Fire and Dust

by James Gardner

  «Peel it,» he gurgled, the pronunciation fuzzed by his wounded tongue. «Peel it hard!»

  Wheezle struggled to twist Unveiler out of Kiripao's hands, but the monk simply smiled – a smile with blood-smeared teeth. He lifted the scepter, with Wheezle clinging fiercely to it, and swung it at high speed over the edge of the ramp. His intention was obviously to play crack-the-whip: spin Wheezle out, then give Unveiler a vicious snap that would send the gnome flying free. Wheezle would fly a long way; they had moved far enough up the ramp that the squid tank was no longer beneath them.

  The drop was now a full nine storeys down to the cobblestone street.

  Wheezle's feet lifted off the ramp as Kiripao swung the scepter. His body swept out to the horizontal, but he maintained his grip, hands clenched on the artifact he called an abomination – to a Dustman, death was far less terrible than what Unveiler could do to an undead soul. Kiripao gave the scepter a snapping jerk to throw Wheezle free… but the little Dustman found some well of strength as deep as death itself and clung on despite the jolt to his wrists.

  Kiripao had never imagined the gnome would keep hold. Brother Monk had thrown everything he had into the snap; now he was off-balance, Wheezle's weight dragging him forward to the edge of the ramp. For a split-second, Kiripao fought to keep his feet… then both he and Wheezle were plunging away from the tower, hurtling toward the ground.

  «November!» I shouted. But the alu had already taken to her wings, swooping after the two with every scrap of speed she possessed. Time blossomed the way it sometimes does when you can only watch the inevitable. November sped like a sling bullet through the smoke, through the darkness; and I could see she would make it, she was right on target. Her arms reached forward, one aiming for Wheezle, one for Kiripao…

  …and Kiripao lashed out a fist as hard as iron, hooking around November's head and smashing into her closest wing.

  The wing bones didn't just break, they shattered… as if they had always been as flimsy as twigs and someone had finally called their bluff. The other wing, still intact, spread wide as November reflexively tried to use it as a brake; but its effect was minimal, providing no more than a meagre ability to steer. All three, gnome, elf, and alu plummeted downward.

  Just before impact, Kiripao threw out his arms and gave a single flap, as if he had an umbral's wings to pull out of the dive. He didn't; and with a last sweep of her good wing, November twisted the falling group so that Kiripao took the brunt of the crash.

  The crunch was loud enough to hear nine storeys above.

  Thanks to her last second maneuver, November came out on top of the heap. After a few moments, she rolled off the other two and onto the cobblestones, clutching her belly as if she'd ruptured something. Her good wing jerked back into place across her shoulders; her bad wing trailed out across the pavement like some limp cloth streamer barely attached to her body. She made a weak gesture in our direction, but at that distance, I couldn't understand what she meant.

  Wheezle stirred. His fall had been broken by Kiripao beneath him, but he'd still had November squash down on his body from above. As the gnome pulled himself off the motionless monk, I saw that his legs were dragging uselessly behind.

  «Oh Wheezle,» Yasmin whispered. «Your spine again?»

  There was no way to tell how badly he was injured. But the little gnome still held Unveiler, even as he crawled to the street curb and propped himself up so he could face the Vertical Sea.

  I looked down at the lower levels of the tower. Every wight had stopped in its tracks… waiting, watching Wheezle.

  The gnome raised the scepter. «Hoksha ptock!» he shrieked, his voice so piercing it echoed over and over again from the surrounding tenements.

  Unveiler erupted with sickly green radiance, blindingly bright against the darkness of the street. The faces nearby were lit as clearly as day, November grimacing, Wheezle stone-faced with determination… and Kiripao, blood trickling darkly from his nose. The extra illumination made it easy to see the unnatural angle between Kiripao's head and body. I had seen such an angle once before: at a public hanging.

  «Hoksha ptock!» Wheezle shrieked again.

  From every level of the Vertical Sea came the sound of wights hissing. «Sssss… sssss.» They had started rocking, wavering in unison as the glow of Unveiler intensified. «Sssss… sssss.» A hundred wights swayed together on the burning tower; I could feel shivers through my feet as the tower itself vibrated in synchrony. Wights above, wights below. «Sssss… sssss.»

  The living thugs, down on the lowest levels, had begun to flee for the street. Given the fire and the behavior of the wights, they must have decided their jobs with Rivi were terminated. Those who reached the pavement first didn't spare a second glance at Wheezle or the others; they simply ran, disappearing into the impenetrable warrens of the Hive.

  "Sssss… sssss.

  Sssss… sssss."

  Wheezle held Unveiler over his head, the scepter's metal blazing like a small green sun. My mind went back to Petrov, holding the same scepter and consumed with anti-magic fire; for the first time, I wondered if Unveiler might be burning hot in the little gnome's hands. He showed no sign of pain – nothing but an iron-clad resolve to finish what he had started.

  «Hoksha ptock!» Wheezle said. This time he didn't shout; but his words carried just the same, resounding the full twenty storeys of the tower.

  Every wight turned to ectoplasm in the blink of an eye.

  Floods of ectoplasm spilled down the ramps, down the stairs, splashing into the fish-tanks to form gooey slicks on the water, slopping in cascades down to the pavement, plopping in huge drops on our heads, our shoulders. Runnels of it poured into the fire; and like fuel oil, the fluid ignited into a blue-hot blaze, the flames racing up the ectoplasmic streams faster than the liquid could fall. In seconds, the fire had spread to a dozen other levels of the tower, spewing greasy smoke as it fed on the wights' last remains.

  Wheezle slumped back limply against the curb. Unveiler slid from his strengthless hand.

  * * *

  «Wheezle!» Yasmin cried.

  Her voice choked off as a sudden gust of smoke billowed up from the floor beneath us. Not only did the smoke make it impossible to see the ground, it brought home the precariousness of our own situation.

  «We have to get out of here!» I shouted, as flames roared from below.

  «Say, there's an idea!» Yasmin replied. «Why didn't I think of it?»

  We turned back to our companions. Only Irene was still standing on the ramp, and she had calmly lowered the train of her bridal gown into the tank to let Miriam climb out. Miriam fought to extricate herself and Hezekiah from a weight of squid now attached to both their bodies; but Yasmin and I rushed forward to help, jabbing our swords carefully to persuade tentacles to let go. In seconds, Miriam had wrenched herself all the way out, and together we hauled Hezekiah onto the ramp with us.

  «He's out cold,» Miriam muttered, giving the boy a few sharp whaps on the face. «Still breathing though.»

  «Kiripao hit him pretty hard,» I replied. «Harder than the kid could take, anyway. I'll carry him.»

  «No,» Miriam said, «I will.»

  I didn't fight her for the honor – a sopping wet Clueless was not something I really wanted to throw over my shoulder. Miriam, however, was already soaked to the skin, so carrying the kid wouldn't drench her further.

  «You grab the boy,» Yasmin nodded to Miriam, «and then let's peel it. Britlin, show Irene the way to the portal.»

  «The portal?» I shuddered.

  «It's the only way out,» she said. «Hezekiah can't teleport. November can't fly up to us with that broken wing. There are a dozen fires between us and the ground, not to mention the entire tower's going to fall any second. Up to the portal before it all tumbles down!»

  * * *

  The first tank fell as Irene and I were coming to the top of the stairs. It came from a few levels below us, down where the fire had been burning the
longest; a huge vat of water and fish breaking through its weakened supports and crashing down onto the next level. The whole tower quaked with the force of the impact – I couldn't see the extent of the damage, but I could hear the cracking of timbers, and feel the sudden bend as the tower pitched out of balance. Only quick reflexes allowed me to grab the stair railing with one hand and Irene with the other.

  «Your majesty is most eager,» Irene smiled.

  «Sure am,» I muttered under my breath. «This is exactly how I pictured a honeymoon would be.»

  As we stepped onto the next catwalk, however, I sighed with relief. I had half-expected to see Rivi waiting for us, brandishing yet another of the Fox's firewands; but the nasty wee albino was nowhere in sight. No doubt she had retreated through the portal as soon as the fire hit the fan.

  This level of the tower had less smoke than the one below, but our visibility was still obscured – wisps of steam rose off the tank of dogfish below us, as the fires beneath heated the water. A tank that size would take ages to come to a boil, but already the little sharks were darting about in agitation, thunking desperately against the tank walls. Their fear churned the surface, splashing hot water across the boards of the cat-walk.

  «Don't worry,» I assured Irene, «we're almost safe. Just ahead there's a portal that will take us out of here.»

  I didn't mention that a homicidal psionicist could be lurking on the other side, waiting to trample our brains. Nor did I mention that Rivi might have more wights with her, or thugs, or a firewand, or other lethal tricks we hadn't seen yet. I thought those were our only concerns… until Irene brought up an issue that had completely slipped my mind.

  «And what,» she asked, «is the key to this portal?»

  «Key,» I said. «Key. Yes. We need a key.»

  The key to this portal was, of course, a picture of oneself. I didn't have such a thing. I doubted my companions would either – they all wore naga-spun clothing, so I had to assume that all their possessions had burned when they entered the Arching Flame. Yasmin's sword must have had enough magic to survive, just as mine did; but everything else was gone, cinders, smoke.

  «Sod it all!» I muttered. No paper, nothing to draw with… oh yes, in time the tower would be a plentiful source of charcoal, but by then we'd be charcoal too. Could I use the tip of my rapier to scratch out on image on a chunk of wood? Maybe, if I had a useful chunk of wood; but the Vertical Sea was built of stout beams and planks, and nothing close to hand was thin enough to chop or pry loose.

  Think, Britlin, think. How do you make a picture when you can't make a picture?

  «Okay,» I told myself. «Other artists do this all the time. Nothing to it.» Turning to Irene, I bowed deeply. «Your pardon, good lady, but I require a swatch of your gown.»

  «Ahh,» she said, a gleam in her eye. «You are so bold.» She didn't flinch as I lifted my rapier and sliced out a section of cloth the size of my hand, taken from the bottom front of the dress.

  White satin of the finest silk, smeared with unidentifiable smudges of brown and green. Lovely.

  «Now, milady, a lock of your hair.»

  She lifted an eyebrow, but there was a smile on her face.

  * * *

  By the time the others arrived – Miriam cradling Hezekiah's unconscious body, while Yasmin kept her steady whenever the tower shuddered – I had assembled a somber montage on the catwalk in front of me.

  A scrap of stained silk, frayed on the edges.

  A few weedy strands of gray hair.

  A shred of Irene's veil, covering the hair.

  Four thin splinters of wood shaved off the catwalk, lined up side by side on the white cloth; one of the splinters was partly broken halfway down, canted off at an angle.

  «Britlin,» Yasmin scowled, «what do you think you're doing?»

  «I'm making a portrait of Irene. It's an abstract.»

  «Oh.» Yasmin leaned over my shoulder. «It needs a teardrop.»

  «I know it needs a teardrop!» I snapped. «Any fool can see it needs a teardrop.» Pause. «Where does it need a teardrop?»

  «On the veil,» Yasmin and Miriam said in unison.

  «Okay.» I bent over the catwalk and reached down toward the fish-tank.

  «What are you doing now?» Yasmin asked.

  «I'm going to dip my finger in the vat. Get some water, get a teardrop.»

  «That just gives you a water drop, Britlin.» Yasmin sighed. «You're making art – you want to ruin it?»

  «Men!» Miriam muttered under her breath.

  «Fine!» I said. «Irene, can you produce a teardrop?»

  «A sad tear or a happy one?»

  I turned to other two women. «Your opinion, ladies?»

  Before they could answer, another vat of fish fell off the tower. This one started three stories above us: smashing down to the next lower level, then angling off a slanted beam that tipped the tank sideways and deflected it to the rear of the structure. Several tons of water and confused lobsters streamed past us in a thunderous cataract, followed by the heavy vat itself.

  «No point getting picky about the type of tear,» Yasmin said quickly.

  «Yeah,» Miriam nodded. «The leatherheaded portal can't tell the difference.»

  * * *

  Like many a bride, Irene had a ready source of tears; happy or sad, I couldn't say. She took almost no time to deposit a lady-like dewdrop on the veil of my collage… and speed was good, considering the ominous creaks now wracking every inch of the tower. The Vertical Sea's lifetime could be measured in minutes, if not seconds, and we fervently hoped to relocate before it collapsed.

  I spared a last glance at our comrades down below on the street, and was relieved to see November dragging Wheezle into a nearby alley. She could barely stand, her body doubled over with the pain of her own injuries; yet the look of determination on her face showed she would get the gnome to safety before the tower came crashing down. They were still in serious danger – in the Hive at night, with a price on their heads – but they would not die in an avalanche of lumber and boiled prawn.

  Now to make sure we didn't die either. «Irene,» I said, putting the collage carefully into the orc-woman's hands, «you're going to lead us through the portal now. You're holding the key.»

  I hoped I was telling her the truth. Yasmin and Miriam might believe a few scraps could substitute as a portrait, but I was far from convinced. Yes, the assemblage suggested a deluded bride – dirty silk, a broken splinter, an ambiguous tear – but was it enough? Would the portal accept a depiction that was at most vaguely evocative? Or did its magic require a clean representation of face, flesh, and bone?

  A beam overhead gave a loud crack as flames licked around its girth. «Go ahead, Irene,» I said, swallowing hard. «I'm sure this will work.»

  «Of course, your majesty,» she answered with a small curtsy. Showing no doubt at all, she walked toward the dim outline of the portal, the rest of us following behind…

  …and the portal opened.

  Dust skirled around us, buffeting our cheeks. The wind had to come from the Glass Spider itself – air leaking out, or perhaps deliberately sprayed to keep dust from accumulating around the entrance. Putting my arm around Irene to keep her on her feet, I pushed forward against the gale, unable to see if the door in front of us was open. It was; and as soon as we had fought our way inside, it slid shut with a hiss, closing off the rasping rush of the duststorm.

  «How about that!» I said to the others. «The sodding collage actually worked. The portal thought it was a picture of Irene!»

  «This is a picture of me?» she asked, looking down dubiously at the scrap of cloth, the hair, the wood splinters.

  «Absolutely,» I told her, laughing with relief. «We got approval straight from the portal's mouth.»

  «Then,» she said graciously, «I must add this to my hope chest… to complement my other portrait.» She reached into her bodice and withdrew a cheap tin locket. «See this?» She opened the locket to show me a
tiny watercolor of herself, perhaps thirty years younger. «Rather a good likeness, don't you think?»

  I looked at the watercolor, then at the collage, then at the watercolor again. Don't ask me which was the better portrait – ask the sodding portal.

  22. THREE TIMES THE BANG FOR THE BERK

  Miriam laid Hezekiah on the floor of the entrance area… not far from the smear of blood where we'd found the dead hobgoblin the first time we came to the Glass Spider. «How is he?» Yasmin asked.

  «Still breathing,» Miriam replied, trying to sound unconcerned. «He'll come around when he's ready.»

  «And what do we do in the meantime?»

  «The last time we were here,» I said, «you talked about a portal to Mount Celestia.»

  «Yeah,» Miriam nodded. «The place is supposed to be boring as a beadle, but at least no one will slip a dagger into your kidneys.»

  «And Mount Celestia has gates to Sigil?» Yasmin asked.

  «Every plane has gates to Sigil,» I said. «We'll find something.» I glanced back at Miriam. «Have you ever visited Mount Celestia?»

  She shook her head without meeting my gaze. «Didn't think I'd be welcome. They, uhhh… the Mount Celestials have a reputation for hunting down evil.»

  «You are not evil,» Irene said without hesitation, «you are simply gruff. It is unfair to judge people as wicked, just because… they are gruff.»

  I got the feeling our orc friend was speaking of someone other than Miriam; but she suddenly shifted her bridal veil and lowered it over her face, turning away as she did. Whatever submerged pain had bubbled to the surface, she didn't want to share it.

  There was a brief but awkward silence. Finally, Yasmin said, «Whatever any of us might have been, we aren't evil now. There's only one true evil in the Glass Spider, and that's Rivi.»

  «She's probably not in the Spider any more,» Miriam muttered. «Odds are she's done a flit out one of the other portals… and not to Mount Celestia.»