38

  A fortnight later, in Karellon:

  The spell-globe arrived with scant warning, forcing the harried skin-changer to step away from an urgent council meeting. This was quite troubling, as he was enough Lord Rawn Kalistiel now to hate interruptions. Minister of the Navy and de facto head of the Grand Council, Kalistiel’s mimic didn’t need any more trouble.

  He looked around the vaulted marble chamber, seeing tense, expectant faces lit up by mage-glows and manna. The council’s green cockatrice emblem shone on the ceiling and walls, casting a wavery light. Some of those gathered were mirror-kin, others still “native”. All would be turned, in the Plan’s good time. Now, though, their leader was needed elsewhere.

  Rising from the Long Table without explanation, the skin-changer bowed to his colleagues and then withdrew. Let them wonder. A bit of mystery was good for the soul, and his business was private.

  One (for that’s what his mother had called him) received and invoked the globe in a nearby vestry reserved for the emperor or empress. Ornate and secure, that closely-warded chamber would ensure that his conversation was not overheard. There weren’t many furnishings for an eavesdropper to hide behind. Just a silk folding screen embroidered with scenes of the hunt, a carved wooden seat and a clothespress.

  One settled into the chair and then drew that vibrating spell globe out of its pocket. He tossed food to the wretch whose life and soul he was draining, as well, using another quick hole in reality. He wouldn’t have time to visit the real Lord Kalistiel, that day. There was simply too much to be done… and maybe he'd started to value his captive plaything. A problem for later, in any case.

  The spell-globe cleared when invoked, revealing a stern and beautiful drow. She was a fighter, with short black hair, red eyes and blue skin covered in creeping tattoos. Kenda, with a shattered village and mountains behind her.

  One’s heart began pounding, for he’d stripped Kalistiel’s secret desires along with most of his soul and memories. Not trusting himself to speak at first, One nodded and signed: State your purpose.

  “They’re gone,” she snapped without any preamble. “We tracked them to a heap of rubble on the mainland, but the trail ends there, Day-lord, and their brands have ceased calling out to me. Removed, somehow, or masked with a very powerful spell.”

  One forced away dreams of embracing a snarling and cursing drow female. Got his breathing back under control with an effort. Shook his head, saying,

  “Impossible. They cannot have just disappeared. Gone to another plane or the fey-wild, perhaps, but not simply vanished. Or… are your boasted hunting skills no more than ale and hot air?”

  Kenda’s face became very still. Even her beastly tattoos ceased their wandering. In a low, toneless voice, she said,

  “It is well for you that great distance parts us, carrion. Else would I have you flayed and staked out for the ants and flies. Rest not too easy, even so, for all I need do is give notice that you’ve slain the Imperial family, to turn all of Dayshine against you.”

  Her threatening words sent a thrill of delight coursing through One, making it tough to think. Clearing his throat, the skin-changer switched to command.

  “Find them,” he ordered. “I misspoke, before, out of surprise and dismay… but this ‘disappearance’ may be a thing of the gods. I shall double the stated reward… delivered personally… if they are all caught or killed by hatching time. Someone must ride, and it cannot be me.”

  Kenda’s red eyes narrowed. Creeping sigils and night-dark flowers bloomed on her forehead.

  “Personally, is it? Day-spawn, my tastes do not run to sniveling clerks, and you wouldn’t survive our encounter. That said, the hunt continues, and I shall keep silent. In the meantime, look to yourself and sleep very lightly.”

  Her spell globe winked out moments afterward, leaving the mirror-kin too unsettled to rise. He couldn’t return to the meeting hall, yet. Not when… not when he wanted so badly to know what her tastes did run to… and how hard it would be to capture and mimic that thing?

  The Plan… the council and city… finding those fugitive royals… all were pushed out of his head for a time by Kalistiel’s fancy to lie with a dark-elf. Madness. Certain death, unless he was fortunate, quick and clever.

  One jerked a flask of wine from a faerie pocket and drained it in haste, getting himself settled down again. For the nonce, there was still a half-elven girl in Ilirian, daughter to Lerendar Tarandahl. As hostage or figurehead empress, the child could be used, then used up, preventing open rebellion. That, he thought, was something to conjure with.

  Lord Rawn Kalistiel was smiling when he returned at last to the council chamber. He ported in grandly, nodding to those who awaited him.

  “Good news, my lords and ladies,” he announced, coming to stand at the head of the Long Table.

  XXXXXXXXXXXXX

  In Okuni, the Land below Heaven:

  The Blessed A’Kann was no longer a person. No longer Prince Joshi, but a god, the divine receptacle of everyone’s manna and prayers. Very powerful, too, here at the conflux of three mighty ley-lines, beneath the great constellation.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  That afternoon (maybe... he could not see the sky from his ornate, windowless room) Okuni’s protector decided to act. Not to calm storms, bless the fishing or beat back a towering wave. Not ever again.

  Instead, the A’Kann turned his great power outward, casting a sleeping spell on the holy city of Baazaril. With a sigil made up on the spot and manna drawn from the ocean, mountains and skies, he plunged the entire populace deep into magical sleep. Then, as the A’Kann thudded onto a pile of white-on-white cushions, each of his priests, musicians, servants and guards slumped to the floor outside.

  Once again, he heard the clatter and chime of dropped weapons, platters and musical instruments, but this time, his emergence wasn’t a joke. He flailed his way through that mountain of pillows, then raced to the white jade screen that connected his chamber to the second-most-holy. Hooking his fingers through finely carved dancers and birds, the wild-eyed A’Kann leaned close and peeked through.

  They were down, all of them, but alive and keeping their sight. No one would blind and execute the entire city, would they? Joshi… no more a god or A’Kann… did not mean to stay and find out.

  There was a servant’s door through which his insipid food and bland drink were brought in twice a day. He was forbidden to use or even look at the servants’ door, but the portal connecting the two holies had been walled shut since his first disastrous emergence.

  The second portal was meant for an innocent, temple-bred child. The fit was tight and he had to duck, but Joshi got through, turning sideways to do it. Out in the hallway, he shed his white clothing like a tree dropping leaves, stuffing it all in his long-empty faerie pockets. Better to leave no trace, he thought, letting the people of Baazaril think what they would.

  In regular clothes, with a pack on his back and a stick in his hand, he might have been anyone; dark-haired, pale-skinned and more than a little crazy at first, dumb-struck by color, fresh air and natural light. He picked up a short sword and bow, as well, and then started walking, munching an apple for the first time in a hundred seventy years. Hearing wind in the branches, and the splash of trickling water. Free, and alone.

  XXXXXXXXXXXX

  Not meanwhile, at all:

  “Give me the bad news, first,” Pilot had ordered, getting up from his narrow cot.

  ‘Command received and accepted,’ replied V47, uploading a torrent of news files and images. ‘Pilot, negotiations between the Two Hundred Worlds and the Draugr appear to have reached an impasse. Both sides have withdrawn from the meeting chamber with no resumption scheduled. OVR-Lord has ceased functionality, and Flight Command has informed the Admiralty of your return to OS1012.’

  Which, yeah… details were spotty, but he’d been sent to Etherion, refuge of the Masters, seeking permission to stop using null-space travel. Had it worked? Had the writers of code said yes? Tough to say, as he had no working memory of anything at all since departing Bide-a-While station.

  “File scan, Vee. Comb through everything. The whole system, down to wires, metal and quanta. Look for messages or encrypted orders, while I, erm… get dressed.”

  He stood by his cot in quarters he’d never accessed before, a cyborg pilot clad in flesh, decals and bare chrome. Fine for the cockpit, but a definite no-go, everywhere else. Genuine people wore clothing.

  Starting forward, Pilot made his way to the closet, where he found a row of flight suits, a crisply pressed black-and-gold uniform and several pairs of tall, polished boots. Also, a big, dark leather jacket.

  “My memory’s been altered,” he said conversationally, while Vee scraped through his data, wetware and files. “I don’t know how we got here, or what the drek happened on… in… that place.”

  He couldn’t even pronounce the name aloud, much less remember what he’d seen or done there. Whether he’d met with the Masters, but…

  ‘Pilot, a locked and tightly encrypted file has been placed in your autonomic waste heat disposal system. It is tagged: Highest Secrecy,’ sent his AI companion.

  “Hunh,” grunted the cyborg, pulling a set of dress-blacks off of their hanger. He’d never worn them before… slept in a bed… or woken up not in his cockpit or vat.

  “Well, I guess we came back with an answer, Vee. Any idea what’s thrown a spanner into the peace talks? We’re a weapons system, but speaking for this half… I’d really like to stop fighting.”

  Pilot had three decantations left before final death, when his data would no longer support rebirth. It’d be nice, he figured, to live out all three of those lives just filing paperwork or… drek… even polishing brass.

  ‘Your sentiment is shared, Pilot,’ sent V47. ‘This half has calculated more targeting solutions than there are atoms in Glimmr’s three moons. Surely, there are better uses for an advanced onboard system.’

  Pilot smiled, pulling a coarse white tee-shirt over his blond head and then jamming his arms in the sleeves. The shirt covered his contact plates and probe sites, feeling rough on his skin, raising staticky sparks against metal.

  “Ace always said that he wanted to run a hydroponic vegetable farm in Oberyn’s life-zone,” he mused. “Boomer wanted to groom and train canines.”

  ‘While the stated desires of Ice Box were to ‘be drunk and disorderly,’

  “…And keep just ahead of shore patrol,” finished pilot. “Here’s hoping it all works out. That Someday is real, and not just a lie to keep everyone quiet.”

  Next,

  “How do I look?” he asked, turning around (though he hardly needed to, as Vee could scan through every lens and pickup that dotted the metal bulkheads).

  ‘Unshod,’ replied V47.

  Pilot glanced down at his feet, which were mostly all cybernetic.

  “Boots, right,” he mumbled, feeling a little foolish. He could extrude perfectly acceptable magnetic grip-soles, so boots were an affectation, but you couldn’t just wear half a uniform.

  His rank insignia and awards were holographic, shifting to hover slightly above the dark cloth of his uniform blouse. The boots he had to sit and yank on, changing foot shape to match. V47 projected an image for him, as Pilot couldn’t launch his camera drones through cloth.

  He looked hard at that blond, pale-eyed elven-stock image, searching for someone he knew. He’d been awake and conscious for just over sixty-three days, now. Still felt fresh-from-the-vat awkward, with a personality formed by programming rather than life.

  Then Flight Command pinged them, ordering V47 Pilot to appear before the Admiralty at four bells, station time. A faint memory struck, filling his bloodstream and circuits with cortisol. He’d made his report to OVR-Lord, once, and been killed for whatever it was he’d done wrong. Would this time be any different?

  V47 mopped up Pilot’s brain chemistry, causing light, peppy music to pour from the cabin’s speaker. The wall screen cut on, displaying a high grey cliff and rough, crashing water. A good place, that, Pilot thought. Somewhere he ought to have once used to possibly know.

  “You think it exists, Vee?” he wondered aloud, taking a final look before crossing to stand by the passage-side bulkhead. Waiting.

  ‘On a world with an atmosphere, rocky surface and appropriate temperature range, almost certainly, Pilot,’ replied the AI.

  “Right. Then… that’s what I want to do when the fighting’s done, Vee. I want to find the place where land ends and water begins. I want to go home.”