob and T’yl, I’ve popped over to talk to Diogenes and give him his gate-rings, I’ve said goodbye to everyone I can stand to say goodbye to.
Now I’ve got two terrifying things to accomplish.
Second, I have to kill Johann.
First, I need to speak with Tort.
No, I take that back. The first thing I need to do is have a long talk with T’yl about Kamshasa, specifically about Kashmanir, the House of Oloné, and the border near the Kingdom of Kolob. I need the address of a lady magician who
doesn’t seem to want to talk to me.
So I sent for T’yl.
I wasn’t hungry, but I ate breakfast anyway, up in my quarters. It occurred to me anyone who wanted to track my movements only needed to monitor food consumption. Then again, how much does Kammen eat? Or any of the original red-sashes? They’re all gigantic. Four hundred or so pounds of flesh and bone takes a lot of calories to maintain, especially with the daily practice and exercise. Maybe I’m not such a big dent in the kitchen after all.
Come to that, why do I bother to shovel food down when it’s nothing but a chore? To extend the time between vampire feedings, yes… but do I need to? I have volunteers every single night in the Temple of Shadow. If necessary, there are probably dungeons under every noble house with murderers and thieves. So why do I bother with human food? Habit? Or is it a connection to my own lost humanity? Someday I’ll become a philosopher and figure it out. Or am I already a philosopher? I ask questions without answers, after all.
T’yl arrived as the remains of breakfast were taken away. He probably waited in the hall until I finished. People tip-toe around me, possibly with good reason. I didn’t feel as though I were about to snap and, in so doing, snap necks, but they never know. Then again, how quickly can sad turn to mad? I’m already disturbed at the massive changes in my life—some voluntary, some not, but major alterations nonetheless. It was possible their concerns were justified, which saddened me even further and frustrated me even more. Saddened me in that they had to tip-toe around, frustrated me in that I might be as bad as they feared. Which, of course, made me angry at myself and made it more likely I would take out my anger on others…
We call this a death spiral. I’m too damn sensitive, that’s the problem. Then again, if I were a callous, heartless bastard who didn’t mind…
This. This is exactly why I need distractions.
At any rate, T’yl came in, gliding gracefully across the stone floor to seat himself on a low couch.
“You’ve been working on yourself,” I observed.
“Like it?” he asked, brushing his hair back. “I think I have my eyes shaped correctly for the first time.”
“The shape seems almost right,” I told him, looking over his work. “I think there’s something about the cheekbones. They seem a touch too… angular? Maybe they’re angled upward a little too much, or they stand out a trifle too sharply.”
“You think so? I leveled them out a bit last year.”
“Maybe it’s just me, but they do seem to stand out a tiny bit. Maybe you should get someone who does the high-society makeup and hairstyles to help.”
“That’s a very good thought. I’ve been thinking of it in terms of comparative anatomy.”
“Glad to help. You might also try mixing the color in your eyes.”
“What do you mean?”
“They seem too solid. Take a close look at the color in someone else’s eye. They may be blue or brown or whatever, but they have lots of different shades all mixed together. Yours look like paint.”
“Do they? I’ll have to look into the matter. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”
“Anytime. Now, I need your help.”
“What can I do?” he asked, leaning forward.
“I know you don’t like to talk about Kamshasa, but I intend to visit Tort and she’s living there, someplace called Kashmanir, near the border of Kolob. It’s in the territory of the House of Oloné. I need to know what you know. Or,” I amended, “enough to get by in Kamshasa while I ask around for her. Practical details, not necessarily the political process. Customs, greetings, polite behavior, that sort of thing.”
T’yl leaned back on the couch and steepled his long fingers. He looked up as he pressed the tips of his index fingers to his lips in thought.
“It is difficult to say much,” he admitted. “I was only a boy when I left Kamshasa, taken away by the magician Sarrenosh. Even before that, I lived in a more central region of Kamshasa, southwest of Ashkenar.”
“All right. How do I get by without killing everyone I meet?”
“Do you have a woman who can lead you around?”
“Not on me, but I can probably find one.”
“That should be adequate. If you have a woman to act as your lahaik, you should have no trouble.”
“What’s a… la-HAY-ick?”
“Close enough. A lahaik is like an owner, even though, technically, men are not precisely property. Rethven does not have a word for it. Think of it as if you were a stepchild to an uncaring stepmother. She is responsible for you, yes, and you must obey her in all things, but she is not precisely your owner.”
“So I need to find someone willing to be my stepmother and take me on a trip?”
“That is, I suppose, rather close.”
“Does it matter how old she is?”
“No, it is merely a matter of gender. You could be… oh, a eunuch guard, perhaps, inherited by a younger matron, or given to a second daughter as she goes out to seek her fortune.”
“Back up. Eunuch?”
“Men are not permitted arms unless they have been… ah… gentled.”
“Gentled.”
“Made less aggressive by the removal of their testicles.”
“I was pretty sure I understood you. How likely is it anyone is actually going to check?”
“Not likely,” he admitted, “but for one of the ungentled to bear arms—the penalty is death.”
“Ah. Hmm. Is there another occupation for traveling men? Preferably one that doesn’t involve castration?”
“Well, you could be a professional karasi.”
“Look, I don’t have a translation spell running, okay?”
“My apologies. A karasi is a male prostitute, typically rented for breeding or pleasure or both. You are not handsome enough—by their standards—to be considered a particularly valuable one for breeding purposes, but your looks are exotic, so it would be perfectly believable to masquerade as a karasi of pleasure.”
I had a snatch of a Louis Prima song run through my head. I’m just a gigolo, everywhere I go, people know the part I’m playing…
“What else would let us travel without getting too much attention?”
“You do not wish to be a professional lover of women?”
“T’yl,” I snapped, and checked myself. In a calmer tone, I continued. “Please stick to the subject at hand.”
“Yes. Of course. I apologize for my amusement.”
“It’s okay. I’ve just… I’ve been under a bit of strain. What else can I be?”
“I’m not sure. I would suggest simply going there with some woman you might possibly trust, if there is one. Dress humbly, carry nothing of great value or power, and simply follow her around as she does all the talking. Or, if you can stand to let someone else do the work, send a woman or ten to Kashmanir to do the seeking. When they have what you wish to know, go directly there.”
“I see. Well, thank you for the information. I’ll need to think about it.”
“Of course. How else may I be of assistance?”
“That’s all, I think. At least for now. Thank you again.”
“My pleasure.” T’yl rose, bowed, and drifted out. Someone in the hall swung the door closed.
Who could I send? Tianna? Certainly not Amber. I’d send Mary, but she’s back in Johann’s world, getting things ready. Everyone else is a wife or daughter of someone else, not really equipped for an espionage mission. What about Malana and Malena? They were hardy, deadly types. Would Lissette loan them to me?
I had Kammen go phone the palace and ask. I didn’t want my face on a mirror while I was supposed to be vanished.
In the meantime, I went back to my sand table and zoomed in on the Kashmanir area. Kamshasa is a relatively narrow strip of land along the coast of the southern continent. Kashmanir is at the eastern end of the strip, as well as about as close as you can get to the northern continent. There’s a… it’s not a strait, really, but there’s
a narrowing of the Circle Sea at that point. Crossing from one to the other involves only a couple hundred miles of water.
After some zooming in and zooming out, I started what I think of as a simple eyeball scan. With a scrying sensor parked at altitude, I looked the place over. There were a few towns, several fishing communities, and quite a few village-sized spots surrounded by crops and odd trees. What did they grow? Dates? Coconuts? Flax? Maybe I’d find out, someday. It didn’t look particularly hot, but the Shining Desert came right up to some of the more southerly reaches of Kamshasa. I guessed the Kashmanir area to be tropical, judging by the light, breezy clothing.
Looking the place over, I decided not to go with a general pan-and-scan. Oh, I could have the sand table do one simply to get an accurate detail map of the region, but my remote search would still be done by picking out the road and following it. I’ve been told she’s got a very nice house with lots of servants. This tells me it’s fairly sizable, as well as a pleasant place. Which means I can mark off all the one-family dwellings and the full-sized palaces. I want to locate all the homes fit for the upper middle class or the lower upper class…
I mentally kicked myself. Repeatedly. After all, how did I know Tort was in Kashmanir? Or that she lived in a nice house with servants?
“Hey! Me! Are you up there?”
Naturally. To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?
“Remember me asking where Tort was?”
Yes. And I’m still sorry about that. I didn’t realize you didn’t know.
“You can apologize by giving me some more details on where she is, exactly.”
Sure. How?
“Can you manipulate my sand table?”
Nope. Not allowed.
“Not allowed?”
I can’t directly affect anything in the material realms.
“Didn’t we just make a holy relic?”
That’s different. I was working through you.
“Oh, I get it. You can’t control the sand table—or do anything else—without a mortal channel. Or, rather, you’re not allowed to. Yes?”
That’s right. And, after the last time, I’m guessing you don’t want to do it again.
I really wish I could grind my teeth together. There’s just something wrong with clamping them together and not having any wiggle room at all. Given how sharp they are, thank god I don’t need to floss.
