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.”
Friday, October 31, 2008
MEMORY: 28
Friday, October 24, 2008
MEMORY: 27
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.”
Friday, October 17, 2008
MEMORY: 26
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.
Friday, October 3, 2008
MEMORY: 25
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.”
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
MEMORY: 24
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.”
Monday, September 8, 2008
MEMORY: 23
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.”
Thursday, August 28, 2008
MEMORY: 22
“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.”
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
MEMORY: 21
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.”
Saturday, August 2, 2008
MEMORY: 20
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.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
MEMORY: 19
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.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
MEMORY: 14
"You bastard." Flavius' voice was a low growl. "You let them kill me twenty-seven times?"
"Firstly, 'letting' is not even closing to the right word," said Parric, holding up one finger. "Secondly, if you try hitting me again, I'll be hurting you this time."
"But, twenty-seven times, Parric! I ken they were nae me, nae me me at any rate. But I'm holding this sword, and I feel all of these memories and thoughts. I ken they were me, living the same life as me, being the same person. That damn well makes it personal for me."
Parric gave him an impatient stare.
"Right then. Yer right. Ya taught me everything I know about parallel cosms and how they can just as easily be exactly alike--but not quite--as they can be exactly different. There's nae a body what knows better than ya. But can ya give a man a little leeway for a change? Half an hour ago I was readying myself to slaughter English and now I've got a couple lifetimes' worth of memories swirling in my head, half of 'em what I cannae make heads nor tails of yet."
Parric nodded. "Your normal state, in other wordings."
"Yer nae as funny as ya think ya are." Flavius paused, running his hand through his hair. "I need to ken who, Parric. Who's the minging sheepshagger what sent them eight-legged beasties-- what'd ya call them?"
"Moironteau."
"Uh-huh. Well, whoever sent them beasties to kill me. I'll give 'em a row to remember, enough to make up for killing me twenty-seven times, and then some."
"I'm not knowing who is behinding this--"
"We go wherever those beasties are from!"
"They've undergone changings. Their home cosms are poisonings to us--"
Flavius threw his arms up in disgust.
"--but I am having this." Parric reached among his pouches and pulled forth... nothing.
Flavius blinked, then leaned closer, peering intently at the space right above Parric's splayed wing fingers. The air shimmered, then it was gone. Flavius squinted, but the shimmer didn't return. Annoyed, he glanced at Parric and the shimmer appeared at the edge of his peripheral vision. He tried looking at it again, but it squiggled again to nothing. Deliberately, Flavius looked away, and the elusive glimpse returned. His perspective shifted, and the shimmer became a shape.
Parric held a miniature moironteau. An invisible miniature moironteau. No, invisible wasn't right. Its edges were clearly defined, as long as he didn't look directly at it. It was more an absence, a void where a miniature moironteau would be if there were one present. The very thought made his head hurt.
"Ya caught yerself one of the sheepshagger's beasties. A wee one at that," Flavius said. "I dinnae know they came in assorted sizes."
"This is only parting of one. The moironteau are existing in five dimensions. That's how they are climbing through the sky after us."
"I'd noticed that. Handy trick."
"This is the fifth parting. I'm trapping one in a dimensional pocket back at the battlefield. That is making it easy to Crafting this part away from it."
"So when ya say ya used yer sorcery--"
"I am not a sorcering."
"Fine, then. Crafted away this wee fifth dimensional part from that beastie--"
"It's not pleasanting for the moironteau," Parric said. "It's not deading, but is probably wishing it is."
Flavius nodded. "Good. So what do we do with it now?"
"We're taking it to Knowicent, eventualling. She's already identifying its home cosm, so with this she should be telling us which cosm cluster these engineerings are coming from."
"And then we pop in and slaughter the lot of 'em. Good plan. Simple and direct." Flavius looked up at the violet sky. "I dinnae suppose this is a part of Tradefare what I never seen before, is it?"
"We can't be going back to Tradefare, at least not righting away," Parric said. "Whoever is killing you--and trying to kill me--knows too muching about us. If they're still wanting us deading, they'll be ambushing us there."
"So we're hiding out." Flavius looked around the mountains, spreading his arms wide. "Where are we, then?"
"I'm thinking the western branch of the Ixch'up Mountains. But I'm not certaining. Geography is not my strongest suiting."
Flavius shook his head in ignorance.
Parric sighed. "We're in the second cosm of the Eternal Dominion of the Tricentennial Emperor."
Flavius' mouth fell open. "Ya crazy bastard. Your Tricentennial Emperor's the one what killed me two weeks back and started this madness!"
"We're needing a most unlikely place to be hiding. This is seeming more unlikely than most." Parric shrugged. "And there's a chancing--doubtingful, but still a chancing--that the Emperor is behind your killings. Other than the one, I'm meaning. If so, we're best dealing with him sooner rather than latering."
"And then we pop in and slaughter the lot of 'em. Good plan. Simple and direct." Flavius grinned. "'Cept, of course, for the Empress. We've got unfinished business, she and I."
Monday, May 5, 2008
MEMORY: 12
Thunder boiled up through Flavius' arm, threatening to tear muscle from bone and split his skin. It roared through his shoulder and into his head.
His head! His head! His head! Lightning flashed behind his eyes, blinding bursts of fire that swelled within his skull as the terrible pressure built up. Were all the killer waves racing ahead of a storm to ram themselves into a teacup, it’d still be a faint whisper of the torrent pouring into him.
His fingers melted into the hilt of the sword--the evil, cursed sword thrust upon him by that devil serpent. Flavius tried to cast it away. His arm wouldn't obey. His fingers burned white as they held it fiercely with the grip of the dead.
Flavius struggled, but the flood tossed aside every effort to close his mind. Images flashed over him, scenes and lives, scents and sounds and thoughts-- Each fleeting glimpse had a familiarity about it, like a long-forgotten memory recalled years after the fact. Pain blinded him again, and Flavius’ resolve crumbled. Unable to resist, the torrent carried his mind away with it...
A memory unfolded around him, cold and glossy.
Flavius crouched behind the singularity generator, hardly daring to breathe. Carefully he eased his claymore’s tip out past the corner, intent on the reflection in its mirror-polished surface.
Parric floated in the center of the broad research chamber. Coils of light wrapped and thrashed around him, holding him helpless in a knotted ball. Three gleaming steel-and-brass dromomachs--twelve-leggers at that--surrounded Parric, guarding the Whistard Holdchau's prize. Their skeletal heads rotated atop their bodies, eye beams scanning the chamber, ready to obliterate any threat with an instantaneous stream of positrons.
Flavius pulled his sword back before the beam passed over it. He glanced over to Blysta, crouched behind the--what did she call it?--“Reality sink.” Good old one-armed Blysta. She'd lost her other to a nine-legger almost two weeks back, but Holdchau’d dampened her negator bands then. She swore by the negator bands, and Holdchau was still busy with the mess in Sanderfar.
The dromomachs wouldn't know what hit them.
The memory shifted, changing to something that’d happened earlier. Or later. The sequence wasn’t clear.
Flavius lay on the muddy bank of a river, stinging rain pelting him in the eye. He didn’t have the strength left to blink. His gut hung open, his entrails tangled in the brush above him, tangling him like a puppet. He'd ceased to hurt. He didn't feel anything, anymore.
But a green serpent took his hand, placing a claymore hilt into his bloody grip. The sword sent thunder up his arm, a cyclone into his mind. Flavius gasped, helpless to scream or fight against it. As the storm subsided, he gazed at the sword in relief. “Ah, Memory, yer a bonny lass.”
Then he lifted his head, looking at Parric with recognition.
“What’re ya waitin’ for?” Flavius managed. “Are ya gonna fix me, or what?”
Parric made his magic, and Flavius' spilled innards found their way back in.
Another change...
The ships turned and banked as one, like a fleet of iridescent whales flying high above the clouds. In the distance, beyond the terminus of day and night, a dazzling ring sparkled like a river of jewels encircling the planet. Stars shone fiercely in the black sky beyond.
Flavius watched from the observation deck in amazement, even though Parric gave only a cursory look, apparently unimpressed. Yoona and Joofee, the squat, blue-skinned symbiotic union, watched with undisguised pride as the bows of various craft splayed open in turn and spinners of light plunged downward into the rosy clouds. Gradually, a funnel of siphoned gas climbed up the spinner-lined way to be harvested by the ship.
“And yer sure every one of them out there’s got people on it, just like this one?” Flavius asked softly, disbelieving even his question.
“No, this is only a scout cruiser, with a crew of barely three dozen unions,” Joofee said. “The largest colony ark holds more than thirty-thousand unions.”
Flavius avoided looking directly at Joofee as it spoke. The merger where their folded second and third arms fused together still unnerved him no matter how much he’d grown to like them personally.
“You’ll understand when we depart tomorrow. The observations are complete,” Yoona said reassuringly. It pointed to the sky opposite the rings to an orangish star glowing brightly. “That’s where we go. With luck, we’ll find two consumable planets waiting--”
The memory slipped away, replaced by another.
"I dinnae feel anything," Flavius said, testing the feel of the claymore in his hand. "’Tis a wee bit lighter than I was expecting. Are ya sure he used real steel in it?"
"You're not supposing to feeling anything," Parric said, that familiar tone of exasperation and embarrassment tingeing his voice as always.
"As I explained before, it is not metal. Pure metallics interfere with the ceramic memory retrieval interface," the mondrite said, its odd reverberating voice both simultaneously soothing and unnerving. Flavius still wasn't certain where the voice came from--its yellow-orange head was featureless other than a series of deep grooves carved down the length of its clay-like body. It gestured to the sword. "The molecular composite mimics a crude metal blade, but is sharper, lighter and stronger."
"I dinnae want it breaking on me at an inopportune time, mind you," Flavius said, eyeing it dubiously.
"Physical force will not harm the supplemental memory unit," the mondrite said. "It must be affected at the molecular level if it is to be disassembled."
"Can ya talk in a language other than gibberish?"
"His meaning is the sword will outlasting you," Parric said, then turned to the mondrite. "The working is acceptable. Many thankings to you."
"Hold on just a moment," Flavius said, considering the hilt. "It's a bonny sword, then, there's no denying that even if I cannae see the sense it in remembering things for me. But it's a bit plain, dinnae ya ken? Here’s an idea I had me. See, since you're the sorcerer--"
"The mondrite is not a sorcering."
Flavius ignored him. "--the sorcerer with all the magic whatsis and all... well, what d’ya ken of whortleberries?"
Another memory intruded.
Flavius stared at his hands in horror. Blood course through his veins, over and around bones as meaty red muscles contracted and relaxed.
"Don't you blaming me," Parric said. "I giving many warnings to you not to drinking."
"Ya dinnae goddamn tell me it'd make my skin transparent!"
Another change...
Flavius swung his claymore and the charging Lidozrout, shattering one spear and gutting a swine-headed Lidozrout through its armor.
Eight more took the fallen one’s place. Their spiral horns rattled on the corridor walls. The corridor was too narrow for the Lidozrout to spread out and attack Flavius from all sides, but it also kept him from swinging Memory to full effect. A spear jabbed past his sword, ripping into his belly.
Flavius staggered back against the wall. "Goddamn. Same place Tommy Lobster got me at Culloden," he muttered, trying to hold his stomach together with his free hand. His legs slid out from under him and he dropped to the floor.
Suddenly, Ctibor appeared in front of him, tattered overcoat flapping, swinging his krukh--an insane weapon sporting two curved blades that nearly formed a circle. He was shouting something at Flavius, blood streaming down his face from the gash above his brow, but Flavius couldn't understand the words.
“I thought ya was already dead,” Flavius finally managed with effort.
Flavius glanced down at his blood-slick sword, at the comforting whortleberries decorating the cross piece. He'd known all along he and Ctibor alone couldn't stop the Lidozrout, but that didn't make dying any easier...
The memory ended, a confused mingling of pain, fear and distance. Then the quiet oblivion was shattered with dazzling beauty.
The Empress smiled at him, her silver hair gleaming in the moonlight streaming through the open windows. Flavius, rather than stare, closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Her scent was sharp, spicy and intoxicating, like a cinnamon liqueur. The little whiffs he’d caught at court had not prepared him for her full effect.
“Is your species so uncivilized that you dare not look upon your betters?” the Empress said with a voice that sounded like glass bells.
Flavius opened his eyes.
“That’s better.” With a delicate hand, she deftly untied the Triple Knot of Faith and the golden cord fell away from her waist. Freed of the cord, the first layer of her ephemeral gown rose from her shoulders, evaporating in the night air. The second layer followed suit. Then the third. When the seventh layer joined its brethren as vapor, she stood before Flavius naked and proud. She stood six inches taller than him, lithe and agile. Her joints weren't quite where he'd expect them to be, but the effect was more intriguing than grotesque given her lank frame. The Empress' skin glistened reddish-copper with natural luster, and her six pert breasts offered ample enticement.
"It's considered a gross breach of etiquette," she said with the hint of a smile, "to refuse an invitation from the Empress."
Grinning broadly, Flavius fumbled with the buckle of his double-looped sword belt before getting it open and dropping--
The final memory ended abruptly. Flavius sat up with a start, rubbing his aching head. He glanced up at the violet sky, the over to Parric.
“I remember ya,” Flavius said, considering the claymore and stroking it reverently. “I remember this bonny great sword I call Memory. And I remember dying. Three times now, that makes it.”
Parric opened his beak but Flavius cut him off with a wave of his hand.
"Dinnae say it. Dinnae ya dare say it. My poor head's in no mood for another one of yer lectures," Flavius said. He sat silently, staring out over the mountains while massaging the craps out of his swordhand with thumb and forefinger. "Just tell me, Parric-- did I at least finish with the Empress before they killed me?"
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
MEMORY: 11
The strangling darkness vanished in an instant. His claustrophobic prison burst apart and Flavius found himself soaring a thousand feet above the ground.
He screamed against the rushing wind, flinging forward his cramped arms to shield his head. His sword spun away. The ground weaved wildly, see-sawing back and forth with the shockingly close clouds. Out of the corner of his eye he saw what looked for all the world like a brilliant green winged serpent dart off faster than a bow shot. Which would've been proof of madness right enough on its own, but the enormous, tooth-footed spider-thing hanging in mid-air was proof of insanity of nightmarish proportions.
"English devils is what ya are, the lot of ya," Flavius shouted. "Cumberland cannae face Bonnie Prince Charlie without shitting his breeks, so he conjures devils from Hell to fight his battles for him!"
Flavius no longer sailed through the sky. The clouds receded at a disturbing rate as the ground, wreathed in smoke and confusion, leapt toward him at an equally disturbing rate.
"If ya bastards think ya can win by cowardly tricks, ya better think again. I'm Flavius MacDuff, descendant of Bellona's bridegroom himself, the great Thane of Fife! I dinnae need sword or musket to beat the likes of you--I dinnae even need ground beneath my feet, d'ya hear me demons?"
The ground spun dangerously close. In the distance, a flash of green caught his eye. The serpent returned, a streak of emerald rushing headlong toward Flavius.
"Aye, that's it, beastie!" he bellowed. "Face me like a man, and I'll beat ya to death with my bare fists! I'll knot yer coils and fight ya to Hell and back. Cumberland'll ken then what it means to rile a highlander whose heart beats with the blood of Clan MacDuff!"
The raindrops surrounding him, Flavius suddenly noticed, seemed to hover motionless in relation to him. It was an odd thing to note, he thought, particularly with the muddy field seconds away from hitting him very, very hard.
"Och," he muttered. "This gonna sting a mite."
The ground lunged for him only to be beaten by a flash of green. Flavius' headlong fall turned abruptly into a ripping sideways jolt, knocking the breath from him as the strangling darkness enveloped him once again.
His stomach twisted. Sweat burst from his pores only to boil away in the suddenly-scorching air. No, not air. The howling wind took on a harsher, more ominous tone, and try as he might, Flavius could not manage to inhale. What little breath he had left trickled out through his nose and mouth, snatched away by the unnatural heat.
Unnatural. Something had gone horribly--unnaturally--wrong.
A creeping horror overcame Flavius. Maybe... just maybe... What if he had struck the ground? If he was dead, then this evil heat meant that he'd smashed right through the earth and straight into Hell itself.
It had to be a mistake. Sure, he wasn't the most pious man ever to live, but his faults were few. He'd always meant to tithe some of his gambling winnings to the church, but the sad truth was that winnings came so rarely they were invariably put toward covering earlier losses. And uncovering bonnie lassies, too, but nobody could deny that was money well spent. There was drink, too. But a man’s got to drink.
He'd killed many English, true, but deep down he'd always assumed that would win him special honor in the afterlife, not damnation.
Flavius struggled against his confines to no avail. His battered body couldn't muster the strength. He'd nearly exhausted himself fighting the constricting darkness the first time it'd enveloped him only to be beaten severely. His bruises still throbbed.
If he could only draw a damned breath...
Flavius' stomach knotted again. A lurch went through his body, and he felt strangely heavier. Then he dropped hard against rough ground, sharp pebbles and stone gouging into his hands and knees.
There was air. Flavius lay motionless, sucking in great lungfulls of the stuff. Gone was the sulfur stink of canon smoke and the damp, boggy odor of the field. This crisp, dry air was strangely clear of those smells, with only the faintest hints of a curious background scent-- Burned apples, possibly.
He climbed to his knees. Blinking against the harsh daylight, he looked around.
Flavius perched atop a bare granite dome some twenty yards across. Twisted, stunted trees bordered the dome's edge, growing thicker farther down the mountainside. Beyond, a craggy blue-green mountain range stretched as far as he could see beneath a violet sky.
"Hmph," Flavius muttered, climbing to his feet. "This ain't Culloden."
He turned to find the coiled green serpent staring at him, wings outstretched.
"Take me through Hell, will ya?" Flavius shouted, and punched it square between its two rows of eyes.
The serpent squawked and shook its head.
“Oh, ya like that, eh? Have another.” Flavius punched it again.
The serpent walloped Flavius with a wing, sending him sprawling.
Flavius scrambled back up. The serpent slithered toward him, kakking and gesturing wildly. Flavius’ hand found his dirk, miraculously still in his belt. He may have lost his sword, but at least he wasn't unarmed.
"Yer a nasty bastard, right enough. Have a taste of this," he said, lunging forward.
Effortlessly the serpent slapped his hand with a wingtip, sending the dirk skittering across the dome.
"Right, beastie. I'll do ya for that!"
Shaking its head, the serpent reached up to its back and pulled forth a gleaming claymore.
"Ya dinnae scare me with tha-- are those whortleberries?"
The serpent thrust the sword at Flavius, pommel first. Instinctively he grabbed the hilt. Then his knees buckled and he dropped to the ground, clawing at his head, screaming.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
MEMORY: 10
Chaos erupted among the moironteau. The predatory discipline organizing the creatures broke down in the face of thirty quarry. Moironteau lunged and slashed, footheads choming wildly at the darting green Parrics flying to and fro. Those hanging above dropped into the fray, the lure of the chase too tempting to resist. The carefully-constructed trap collapsed into itself.
"Stupiding otherwhereians," muttered Parric from his coiled position in the middle of it all. "All muscle, no finessing."
A simulacrum found itself amid a cluster of three moironteau. It hesitated a moment, seeking a way out, and that was all opening the moironteau needed to crush it under foothead. When the baffled creature lifted its leg, however, all that remained was a single muddy featherscale.
Another simulacrums flashed past overhead, a loping moironteau in feverish pursuit. Two massive footheads slamed into the mud on either side of Parric in passing, the creature taking no notice of the real quarry.
The simulacrum flew head-long toward one of its twins, also pursued by a moironteau. An instant before colliding, the fake Parrics veered off at right angles to each other. The moironteau had no chance to stop, blundering into each other with a bone-jarring impact. And some bones were indeed jarred--the creatures lay where they fell, hooning piteously as they tried to lift themselves with shattered footheads.
Parric watched with satisfaction. The simulacrums may be insubstantial, but they flew better than he could ever dream.
He reached into one of his buldging pouches, pulling out a fat metallic cylinder. He launched himself into the air, holding the cylinder with the fingers on his second wings.
The way above now open, Parric made for the heavy cloudbank. He flew vertical, his wings a whining blur. Icy rain stung his face, rolling away off his featherscales as he climbed. Parric labored against gravity, the dead weight of Flavius MacDuff and loss of his second wing pair growing more and more difficult to ignore. If he could just reach the clouds before any moironteau noticed his escape--
An outraged bellow thundered from below. He'd been spotted.
A moironteau'd abandoned its prusuit of a simulacrum and thrown itself into the air, biting into the dimensional fabric of reality to pull itself higher.
The moironteau gained quickly. Parric no longer had the strength to fly vertically. Instead he'd slipped into a shallow spiral, gaining altitude incrimentally.
A second moironteau joined the chase.
The cloud cover loomed close. But not close enough. He'd never make it.
Parric glanced down. The pursuing moironteau were directly below him. Beyond them, the drama continued to play out on the ground. Significantly fewer simulacrums flashed through the air, but they'd done a good job of keeping the majority moironteau occupied. Of keeping them together. Of keeping them herded.
With a free finger, Parric pulled the pin from the cylinder and dropped it. The cylinder fell a few yards, glancing off the back of the closest moironteau before tumbling on. The second moironteau struck quickly, a foothead lashing out to gulp it down whole.
The moironteau took another step then stopped abruptly. The foothead that'd swallowed the cylinder writhed in agony. Whisps of yellow-green smoke escaped between its gnashing teeth. With a coarse moan, it vomited up the cylinder amid a cloud of the sickly smoke. Its footheads convulsed, and the moironteau lost its hold. It plummeted from the sky. The cylinder tumbled after, spewing great gouts of yellow-green smoke in its wake.
The smoke bomb landed in the middle of the massed moironteau. The cloud expanded at a startling rate, rolling over the moironteau even as more smoke drifted down from above. The simulacrums reverted to featherscales wherever the smoke touched them. The moironteau staggered from the smoke, flailing in agony, coughing up streams of purple blood through their dorsal vents.
"A little souveniring from your home cosm," Parric called down. "I'm thinking you might be homesicking, maybe."
The remaining moironteau in pursuit lunged up. Parric barely dodged in time. He could no longer climb. He was struggling to even maintain altitude. The moironteau would have him in moments.
In desperation, Parric cast about for the nearest Nexial gap. He found it instantly--the first one he'd attempted to Craft a Wedging for. The Wedging itself was still hanging over the gap, invisible and intangible, waiting for Parric to will it into action. Parric also found the second gap he'd tried for, and close by was the dimensional pocket he'd tried to hide in, still holding the unfortunate moironteau thrashing witin.
Parric's antennae sprang erect at the opportunity. Flavius, of course, would hate the plan that'd appeared, fully-formed, into Parric's mind. But hating Parric's plans was Flavius in a nutshell.
"Seeing you shortly," Parric said, then flung Flavius out into open air.
Parric's second wings flew into action. He cut back on the pursuing moironteau and shot past it before the creature could react. The moironteau froze with confusion, unable to decide which to pursue.
Down Parric dove, straight at the convulsing dimensional pocket, Crafting as he went. A sudden, horrific thought struck him--what if the trapped moironteau freed itself before Parric reached it?
Parric plunged through the insubstantial space of the dimensional pocket. Air seemed to turn to syrup around him, the thick folds of reality collapsing around him as he gathered it to him. For an instant it seemed he would freeze in place, then he was out the other side, banking up and about, speed undiminished.
Ahead, the tiny figure of Flavius tumbled helplessly as he fell earthward.
Parric wasn't sure if the curses he heard were actually coming from the distant figure or merely memories of past tirades. Not that it mattered all that much. Either gravity in this cosm was stronger than Parric'd estimated, or he'd been way off in his altitude assumption. Either way, Flavius was much closer to the ground than was entirely healthy.
Parric threw back his antennae and forced more speed from his overtaxed wings.
Flavius grew larger. Corpses of English soldiers flashed below as streaks of crimson. Raindrops hung in midair as Parric hurled past them. Flavius turned his face toward Parric, his wide eyes filled with equal measures of terror and hatred.
Mere feet from a messy impact, Parric plucked Flavius out of the air. Triggering the waiting Wedging, Parric and Flavius shot through the open gap, leaving not a trace of their passing behind.