Vivian Amberville - The Weaver of Odds

by Louise Blackwick

  ‘Is you saying Mama Vadda liar?’

  ‘No, no, I was just wondering—’

  ‘—sixty ruvi!’ interrupted Mama Vadda through unblinking eyes.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hula Synnoyia, I seen retrograde eels goes faster than you. The price, prettie. Howdya expect Mama Vadda ta put food on the table by just answering questions, hmm? Pays it or move. Got customer waiting,’ mumbled the vendor, pointing at the queue that had formed behind Vivian.

  Vivian produced a full Æn. ‘Sorry ‘bout that,’ she pocketed the woven wristlet. ‘Keep the change.’

  Vivian was on the verge of leaving when the vendor angrily grabbed her wrist. She felt Kaap stir uncomfortably inside her backpack.

  ‘ Keep the change ? What’cha playing at, hmm?’ rambled the vendor.

  Vivian looked back in confusion. ‘Sorry, but isn’t one Æn worth a hundred ruvi? Whereas you asked for sixty—’

  ‘—most unnatural!’ barked the vendor, blood rushing into her face. ‘Why pay more than its value, hmm? Is you saying Mama Vadda not honest merchant?’

  It had just dawned on Vivian how incredibly different Ærria really was. People in her world would have sold their soul for ten pence, whereas here was Mama Vadda being insulted for receiving a tip.

  ‘How dares you slur Mama Vadda? You little—’

  The offended vendor seemed to be thinking hard which clever curse word to use best. The raging profanity seemed to be travelling up Mama Vadda’s arm, only to suddenly die in her mouth.

  ‘—silly girl,’ she finally said, pushing the purple coin back into Vivian’s fist. A look of infinite revelation had replaced her infuriated features. ‘You needn’t pays here. You gets it free!’

  Vivian Amberville spent the morning wondering what had happened.

  The jewellery stand wasn’t the only place she had noticed a change in the natural order of things. Everywhere she went merchants showered Vivian with gifts and giveaways. Though everyone acted ordinarily enough when spoken to at first, they seemed to change a mere minute into the conversation. It was as though by a fluke in the universal flow of reality, every event was going her way.

  She returned to the Haijk with a miscellany of random items: a comb that would restore permanent hair loss, vanishing creams that would actually vanish the bits it was applied to, sweets that repaired your damaged teeth when chewed and a manky old pair of boots whose shoelaces had to be tethered, lest they left footprints on your walls.

  ‘You’re a middling – a human,’ Lady Saah established after Vivian had recounted the events of the day for an umpteenth time, ‘and humans are believed to have rather potent imagination.’

  Vivian looked confused. ‘So you reckoned I imagined it all?’ she eyed the assorted junk she got from the marketplace. ‘That it was merely the work of chance?’

  The Artisan shook her head. ‘That’s not what I meant, dear. There is no “work of chance”. Chances are where one trusts they are. What I meant is that Kaalà is only as strong as your imagination. Middlings are strong in Kaalà, for they can imagine without seeing, and that which they imagine, comes to life.’

  Vivian’s coal-black eyes widened in fascination. ‘Are you saying humans can imagine things true?’

  In her mind’s eye, Vivian saw Ala Spuria’s room 209, and how her decision to imagine better circumstances for herself had quickly led to her escape from the children shelter.

  Lady Saah was watching Vivian with curiosity.

  ‘Kaalà is one of the oldest forces of the cosmos, yet it is also one of the most elusive. Alarians have wasted themselves trying to master it. Some of them—’ she suddenly stopped, her quicksilver eyes capturing the purple light of a nearby candle.

  Vivian pulled herself closer to the fireplace.

  ‘—some of them will do just about anything for it. The Weavers have long decided that to understand the cosmos is to control it. To control our birth-given freewill. That’s how that ill-fated Pattern of Threads came to run our lives.’

  The Artisan’s fingers gently stroked the hairy ball of black fur coiled around her feet. The sleeping Kaap made a sound similar to purring, before flipping on his side and continuing his slumber.

  ‘What you did today, dear… you needn’t worry. Kaalà’s effects are very discreet,’ said the Artisan after a long wait.

  ‘What about odds? Can one alter the odds by imagining better odds?’

  Lady Saah smiled her ear-to-ear smile and gently shook her head.

  ‘Whatever gave you the idea,’ she laughed. ‘If there is something all Weavers learn as part of their lore is Lazuli’s Law of Exception: that which cannot be touched by hand, cannot be moved by Kaalà . If you cannot touch it, you cannot Weave into it. Odds, most unfortunately, confirm the exception. Odds are part of a cosmic constant called Predicament, and no one – not even Weavers – can unweave Predicaments.’

  ‘Why build a Pattern then,’ said Vivian, crossing her arms, ‘if not to control reality?’

  Lady Saah pouted. ‘The Weavers are fools to believe they can use the Pattern to control the cosmos. Not indefinitely, at least. Kaalà is not the only force at work. It all evens out in the end.’

  The old kettle screeched and the Artisan rushed to the scullery to prepare supper.

  Vivian dropped the subject, but in her heart of hearts continued to believe. Ever since receiving the Thread of All Tongues, her everyday chores had gradually moved away from house chores and towards running errands for Lady Saah. Her to-do list now included daily trips to the herbs merchant and weekly sittings of mixing ointments, distilling tonics and fermenting brews.

  There were ten days in an Alarian week and not a day went by without Vivian learning something new about Artisanship. Before long, Vivian came to know all the thirty five thousand different types of medicinal herbs, roots and fungi sold by the herbs merchant and the various ways to mix them.

  Moreover, despite the Artisan’s scepticism, she reinforced her belief that she could bend the odds to her will. It was a different kind of Weaving, Vivian thought. A power manifested through the warm magic of “how are yours”, “thank yous” and “have a pleasant resting”.

  After the shortest time, the Sole-Day-City of Solidago had quickly opened to Vivian. Everywhere she went, respect and politeness summoned wooden doors out of stone walls. Considering how rude and generally impatient the Alarians were, Vivian wasn’t surprised they believed to have little control over their own circumstances. Whether by the cosmic laws of Kaalà or the mundane powers of good manners , Lazuli’s Law of Exception refused to apply to her.

  One morning, Herbart the herbs merchant had just finished Vivian’s daily pickup bundle of allay roots when the terrified voice of a man ensued from a nearby shop.

  ‘Ten thousand blades of Shirvek steel, as ordered, Your Grace. Imported them straight from Hoarfrosta and already tested in battle. It’s the f-f-fiii—, F-f-fiii—‘ he swallowed ‘—greatest steel in all Ærria.’

  A voice riddled with cold replied. ‘Show me!’

  Vivian honed her ears to listen in.

  The voices seem to come from The Farrier’s Forge , the only smithy in the city.

  There was a clinking of dropped swords followed by the sound of a frightened man, clumsily shuffling about, trying to pick them up.

  ‘S-s-so—, s-s-sor—‘ gulped the blacksmith ‘—apologies, Your Grace. Wasn’t an easy get, these.’

  ‘And why is that, farrier?’

  ‘Y-your Grace? Our laws are c-c-clear, are they not? No w-w-weap, w-w-weapo—’ he stuttered, before recomposing himself ‘—no arms allowed, Your Grace. As Dominus of this realm, you ordered that yourself.’

  Thanks to the Thread in her spine, Vivian knew “Dominus” was a title bore by men who fulfilled both political and military roles within the Alarian society. Th
e blacksmith continued.

  ‘The trading of armaments, military supplies and instruments of war are prohibited in Kranija under pain of death—’

  There was a sound like exploding wood followed by the blacksmith’s whimper.

  ‘Pain of death…’ echoed the Dominus. ‘Don’t speak to me of death, farrier! You think I fear it?’

  Vivian’s hair stood on end. It was the man’s voice, she thought. It rang somewhat unnaturally across the cobblestone alley, stretching and crushing the very air around it.

  ‘What of the Æbe’trax I entrusted you?’ he continued. ‘Where are my thirteen blades?’

  ‘But Dominus Ashlar –’

  ‘Would zere be anyshin’ elshe, misshh?’ Herbart said through his regular lisp, drawing Vivian’s attention back to the proceedings. Suddenly she remembered she hadn’t paid the herb merchant yet.

  ‘N-no,’ Vivian said quickly, placing fifty ruvi on the counter and grabbing the bag of medicinal herbs. ‘Thank you, Herbart. See you tomorrow!’

  Vivian stepped out of the shop, her eyes on the nearby smithy. Why did the blacksmith work with its shop closed? As far as she knew, the Forge was open until late in the day, and here it was, mid-resting, with its doors bolted shut. A cold purple light burned inside The Farrier’s Forge . Even more unusual, a party of six armed Recuperators watched its entrance.

  Vivian adjusted her attire. “Your Grace”, he had called his mysterious customer. Dominus or not, what was the blacksmith thinking, making a deal like that? What madness had driven him to shelter Æbe’trax in his smithy? To even speak of Æbe’trax was a capital crime in Ærria.

  ‘Hey you! Artisan!’ barked one of the Recuperators outside the Farrier Forge, making Vivian jump. ‘Move along, hear? No loiterin’!’

  Vivian clutched the bag of herbs to her chest and marched along the cobblestoned path. As she passed the Forge, she felt the Recuperators’ eyes on the back of her head. Fastened to her back, Kaap gave a restless shudder.

  ‘Kaap says something not right about Dominus Ashlar,’ he told Vivian, who had now quickened her pace. ‘Dominus Ashlar a bad man.’

  ‘I know,’ Vivian thought to herself, hoping Kaap would hear it. ‘I mean, who orders Æbe’trax weapons? They’re… they’re illegal!’

  The smithy was still in sight when Vivian leisurely took a left turn. A narrow alley wriggled its way through a row of crooked houses. Eager to hear more, she shot behind a stack of wooden boxes.

  ‘What is Vivian doing? Vivian heard the Shenk’shen: no loitering! Kaap fearful. Kaap says we should head back to the Haijk—’

  ‘—shush Kaap. I’m trying to hear.’

  ‘Your G-g-gr, g-g-gr—’ the blacksmith swallowed. ‘—Your Grace!’

  ‘Clemency? You had five seasons to beriddle it!’ a cold and threatening voice burst out of the smithy and filled up the narrow alley. ‘Five seasons to furnace the ore and you ask for clemency?’

  ‘Your Grace, if you but used a similar ore. One of equal strength—’

  ‘You think it is strength I seek in a blade?’ he thundered. ‘Do not take me for a common soldier, farrier. I am a spiritual man and I seek Æbe’trax for a greater purpose than the durability of its steel. Æbe’trax is thought made flesh . A metal born from Kaalà itself.’

  Once again, Vivian was visited by the sensation that something in the man’s speech had left a dimple in the cheeks of reality. Even without words, he could transform that which he talked about. His voice could have belonged to a god, and it wouldn’t have sounded out of place. Through him spoke no simple man, but a creator bent on rearranging the natural order of things, one syllable at a time.

  ‘Your Grace, the m-m-metal wouldn’t break!’ wept the blacksmith. ‘By fire, or force, by ice or by lightning, it cannot be unmade! T-t-tried everything I could on it, and couldn’t land as much as a m-m-mark. If you but waited—’

  ‘Five seasons I waited. In agony I waited, safe in the knowledge you will succeed. I wait no further on you.’

  An ominous silence stretched across the alleyways. Vivian had never known anyone who could make an absence of sound as trenchant as a butchering knife.

  ‘Stand up, farrier,’ said the Dominus in a voice that would have moved continents. ‘Take steps.’

  It was all he said before the blacksmith was marched out of his own forge with six Recuperators on his tail. Vivian waited behind the crates for the party to pass by, in hope of catching a glimpse of the Dominus, but all she saw was a cloaked figure with a walking stick. They seemed to be heading for the marketplace. She followed.

  By the time Vivian had reached the central plaza, a few dozen bystanders had already assembled around a central dais. The blacksmith had been forced on his knees by one of the Recuperators, his blistered hands behind his back.

  Locked in an inaudible discourse, the Dominus paced the wooden podium, his black mantle dancing in the warm sea breeze. Vivian drew herself nearer.

  ‘…Jaron the farrier has conspired against the realm, by smuggling ten thousand weapons of warfare into Kranija,’ held the gold masked man, his trenchant voice spilling across the marketplace like an avalanche.

  Vivian frowned. How could anyone commit to such lie? The bystanders’ eyes seem to avoid the masked man, almost as if they were afraid a single look would land them in trouble.

  ‘Kaap not see into Ashlar!’ the Hole-in-the-Wall’s voice punctured her mind. ‘Why can’t Kaap see into Ashlar?’

  ‘Kaap, please keep silent. I can’t hear—’

  ‘—the smuggling of weaponry is an act of war, and a threat to our peaceful ways. As Dominus of Kranija and Chief Overseer of our laws, I solemnly charge Jaron with radical bias and treason. The price for his crime—‘

  The crowd held its breath, each of their work-worn faces spelling a mixture of dread and loathing. Vivian’s hand jumped to her mouth.

  ‘—is equal punishment,’ he uttered from behind the mask of gold which, save the eyes, covered his features entirely. ‘Warmonger, do you object to equal punishment?’

  ‘Clemency! CLEMENCY! P-p-plea, p-p-plea—’ whimpered the kneeling blacksmith, while the crowd began chanting something as one entity.

  Vivian gently nudged her backpack. ‘Kaap, what are they saying?’

  But her answer came sooner than the speed of Kaap’s thoughts. The crowd grew restless. Tradesmen and merchants alike were angrily waving their fists at Jaron the blacksmith, asking for his blood. They seem to be increasing in number by the heartbeat.

  “ AN EYE FOR A LIE! ” they recited.

  Dominus Ashlar lifted a gauntleted hand from underneath his mantle.

  ‘An eye for a lie,’ said Ashlar, before burrowing his metal fingertips into the man’s skull.

  There was a streak of red magenta and Jaron the Farrier roared in agony, both his hands clutching at the open hole in his skull where his eye used to be. A few spectators screamed and so did the blacksmith. He collapsed head-first onto the wooden dais, his violently trembling hands rummaging at his disfigured face, his mouth locked in a silent scream.

  The more shrieked the blacksmith, the more people assembled. Vivian strongly bit into her fist, willing to share at least a fraction of the pain the innocent blacksmith endured. The injustice of it made her skin crawl. She could hear Kaap’s frightened little voice nestling in her mind.

  ‘Kaap not see into Ashlar!’

  ‘Kaap, it’s alright. You don’t have to look into him—’

  ‘—why can’t Kaap see into Ashlar?!’

  ‘Please keep silent,’ she gave her backpack a stroke. ‘I’m trying to hear.’

  A crowd of two hundred people now cheered their horrible “ an eye for a lie ” litany, bringing an increasingly darker meaning to the phrase every time. Vivian took a few steps back.

  It’s okay , Vivian reassured herself, I’ve seen
the Artisan reattach disembodied limbs. As long as a body part stays in one piece—

  But Dominus Ashlar’s stamped his iron boot on the small, squiggly orb and the blacksmith’s eye popped with a sickish, wet squelch. The blacksmith’s hands gripped the Dominus’ hanging robes.

  ‘I cannot bare— p-pain too— the s-s-sheer agony— Let it be over, Your Grace. M-my life is yours!’ begged the blacksmith, his remaining good eye tearing imploringly.

  ‘Equal punishment isn’t death,’ said Dominus Ashlar, unclenching the mantle from his grip. ‘Equal punishment is suffering , for in suffering we are equal. Consider my clemency, granted.’

  Ashlar stepped off the dais, parting the crowd as he retired. Vivian swiftly pulled aside, allowing him passage. He was a mere yard away when her eyes met his: two cold lights obstructed by an elaborate mask of solid gold. Dominus Ashlar held Vivian’s gaze.

  Under his penetrating stare, Vivian looked away. She felt Kaap’s tiny claws pushing into her back, his thoughts a crazed, indistinguishable slur. Finally, the masked Dominus turned away, and at the edge of her vision, Vivian saw him being escorted out of the plaza and away from the bustling marketplace.

  *

  ‘Told you it was worth crossing the river, Kate. There are lights ahead!’

  Chilled to the bone and soaked to the skin in stink-water, Kate wrung out the excess water out of her platinum hair. As much as she resented the idea at first, Lucian Blossom had been right to cross the river instead of venturing into the woods. From the opposite riverbank, she could see the dead forest stretching for what would have been a three-days-trip, had days been invented in this world.

  ‘Still no theories?’ she asked Lucian, who had picked up the pace, fuelled by a sudden hope.

  ‘Well, let’s see… we fell through something and landed somewhere, so that leaves us with… what, every theory in existence?’

  ‘What about parallel realities?’ Kate ventured.