The long, slow A.I.

Considering that I edit three different short fiction venues, it might seem a little odd how rarely I read short fiction outside the slushpile. But I spent this afternoon reading the recent novella by Ted Chiang, "The Lifecycle of Software Objects," which is out in the current Subterranean Press. Like most of Ted Chiang's work it is dense, pedantic, and meticulously analytical. It is also about 30k words long, which means about two hours of delicately scrolling the browser page. But a well-spent two hours it was.

At issue with "The Lifecycle of Software Objects" is the banality of artificial intelligence and the tedium of child-rearing. We're used to the following structure for AI stories: mumbo-jumbo plus processing power leads to digital super-intellects, culminating in world-altering drama. This story, for all its insights into the development of intellect, follows a far more personal scope. And somehow feels all the more epic for having done so.

I've been thinking a lot about the value of short fiction, both as an editor and as a writer. It seems that even the good fiction comes in only two flavors: light and heavy. Ted Chiang is the poster-boy for heavy spec fic. It reminds me of what Cait Coker said about John Campbell and the golden-age crew coming into the spotlight after Hiroshima. Their short fiction had been processing the elements of the future for a long time, so they were the only ones not surprised by the man-made sun over Japan. "The Lifecycle of Software Objects" is that sort of story. It's our first glimpse of wonders that will be built in increments through the labor of everyday life.

MEMORY: 34

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“They can’t understand you,” Acaona said.

“What’re ya getting on about?” muttered Flavius.

“They’re not nobles, they’re militia,” Acaona said, as if the simple statement was as obvious an explanation as anyone would need. Flavius’ baffled stare drew a sigh from her.

“Only nobility in the Eternal Dominion are gene-grafted with a linguistics lobe, dear Flavius,” Empress Malinche offered helpfully, her cool composure recovered with the arrival of the militia. “The expense and effort would be squandered on them, after all. The only times they venture Otherwhere their purpose is to destroy the enemies of the Eternal Dominion, not have a nice chat. This keeps things simplified, don’t you think?”

“Oh. Right,” muttered Flavius, casting an annoyed look at Memory. “I ken that.”

“Your Imperial Majesty can understand that croaking noise?” the militia captain asked suspiciously.

“After a fashion, Captain...?” Malinche answered absently.

“Pacal. Captain Pacal,” he answered uneasily, unaccustomed to imperial attention. “If Your Imperial Majesty will allow, these two men will escort you to safety.”

The Empress considered the suggestion. “No, I prefer to stay and watch.”

“You Imp--” Captain Pacal began, but a sharp look from Empress Malinche silenced him.

“Now, as this diversion has continued far too long, you and your men will bind and escort the lesser sentient to the Imperial wing under guard. I expect he’ll resist, but I don’t want him injured.”

“Uninjured? But... he’s got a sword, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“You may bludgeon him then, if you must. But no open flame,” Empress Malinche allowed. “Feel free to bludgeon the Sajal, too, while you’re at it.”

The braided cages at the end of the militiamen’s cuayabs flared with a menacing green glow. Two men took up guard positions on either side of the Empress as Captain Pacal and three other men spread out, shoulder-to-shoulder in the narrow apartment, warily stalking toward Flavius. As soon as there was room, four more entered to form a second rank.

Flavius backed away from Papantzin, who’d recovered enough to drag herself toward the Empress. Acaona slipped close behind Flavius, clutching his pack tightly.

“What are we going to do, Flavius?”

“Exit through the window there, lass, that’s what we’re going to do.” Flavius swung Memory, a sudden powerful blow that rattled the window.
The glass remained intact.

“This is the secure wing. The walls and windows are blast resistant,” Acaona said. “Didn’t you know?”

Flavius mouthed a silent curse, then lowered his head to hers. “Look to yerself, lass. It’s likely to get a mite rough.” Before Acaona could question him, Flavius hoisted Memory and charged the militia with a full-blown highlander scream.

Flavius swung Memory at Captain Pacal. The captain blocked with his cuayab. Memory bit into the cuayab with a metallic snap. Emerald sparks flared from the cage. Flavius swung Memory back to the right, parrying a blow from another militiaman.

“Mind your weapons! He’s got some sort of enchantment on his blade!” shouted Pacal, jabbing his cuayab at Flavius. Tiny wisps of flame escaped from the gouge in the braided body.

One was a split second too slow bringing his cuayab up. Memory split his chest open. In that instant, another militiaman saw his opening and jabbed his cuayab into Flavius’ back. Flavius cried out as the cage burned through his shirt and into flesh. Instinctively he lashed out, Memory severing the legs of his attacker below the knees.

“Get him surrounded! Press him! Press him!” Urgency drove Pacal’s orders now as the remainder of the squad pressed into the room. A dozen men total, the narrowness of the room that hampered Flavius’ full use of the long claymore also served to keep the militia’s superior numbers bottled up near the door.

As more sparks and flame shot from his damaged cuayab, Pacal adjusted his grip so the gouge faced away from him. As he did so, he pressed the side of his helmet. “Request immediate reinforcements, secure wing. Everything you’ve got. What? I don’t give a damn about any emergency you’ve got! Her Imperial Majesty is here! Reinforcements. Now!”

“Look lively, lass,” Flavius said, kicking a dead militiaman’s cuayab to Acaona.

As Acaona reached for it, another strong tremor shook the palace. A sudden, loud pop followed. She looked up. Several large fissures radiated out from the center of the window.

“Flavius!”

“Cannae it wait?” Flavius shouted back, blood and sweat streaking his face. “I’m a wee bit busy.”

“The window!”

Flavius sliced open the chest of another militiaman, then hazarded a quick glance. “Oh!”

More fissures appeared, spreading like spiderweb across the window. Acaona grabbed up the cuayab with both hands, swinging it into the window. The window shattered. A million shards of glass skittered across the floor.

“Brilliant!” Flavius shouted, a broad grin on his face. Glass crunched under his boots. “Now, if ya’d got yerself dressed when I told ya, I wouldnae have to do this.” He grabbed Acaona with his free arm, heaving her nude body over his shoulder. He bare feet kicked in the air. “Got a strong grip on my pack there?”

“I’ve got it. Ow! I’ve got it already!”

“I just dinnae want ya to drop it when we jump.” Flavius took two quick steps to the shattered window, and with a great lunge, threw himself and Acaona through.

Continued

MEMORY: 31

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Flavius eased onto his side, Memory’s scabbard uncomfortably hard beneath him. The room spun in perfect time with the pounding of his head. Barely daring to breathe, he gripped the side of the bed and pushed himself up. An involuntary groan caught in his throat, and he winced.

“Ready for another go, Flavius?” Anacaona popped up beside him, entirely too perky and enthusiastic for such an ungodly hour. She cocked her head and pressed her three pair of copper-red breasts against his bare back, leaving new smudges of glittering dust to join the others covering his body. She buried her face against the nape of his neck and inhaled deeply. “Huna! You have the most erotic scent.”

“It’s called sweat, lass,” Flavius muttered, rubbing a bleary eye.

Anacaona laughed, reaching around the swordbelt into his lap. “Whatever it is, I’ll have some more.”

“Easy there.” Flavius gave an involuntary start as she grabbed him, her over-jointed fingers far more stimulating than should be possible. “Lassie, I dinnae want ya to think I’m nae having fun, because yer a blessed wild ride. But four bouts in only...”

“About two hours,” she offered helpfully.

“Only two hours? Christ. Give us a bit of a rest, eh? My poor head’s pounding and my mouth’s gone all cottony,” he said, lifting her hand away. “Besides, my dobber’s all shagged out. Nae to worry, though,” he reassured her with a quick kiss. “Good as new in the morning.”

Anacaona raised her eyebrows. “Doesn’t look all that ‘shagged out’ to me. Quite the opposite, actually.”

“That’s nae natural.” Flavius stared at his urgent erection in disbelief. “It’s that witch’s brew of foodstuffs at work, innae it?”

“I know a way to make it go away.”

“I’ll bet you do.” Flavius smiled in spite of himself, then stood. “Lassie, as much as I’d love to cater to yer every depraved desire, I’ve nae had any sleep going on... well, seems like days. I’ll be getting me a drink of water to wash away this cotton mouth. Then I’m away to me bed there and going to sleep, and nae even the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse themselves could wake me. Do with me as ya will, but dinnae expect any effort on my part.”

Anacaona’s skin nearly sparkled in the faint light from the window as her lips curled into a sly smile. “I’ll try not to break anything.”

“Ya are a wicked little thing.” Flavius shuffled to the bath and took a long drink of water from the basin. “Makes me wish Parric and I dinnae have to leave tomorrow. Have at ya when I’m fully rested and fed, then see how saucy ya are.”

Her face fell as if Flavius’d just told her a hawk’d just taken her kitten. “You’re... you’re leaving? Tomorrow?”

“Aye, we have to. Yer Emperor made that clear as day during dinner. Ah, do nae look like that!” He came over and cupped her face in his hands. “Just a little sleep, eh? I promise I’ll give ya a good send-off to remember me by.”

“But, but... it’s only one night!”

“Ah, but I have it on good authority one night with Flavius is enough for any woman.”

“Do you pay attention to anything but the sound of your own voice?” She gave him a withering look. “Were you a greater sentient of the Eternal Dominion, we’d currently be inextricably cojoined for the next month.”

“Ya mean...” Flavius frowned, mulling her words over, “when ya said there was a ‘physical bond’ between yer men and women, that werenae just a figure of speech?”

“Our men don’t have the luxury of going up and down like you,” she said, prodding his penis for emphasis.

Flavius stared at her, dumbfounded. “So... So then the night so far--”

“Barely taken the edge off.” Anacaona stood with a sense of purpose, and wrapped herself around Flavius. “I’d thought to have you to myself for a week. I’ll just have to make do with the hours that remain.”

“Damn. Yer serious.”

By way of answer, she pushed him back onto the bed and sidled atop him.

“Oh, I’m going to hurt in the morn--”

A knock at the door interrupted him.

Flavius lifted Anacaona off him and sat back up. The sudden movement set his head back to throbbing. “Who the hell is it?” he bellowed, ignoring Anacaona’s frantic motions for silence.

“Her Imperial Majesty, Empress Malinche, requires an audience with Flavius MacDuff of Clan MacDuff,” a muffled voice answered. Anacaona threw up her hands in frustration, glaring at Flavius.

“Well, what was I supposed to do?” he whispered angrily.

“How about shut up so she thinks you’re not here and goes away?” Anacaona whispered back. “That’s Papantzin’s voice. She’s here to bring you back to Her Imperial Majesty.”

“Nae, nae. Ya said at dinner ya’d shelter me from the Empress’ attentions if I’d shag ya,” he said accusingly. “Now, ya may argue with me regarding the quantity, but ya got nae grounds to complain about the quality. So start yer sheltering.”

“I meant,” she said through clenched teeth, “I’d shelter you in my suite, where she wouldn’t think to look for you. Not in your room, which, unless I’m completely divested from reality, is the first place she’d look!”

“Then why are we here?”

Papantzin knocked on the door again, more insistent this time

“Because you said you’d have me ‘on your terms.’ Your words, remember? You didn’t leave me much room for interpretation.”

“Bugger me. What’s to do, lass?”

“I’m hiding in until you’ve gone,” she said, opening the wardrobe door. “You’re going with Papantzin to your audience with Her Imperial Majesty, and protecting my honor by keeping our private affairs to yourself.”

“Oh, nae ya don’t.” Flavius bodily pulled her back out of the wardrobe. “I’ve nae desire to have nuse--whatever that may be--steep itself in my blood.”

“Damnit, let me go you idiot lesser-sentient!” Anacaona said in a panic, ramming her elbow into Flavius’s hair chest. “Do you have any idea what’ll happen to me if the Empress caught me with you?”

“No,” a clear, honeyed voice cut in. “Please, tell us what will happen?”

Flavius and Anacaona froze, then looked in horror to the now-open doorway, where the Empress Malinche stood with the handmaiden Papantzin before her.

Continued

MEMORY: 30

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Armor screens flared and sparked as the door fragments hit. Shouts of pain mingled with roared curses from the Eternal Militiamen. Smoke and the stench of burning hair and plastics filled the hall.

Djserka stood dumbfounded in the hall intersection, staring in horror. “You... you attacked them.”

“They are starting it,” Parric said absently, slithering down the adjoining passage. “I am assuming this is out alternating route? Or are we going all the way backing to the stairwell?”

“You attacked the Eternal Militia!” Djserka said, ignoring Parric’s question. “I’m ruined. Oh, today has been utter disaster. Their Imperial Majesties will never retain me now. I’ll be sacked, I just know it. Sent off with scathing references, or worse! If any are dead--”

“If any are deading, then the Emperor is deserving of refundings for worthless armor screens,” Parric snapped. “Now, are you guiding me, or are you taking your chancings with Commander Balam?”

Djserka hesitated an instant, then lurched after Parric. “This way. There’s a public stair up ahead,” Djserka muttered. “I’m regretting this already.”

“Join the crowdings.” Parric Crafted barricades across the hall behind them as they went.

Green fire burst across the first one just inside the intersection. Commander Balam’s reaction was barely muffled by the intervening barriers.

“That may hold off Commander Balam’s squad, but by now he’s contacted the Palace Coordinated Command,” Djserka said. “Squads will be moving in to cut us off from every direction.”

“Militia are not my concernings at the moment.”

The Palace of Un-pic Ja’ab vibrated suddenly, disconcertingly underfoot.

“Did you feel that? I’ve never felt the palace suffer even the slightest instability before.” Djserka’s spines bristled nervously. “You don’t suppose this bears some relation to those creatures attempting to force their way into the palace?”

Piercing alarms sounded throughout the palace.

“It is bearing every relation,” Parric answered. “We are needing to hurry.”

“This is the stair.”

They made it up the curving stair without opposition. At the top, they pulled back from the hall as a grim-faced Eternal Militia squad double-timed past. The commander glanced their way, gave a quick once-over, then continued on with his men.

“Seeing? We are being the least of their troubles.”

Djserka led them down the narrow hall to a crossing corridor, which they followed to another curved stair, passing only a handful of worried peq along the way.

More vibrations rippled through the palace. From some unidentifiable distance echoes of explosions and a great crashing could be heard. Through it all, the alarms continued their relentless scream.

“The breaking through is happening,” said Parric, diving down the stair. “The moironteau are insiding the palace. We must be hurrying.”

“You mean they’re coming after us?”

“No. They’re aftering Flavius. And they’re verying good at finding him.”

The stair opened into a broad alcove adjacent to the main hall. The sounds of fighting were much louder and closer. Parric stole a look around the corner. “I’m knowing where I am now. Much thankings to you,” he said, taking wing.

Djserka shot out a clawed hand and grabbed hold of Parric’s pack straps. “No, no, no. Mere thanks does not absolve you of the fact you’ve destroyed my career within the Eternal Dominion, not does it give you leave to abandon my person in a...” Djserka flailed his free arms in exasperation. “In a war zone, sir!”

Parric offered a pitying look. “Following me if you are wanting, but I’m doubtingful you’ll find it safer in my company.”

“Those commanders will have reported me in your company. The damage is already done.”

“Try to keeping up.” Parric launched into the open hall. Djserka followed.

Far down the opposite direction, where they’d encountered Commander Balam only minutes earlier, a dozen or so Eternal Militiamen fought a furious battle with at least three moironteau. Chunks of marble archway fell through billowing smoke as tapestry and woodwork burned with red-orange flame. The tight, green tongues of cuayabs lashed the moironteau in rapid bursts, blistering the blackened hide of the thrashing footheads. One foothead swept down on a militiaman. The soldier glowed hotly blue for almost three seconds before his armor screen collapsed and the grinding teeth closed over him.

The militiaman’s cuayab ruptured with a sudden report and brilliant white explosion. The foothead--along with a good portion of the body attached to it--splattered across the vaulted ceiling and floor. The moironteau carcass crumpled as the remaining militiamen picked themselves off the floor where the concussion had thrown them and directed their cuayab fire at the other two moironteau.

“They’ve killed one!”

“And two are taking its place,” answered Parric. “But if they are delaying the moironteau, we can get Flavius and be going before--”

Parric noticed the growing fissure in the floor ahead an instant before it erupted great chunks of stone. Parric pulled up, twisting as he did to dodge debris. A block of polished marble twice the size of a man’s fist clipped the right side of Parric’s head, just missing the third eye. Parric crashed to the ground.

Two footheads slammed down on either side of the gaping hole, hoisting the moironteau into the corridor from the floor below.

Djserka reached Parric, pulling him back from the moironteau.

The moironteau heaved itself out of the hole. Immediately, more footheads reached out.

“What... what...” muttered Parric.

“You took a knock on the head,” whispered Djserka. “Those moironteau of yours. They don’t seem to be taking note of us. The first one’s moving off.”

“Moironteau?” The word gave Parric something to focus on. He rose, pushing Djserka away. He shook his head, fighting the wobbles. The second moironteau had climbed halfway through the opening. Parric clicked his beak angrily, then Crafted a heaviness upon the vaulted ceiling.

A ton of ornate stone archway collapsed into the hole, crushing the moironteau. The first moironteau stopped in its tracks, raising its rear footheads to locate the threat.

Without a word, Parric Crafted a collapsing around its body. Immediately, the moironteau sensed it, and fought to break free. Parric flicked his antennae, and the collapsing fell in upon itself, compressing the moironteau’s body as it went. An instant later, the moironteau was gone, crushed into nothingness. Only the dismembered, twitching footheads remained.

Djserka stared, mouth agape. “That was--”

“Not something you’re ever telling Flavius,” Parric muttered. He rubbed the knot on the side of his head gingerly. “I’d never be hearing the end of it. Coming on, his room is this waying.”

The side corridor of the Cobama wing was deserted. Flavius’ door stood closed and undamaged.

“There’s Flavius’ rooming,” Parric said in relief. “He’s still safeing--none of the moironteau are reaching here yet.”

The door to Flavius’ room--and the wall surrounding it--exploded outward with the thunderous report of a cuayab rupture.

Continued

Lame Duck Christmas: A Holiday Fable

First, I have to offer an apology to anyone expecting chapter 30 of Memory this week. I'm afraid that's not going to happen. Instead, I offer as a gift to you, loyal readers of No Fear of the Future, a wholly original and self-contained piece of short fiction, written by yours truly for you in the spirit of the season. I hope you enjoy it, and if you don't, well, you get what you pay for. Merry Christmas!

Lame Duck Christmas
A Holiday Fable
by Jayme Lynn Blaschke

Subdued, yet persistent alarms sounded throughout the Aspen Lodge. Determined Secret Service agents strode down the main hall, checking each door in turn as their personal Bluetooth ear clips fed them a steady stream of threat updates.

An agent entered the study, and found the President with his cowboy boots kicked up on the desk, reading The Washington Times’ sport section.

“Oh, it’s you, Shade Man,” the President said, looking back to his paper. “Can you believe this? Teixeira’s getting $180 million from the Yankees. I mean, come on. We didn’t even pay Nolan Ryan that kind of money when I owned the Rangers, and he at least had a great nickname.”

“Mr. President, the bogey’s evaded our interceptors and crossed over the Canadian border,” the agent said. “You need to get to a secure location.”

“His nickname was ‘The Ryan Express,’ you know.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“That’s from the movie ‘Von Ryan’s Express.’ It’s got like two meanings, see? That’s what makes it so great.”

“Sir, we’ve already moved the Vice President to an undisclosed location, but the longer you remain here, the more vulnerable you become.”

“Is that so?” The President eyeballed the agent over the top of his paper. “And where you boys got Big Time stashed this time?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Sir.” The agent shifted uncomfortably. “It wouldn’t be undisclosed then.”

“Point taken,” the President nodded, then folded his paper. “Shade Man, Camp David is the most secure campground in the world. We’ve got Seabees and Marines all over the place here. Why, KOA’s got nothing that can compare.”

A second agent entered the study. “He’s still here?” the second agent asked in surprise.

“He won’t budge,” the first answered.

“Mr. President, the threat is more grave than you understand. We have to evacuate you.”

“I am not running from a fat man in a red suit,” the President said. “You forget that my cat-like reflexes saved me from that Iraqi assassin’s attempt on my life last week. So, if that Santa fella thinks he’s got the moxie, I say ‘Bring it on!’”

“Mr. President, that was a shoe-throwing journalist.”

“They were wing-tips, goddamnit!”

The door flew open, and the Chief of Staff rushed in.

“Hey Shoe Man,” the President said in surprise, “I thought you were spending Christmas in Washington--although it is ironical you’re here, seeing as how we’re just discussing Iraqi assassins.”

“Mr. President, I boarded a plane as soon as I learned of the threat against you. And I have to say, I find it wholly credible,” the Chief of Staff said. “Placing the leader of the free world on the ‘Naughty’ list is no different than an Ayatollah issuing a Fatwa against you. I’m sure all international legal scholars would agree.”

“So Santa Claus is working with Al-Quaeda now? Sonofabitch. I sat on his lap once when I was a kid.” The President thought for a moment. “I thought we had him and his radical backers stonewalled in the U.N.?”

“We did, until Al Gore met with him and convinced Santa the entire permanent ice cap would melt before we allowed any binding CO2 emission controls to come up for a vote,” the Chief of Staff said. “Santa... overreacted. He believes we’ve not been negotiating in good faith.”

“I knew both of those names starting with ‘Al’ couldn’t be a coincidence. I think Mr. Gore needs to check in for an extended stay at Hotel Guantanamo,” the President shot back. “Where’s the proof that Global Warming is real?”

“Well, the Kringlehaus--Santa’s largest and oldest toy assembly plant--fell into the Arctic Sea earlier this summer when the pack ice melted. Nearly 1,500 elves drowned, and another 37,000 were put out of work.”

“Damnit, didn’t we have a deal worked out to relocate his factories to the Christmas Mountains in west Texas? What the hell ever happened with that?”

“The deal fell through at the last minute, Mr. President. Texas Land Commissioner Jerry Patterson wouldn’t approve the transfer unless Santa agreed to allow deer hunting there.”

“Sonofabitch!” The President flung his paper across the study. “This kind of shit never happened when Turd Blossom was here.”

The first agent put his hand to his ear. “We’re getting reports of elves stuffing sugar plums and marzipan into the gas tanks of SUVs across the country,” he said. “It’s really getting ugly.”

The lights went out, except for the multicolored string blinking around the window.

“He’s here,” the second agent whispered.

“How the hell can he be here already? You told me he just crossed the border not five minutes ago,” the President whispered back. “I’ve run whitetails down in my pickup back in Crawford. They don’t run more than 20 miles an hour or so. You can’t tell me these reindeer can fly any faster.”

A faint echo of jingle bells drifted through the house.

“He’s definitely here,” the first agent confirmed, drawing his gun from his jacket.

“Whoa, hold on there,” the President said, placing his hand over the gun and forcing it back. “No guns. We don’t want to be waking up Mom and 41. Or the twins. Or Laura. I’d never hear the end of it I let one of you shoot Santa. Even if he is an Al-Goreda sympathizer.” He stood up, rolled his neck and thrust his shoulders back. “No sir, I’m ending it here and now. Mano-a-mano. Let’s see that Tiger Woods guy cowboy up like this.”

The agents followed the President into the hall, with the Chief of Staff bringing up the rear. “Where are we going?” he asked.

“The living room, Shoe Man,” the President replied. “That’s where the stockings are hung by the chimney with care.”

“We’ve got two men guarding the fireplace,” the first agent said.

They crept into the living room, the lights from the Christmas tree casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the walls.

“Is he here?” the President whispered.

“I don’t think so,” answered the Chief of Staff. “He’s always gone before you look.”

Two agents lay beside the fireplace, snoring loudly. The flickering lights of the Christmas tree illuminated blissful faces.

“Visions of sugarplums,” the first agent said. “Damn, that’s cold.”

“Yeah. They’ll never live this down,” the second agreed.

“Look here. There’s a note on your stocking.” The Chief of Staff plucked the card away and opened it. “It says, ‘A gift from the reindeer.’ What do you think that means?”

“Oh, for the love of...” The President grabbed his stocking off the mantle.

The agents tried to take it from him. “Whoa, Sir! I don’t think you should--”

“A fat Al-Goreda sympathizer is not going to make me afraid of my own Christmas stocking.” The President held it upside down defiantly. Several black lumps fell to the floor with a solid thunk. “See there? That Santa ain’t as smart as he thinks he is.” A smirk crept across his face. “After all that bemoanification about Global Warming, what does he do? Gives me lumps of coal. Why, I’ll burn these with pride.”

The first agent bent down to examine the lumps. “Sir,” he said, taking a cautious sniff. “That’s not coal...”

MEMORY: 29

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Djserka looked back the way they’d come. “So those moironteau things have been sent by Rapteer? Dreadful.” Nictating membranes flicked over Djserka’s eyes. “I daresay that explains why His Imperial Majesty’s restricted Nexial access. Damn. I should’ve spat in Rapteer’s food when I had the chance.”

Parric shook his head. “Should be doing more than just spittings.” More alarms sounded from the chamber. “We must be leaving before they break through.”

“You think those beasts will get past the Imperial defenses?”

“Of coursing they will. This palace is operating on skeleton crewing, remember?”

“Well, staff, yes. But there’s a full Eternal Militia battalion permanently stationed in the palace.”

“Only one battalion?” said Parric in surprise. “That is buying us less time than I’m initially thinking.”

“You’ve got quite a negative demeanor, don’t you?”

“The only way Flavius and myself can be helping is to be leaving,” Parric snapped. “When we are going, so are the moironteau.”

“And these moironteau will abandon their attempts to force their way onto the premises?”

“As soon as they are realizing we aren’t here, yes.”

“Then let us gather your wayward companion and see you both off. I’ve no desire to see these ghastly moironteau rampaging through my kitchens,” Djserka said. “Where is... what was his name? Flavius? Where is he now?”

“If he has any sensings, his room.”

“I see. And where does the Imperial court have him housed?”

Parric thought for a moment, then slowly pointed an antennae upward and to the left. “That waying, I’m thinking.”

Djserka dragged a claw over his chitinous face, sighing. “I meant... nevermind. Of course you wouldn’t know which room he’s in. You don’t know which room you’re in either, I imagine. It’s not like designated guest room names are inscribed over the doorway. Oh wait, they are.”

“Now who’s being negativing?”

Djserka snorted, loping down the hall. “Follow me. You’re most likely in the Tuluxmal wing off the central tower. Were your rooms far from the petite dining hall?”

“Not particularling. Two floors down and--”

“Huh. That’d be the Cobama wing. How odd.” Djserka reached the open shaft they’d come down, and gathered the end of the silk strand he’d left dangling earlier.

“Why is that odding? We are staying there each visiting. Rapteer is staying there, too.”

“Because,” said Djserka, ascending up the shaft with startling rapidity, “that’s a secure wing. It can be sealed off to either imprison or protect Imperial guests who are dangerous or vulnerable. I wonder which category you fall into?”

Parric flew after him in silence, remembering the deterioration of their previous visit to the palace.

Djserka stepped off onto a landing roughly midway up the shaft. “This way.” The em Naga-ed-der puffed down a narrow, well-lit hall, its bulk rippling with exertion.

“Are we belowing the dining hall?”

“Three floors below, yes, but not directly under it.” Djserka turned right at an intersection with a slightly larger hall. A doorway folded down to let them pass. “This is a more direct route to the Cobama wing. I apologize for my slow pace, but I’m more adept at vertical travel than horizontal.”

“Is it much farthering?”

“Yes, but we’re almost to the main corridor. At that point,” Djserka paused to take in several deep breaths, “you’ll be able to find your own way. Here it is, now.”

They entered the main hall with its ornate, vaulted ceilings. Not ten paces past them was a group of eight Eternal Militia walking in the direction of the Cobama wing. In their midst was Parric’s simulacrum.

“Ah! Commander, sir, if I may impose upon you--” called out Djserka before Parric could do anything.

Parric’s antennae sprang alert as he recognized Commander Balam. Balam’s eyes widened. Instantly he looked back at the simulacrum, which chose that moment to evaporate into nothingness. The evening’s dinner fell to the floor, half-chewed Onimik delicacies splattering the legs of the militiamen.

“Don’t move, the both of you,” Balam ordered, his cuayab raised and ready. “Don’t talk, don’t make any sudden moves!”

Djserka looked to Parric, baffled. “I don’t understand--”

“Don’t talk!” Balam repeated, moving toward them warily.

“Get readying for sudden movings,” Parric whispered without looking at Djserka.

“Certainly you can’t be seri--”

Parric flung himself back into the side hall in a blink. Green cuayab flame lashed the archway. Djserka shrieked in terror and lurched after Parric.

“They’re trying to kill us!” shouted the em Naga-ed-der as it loped after Parric.

“Yes. I’m noticing this,” Parric called back. He’d already reached the cross hall and hovered in the intersection, airborn. The doorway lay folded flat before him. “Which other waying can I get to Flavius?”

“There’s not a direct route, not on this level. We can go up one and then back down into the main hall. But why are they trying to kill us?”

“The stay of execution is rescinded,” Commander Balam shouted as the militiamen entered the far end of the hall, cuayabs glowing menacingly. “Set for narrow spread. We don’t want any blowback.”

“I’m thinking because I’m one of the dangerous ones.” Parric flicked his antennae, concentrating on his Crafting. The folded door wrenched itself from the floor. “You should be ducking now.”

Parric hurled the door down the hall. It met the streams of cuayab fire and shattered into a hundred burning missiles tearing into the militiamen.

Continued

MEMORY: 28

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Parric stiffened. “And you are contacting...?”

Djserka gave Parric a sour look. “And just when, exactly, have I had the luxury of free time to do such a thing? Between your special diet and Her Imperial Majesty’s menu changes-- Do you know how difficult it is to recruit enough Peq for a dinner harvest?”

Parric relaxed slightly. “May I be asking how you are to contacting Rapteer?”

“A trans-cosm beacon, of course,” Djserka said, as if Parric had asked the stupidest question imaginable. “I can show it to you, if you think it’s important.”

Parric nodded, and Djserka led him through the kitchens to the staff lockers. “Here it is,” Djserka said, retrieving it from a locker and passing it to Parric. “A low-end design, if you ask me. No provisions for using the beacon as a carrier signal for data. Just a dumb beacon.”

Parric examined it carefully. It was a translucent oblong box that impossibly seemed to spiral in on itself--a typical visual paradox of the multidimensional design. The transmitter hadn’t been activated. It had no dataport. As Djserka had indicated, it wasn’t very sophisticated.

“You and Rapteer aren’t on, shall we say, amicable terms, are you?”

“It is complicating. Actualling, we are never meeting yet,” Parric said. “But no, I’m not thinking we are amicable.”

“Then I feel, in the spirit of full disclosure, that I don’t believe this the only beacon he secreted within the palace,” Djserka said. “Although I am not inclined to spread rumors--as I’ve said, I myself am not privy to any of their discussions--talk about the palace has it that Rapteer departed shortly after His Imperial Majesty learned of his beacons and confronted him on the matter.”

Parric considered the information. “Is this when His Imperial Majesty is beginning collection of Nexial gaps?”

“Possibly. Access to the gaps was restricted the following day.”

Parric bowed his head and rubbed his wing fingers between his three sets of eyes. “I am fearing this is a trap I’m leading Flavius and myself right intoing.”


Djserka gave Parric a considering look. “You have one of the most peculiar speech patterns I’ve ever encountered.”

Parric nodded. “So I am hearing. My I be asking one more favoring of you?”

“That must certainly depend on the nature of the favor requested.”

“Where are the they holding the gaps? I’m fearing we must soon departing quickly, and finding them on my own will be taking much time.”

Djserka glanced to the kitchen then back at Parric. “Well, that would solve my difficulty of preparing your special meals...” Djserka shuffled over to the kitchen. “Em Kleemjun!”

One of the other Naga-ed-der snapped to attention. “Yes, em Djserka?”

“You are in charge until I return. The starlight swim isn’t until midnight, but I want the appetizers arranged and waterproofed by the time I get back.”

“You are having my thanks,” Parric said.

“Don’t thank me too quickly, Crafter. I’m only doing this to lighten my workload. We’re not merely understaffed and undersupplied, we’re grossly so.”

Parric followed Djserka through the kitchen and out a door on the far side. They entered an open shaft with a narrow, spiral stair winding along the circumference. Djserka looped a strand of silk from its spinnerettes to an anchor on the landing.

“Can you follow? Stairs are unpleasant for me.”

“Of coursing.”

Djserka lurched forward and vanished over the edge. Parric followed.

Parric’s wings blurred as he hovered in the center of the shaft. Already Djserka was several floors below, dropping in a controlled, tethered fall that was as much an aerial dance as anything. Parric slowed his wings and descended.

The shaft went on far longer than Parric expected. When Djserka stopped on a landing two levels from the bottom, Parric estimated they’d traversed nearly the entire height of the palace.

Djserka inclined its head as if it knew what Parric was thinking. “The petite dining hall is indeed in the central palace tower. The main banquet hall is six levels below it. Our stores are between the two. It’s not entirely convenient, but we make do.”

“Are we nearing to the gaps?”

“Yes, Crafter. We’re almost there,” Djserka said, leading Parric through a narrow corridor to a small door that blocked the way. “The doors from the central lifts are guarded, but nobody uses the open stairwells other than em Naga-ed-der bringing orders from the kitchen or collecting imported foodstuffs.” Djserka turned and gave Parric an almost conspiratorial look. “You’d never have gotten this far otherwise.”

“Then I’m thanking you again. And His Imperial Majesty will be thanking you, too, as it is his wishings that Flavius and I be departing,” Parric said.

“I’ll take your word on that, Crafter. I’ve learned to avoid direct contact with anyone with ‘Imperial’ in their title,” Djserka said, going through the door.

It opened into a shallow recess, shielded from the larger chamber by a wall. Unnatural, metallic groaning filled the air, setting Parric’s antennae alert. Djserka’s spines bristled. Voices shouted and barked orders unintelligibly. A foreboding energy crackled throughout the room.

“Something’s not right here,” Djserka said, pulling back. “We must go. Now.”

Parric ignored him, sliding forward to peek into the chamber.

Dozens, if not hundreds, of Nexial gaps pulsed in the center of the room, tethered in place by flickering anchor threads. Normally imperceptible to even Parric’s multiple eyes, the sheer concentration of gaps made them fleetingly visible even to more mundane senses. Four technicians with supplemental prosthetic arms manned control stations around the gaps, cursing freely as they rapidly worked. A dozen Eternal Militiamen in silver-streaked turquoise armor stood about the chamber, cuayabs held ready.

Parric pulled back. “This isn’t the terminal I’m arriving at on previous visitings.”

“That’s the public gap access. It’s been closed and that Nexial gap relocated here, with the others. This terminal is more cargo oriented... among other things. Can we please leave now?”

“Yes, I’m seeing all I need--”

“They’re coming through again!” an urgent voice shouted in the chamber.

Parric jerked back around. The collected gaps shuddered and twitched in disturbing ways.

“Steady now,” one of the techs said. “They’re trying a dispersed penetration this time, random across the grid.”

“I’m getting spikes from three of my gaps,” another said.

“Only three? That shouldn’t--”

A shape lunged through a gap, massive and grasping. The unnatural groan turned to a harsh shriek and alarms blared throughout the chamber. It slammed against the floor then rose again, tooth-filled mouth gaping. It was a foothead.

“Compensate! Compensate! Increase the feed to your containment six percent!”

As quickly as it’d broken through, the shape vanished back into the gap.

Parric retreated down the narrow corridor, featherscales ruffled and antennae twitching nervously.

“You know what that thing is?” Djserka asked, chasing along behind Parric.

“Yes. It is being a moironteau.”

“A moironteau? And what’s that?”

“It is proof,” Parric said without breaking stride, “that you are correcting in thinking Rapteer is leaving more beacons in the palace.”

Continued

MEMORY: 27

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Sheepishly, Parric backed out of the way and found a corner beside the open doorway. Djserka stared him down until certain Parric was no longer a problem, then threw itself back into the food preparations.

Parric watched grudgingly as dish after dish made its way over the edge of the balcony, empty plates and stemware coming up on the return trip. Occasionally, he caught sight of a unique delicacy, some rare foodstuff prepared exclusively for the gastric inclinations of a Crafter of Onimik.

Parric’s stomach grumbled as he watched a fluttering swarm of fyrit--tethered to the serving tray by minuscule golden threads--taken down to his simulacrum. Such a waste. The three courses he’d sampled were flawlessly prepared, but they’d been comparatively small. Certainly not enough to constitute an entire meal.

The simulacrum would eat them all dutifully, of course. Then the intermingled mess would be unceremoniously dumped somewhere within the palace once the simulacrum dissipated.

Finally, after an interminably long time, dessert arrived in the form of gossamer-thin orbs filled with aromatic smoke of varying hues. Parric watched with a mixture of exasperation and impatience.

A passing peq caught Parric’s look and shook its head in sympathy. “Empty calories,” it grunted, then ambled on.

With sudden purpose, Djserka turned to Parric and loped forward. “What,” it demanded, “is so important that you feel compelled to barge into my kitchen, unannounced, uninvited, during the single most calamitous dinner of the entire cycle?”

“Now looking here--”

“Yes, yes. You’re a Crafter of Onimik and as such demand that one addresses you with proper respect and deference. I know all about that,” Djserka said with a mixture of contempt and boredom. “I can assure you that as one who’s served as head chef for the feuding Hauptfren Oligarchy for three cycles--three full cycles, not two and some balance of weeks mind you--there is nothing in this, yours or any other cosm that can properly strike fear into me. And I left their employ with uniformly excellent letters of recommendation. Quite a feat, considering the seventeen previous head chefs left their employ as compost.

“So if you have something to say to me, out with it. I haven’t got the time of the stomachs for your posturing.”

Parric opened his beak, thought better of it, then bowed forward in a gesture of supplication, folding his fore wings together before him. “Most skillfulling chef, please be forgiving my intruding manner, but I am somewhat pressing for time,” Parric began cautiously. “On my earlier visiting, we are not meeting, but you--I am assuming--are preparing for my eatings simple foods off your menu that I am not adversing to.”

Djserka grunted. “I remember. No proteins. No citric acids. The list goes on for at length.”

Parric nodded. “Yet this timing, you are very well prepared with not only consumables agreeable to me, but very, how am I saying... upscale entrees. I am wondering if you are preparing meals for other Crafters of Onimik?”

“You mean Rapteer?”

Parric’s antennae straightened despite himself. “Is this Rapteer red by any chance?”

Djserka’s nictating membranes slid over its eyes. “Just how many colors do your kind come in?”

“Mostlying green, out in the cosms,” Parric answered.

Djserka nodded, as if this made sense. “Rapteer is red. Arrived maybe a week after the excitement with your friend and Her Imperial Majesty. Stayed three days. His Imperial Majesty had several long conferences with him. Quite a picky eater, that Rapteer.”

“You are having much contact with Rapteer?”

“Too much. He was quite insistent on the types of food he was to be served. The trouble was, as I’m sure you’ll know, those items aren’t readily available in the easily accessible cosms for us. I had to dispatch half my staff at times to track down enough ingredients for a single meal. Since it appeared to me your kind would be making occasional appearances here, my intent was to build an extensive stock of ingredients so we wouldn’t be thrown into a panic each time one of you showed up to spend a week or so. But then Rapteer departed, and His Imperial Majesty gathered in all the Nexial gaps and sealed them.”

“Waiting a moment... His Imperial Majesty is sealing them after Rapteer is leaving?”

“My reaction exactly. How could I build our stock if my staff couldn’t enter the Nexus for procurement?” Djserka shook its head. “Then they started this urgent ‘Transfer to Eternal Prime’ exodus. Why they can open the gaps to transfer courtiers but not for official staff business is beyond me.”

“Are you knowing why His Imperial Majesty is sealing the gaps?” Parric asked, turning the information over in his mind. “Is Rapteer and the Emperor... hostiling toward each other?”

“No, they seemed cordial enough, but then again I never saw them up close,” Djserka answered. “If you must force me to hazard a guess, I’d say it was most likely because of you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. For some reason, Rapteer was as obsessed with you as you appear to be of him. Hounded me relentlessly with his questions, and as you know, I’d not even met you,” Djserka said with a sigh. “He went so far as to insist that I contact him if you returned to the palace.”

Continued

MEMORY: 26

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Parric successfully slipped through the dining hall door, unnoticed. The doorman, luckily, was dressing down a peq in an alcove across the way. Parric quickly slithered down the corridor, not shedding the aura of concealment he’d Crafted until he’d put several turns between himself and the doorman.

His simulacrum would go through the motions well enough to make it through dinner without raising suspicions. That left Flavius, though.

Parric considered this. The Highlander had an uncanny knack for drawing unwanted attention to himself, not to mention getting killed on occasion. It was unfair to abandon Flavius to face the interminable dinner alone without warning him first, but if Parric had told Flavius his intentions, he’d have wanted to tag along. Stealth wasn’t Flavius’ strong suit.

Parric didn’t need Imperial suspicions at the moment. Flavius’ featherscale was troubling, and he needed answers.

A stairwell beckoned. Parric followed it up, up and up some more, testing the air with his antennae at each floor. A trio of peq passing downward gave him no notice. Other than the peq, the stairwell was deserted.

Cooking aromas wafted through the fifth landing. Parric wound his way through a warren of twisting halls until he found himself in a vast kitchen complex.

Four of the same kinds of creatures as the aerial waiters deftly worked a variety of elaborate ovens and grills, pan-searing a batch of popping, bouncing green clusters with one arm, ladling a creamy sauce over another dish with two other arms, while the remaining limbs expertly arranged garnishes on several plates simultaneously. Several peq dutifully assisted each chef, passing along spices and other ingredients as called for.

Amid the steam and smoke and clanging noise, a circular balcony filled the center of the kitchen. Here nearly a dozen aerial waiters worked rapidly, taking serving trays from peq and diving over the edge, tethered by silken threads from their tail spinnerets anchored to the balcony railing.

“Excusing me,” Parric said to a passing peq loaded down with some purple, tuberish vegetable that appeared disturbingly phallic. “I am needing to speak--”

“Ours is only to serve, sir, and we are serving now,” the peq said with a courteous but unmistakably dismissive nod, then continued on its way.

“I...” Parric started, but the peq had already vanished amid the chaos. Clicking his beak in annoyance, Parric pushed his way through disinterested peq to the one chef that seemed to exude the most authority. “Excusing me--”

“Who let this one in here?” the chef grunted loudly without looking from his confections. His orange skin glistened wetly from the steam. “Have the doorman escort it out.”

“The doormen have all been transferred to Eternal Prime in advance of the Imperial court, sir,” the peq answered. “The T'ul-us Tzan let itself in.”

The chef snapped its head around at that, its dark, compound studying Parric intently. Abruptly, it set aside its various cooking implements and loped over to the balcony on stubby, muscular hind legs. It leaned over the railing a moment, then turned back to Parric. “I don’t have enough ingredients to feed two of you.”

“No, I’m not here for eatings.”

“That’s good, because you’ll have to fight your friend down below for what we have. It’s not like we keep the larder full on the off chance a T'ul-us Tzan will happen by,” it returned to its station, casting a sidelong glance at Parric. “Although your kind are more common of late.”

“This is what I’m needing to talking with you about,” Parric said.

“I’m busy now. Come back later.”

Parric’s antennae flattened. Parric drew himself up so he was a head taller than the chef. “You are not understanding. I am talking with you now.”

“No, you don’t understand,” it replied in a rumbling voice filled with the promise of doom. It reared up, towering over Parric, while the long, hairy spines along its back swelled and bristled. “I am Djserka em Naga-ed-der and am charged by Their Imperial Majesties with delivering the evening meal for the Imperial court and unexpected guests. This entire affair has teetered on the brink of disaster with abrupt venue and menu changes, and having come this far I have no desire to face execution because I chose to chit-chat with you rather than ensure Her Imperial Majesty’s saulerant doesn’t overheat and congeal. So if you must have words with me, you will wait until after the digestifs have been imbibed. Do I make myself clear?”

Parric bristled momentarily, then backed down. Kitchen brawls weren’t exactly stealthy.

Fighting would hardly get him the information he sought.

But, most importantly, Flavius would never let him hear the end of it.

Continued

MEMORY: 25

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Flavius coughed, waving the smoke away. “Aye. That I noticed.”

“Indulge me, Flavius. I am curious,” Emperor Camargo said. “Were you wise enough to heed my advice, would you depart the same way you arrived?”

Flavius took a cautious sip of ja’na winic. Even without a mouthful of troesken, it imparted a sharp sting that wasn’t entirely pleasant. “To be honest with yer Imperial Majesty, I’ve nae given it much thought. The gap we arrived though, it were a three-day hike through yer mountains there.” He prodded the troesken suspiciously, then speared one of the roving berry-like things. It emitted a puff of gas, deflating. “With nae much to eat along the way.”

“Three days’ hike? Most interesting. I was under the impression--mistaken, obviously--that every Nexial gap within a 100 kaa radius had been collected and anchored inside the palace. My security director’s explanation should be quite... entertaining.”

Flavius’ skin prickled. No matter how tenuous his position was, he wouldn’t change places with the security director for anything.

He stared at his plate, the entree growing more revolting to him by the moment. His stomach churned with the exotic fare he’d already put down. Flavius looked up at Emperor Camargo, a man who’d killed him once already and could well stage an encore on a whim. Flavius’ eyes roamed across the crowded dining hall, finding Parric’s phantom near the musicians, pointedly ignoring a courtier--an Ajaw probably--babbling away at the conjoined tables. Farther back among the dining crowd, Flavius saw several peq herding drifting tables away from Empress Malinche’s field of vision, so she could keep an unobstructed eye on Flavius.

A feeling of abandonment and exposure settled over him. Alone among a crowd that regarded him as little more than an amusing animal, vulnerability did not sit well. He and Parric had come to the Eternal Dominion in order to catch their breaths and plan their next move. It was pretty clear--to Flavius at least--that Camargo wasn’t behind the moironteau attacks, but this mysterious Crafter Not-of-Onimik skewed the situation in ways he didn’t fully understand. Too many unknowns had intruded. The Eternal Dominion was no longer a haven of even dubious safety, if it ever had been. Damned Imperial court intrigues threatened to doom Flavius even if the moironteau never reared their ugly footheads again. Chaotic Tradefare may be a cutthroat morass of opportunistic betrayal, but at least the dangers there were familiar ones.

“Yer right,” Flavius said suddenly, pushing his plate and drink away. “Yer Imperial Majesty is absolutely right.”

Emperor Camargo barely concealed his surprise, then narrowed his eyes at Flavius. “About what, friend Flavius? Some of my predecessors have argued for infallibility in every Imperial thought, word and deed, so specific examples would help my studied evaluation of such claims.”

“Why, the bit about the leaving, of course,” Flavius said. “Yer Imperial hospitality’s been grand, but yer right that I dinnae belong here. Even yer food, fine stuff that it is, no doubt, is too much for my simple tastes. So, aye, I’m leaving.”

“And when do you plan to depart?”

“Immediately, if nae sooner.” Flavius stood, wobbled a moment, then bowed politely. His head swam more than he’d expected. “May we meet again in better times. And by better times, I mean with fewer bodies trying to put me in an early grave.”

With that, Flavius turned and briskly wound his way through the drifting tables, trying not to stumble too noticeably. Emperor Camargo’s laughter rose up behind him abruptly, following Flavius through the hall. A hush fell as conversation trailed off and the musicians put down their instruments. Even the aerial waiters caught themselves in mid-air, holding to their thread and watching the curious events below. All eyes followed Flavius as he made for the door.

“All right now, just make it to the door without anyone cutting ya down from behind and yer home free,” Flavius muttered to himself under his breath. He felt the heat of a hundred sets of eyes on him. He didn’t have to look at Empress Malinche to know she wouldn’t be as amused as Emperor Camargo.

Flavius reached the great double doors, pushed one open and stepped through. Once safely in the hall, he exhaled. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath.

“Is the distinguished guest in need of facilities?” the doorman asked. “I can have a peq guide you.”

“Nae, lad. I’ve had my fill, ya could say. I’m just away to my bed.”

“Before the ninth course?” The doorman raised his eyebrows, but quickly regained composure. He gestured to a peq slouched in an alcove across the hall. “Of course, sir. This peq will see you to your room and address any need you may have.”

“Our pleasure is to but serve,” the peq said in acknowledgement, plodding off in the direction of Flavius’ room.

As they walked down the hall, Flavius tried and failed to identify the peq as the one who’d waited on him before. Peq had a startling sameness about them, and the drink fogging his head didn’t help in telling them apart.

Flavius noticed a slight limp in the peq’s hind legs when it mounted the stairs. A knot formed in his stomach. “Say lad... er, that spondl served in the dining room earlier, you weren’t... I mean--”

”They grow back,” answered the peq simply. “Your room, sir.”
“Thanks, lad,” Flavius said, opening the door. “I’d have nae found it on my own.”

“I will be out here in case sir needs anything,” the peq said. “Our pleasure--”

“Is to serve. Aye, I got that one the first time around. Well, g’night.”

Flavius closed the door quickly, shielding himself from the madness of the Eternal Dominion. The room threatened to begin spinning, but Flavius stilled it to a persistent jitter through force of will. He stood in the dark, starlight filtering in through the window. He shut his eyes, drained and exhausted, but not as hungry as he’d been before, at least. Forcing himself to concentrate, he weigh whether he should grab what sleep he could and depart in the morning or find Parric now and flee as quickly as possible.

The room seemed to breath about him.

Flavius’ eyes snapped open. It wasn’t the room breathing. Someone was there with him.

“All right, whoever ya are, show yerself.” Flavius gripped Memory, half-drawing the sword. “I’m in nae mood for games.”

She stepped from the spherical bath alcove tentatively, head down, submissive. Starlight silhouetted her six bare breasts.

This was not the assassin he’d expected. “Wha...? Who are ya, and what’re ya doing slinking around my room all starkers?”

“You don’t..? I-- I’m Anacaona. We sat together at dinner,” she answered in a wavering voice. “We discussed... ah, we discussed...”

“Anacaona?” Drink-tinged recollections came to Flavius from Memory. His weariness abruptly fled. “Oh! That Anacaona! Sorry, lass, but it’s been a bit of a night for me.” Flavius thought for a moment. “But wasn’t I supposed to go to yer room?”

She didn’t raise her head. “W-When you said you’d have me on your terms, I understood that as an ultimatum. So I came directly here to await you. I thought that your desire. I apologize if I am in error. It is not my wish to offend--”

Flavius stopped her, slipping his finger under her chin to lift her face. Fear mingled with excitement in her eyes. And something else, something furtive, like a thief caught in the royal treasury. For a noble of the Imperial court, Anacaona’s condescending arrogance was in surprisingly short supply. Flavius bent forward and kissed her lips, gently at first, but then with urgency.

“Then you’ll have me?” Tears of joy welled in her eyes. “Thank you. Oh, thank you.”

“A sweet bonny lass like yerself has nae need to beg.” Flavius slid his hands across her body. He pulled off his shirt, then drew her back to him, cupping each breast in turn. He was delighted to find her navel perfectly centered between the third pair.

He led her to the bed, shedding his kilt and unbuckling his swordbelt. An image of Empress Malinche flashed through his mind, of himself casting aside his sword an earlier time. He reconsidered, then, refastening the belt. “If ya dinnae mind, though, I ken I’ll be keeping my Memory with me.”

Continued

MEMORY: 24

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The aerial waiters swooped down, gathering up the dishes as the tables separated.

“Damn ya, no!” Flavius shouted, swatting at the waiters. He grabbed Parric’s table with a meaty hand to keep it from drifting off. “This other Crafter then, he tosses magic around like I wish ya would?”

“It is not majickings.”

“Damn it, Parric, everything is magic to me.” Flavius strained, to no avail. The tables pulled apart. “Is this Red Crafter as nasty a piece of work as Whistard Holdchau?”

“I’m not knowing. The unpleasantings of Whistard Holdchau are sometimes beyond even my believings,” Parric answered. “But Holdchau is not even close to the same level of dangering as Crafter Not-of-Onimik.”

Flavius strangled a moan of despair in his throat.

“Be finishing your dinner, then go straight to your room,” Parric directed as other tables drifted between them. “And stay out of troublings. I’m having some things to be checking first. Be ready for quick leavings, just in casings.”

“Parric, ya nae need tell me that twice.”

“And stay out of troublings!”

Flavius started to shout something rude in reply, but caught himself. Although he was looking directly at Parric, the Crafter seemed to flicker in the edges of his vision ever-so-briefly. “Beastie’s up to something,” Flavius muttered. “Funny how he’s good at leaving me to the wolves...”

Flavius’ table rotated as a waiter dropped a plate in front of him. Orange and green squares were piled high, opaque, gelatinous things that seemed to crawl about of their own accord without the use of legs. Blue-striped berries rolled between and over the squares randomly. A frothy red liquid now filled his glass. From the gasps of shock, astonishment and delight rising up throughout the hall, Flavius guessed these were more of the Empress’ last second menu alterations.

“A bit ostentatious, serving troesken as the fourth course. I wonder what my debauched wife has in store for the rest of the evening?”

Flavius snapped around just as the Emperor Camargo’s table merged neatly with his own.

“I-- I wouldnae know anything about it,” Flavius managed, watching as Camargo easily speared one of the squares and nibbled around the edges. “All of the foodstuff here are a might exotic for a simple lad like myself. Give me a haggis with some mashed tumshie on the side and I’ve got myself a feast.”

Emperor Camargo stared at Flavius intently for a moment, then smiled. “I have absolutely no idea what you’ve just said, Flavius. I suppose that makes us even.”

Flavius managed a forced laugh. Desperate for any reason to avoid talking with Emperor Camargo, Flavius speared one of the troesken and shoved the entire square into his mouth. The troesken immediately adhered to the entire inner surface of his mouth, knotting itself in particularly aggressive fashion about his tongue. The taste was vaguely chocolatey, with an overriding toasted nuttiness. And heat. What started as a pleasant bite grew steadily into a blazing inferno.

“You never cease to amaze me, Flavius,” Emperor Camargo said, taking a sip from his glass. “Most men struggle to nibble a tiny bit of troesken at a time. I limit myself to a single bite, and a modest one at that. It’s always struck me that women seem to enjoy greater benefits from it, for some reason. But you, I must say, you are a marvel. An entire square! Caution is for lesser men, eh, Flavius?”

Flavius offered a noncommittal nod in response, blinking rivulets of sweat from his eyes.

“You know, there are some here in court who believe you a man of genius. That you are a scheming plotter who makes no move that isn’t well considered a dozen times over.” Emperor Camargo took another bite of troesken. No sweat shone on his lip. His eyes betrayed no hint of heat. “Others think you a fool, a mere pet the T'ul-us Tzan keeps around for its own amusement. Convincing arguments have been made for either alternative. Do you know what I think?”

Flavius shook his head, struggling to part his lips. The troesken felt as if it would burn through his cheeks at any moment.

Emperor Camargo leaned forward. “I don’t think you’re a genius or a fool. I think you’re simply a man, as stupid or as wise as any lesser sentient. You are curiously gifted, though, and your companionship with the T'ul-us Tzan is something that intrigues me--and I’d long thought myself too jaded to be intrigued by anything.

“I’ve not forgotten the service you and the T'ul-us Tzan rendered in the fourth cosm of the Eternal Dominion. Your actions spared us far more scandal than you could possibly know. Which is why you’ve been granted far more privilege in the court than any other lesser sentient could dream of,” he said. “I am going to offer you some advice, which is not something I normally do. Listen closely, Flavius, because I will not repeat myself: Leave the Eternal Dominion. The sooner, the better, for your sake.”

Flavius finally managed to force his mouth open. Immediately, he grabbed the glass before him and gulped at the crimson fluid.

Lightning exploded in his mouth. Flavius jerked back against his chair, his hair and beard a sudden spiky mass. Even the hairs on his arms stood stiff. A faint wisp of smoke escaped from his lips.

“I might suggest sipping ja'na winic in moderation,” Emperor Camargo said casually. “It has the reputation of reacting... aggressively with the troesken.”

Continued

MEMORY: 23

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Flavius looked at the crimson featherscale, then back at Parric. His mouth curled ruefully. “Why’d I ken ya were going to say that?”

“You’re not as dumb as you are appearing, mostly,” Parric said.

“Thanks for the kind word.” Flavius prodded the food before him dubiously, then pushed it away. A surreptitious glance confirmed that the Empress Malinche had seen, and was frowning. She gestured to one of the aerial waiters, giving it complex instructions once it reached her table. Another menu change, no doubt. Across the hall, Emperor Camargo watched, stony-faced. “Er, what do ya ken my chances are of getting something to eat here that’s nae the vital part of some beastie?”

Parric offered a sympathetic kack.

Flavius nodded. “Right. Cheer a doomed body up, then. Tell me all the ways this here featherscale is bad for us.”

“That featherscale is coming from a hai-dlo Crafter,” Parric answered simply.

Flavius raised his eyebrows, waiting for more. “And...?

Parric swallowed the last of the spiny purple eggs, but did so without enthusiasm. “Knowicent is referring to me as a Crafter of Onimik. That is as gooding a name for my kind as any. Onimik is not a placing, although we are all of the same cosm. Onimik is more of a sharing... destiny of sortings. It is being more than a philosophy. A discipline is more accurating.”

“Beastie, ya may be telling me something profound, but I dinnae ken head nor tail of it.”

“We are not sharing this with outsiders, Flavius. But I’m not considering you an outsider for a longing time now,” Parric said.

“Right. Yer secret’s safe with me.”

“Is not a secreting-- No matterings. Let me explaining this way...” Parric paused, his antennae agitated. “You’re having three stagings in life: Immature, mature and aged. They are blending together, so you are not knowing where one begins and the other ends.

“My kind are differenting. Crafters of Onimik have five stagings. When we are reaching the third staging, hai-ona, we are departing our home cosm.”

“And yer hai-ona.” Flavius nodded. “I ken yer under some kind of exile.”

“It is not exiling. It is hai-ona. That is what it is being, what I am being,” Parric explained, choosing his words with care. “Understanding this: When a Crafter is molting into hai-ona, the Crafter is departing from the cosm, into the infiniting of realities. The cosm, from that pointing on, is hiddening from the Crafter. A Crafter is not finding it again until the discipline of restraining is achieved. Returning to our cosm triggers the hai-dlo molt.”

“Wait, back up there a mite. This discipline of restraint, is that why yer always bellyaching about nae using yer magic?”

“Is not magicings.” Parric’s antennae twisted in annoyance. “Try to understanding. What you’re calling magicings use some forms of a cosm’s latent energies to manifesting an effect otherwise impossibling in that cosm’s reality. Craftings remake the cosm’s reality so that the desired manifestation is possible.”

“Yer arse,” Flavius said, chewing over Parric’s words. “If what yer saying’s true, that’d make ya a... a god, or somesuch.”

“Some are calling us gods, but we are always preferring Crafters.”

“Yer nae having me on, are ya?” Flavius scrunched his face up, eyes clinched tight. When he spoke, his voice was strained and low. “Ya mean to tell me that all of those tight scrapes we was in, all those times I staggered out of a row, knocked around something fierce, all of them wagers I lost-- ya mean to tell me ya could’ve fixed it in our favor with a flick of those bristle stick on yer head? It’s all just a damn game to ya. A damn game.”

“You’re not listening.”

“The hell I am. Twenty-seven times, Parric!” Flavius’ voice rose in the hall. “Twenty-seven goddamned times ya let them beasties shred me to pieces at Culloden, when ya coulda turned the lot of ‘em into smoke, or--here’s an idea--put them after wheover sent them in the first place. End the problem right then and there!”

“Flavius, pleasings,” Parric said, his voice soft. “These things I cannot be doing. I shouldn’t be doing even the small Craftings you’ve seen. These are my failings. Try to imagining a sequencing of cosms filled with Crafters altering reality with no restraint. Where every whiming is reweaving the fabric of being.”

Flavius snorted. “Dinnae give me that. There’s nae such cosms.”

Parric nodded. “No, there’s not. At leasting, not anymore.”

Flavius’ eyes narrowed. “Go on.”

“My cosm is unique.”

“Ya told me there were nae unique cosms.”

“All cosms have infinite varyings, yes. But the varyings of my cosm are gone. There are gapings in the Nexus surrounding it. The next closest cosms do not have any tracings of Crafters.”

“So what’re ya saying? They’ve all gone hiding?”

“I’m saying they’re destroying themselves. And their cosms.”

Flavius let out a low whistle.

“The only surviving Crafters are of Onimik. Are you seeing? The discipline of Onimik is the only thing restraining Crafters from self-destructing. Until I am learning this restraining, my cosm--”

“Stays hidden from ya, and ya cannae have yer hai-whatsit molt.” Flavius sighed, scratching thoughtfully at his beard. “Well. That kinda puts my being killed twenty-seven times in perspective, eh?” He frowned, then checked on the Emperor and Empress. They were both--along with half the dining room, apparently--watching Flavius and Parric with entirely too much interest. “So... tell me about this beastie what shed this featherscale, then. Ya said two of the three possibilities were bad. Start with the good.”

Parric eyed the featherscale warily. “If we are extremely luckying, the featherscale isn’t from a Crafter at all.”

“Oh,” Flavius said, nodding. “Right, there is that. I’m sure there’re lots of other beasties throughout the cosms with featherscales like this, aye?”

“No,” Parric answered, antennae drooping. “Not manying at all.”

“Lad, yer going to kill me one day with so much optimism...” Flavius sighed. “Is there a bad one that’s less bad than the other?”

Parric sagged. “For us? Maybeing. If we are very luckying, this other Crafter is just a survivor, a refugee from the destroying of my cosm.”

“Damn, Parric! Ya cannae be serious! Yer whole cosm? If we’re lucky?” Flavius picked up his glass and drained it. “And if we’re nae lucky?”

“Then this Crafter is Not-of-Onimik,” Parric answered. “It is a Crafter with no restrainings.”

Continued

MEMORY: 22

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“Lassie, I’m nae a performing dog what’ll sit up and do tricks on command for ya,” Flavius growled. “Nae matter what ya ken of me, with all this talk about ‘lesser sentients’ and the like, I’m more than a plaything for the women of the Eternal Dominion. I’m descended of Bellona's bridgroom and Sajal be damned, I’ll nae jump to when ya snap yer fingers. I’ll thank ya to remember that!”

The color’d drained from Anacaona’s face as Flavius raged, her eyes casting furtive glances left and right at the other diners who’d interrupted their conversations to stare at the commotion. When she spoke, her voice was a timid squeak.

“I... I apologize for my affront to your dignity. You shame me. I will not bother you anymore.”

Flavius rolled his eyes. “Are ya daft? I’ve been marching with Bonnie Prince Charlie for six months, down to Derby and back up through Glasgow. I wore out two pair of boots chasing around with him, but dinnae chase a single lassie the whole time.” He leaned back, crossing his arms. “I’ve gone so long without, I’d say ‘Aye’ to yer blind gran if she offered. Of course I’ll have a go at ya, but it’ll be on my terms, nae yers.”

Anacaona blinked at Flavius, struggling to process what he’d just said.

“I hope ya ken what yer in for,” Flavius said, popping the last few spondl into his mouth. “A stout Scot is nae to be trifled with.”

The tables abruptly split apart, carrying the uncertain Anacaona away. On cue, one of the aerial waiters swooped down to gather the empty plate.

“Aye, beastie. Take it away and bring me something savory,” Flavius muttered.

Through the crowd, Flavius spotted Parric. Remembering the mysterious featherscale, he waved as his table drifted along.

“Hoo! Parric! Over here!” he shouted, drawing startled stares and whispered comments throughout the dining hall. “No, nae that way, ya stupid table. How do ya steer this damned thing? Oh, bugger it.”

Flavius grabbed the side of the table, planted his feet on the floor and threw all of his weight to the side. The table groaned, a piercing, hollow echo of metallic agony that reverberated through the dining hall. But it slid toward Parric.

“Excuse me. Coming through here,” Flavius said, grunting as he shoved the table along. “Sorry about that. I dinnae ken it’ll stain. Was that yer foot? My fault. Out of the way, now.”

Finally, Flavius shoved his table into Parric’s. They neatly merged together. Parric stared at the fused seam, then looked up at Flavius. “Well,” Parric said, “you’re nothing if not subtling.”

“Watch it, beastie,” Flavius said, waving a finger. “I’m in nae mood for yer--”

An aerial waiter interrupted him, setting a steaming plate before him of thick, ropy coils drizzed with a translucent blue sauce and a stylish garnish of what looked like garden weeds. The waiter rotated in place, setting before Parric a dish of what looked like boiled eggs, except for the fact they were a startling purple in color and stood about a finger-length above the plate, supported by nasty looking red spines that radiated out from them.

“Egh,” Flavius said, prodding his entree suspiciously. “I ken the lot of ‘em are barking mad, what with this food they expect us to eat. D’ya ken what that last dish--that spondl stuff--they served the rest of us was?”

“Peq testicles,” Parric said, scooping up several of the spiny eggs in his beak. The spines made a satisfying crunch as they splintered.

“Right. And so I-- bastard!” Flavius’s face twisted in horror. “Yer having me on!”

Parric shrugged his antennae. “They grow back.”

Flavius slumped in his chair, face buried in his hands. He moaned pitifully before peeking at the current course in front of him. “Tell me, beastie. Is that one of them aphro-whatsits, too?”

“I’m believing so. The Empress Malinche is making many changes to the menu,” Parric said. “She is watching you closelying. She is seeming pleased with your appetite for spondl.”

Flavius groaned. “Just throw me to the wolves now, and get it over with.” He grabbed his drink and emptied it with a single gulp. The taste was bitter and woody, but it burned nicely on the way down. The edges of his vision flickered in a way that promised more to come. “I dinnae suppose yer plate there’s filled with the spiky balls of some exotic beastie as well?”

Parric shook his head. “No, these are... well, they’re not having a name. Or rather the name is a descripting of the preparing process. I’m finding this most curious, actualling.”

“How’s that?”

An aerial waiter refilled Flavius’ flute. It only made it halfway back up its thread before Flavius drained his glass, forcing it to return for another refill.

Parric leaned over. “It’s not a foodstuff widely knowing outside of my home. The first two courses, they are commoning. I’m eating them here previously. But this...”

“Parric, by ‘home’ do ya mean--”

“My home cosm.” Parric crushed the last spiny egg in his beak, gulping it down with relish. “It is actualling something of a delicacy. I’m at a loss as to how they are learning of it.”

“I ken I might have an idea how,” Flavius said, pulling up his sporran. “Open yer maw.” He reached in, and with a flourish pulled out the crimson featherscale. “What do ya think of this?”

Parric’s antennae sprang straight up. “I’m thinking three things,” Parric answered slowly. “And two of them are bad.”

Continued

MEMORY: 21

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Flavius recoiled from the creature, throwing up his arm between them. The thing stared at him briefly, nictating membranes sliding quickly across the eyes before its spindly arms abruptly produced a translucent, frosted dinner plate with crusted orange balls delicately arranged upon it. It deftly set the plate before Flavius as another arm deposited a tall flute of burgundy liquid on the table. It cocked its head without saying a word, the swiftly retreated straight up.

Mouth agape, Flavius watched it go. Half a dozen stubby legs pulled effortlessly up an impossibly thin silken strand to the ceiling of the dining hall. An instant later it disappeared onto a balcony encircling the ceiling, cleverly hidden by an optical illusion of the architecture.

More of the creatures tumbled down from the ceiling, their fat, segmented orange bodies punctuated by rings of long, hairy spikes. An array of spindly forelegs held assorted drink refills, finger bowls and any other luxury an Imperial diner could want. They expertly completed their tasks at the various drifting tables on the floor, and instantly scurried back up its silken thread.

“You really need to eat your spondl before it melts through the crust, Flavius of Clan MacDuff. It defeats the purpose otherwise.”

Flavius pulled his attention from the acrobatics above. His table had joined with another, and the occupant was a familiar one. Like others of the Eternal Dominion, her skin was reddish-copper and her hair a glistening silver, but her features were broader than the delicate Empress’. She was thick-shouldered and muscular by Dominion standards, but compared to the lassies of Scotland she was positively fey. Flavius racked his brain for a name before Memory offered it up.

“Sajal Anacaona, I’d nae thought to see you here,” he said, remembering the Sajal were mid-level Dominion nobility far outside the Imperial line of succession. “Of course, I nae thought to see me here again, either.”

“It’s safe to say many here shared those sentiments. Your departure was quite the topic of conversation.” She picked up one of the orange spondl with long, over-jointed finger and held it to her lips. She nipped the crust with her teeth, then sucked the filling out with far too much skill to be anything other than seductive.

Flavius grabbed a handful of spondl off his plate and shoved them into his mouth. The honeyed crust crumbled between his teeth, releasing a minute burst of alcoholic burn. The creamy brine of the filling made for a pleasant contrast on his tongue.

“Oh my,” Anacaona said, barely suppressing a grin. “I see Her Royal Majesty’s boldness isn’t misplaced.”

Flavius swallowed, eyeing Anacaona suspiciously as her lips worked over another spondl. “And just what d’ya mean by that?”

“Only that spondl is reputed to be a strong aphrodisiac, and Her Royal Majesty had it added as the second course right after your audience in the audience hall,” she said airily. “The scandal is all anyone’s talking about. His Imperial Majesty cannot be pleased with this affront, I would think. And spondl, of all things...” Anacaona shook her head. “I can’t imagine a dish that clashes more with the dry elegance of Brusselia cuisine, can you? At least it’s fresh spondl...”

“Yer having me on.”

Anacaona leaned forward on her elbows, smiling wickedly. “I am not. Ask anyone you share a table with this evening. They’ll tell you exactly what I have.”

“But those whatchercallem, the nuse--”

“Aren’t steeped in Her Imperial Majesty’s blood.”

“Emperor Camargo-- er, His Imperial Majesty said they’d kill me if released.”

Anacaona shrugged. “That’s a risk she’s willing to take.”

Flavius opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, then resorted to beating his temple with the heel of his palm. “Bugger me,” he muttered.

“That is a possibility. Her Imperial Majesty’s tastes are reputed to be quite varied.”

“If she’s that damn horny,” he said, measuring his words carefully, “why dinnae she just go off and shag Camargo and be done with it?”

Anacaona stared at Falvius, eyes wide and mouth open, only partly scandalized by his use of the Tricentennial Emperor’s familiar name. “You’re serious? You honestly don’t know?”

“Dinnae be a tit, you. I’m nae from around here, remember?”

Anacaona looked away with a hand over her mouth, composing herself. When she looked back, the mirth had gone from her face. “Full citizens of the Eternal Dominion are different from the lesser sentients--”

“Aye, that’d be me.”

She frowned at him, but continued. “There is a degree of physical compatibility with lesser sentients, but there’s a genetic disconnect. Crossbreeding cannot happen.”

Flavius shrugged. “And? That’s one of the first things I learned, going on three lives ago.”

“Try to understand this,” she said in a whisper. “We of the Eternal Dominion, we mate once. Copulation involves a physical bond between the man and woman and lasts weeks, ending only when the man dies, his body utterly spent. Staggered gestations immediately begin in the woman, and continue until her death. Empress Teotalco outlived her Emperor an unheard-of seven years, birthing forty-three heirs. That’s also a record.

“To consummate their union would be the death of his His and Her Imperial Majesties, both. They choose to avoid this as long as possible, you see, but the need remains. Our base drive for copulation defies all attempts to tame it, but it can be sated for a time. That’s why Her Imperial Majesty will have you tonight, nuse or no nuse.”

“This is a bonny bag of shite. If the nuse dinnae kill me, His Imperial Majesty will do the honors.” Flavius considered the situation. “Parric’s gonna be pissed.”

“You have alternatives, you know,” Anacaona said.

Flavius snorted. “Such as?”

Anacaona lowered her eyes, her cavalier confidence suddenly fleeting. “I’m of the Eternal Dominion, too, and share this curse. I’d shelter you this night, Flavius of Clan MacDuff. If you’re willing.”

Continued

MEMORY: 20

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The peq blinked at Flavius, considering the question. “I’m not sure, Sir. That’s why I asked.” It licked its lips with a broad, black tongue. “If Sir is having some difficulty, I will find someone to assist if I cannot. If Sir is not having difficulty, might I suggest dinner? The first course will have already been served, but you should make it in time for the second. Her Imperial Majesty will hold me personally responsible if you are not there by the third course.”

“Food. Right ya are, lad,” Flavius said, opening the impenetrable sporran and slipping the mysterious featherscale inside. “I’m near enough wasted away to skin and bones as it is. Lead the way and I’ll follow.”

The peq nodded and departed through the door. Flavius followed.

The halls were busier than those he’d gone through earlier. Pairs of peq worked here and there, cleaning and polishing the walls and floor. Liveried subjects of the Eternal Dominion passed them in the opposite direction, casting sidelong glances at Flavus, two women stopping and gaping openly as he went by.

For all the increase in foot traffic, the passages were still practically empty compared to the steady bustle he remembered from before.

“Say, lad, where’re all the people?” Flavius asked, looking around. “Last time I was here, a body couldnae take two steps without bumping shoulders with another.”

“Eternal Prime,” the peq answered.

“Right. And that is...?”

“The prime cosm of the Eternal Dominion,” the peq answered, as if speaking to an exceedingly dim child. “The Ruling Hand is coming into session, and most of the staff has already transferred over to make the Utq'in Palace ready to receive the Imperial court.”

They turned up a stairway, much larger than the earlier one. The bannisters were sheathed in mother-of-pearl.

“The Ruling Hand is comprised of one hundred and twenty-seven Fingers,” the peq continued. “Each Finger is the direct sovereign over his or her defined territorial interests. Each Finger is, of course, a non-successionary sibling...”

Flavius pondered the featherscale as the peq led him to dinner, expounding on the political intricacies of the Eternal Dominion with far more enthusiasm than he’d shown for anything else.

Where had the featherscale come from? Could it be from Parric? Did the featherscales change color when shed? Flavius doubted it. The alternative, though, was far more puzzling. In all his time with Parric, he’d never so much as seen another of Parric’s kind. Flavius tightened his grip on Memory instinctively, but no misplaced recollection straggled forth.

Parric never spoke of his own kind, Flavius realized. Not if he could help it, at any rate. The Tricentennial Emperor had referred to Parric as a T'ul-us Tzan. The Vistring Complexity had welcomed Parric as an Aspect of Creation. Knowicent called Parric a Crafter of Onimik... and Parric seemed to accept all monikers equally. No, not equally. He seemed most comfortable with Crafter of Onimik, but that might simply be a result of dealing with Knowicent so much. Nobody’d ever bothered to explain to Flavius where--or what--Onimik was. Flavius suspected Onimik was less of a place than it was another abstract Nexial concept he’d regret trying to wrap his mind around.

Why would another Crafter have been in Flavius’ room sometime in the past two weeks? He couldn’t decide if the portents were good or ill. He’d have to as Parric once they managed a moment of privacy.

“Here we are, Sir, the petite dining hall,” the peq said, stopping in front of a door with intricate carvings that depicted either a spectacular feast or a particularly gruesome battle.

The doorman, tall and copper skinned, nodded at the peq. “You’re lucky, peq. They’ve just served the second course.”

The peq bowed in acknowledgement. “Then I am grateful to live another day. My obligation here is fulfilled.” It then turned and ambled away.

“Flavius of Clan MacDuff, your table is anchored and waiting for you,” the doorman said, opening the door to usher Flavius inside. “I know Their Imperial Majesties are both hopeful you join with them--”

Flavius sucked in his breath. During his previous stay within the realms of the Eternal Dominion, they’d eaten in the field in the Second Cosm, and during the brief visit to Un-pic Ja’ab he and Parric had eaten in their rooms.

“If this is the petite dining hall lad, I’m afraid to see the grand one,” Flavius muttered.

The hall was more cathedral than dining room. The soaring, vaulted walls arched overhead and glowed white with an inherent light. On the floor, dozens of round tables the diameter of Flaviius’ outstretched arm drifted languidly about in an intricate dance, merging to bring their seated occupants together in polite conversation before separating again to connect with a different table. In the center of the hall a raised stage held a quartet playing bizarre instruments. The performers blew into mouthpieces, stimulating an array of strings to sound which they then touched lightly to mute various notes. The melody by omission haunting and strange, yet oddly relaxing.

Flavius spotted Parric coiled around a table on the opposite side of the hall, merged with that of some chattering courtier. “Huh.” Flavius snorted. “Bastard didnae even wait for me.”

He examined his waiting table then sat down on the attached cupped seat. Immediately the seat shifted to bring him closer to the table while the whole thing drifted into the dining floor crowd.

“Damn. Cannae they do anything normal around here?” Flavius said, looking under the table for any signs of locomotion and finding none. He straightened, and found a massive orange-and-black head with bulbous crystalline eyes staring at him, inches from his face.

Continued

I'm traveling, so I'm afraid there won't be a new installment of MEMORY next week folks. Sorry.

MEMORY: 19

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The spherical bath beckoned from an alcove on the far side of the room. A vermillion glow spilled through the panoramic window filling the opposite wall as the sun slipped below the horizon at the far end of the valley. Flavius sighed. The crushing weight of the previous week--had it really been a full week since he’d fled Culloden?--came down upon Flavius in a rush. His back ached. His feet throbbed. With every movement his joints seemed to grind bone against bone. Somebody or someone was still out there, trying to kill him, so naturally he was hiding out in the palace of the one person who, without a doubt, actually had executed Flavius in the recent past.

The idea made his head throb. The eerie familiarity of the Imperial court, the Palace of Un-pic Ja’ab and even the very room he now sat in was disconcerting. He ran his hand across the pale green carpet, the coarseness of the weave contradicted by the softness of the fiber. He remembered the sensation from before. Like the other memories from his wondrous sword, they weren’t quite comfortable--as if they were a well-made pair of new shoes not yet broken in.

Flavius’ head nodded forward before his stomach growled in protest, startling him awake.

“I hear ya,” he muttered, forcing himself to his feet. “No need to get testy on me.”

Flavius shed his grimy, tattered clothes along the way, not caring where they fell. He debated a moment on whether to carry Memory into the bath, ultimately setting the sword against the wall with a shrug. The bath wouldn’t harm it, but it’d be useless in such close confines and only get in the way. He hoisted himself awkwardly into the spherical bath--the entrance was designed for the long-limbed subjects of the Eternal Dominion--and slid the door shut behind him. Then Flavius flipped open the valves, letting the near-scalding jets of saffron-scented water pulse over him, burning away his deep aches from every angle.

Flavius sat there for many minutes before his angry stomach prodded him to action. He closed the valves and the bath immediately inhaled, drawing out every drop of moisture and leaving Flavius drier than when he’d entered.

He climbed out of the bath much refreshed and encouraged. Deadly acid hadn’t spilled forth from the valves in the bath, after all. Knife-wielding assassins hadn’t sprung upon him from the shadows. Perhaps Emperor Camargo’s claims that he bore Flavius no ill will were sincere.

The room had grown dark. A handful of stars twinkled in the evening sky as the scattered solar trees in the terraced gardens outside his window flickered to life. Flavius took in the ethereal scene, half expecting the fey folk to appear, dancing along the pathways.

Then he realized his clothes were gone.

A jolt of panic rushed through Flavius. He turned to where he’d left Memory. The sword remained in place. Quickly he snatched it up and turned to face whatever threat might be lurking in the shadows around him.

“Have at me then, if ya got an ounce of courage in ya,” Flavius challenged. “Have at me and quit skulking in the dark.”

Two round eyes blinked at him with reflected light.

“No challenge to you, sir. No threats, no skulking,” the peq said, shuffling forward. “Our lot’s not to fight. We’re only to serve.”

Flavius exhaled, but kept Memory ready. It looked like the same peq that’d led him to his room earlier, but he couldn’t be sure. They had a troubling sameness about them Flavius found confounding. “What’re ya doing in my room without my leave? What’ve ya done with my clothes?”

The peq looked puzzled. It blinked slowly, as if buying time as it chose its words carefully. “I’m in your room because I’m tasked with readying you for dinner, sir. Your clothes are laid out on the bed, ready for you to dress.”

“Lights up,” Flavius said, and the room’s rim lights glowed to life. Flavius looked to the bed. Lying there, neatly folded, was his finest dress kilt, white silk stockings, pale blue shirt with intricate black and white embroidery down the length of the sleeves... “Good God-- where’d ya get this?”

“From the wardrobe, sir,” the peq answered. “It is yours, is it not? It’s my understanding that you’d left it here--”

“No, yer right. Damn. I did leave it here.” Flavius opened the built-in wardrobe beside the bed. His travel pack sat there, clean and ready, next to a pair of polished black shoes and heavy leather boots. Above, neatly arranged on hangars, were several shirts and three separate kilts and the sporran he’d had made in Trammila that was magicked to only open at his command. “Open yer maw,” he said, and the sporran clicked open. A quick inventory showed the sporran contained a half-dozen Potentials, the finger-sized inter-cosm locator Parric’d long insisted he carry, a half-empty flask of single malt and a tin of powdered Absinthe. Flavius took a swig of the single malt and smiled as it burned its way down to his belly. “Ah, that’s the spirit.” He took another swallow, then shrugged and downed the whole thing.

The peq watched him patiently.

“Sorry lad, I’ve gone off and forgotten my manners,” Flavius said, capping the flask and putting it back into the sporran. “I’d offer ya some, but glutton that I am, I’ve finished it off. It’s this coming upon places I’ve already been, making claim to my property what I’ve never seen before... Rattles the nerves a bit, ya know. I’ve got some powdered Absinthe if ya like.”

“Sir’s generosity is too kind, but I fear your powdered consumable would strike me dead were I to ingest it,” the peq answered.

“Yer probably right,” Flavius said, closing the sporran. “It is pretty brutal stuff. Close yer maw.” The sporran clicked shut.

“Now, there was something... something... Ah! Dinner!” Flavius said, and started for the door.

The peq cleared his throat.

“What?”

“Perhaps sir would like to dress before attending dinner with the Imperial court?”

Flavius looked himself over, confirming that he was indeed naked. “‘S probably a good idea, that,” he said, returning to the bed. “I dinnae usually go out naked, mind you. It’s just I’ve nae eaten a decent meal in close to a month, what with Bonnie Prince Charlie’s war going sour and all. And that drink on an empty stomach...”

“Understood, sir.”

“It’s the empty stomach, ya see,” Flavius said, pulling the shirt on over his head. A silver brooch with wortleberries of blue sapphires so dark as to be almost black dropped to the floor. “Hello, I’d forgotten that bonny wee bauble. Did I ever tell ya how I got it?”

“Not to my knowledge, sir.”

“Oh, it’s a good story lad. Ye’ll like it.” Flavius got down on his hands and knees to search under the bed. “There was this dirigible captain what’d been doing business in Tradefare, regular like for years, loading up on exotic goods. Same’s everyone, right? Only this captain, when he’s getting back to his home cosm, he’s finding half his cargo or more missing. Gone, just like that. Now, I ken what yer thinking, but the crew couldnae pilfer this much cargo. Nae possible. And nae pirates, either. After three runs like this, he’s desperate, see? He’s lost so much, creditors are about to take his ship. So he goes to Knowicent and clever lass that she is, she refers him to me and...”

“Sir?” The peq cocked his ears forward when Flavius didn’t answer. “Sir? Is anything the matter?”

“You tell me, lad.” Flavius sat up, holding a featherscale between his thumb and forefinger.

It glinted brilliant crimson in the light.

Continued