Nightlord: Orb

by Garon Whited

  “That’s beside the point!”

  “That’s true. Any lack of the virtue of charity is another matter entirely. However, if you have some sort of objection, madam, I urge you to go pray about it. And then, with the guidance of your faith and within the tenets of your religion, do the right thing. I’m sure Fred will be behind you, right at your heel, every step of the way. In fact, as soon as you explain it to everyone in the neighborhood, I’m sure they’ll all do the right thing.

  “I, for one, will be here. Good day to you.”

  I laced my fingers behind my head and closed my eyes. She kept trying to talk to me anyway. I tried to emulate Bronze and pretended to be a statue. I moved only to greet fresh contributors and explain the schedule. We were making a pretty good haul even without the people who promised to come back. Myrna eventually went away, hopefully to start some sort of fund-raising on her own. I suspected there would be some hell-raising along with it, but Myrna wouldn’t see it that way. People like her never do.

  When the Three got back from school they rushed right over. Patricia took over the stand while Luke and Edgar helped me transfer our latest loot to storage. I also got a five-gallon bucket, cut a hole in the lid like an oversized coin slot, and painted “Can you spare a dime?” on it. We put it at one end of the stand.

  We were still moving stuff when Susan and a woman I didn’t know started setting up a table next to our stand. Susan folded a posterboard sign reading “Bake Sale” into a sort of tent shape, hiding the words, and instead drew a big, black arrow on it. She placed it on the folding table so it pointed at the bucket. Then she and half a dozen other ladies started trotting out all sorts of home-baked goodies. Velma’s cookies were especially tempting; nobody, but nobody, bakes like a grandmother.

  I barely had time to get formally introduced to the rest of the neighborhood ladies before the flood started. I turned away people all day, telling them when the kids would have the stand. It was the kids’ stand, not mine, and they should get the pleasure of accepting donations for their friend. I didn’t expect anyone to actually come back.

  I was wrong. I have been more wrong, but not often. I’ve also been wrong about things I was very sad to be wrong about, but this wasn’t one of them.

  The people I turned away not only came back, they brought friends. One guy, with an old gas-burning truck, not only returned with the furniture he tried to give me, but he also came back again with a second load. We put two couches and three easy chairs—old, but still solid and comfortable—on the sidewalk and on the walk up to the now-missing door. He drove the rest of it to the end of the street and we put it in my barn.

  The charity drive became a lawn party. People came to drop things off, stayed for a bit, ate a cookie or a slice of cake, bought lemonade, and put money in the bucket before they left. I discovered some people still use checkbooks, too; more than one check went into the bucket. A number of people wanted to use their skinphones to load a digital stick. I didn’t know they could do that, but I had a digital stick. I put Edgar in charge of it; he parked himself at the end of the table with the coin bucket and held the stick up whenever someone walked past him.

  I think his serious, earnest expression earned us twice what the bucket did.

  Myrna showed up and took over the bake sale. She didn’t change anything, but assumed a sort of authority over the yard and bossed the place. Once again the center of attention, she was all smiles and good humor. She didn’t speak to me or to the children, though. I suspect the kids didn’t mind. I know I didn’t.

  The picture-taker showed up—Elias Watson, a blogger and newsie, whatever a “newsie” is. He took pictures of the kids at their stand, of the people lining up to help, everything. He interviewed people, especially the kids, and, rather involuntarily, accepted Myrna’s press release. He also wanted to know how long this was going to go on.

  “Gary gets out of the hospital tomorrow,” Luke told him. “His Dad might get out by the end of the week. We’ll stick until his Dad can collect his stuff.”

  News to me. Nobody tells me anything.

  We finished moving the loot into the house and barn after it got dark. I took a “bathroom break” around sunset—that took a while; sunsets seem longer on round worlds than flat ones—before coming back out to finish.

  I had to carry the bucket. That’s a lot of loose change.

  My original thought for the evening was to head straight out to see if Mary was around. Now, though, I had to deal with the aftermath of charity. Fortunately, it’s not hard to find an automated coin-counter machine. It put the total on our digital stick. The same machine did the same with the folding money. Checks were the hard part. I totaled them up, deposited them in my own account, and consolidated it all.

  The accounting paperwork took a while, but I was done before midnight.

  I can calculate a cometary orbit or work out the equations of a new spell, but financial wizardry is still a mystery to me. Oh, well. That’s why I hire that sort of talent.

  After some consideration, I’ve decided tomorrow night should go more quickly. The first flood will hopefully taper off over the rest of the week and be less of a job to tally up. I’ll stay in tonight and try to finish my concrete project.

  Mixing concrete in an Oklahoma thunderstorm is not rewarding. I moved everything into the barn and grumbled back at the weather. It didn’t seem to care.

  Well, there’s always my ruthenium and iridium experiments. I went into the house to play with electricity and space.

  Footnote: Oklahoma storms are quite capable of knocking out even modern power lines. This is not helpful when you’re in the middle of a project to warp space or build an electromagical transformer. You’d think they would have figured out a way to prevent that by now.

  Maybe I should look up the local gods and see if the one in charge of weather is ticked off at me. I’m not sure what I could have done, though.

  I guess I can practice brooding darkly in my lair. It’s something I’m supposed to be good at, after all. Have to keep up the standards, right?

  You could have a nap, Boss.

  “What for?”

  You haven’t slept in a long time. Plus, you do that whole psychic visions thing when you relax your brain.

  “See, now, that’s kind of the reason I don’t want to.”

  Psychic dreams?

  “Relaxing my brain.”

  I don’t get it.

  “I’ve recently had a good look at the nastiness my conscious mind sits on top of. I’ve had enough of it to last a lifetime. I’d rather not let it out.”

  But you’re immortal, Boss.

  “I know.”

  Don’t you need to sleep? I mean, eventually? Elves are immortal and they sleep. Even dragons sleep. We’re famous for it.

  “Dragons are famous for burning things and eating everything else.”

  That, too, Firebrand agreed, smugly. But dragons also sleep for ages.

  “Good. But I don’t know that I ever actually need to sleep.”

  Maybe you should try. You might notice a difference. Maybe not, but you could do that whole experimenting thing you love so much.

  “And let my personal demons loose in my mental study? No, thank you.”

  Suit yourself. Thought I ought to mention it. Although, if the personal demons are all you’re concerned about, Bronze and I can keep an eye on things.

  “Maybe later. Right now, the idea of sleeping and letting my subconscious mind run wild makes my skin crawl.”

  I thought that was snakes, not vampires? Firebrand asked, doubtfully.

  “Shed. Snakes have their skin shed, not crawl.”

  Oh, right.

  “I thought you were once a dragon.”

  Not the same thing, Boss. Dragons don’t shed their skins.

  “They don’t? Then how do they grow?”

  Our skins and scales get bigger, too.

  “But what if you lose a scale?”

  They grow back,
of course. Why?

  “I thought they left a bare patch if knocked off.”

  For a while, yeah. A couple of years, maybe.

  “Shows what I know. Thanks for setting me straight.”

  Anytime. Want to get back to brooding, now?

  “I do need the practice.”

  Tuesday, November 3rd

  I manned—well, monstered—the stand shortly after sunrise. Fred was already there, bundled up against the change in weather and sipping hot coffee from a thermos. He waved as I approached and moved from my big chair to one of the folding ones. The air was cold and the ground was wet; his chair sank a little in the yard. That was one reason I built the big one. It had a large, flat footprint and was unlikely to sink significantly even under my weight.

  “Morning, Fred.”

  “Morning, Vlad. Coffee?”

  “No, but thanks; I get up early for a hearty breakfast.”

  “I wish I had. How was your night?”

  “Busy. I’m no accountant.” I decided not to mention the power outage; it was much later. Most people probably slept through it. I settled into my chair. “Nice to see you here.”

  “Yes. About that…” he trailed off. I put my feet up and relaxed. He’d get to it when he got to it. It took him the space of a long, awkward silence to sort out what he wanted to say.

  “You’re probably wondering,” he began, “why I’m here this morning.”

  “Nope.”

  “No?” he asked, surprised.

  “I figure Myrna put you up to it.”

  “I suppose, looked at in a certain light… yes. In a way. You’re not wrong, but I’m not sure you’re right, either.” He sighed, the very picture of a man with troubles. “Vlad, can I ask a favor?”

  “Sure, Fred. Larry still has my ladder.”

  “What? No, not that. It’s about Myrna.”

  “Oh. The shovel is in the barn.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” he said, somewhat sharply. I guess he had cause. “I’m talking about the way you spoke to her yesterday.”

  “What about it?”

  “She’s my wife, Vlad. Now, I admit I only heard her side of it. She says you were insufferably rude.” He held up a hand as I took a breath. “I know—she’s easily offended. She can also come across as bossy and rude, herself. Do you think I don’t know it? I’ve been married to her for fourteen years, Vlad.”

  “Huh. I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  “What I’m trying to get at is I know she can be a pain, but she means well. Usually, she does good things around the neighborhood… in her busybody way, of course.” He sighed. “I do my best to keep everyone’s feathers down when she rubs them the wrong way.”

  “Maybe you’re not doing her a favor,” I suggested.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe it would be better if she did get snapped at a few times. She might adjust.”

  “Perhaps. But… look, Vlad, can I ask you to keep a secret?”

  “Okay.”

  “I need your promise never to speak of it,” he insisted. Now I was interested.

  “Very well. I promise.”

  “There’s a reason Myrna is so… so…”

  “Intrusive? Snoopy? Overbearing?”

  “Not quite the words I wanted, but not unjustified,” Fred admitted. “Thing is, she needs something like that to do. A cause, a project, whatever you want to call it.”

  “Oh?”

  “She can’t have children, Vlad.”

  “Oh.”

  “She… I guess she kind of makes up for it by trying to be a surrogate mother authority-figure to everyone around her. It’s not that she’s trying to make your life miserable—far from it! She wants everything to be perfect in her neighborhood. And she wants to make it so herself, to be the person to do that.” He paused to sip at his coffee. “I’m probably not explaining this too well.”

  “I think you’re doing a fine job. And I think I get it.”

  Well, damn. I’m discovering all sorts of hidden depths to people. First, Mark isn’t merely an unwashed, beer-guzzling, child-abusing single father; he’s a loyal friend with some metal in his backbone who, when the chips are down, will change his whole life around for the sake of his son. Now Myrna, the neighborhood busybody and gossip, is trying to find some sort of substitute for motherhood by being involved in everyone’s life. The fact both of them offend me is still relevant, but being offended doesn’t, by itself, make me right.

  How do you despise someone when you understand and empathize with their reasons? What happened to the old days when I could despise people for being unpleasant and let it go at that? Is it a difference in the cultures, the worlds, or is it me?

  “That’s why I’m here this morning,” Fred continued. “She was really hurt by your comments—whatever they were. No, don’t tell me. I’m sure she deserved every word. Still, it hurt her feelings, and now she’s determined to be involved in the kids’ project.” He finished the cup and screwed it back into place on his thermos. “If you insist, I’ll go home, but it would make her feel better if you’d let me stay.”

  Great. I’m surrounded by decent people. What am I doing in this neighborhood?

  “Can’t kick you to the curb, Fred,” I told him. “It’s not my lemonade stand. It belongs to a bunch of neighborhood kids.”

  “I think I understand,” Fred replied. “I’ll just sit here for a while, then. If you need a break, I’ll keep an eye on it for you.”

  “Thanks for the help. I’d be glad to have someone I can trust. Remember, we tell people to come back so the kids can collect it, if possible. We’ll take it, whatever it is, if they insist they can’t come back, but anyone who can come by after school should do so.”

  “We’ll lose contributions that way,” he pointed out.

  “We might, but anyone who does come back will make the proprietors happy. It’s not about maximizing collections. Those three need to do something for their friend. That’s what this is about. So we lose a few donations—big deal. We’re not a business, trying to meet expenses. We’re helping kids who feel helpless learn they aren’t.”

  “Are you sure you’re not religious?” he asked, chuckling. “You might make a fine preacher.”

  “I don’t have to be religious to recognize a good deed when I see one. They’re generally the things that startle me; I don’t see them all that often. And these kids are quite startling.”

  “Fair enough.”

  We sat there together and waved back at the Three as they rode off to school. After that, I left the stand in Fred’s care and went home to my spacewarp bench model.

  I think I’m on the wrong track.

  My original idea was that pre-stretching the fabric of space it would make it easier to open a magical gateway in that zone. To use a water metaphor, it would be like stirring the water by hand to get it moving before starting the whirlpool generator. That’s what it looks like through a gate, anyway. It’s not unreasonable to think along those lines.

  It doesn’t seem to work that way. I’m using a couple of cardboard toilet-paper rolls as gates. They’re easy to write on and small enough to be relatively cheap on the magical front.

  Yes, I use toilet paper. There are also children around who occasionally need to use the bathroom immediately, rather than go all the way home. As for my own biological waste, the less said the better. Trust me on this one.

  The target gate faces a lamp so it’s easy to tell when they form a connection. Every time I’ve tried to open my tiny point-to-point gates with a warp magnet on, it’s taken more power than I expected, not less. I think there’s something fundamentally flawed with my hypothesis. Maybe I need stabilized space to open a gate, rather than weakened space? If so, the experiments aren’t a total loss. Maybe iridium warp magnets could be used to defend an area from that sort of magical intrusion.

  Wait a minute. What if I made a miniature gate out of iridium? Would it be a better material to m
ake a gate out of?

  I think I need to get some more iridium. No, I need to order some iridium already made into rings; iridium is one of the hardest elemental metals. I’ll get someone else to do the heavy lifting on forming it.

  The ruthenium is another story. I’m moderately optimistic about using it as a transformer coil. I only have one ingot, but if I treat it like an electrical transformer, it emits a magical field, not a magnetic one. This produces a detectable level of power.

  This could be the key to producing magical energy from other energy sources. Technomagical devices? Enchanted technology? Maybe. All I know is the potential is there. I’ll start fiddling with the ingot and see if I can enhance the transformative properties by putting spells on the metal. If so, I could be on to something big. I could go to a non-magical world and have a way to make the magical energy I need to get out of it!

  Which brings me to my cosmological questions. I already have the idea that universes can be ranked, or stacked, in a sort of trickle-down diagram based on their magical potential. High-magic universes are higher up; low-magic universes lower down. Using magical energy in one universe causes a portion of that power to flow downward into a lower-magic universe, which is how magic can accomplish work.

  How does the warping of space affect that? Another question: are all universes of similar magical potential—all of them on the same level in that hypothetical ranking—similar in other ways? If a universe has an arbitrary magic rating of six, is it the only one with that exact rating? Or could there be a whole layer of the diagram with a dozen, or hundreds, or an infinite number of exactly magic-rating-six universes?

  I really need to build a gate. A highly efficient gate, one I can use for experiments without exhausting my magical budget for a month. As it is, the warp magnets will not help with that.

  I started dissecting the gate spell itself, then. It’s a highly-complex spell with… forgive me, but I’m going to have to use a computer metaphor. If a spell is a program, then a gate spell has tons of subroutines. I would expect it to, naturally. It has to handle all sorts of different things to work correctly. It has to be able to lock on to a destination. It has to adjust to the different shapes of two gates—you don’t want to find your shape warped by going through a round gate and coming out a rectangular one, for example. You’d look like a funhouse mirror victim. Gates also have to adjust for relative velocities; a gate from one universe to another, for example, has to let you come out normally at the other end, not traveling at some ridiculous speed in a random direction. All sorts of stuff.