ã€ŠThe Simulacrum of Dreadã€‹


 Ad Monstrorum

    All trembled softly.

    There were a Servant and a Despised. Two of them: two Beings of Old, two powers who acted for reasons and causes both stunningly comprehensible and soberingly labyrinthine. Two Olds, whose metaphorical (and, in the case in question, literal) mass could skew the expansion of universes. Two creatures who enjoyed little, wanted little, and normally did little. Two things who might be considered gods of the many-faceted gem of reality.

    On this occasion, over a region whose very scope complicated designating a duration for the affair in light of such things as relativity, the possibly-ambiguously-hypothetically mortal entities played at battle. It was not the first time these particular foes had crossed swords, and would not be the last.

    Poacher, as he was and had been called for a fascinatingly large number of years, cautiously and sparingly acted. That was his nature. His primary quality was that of the ambush, of setting a trap either millennia or moments prior to his quarry¡¯s arrival. His physical form resembled a gelatinous eukaryotic protoplasm of some kind, tendrils snaking around the tools of his trade - a pilum, a highly specialized blunderbuss, and a brutal sawtoothed snare with far too many hinges. These were more totems than actual apparatus, though they also had tremendous use in their own right. A glowing cubic formation transgressed the otherwise featureless tan membrane of what one might think of as his head.

    His precise location was three kilometers beneath the skin of half of a rocky planet, where twenty seconds ago he had considered himself three kilometers beneath the skin of a whole rocky planet.

    The reasons for both Poacher¡¯s hiding and the segmentation of the globe into halves which bled their small but vital molten insides away coincided in the person named Predator.

    Both deformed parts of the barren honeycombed planet suffered the indignity of a ray-straight knife wedge of sharpened bone. The bone possessed sufficient length that seeing either end of it would have been impossible from the surface of its tungsten-heavy victim had the world boasted an atmosphere. The bone¡¯s width meant that, unless it were removed, one could not see the half of the globe serving as Poacher¡¯s refuge if they stood anywhere on the opposite half.

    Fifteen or sixteen hundred parsecs distant, Poacher knew, a vaguely human-looking golden shape scanned the fruits of his effort from above a small galaxy¡¯s broad surface. It boasted eyes darker than the void surrounding it, a hot glow like one might see in forge-worked metal, and a total lack of hair or clothing. The shape, like Poacher¡¯s own, might appear far too small to generate such precipitous events - an opinion which could hold its integrity indefinitely in the mind of an idiot.

    The calamitous spine that Predator had called into being, then sent to bisect the little planet like a cleaver through a grape, eventually elicited a response. The same had happened with a considerable portion of planets, and moons, and stars, and other gravitationally significant objects littering the sky. Not always; many times a colossal tooth or horn or talon disemboweled its gigantic prey without more consequence than furthering destruction, and tallying off another place where Poacher had not yet been found.

    Given that he had finally struck close to Poacher¡¯s haven of tunnels and metals and lithic layers, Predator would have been thrilled if his foe made the perfectly fatal mistake of fleeing. After all, when things ran from other things, they fell into Predator¡¯s compass, and became his undisputed prey. If he did so, Poacher would be found and subjugated in an instant.Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!

    Instead, a flickering ribbon of violent throbbing aura boiled from the dying core¡¯s viscera, then gushed back at the distant form of Predator. It was one of countless mechanisms scattered like chaff through their section of the cosmos. Millions had already triggered, each doing their part to microscopically weaken the almost animalistic Old. Millions more lay in wait for their turn, their instant of transient glorious use.

    Poacher had no name for the directed energy tool he had dropped into the middle of his world some short while ago, but it shone with a terrible brilliance which could strip flesh from bone and body from soul. When it lashed outward at speeds which mocked reason and submerged the soundlessly howling Predator in a lance of its spume, it had notably less drastic effect. To compensate for this fact, its target reacted with frustration.

    A scintillating body swelled into titanic form, so far away that the mere detection of its presence should have taken eons rather than moments. A gilded taloned palm scooped up the nearby blue giant star, the blazing orb like a grain of sand in the surface of the hand. With a snarl baring teeth spawned by nightmares from within nightmares, Predator released the sun, and it banished the night sky. Again, faster than the local constant of light speed should have indulged, the natural nuclear reactor swept over Poacher¡¯s hiding place.

    That was foolish of him, judged the quieter Old after some time, safely enclosed in the larger burning object. Now he will need to peel away the sun as well if he wants to find me. He coiled in on himself in distaste. As long as this hot gas is not actually one of Kris¡¯s children, that is, or else that fool will probably step in on our business.

    Fortunately for Poacher¡¯s peace of mind, no third party intruded on their little game. The game, it transpired, would go on for a long while yet.

    They had met by happenstance, then relocated their skirmish to a disk of stars far into their universe¡¯s gamma-soaked wilderness. They had a vested interest in avoiding unintended deaths at this stage: fewer lives to shape for their respective ideals. Their fight patently played two different roles against each other, and that suited them equally. A pair of hunters, one patient and armed with hordes of poisoned needles, the other a fabulously hardy bludgeoning berserker.

    On the one hand, if Poacher did anything more aggressive than seeding surprises on an extremely occasional basis, Predator would immediately hone in on his position. On the other, while a single petulant swipe could dismantle every heavenly body in the galaxy¡¯s twisting arms, Predator could not do so without awakening the remainder of Poacher¡¯s presents. It was almost beautifully stupid in its primitive shape, their deadlock.

    And yet.

    Would Predator smash and cut through just the right crossroads of time and space?

    Would Poacher¡¯s legions of tricks eventually take their toll?

    They both kept at it. The Olds could feel a change coming. Some major turning point in the war of their respective kinds approached quickly, and whichever won their confrontation would gain the privilege of subjugating his opponent. That single temporary removal of a player in their quiet but unsubtle war might tip the balance.

    Whatever that tip of the balance meant¡­ it was something unprecedented. Their natures attuned them to certain milestones of histories prematurely, even those histories higher up the chain of abstraction. Something that came onward, something deliciously novel, waited at the apoapsis of their journey. For Beings of Old whose existences outlasted the lifespans of entire realities, that made for more than sufficient incentive.

 A Dreaded Unkindness

    ¡°A man who builds an empire on vice is as far from happiness as Bequast is from the gem. Subjectively, he might deceive himself otherwise; objectively, it is inarguable.¡±

    -Gerinaster Seventy-six-centimeters, The Mathematics of Unkindnesses and Ambition

    Outside a little building of the complex, designed to look like a stone-brick cottage, Bequast¡¯s local weather gave up a deluge. The resultant rain went nearly sideways, bringing life to those who required topical doses of dihydrogen monoxide. The town of Ealig had agreed to permit a bout of wet conditions, so as to make the dry that much nicer. Alternatively, those who resided in aqueous climes enjoyed a change from the sunny norms that permeated human-congruent living conditions.

    To silkatel, the wet outside represented a morally foul tribulation, and the individual in the cottage felt synergistic laments composing themselves in his head.

    The silkal named Ascheev had done some bad things in his life. He¡¯d turned over a new leaf after he became a Follower-of-the-Way. Penance it was not, but he had a compulsion to better others and prevent the same mistakes he¡¯d made from recurring. In his efforts to prevent the same mistakes he¡¯d made, he¡¯d instead seen a lot of different mistakes.

    The majority of these let him relax easily, knowing that they were lesser than his own sins. The possibility of botching a corrective assessment only really made him feel dirty if the corrected party had a history of doing worse than himself. That was good; the Way had come into his life during one of the pivotal moments where he actually could listen without reservation, and It rewarded in ways previously unimagined. It had moved him into a place conducive to healing, and granted the sort of sleep which made for true beautiful art.

    It was hard to find someone who had gone as awry as to head an organized criminal gang known as the Gunnery Sisters, control distribution for every dose of fidget or milk teeth within a hundred districts of the Parsed City-State of Rhaagm, or order and perform misdeeds like running tailored social quantification jobs without the appropriate army of licenses or playing the racket game.

    Now¡­ a student who created an illicit and completely unauthorized ex nihilo engine, gave it to a person of questionable character - a person on a facet much like that on which humans had almost certainly arisen, where such devices couldn¡¯t be controlled within reason - and who had done so simply to prove a point in a petty academic debate¡­ that was quite bad.

    Thus his presence as a counsellor in an academic compound just within the North Ealig border: at the request of the town¡¯s Dean and regional Nal¨¦li - Bequast¡¯s circuit of legislative judges - he served to advocate or discourage discipline. By speaking with people caught up in controversies of a threatening nature, his role was that of an intermediary, reviewing involvement of accessories to the crimes whose irresolution yet clogged up the Bequastish justice system. He considered it one of the more ironic twists of his life; a once-mob-boss taking on a nearly monastic existence which was that of a cog in others¡¯ trials and tribulations. The one in a hundred million who managed to divest himself of the business, and his response was one step up from charitable work.

    The student benefitting from that charitable work (whose name Ascheev neither knew nor particularly cared to know) had been apprehended by the nice constables, shouting at the top of his lungs that ¡°Information wants to be free!¡± as they took him away. Being a pohostinlat, it might have been predicted that the man tried to explain how stupidly overreactive the system was with regards to the spread of totally innocent knowledge. It obviously failed to register in the man¡¯s mind that his introduction of totally innocent knowledge about immoderate scientific bootstrapping had led very quickly to the unconditional servitude of most of the facet¡¯s population. Maybe it still hadn¡¯t sunk in even now, at this late date when the law could justifiably take him to a quiet, aesthetically pleasing room and do to him things better left to the imagination. In any case, the student was well in hand, and Ascheev had only to measure the man who effectively received every lottery of mathematical advancement in a single stroke.

    One complicating factor was that the man - a human who went by ¡°Pol Pot¡± - held very strong opinions about the newfound demigodhood granted him by his academic beatnik benefactor. He and his scientific advisors had immediately followed the pohostinlat student¡¯s directions to build a primitive framework for enacting numerous technological uplifts. The results encouraged him to erect statues of himself nearly a kilometer tall, all over the globe. Several hundred, made of rare metals and impossibly-sized jewels.

    Apparently the statues caused some disgruntlement in Mr. Pot¡¯s sympathizers, being against the spiritual equality and virtue of the working class he had endorsed on his rise to more mundane power.

    The silkal sawed his vestigial wing casings together, pondering. The human stood across the room from him, encased in an Ullos container - a specialized tuning field that restricted his attempts to do the silkal or any other parties a mischief. In fact, the Ullos container basically served as that form of a multi-layer tuning field known as a skein, excepting three major features. First, it didn¡¯t meet the express purpose of giving the human dictator a livable field interpretation in an otherwise inimical environment. Second, it anchored to a static location instead of forming a dynamic second skin of its primary target. Third - and most important - it allowed ingress, but egress was a very limited whitelist affair.

    Pol Pot¡¯s face glowed indigo, the man¡¯s cosmetic taste leaning toward evocations of divine perfection and ethereal beauty.

    Funny, thought Ascheev. I was like that in kind, if not depth, before losing four of my lads to Artaxerxes. I wonder what that boy would think if he saw me now?

    ¡°You will release me at once!¡±

    Mr. Pot¡¯s eyes widened, going red and sparkly and giving off crackles of flame like magus-fire.

    His interjection utterly ruined Ascheev¡¯s reminiscing. The silkal¡¯s eyes shifted, compound lenses taking in the man one trivial detail at a time.

    ¡°No, I won¡¯t.¡±

    The speakers installed with Ascheev¡¯s cerv-mesh allowed reproduction of the human¡¯s language, in defiance of absence of lips, glottal utensils, or indeed a mandible. His proboscis twitched, then he steadied himself. He quickly retook the hallowed melancholic ground of peace.

    ¡°You have no right! You, you are less than human, and I am the unequivocal ruler of the world! I embody the rise of the common to the seat of true governance! Who are you, creature, to slow my spread of equality to all people everywhere?¡±

    Pol Pot obviously meant to deny him his peace.

    {Everything alright over here?} asked a voice in Ascheev¡¯s head.

    {I can name numerous subpar features of this interview,} the silkal replied to Mabrddso, the eidolon who had agreed to render her assistance for the investigation. The hum of the digital person¡¯s bytevoice calmed him, as did his own bytevoice. There was something about the freedom from many of one¡¯s normal speech characteristics, when ¡°speaking¡± with one¡¯s direct communication facilities.

    {It happens that we have a temporal savepoint on-site; the facet in question holds a couple of interesting topological characteristics to some researchers. However, tampering by our village idiot philosopher means the most recent milestone is about three hundred local years back.}

    Ascheev made disgusted noises inside.

    {Presumably, the Nal¨¦li would prefer to avoid rescinding that length of time?}Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

    Mabrddso gave the silkal equivalent of a laugh, to Ascheev¡¯s surprise - he¡¯d taken her to be either a human-patterned or an aaned-patterned intelligence, based on her name and other behaviors.

    {The Nal¨¦li have removed the possibility of rolling back that far from the table. Too many side effects. Either you convince your friend to undergo memory modification or personality change, or he goes into custody permanently. Too dangerous to the gentry to take any other option.}

    The flesh-and-blood silkal scratched the place where his cerv-mesh penetrated his exoskeleton. A straightforward ultimatum. The Nal¨¦li of Bequast could seem heartless to some folk at times, expelling such decrees, but amongst the collateral damages of power came terribly difficult decisions when seeing to the maintenance of rule-of-law.

    Oh well. Onward and upward.

    To Pol Pot, Ascheev would have no discernable delay between the human¡¯s verbal gauntlet and the silkal¡¯s response. His spiracles drew in air and equalized outer and inner pressure, and he replied with carefully chosen words.

    ¡°I¡¯m many things, Mr. Pot. However, your jailer is not one of them. That falls to others whose authority I don¡¯t question any longer. They¡¯ll decide when and how your freedom occurs, but based on your misdeeds that freedom must have certain qualifiers.¡±

    The human began raging, assuming a form like a vengeful god of thunder, howling a river of obscenities meant to sound supernatural. In reality he wrestled with an on-the-spot composed language which turned thirty or forty of his Earth¡¯s languages into a tangled amalgam. It was the kind of parlor trick which might have impressed at one time, but a long enough life eventually bred contempt for such things.

    ¡°Mr. Pot, I have a story for you.¡±

    More apoplectic fury, with miniaturized fission explosions thrown in for good measure. The fission reactions made a thoroughly annoying fizzing where the border of the tuning field converted them to harmless electrochemical phenomena. Harmless, that was, except for where a large supply cabinet proved too close. An arpeggio of miniature bangs indicated some batteries surpassing storage capacity as they exploited the environmental changes, then releasing excess in the form of concentrated thermal output. The cabinet doors¡¯ new internal burn wounds would require fixing.

    ¡°Human, shut up. I¡¯m not your jailer, but the wrong word from me will make your freedom far more improbable.¡±

    A cessation in the man¡¯s tantrum indicated he was hearing his interviewer, at least. The amenities of his isolation zone, those which had remained since his first rant anyway, were so much free-floating energy. One final battery gave a flinty belch from the cabinet¡¯s direction.

    ¡°Conversely, a recommendation from myself could prove instrumental in getting you home.¡±

    Pol Pot regarded Ascheev with the fondness of one gryke-rusher watching another moments from stealing its prey.

    ¡°I,¡± he eventually declared with the rigidity of a petrified woodglass board, ¡°answer to no man, no thing besides the moral imperative of reforging society into a perfect commune, and am certainly not going to bow to some beast with the pretense of having equal worth to a true being!¡±

    The interview went downhill from there. One solid hour, an entire sixteenth of a day, was spent purely listening to the man rave about¡­ something to do with the necessity of ¡°farmers reaching their purest utilitarian potential.¡± If Pol Pot had not been wearing a halo of fire the whole time, Ascheev might have been coaxed into at least humoring the idea - assuming the glow became less than distracting.

    {He has completely jettisoned the idea of retreat,} opined the physical silkal later. The human, relocated to a holding pen, frothed at the mouth far more unnaturally than the light foaming which indicated a healthy diet and moderate exertion in Ascheev¡¯s own kind. {For that matter, Mr. Pot bears scarce resemblance to a reasoning entity at all. I might call him an idiot, but then I would have to lower the definition of idiot to exclusively bracket those creatures in the neighborhood of ¡°people who would attack a Beast by bleeding at it.¡±}

    {The way of things,} replied Mabrddso in a serene vacuum of worry.

    {The way of things,} repeated Ascheev, looking out the cottage¡¯s little amber-paned windows at the squall over Ealig. {The way of things for me went not too differently from our megalomaniacal tyrant, in some ways. I had a little less to lose. I made a far better bargain. And I was blessed for receiving wisdom, even if it masqueraded as misfortune for a little while.}

    {Indeed?}

    Mabrddso had a doubtful note in her bytevoice. I don¡¯t think you¡¯re the sort to kill off millions out of hand, it said.

    {I had a broad streak of arrogant self-interest. A self-interest primarily focused on maintaining a new status quo in a little corner of Rhaagm, Ganymedes and bribed Minutemen and all, controlled with an Ichabod¡¯s Alloy fist. Then¡­ Sebastio Artaxerxes and his friend Pickering became entangled with my affairs, when a particularly big celebration went sour. Told the celebrants to stay in Twelvebishop, but fidget makes most who take it do unwise things. I lost four crew that day to the justice system outside of my influence, and in exchange gained the realization that my peace could be taken away just as easily.}

    The digital person which was Mabrddso had no inherently tangible substance outside of that which she produced circumstantially. She could be seen in whatever form she chose if she elected to maintain an image on the Monolith¡¯s naked-eye layer, or condescended to use a Toothskin refractor as a medium. Even so, Ascheev clearly perceived her taking his measure, even as she evaluated his melodramatic monologuing.

    {Have you learned from your experiences, then?}

    Ascheev mulled over the best way to reply.

    {I learned that the Way is forgiving, and a source of more peace than I could have known. Its most powerful tools are not the most ambitious, but those rooted in that form of self-sacrifice called ¡°love.¡± That past part¡­ that took me a long time to fully realize.}

    The eidolon didn¡¯t seem to know how to respond to that.

    {I am not proselytizing,} claimed Ascheev. {But those are the conclusions foisted upon me, still true long after twenty nine years of being a honcho, by the combined efforts of a single Cambrian human and one of his colleagues and providence.}

    There followed a lengthy silence, eventually broken when the Dean¡¯s representatives came along to thank the ex-Rhaagm citizen for his volunteering, and his genuine interest in seeing both justice and mercy done. The silkal left the secure facilities, journeying home through the rain and dim, and whispered a silent prayer all along the way.

    Ascheev later felt relief upon discovering, as he rested in his purely functional quarters, that the constabulary had delivered the recalcitrant Pol Pot to a special reserve. His new home essentially resembled a Mercator projection of a one-eighth scale model of his original planet, devoid of sentient creatures besides himself. While he still had most of his new toys, the man was also leashed to the geography of Bequast for the indefinite future. Meanwhile, the once-dictator¡¯s home facet had gotten a visit from specialists trained to make clean-up operations look like anything - natural disasters, in this case. No more titanic sculptural self-portraits, and no more facilities to study and exploit ill-gotten Bequastish discoveries. The inhabitants¡¯ memories and tokens of surviving Pol Pot¡¯s regime remained, of course, but that by itself formed an entirely separate quandary.

    The silkal¡¯s delicious peace became a scalloped bloody mess that evening when he read a certain headline. Actually, numerous headlines, coming out of every corner from Rhaagm¡¯s lowest aspiring self-made reporters to the industry giants whose every word carried a weight of trillions of dats. Numerous headlines about a spree of killings.

    Numerous headlines concerning Sebastio Artaxerxes.

    Ascheev meditated on the news, eventually rising and fetching himself a large mug of naptha. He mused, turning to this angle and that the matter of a man he¡¯d never personally met, but who¡¯d been both an impersonal enemy and an unwitting friend. He couldn¡¯t simply¡­ what? Offer advice? Garner a less-severe sentence for his crimes? Sebastio¡¯s involvement fell in the category of innocent bystander by his own reckoning. Ascheev could only further the cause of chaos if he jumped into the equation, and - in perfect bluntness - the Cambrian human¡¯s experiences would more than likely cause any direct interaction to reopen old scars.

    The silkal¡¯s claws scurried over his small home¡¯s thick carpeting, the only luxury in which he now indulged besides a bed-pad fit for the Jon himself. So different from the indulgences he¡¯d once enjoyed: the best eidolon services, the top tier of media control, the most respected and feared reputation, a future of prosperity he could reach out and take when he pleased. None of those things had been fabricated, simulated, or begged. He was Rhaagmini to the core even now, and that meant he¡¯d earned everything he had.

    Everything but what he now considered the most important part of himself.

    He stopped before a small hexagonally-paned window. He thought of his old crew for no more than the eighth or ninth time that hand. The Gunnery Sisters weren¡¯t a good thing, he¡¯d come to realize over the years, yet he couldn¡¯t just jettison the kinship they¡¯d held either. He¡¯d done the nearly impossible and broken from a life and culture which effectively consumed its adherents body and soul. And so he upheld his daily custom, and prayed for them - that they would find peace and release from the shackles into which he¡¯d unknowingly delivered them with his own clandestine ambitions.

    Ascheev felt a strangely-shaped sleep carry him artfully from one end of the night to the other, after he begged the Way to keep the man who had changed his life for the better safe and well.

 A Dreaded Immortal

    ¡°Don¡¯t want to fight, don¡¯t want to die, don¡¯t want to be an Old. / Save me from forever, or slave me to a clock.¡±

    -Shear Boot, Clipped Coins, Final Greetings of Iodine

    In spite of the precisely measured straight-line distance between him and his apartment complex, Sebastio didn¡¯t know exactly how far he¡¯d been running. For that matter, he wasn¡¯t entirely sure why.

    He¡¯d stuck around and given his testimony. After a very short while, though, he began to feel sick¡­ because the hole in his heart was ringed round with poison. And so, even though physical separation played no part in how much or little his stewing self-recrimination fermented, he put more steps between himself and the place he could only think of in terms of pain.

    The gleaming streets and celestial buildings of Rhaagm flew by, block by block, district by district, one folding junction to another. Faster than a normal human could run without augmentations, by a considerable margin. He had to be careful of getting too close to other pedestrians, though, because his bioelectric manipulation could make skin contact a recipe for maiming.

    The heavy cloak about the man¡¯s shoulders drew attention to a dark face, with the faintest hallucinatory tint of green seeming to surface in the deep brown when the light hit him just so. His eyes matched the blue of an Earth Standard sky, darting everywhere in an instant and then falling still, then performing another survey. His nose was straight and well-defined, as were his mouth and ears, but not a single corner graced his face. Hair braided into competent knots descended from that face. At the end of every line in his features was a rounded curve, and the overall sense a fellow human garnered from the impression was usually one of gentleness. Usually, that was accurate.

    He darted across the smaller streets intersecting the city¡¯s greatroads, dodging disks and slickers and cars and even a gemship at one point. The sidewalks could hardly be called thronging at such a blas¨¦ hour, but weaving along still consumed his concentration. That was very good. It took his mind off things.

    Things like how his once-friend had killed thirty seven people. Things like how often they¡¯d compared their darker sides, and found them amazingly alike. Things like how Sebastio could¡¯ve slain the photophobic Count - Niall, rather (and what kind of clue should he have taken from that nickname?) - with nothing more than extended exposure to concentrated light.

    I screwed up. I guess I¡¯m stuck with that for the rest of my life now, aren¡¯t I?

    Yes, said the back half of his brain.

    No, said the front.

    A picture of Kallahassee and his dear Magdod together came out of nowhere; him laughing, her smiling with faint affection toward their strange neighbor. They¡¯d been so kind and glad when he moved in that Sevenday afternoon, a lifetime and a half ago.

    Was her interruption Sebastio¡¯s fault? He had defended Count before his accusers. The man had left, most thoroughly upset. The man had returned, in less than a rage and more than a fury. The man had killed. The man had revelled. The man had decided to seek that which should not be sought.

    How much responsibility for that lay at Sebastio¡¯s feet? Which onus lay on nature and which on nurture?

    Where does the world end, and where do I begin?

    He decided he was still doing too much thinking.

    The construction of the conjugation clinic near the Tillasg Biologicals franchise had not finished. It was more correct to say it would not finish, since the construction zone borrowed a time slice from three months or so in the future. Crossing the boundary of the site meant all sorts of non-disclosure ¡°agreements¡± because, like all extratemporal building projects, it technically represented an open avenue for chronological aberration, albeit with numerous over-monitored limits.

    He didn¡¯t particularly want to worry about whether he might accidentally see if the adjacent businesses picked up stakes in the next several weeks. The last time, he¡¯d come dangerously close to execution by litigatory beating when a company tried to sue for damages that might eventually prevent their startup in the first place.

    Twenty loping steps took him around the shimmering green barrier that succeeded in keeping most non-workers out of the area. It also took him right up to the North-South greatroad dividing the world, and the equally divisive folding boundary line across which the city¡¯s most convenient transit occurred.

    Sebastio felt that too-familiar split running down his center as he crossed the public folding boundary. One step trod on the anankite sidewalk in some place called Lesser Jogge, and the next fell several thousand kilometers farther east, at eHanril-Singh Borough. The ceiling of Rhaagm¡¯s next layer up spread far higher above him than he was used to seeing near Gursral, the extrafacetary sun shining through many layers of ostensibly opaque material to light the gloaming street.

    The Cambrian human had a couple of close calls, one where he missed a ragathencider osmosing its way along only because he leapt straight over the poor soul. The near collision earned him the chance to learn a little profanity applied in novel fashion. From there he managed better than a sprint, but slower than his normal best pace, on account of gathering congestion as he neared a section of city with higher vagrancy rates than normal.

    He almost tripped on a bunch of ftalw, the family of forty or so barely taking notice of his pinwheeling - aside from one thanking him profusely and with perfect forthrightness for his rudeness - when he slid between them and a spiked platinum fence around a restaurant patio. The spiked fence¡¯s indwelling spirit instructed him to please either order a dish or kindly relocate his offensively long beard to a place where it wouldn¡¯t frighten the customers. He didn¡¯t actually tell the spirit to get ripmapped, but he thought it very loudly indeed. Three seconds after that, he and the other pedestrians moved aside to let a mannequin stride purposefully past in the opposite direction.

    Only when he turned off the sidewalk and into the hills and valleys of shrubbery in eHanril Park, though, did his destination become clear even to himself.

    The park represented most of the South of the district¡¯s ground tier, a rough rectangle a kilometer by half a kilometer. The eponymous creator had an inkling that most biological lifeforms enjoyed the chance to watch certain other biological lifeforms. That inkling originally led to the park¡¯s founding as something far more like a zoo.

    Eventually, complaints about the honest but imperfectly grasped attempt at cultivating a natural preserve of some kind - from local residents, people in political office, and even a few of the exhibits - gave rise to a change of management. Thereafter, the park became known as a wonderful patchwork of all kinds of biomes, and a frequent rendezvous location for functions both public and private.

    Remembering a certain executioner and a certain New Mongol human from a day in the park - the day that Francis Pickering had FINALLY confessed his feelings as all the world knew he eventually would - made Sebastio smile with happy melancholy.

    Plantlike life abounded in all shapes. A stand of superorchids, a rolling cloud of gerbil bread swaying in the stiff artificially-managed breeze, lacrymosis bushes in a myriad of fluorescing colors. Rippling banner-blossoms crossed back and forth ten meters overhead, a low canopy draped between the dwarf sequoias like nature¡¯s bunting, casting parts of the park into discreet evening with their shade. The sequoias themselves tilted slightly, looking down on Sebastio with mild disapproval as he blew past park-goers and briefly interrupted a picnic.

    Near the Northwest corner of the park, the ground sloped down into a witchlight-speckled grotto dominated by a huge crystalwillow. The thick tree had been cultivated with psychedelic curlicues. Various kinds and sizes of pews sprawled helter-skelter around its base, and a multimedia hub grew out of the tree¡¯s side a meter off the ground. The pews would have been an exemplary mess of bird and squawk droppings if not for the scarecrow projection walking the perimeter of the grotto. Frankly, Sebastio thought the eidolon in charge of the duty was having just a little too much fun, watching it lunge at an unwary pigeon suddenly enough that the bird released a stream of goo from pure fright.

    The Cambrian¡¯s sprint became a run became a walk. He sighed, inhaling the chemistry (organic and otherwise) of things which grew. He listened to the tick-tick of the scarecrow projection¡¯s feet against the grotto¡¯s heavy metal paving bricks. He began to chuckle with a twinge of hysteria, as the images of the bodies back home flowed through his brain again. Bodies. Not his own, but that he maybe could have prevented on his own.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    Detouring down over the grotto¡¯s perfectly cultivated grass, moving to a high-backed pew near the crystalwillow, he didn¡¯t notice at first that he had a companion other than the scarecrow.

    Sebastio¡¯s eyes lost focus, covered in an icy caustic film. The crystalwillow became a spindly glass head with glass hair, or maybe a bundle of translucent hudenot tentacles. A small and incredibly dense weight fell into his stomach and stayed there, as torment and confused grief began to finally win out over shock. He didn¡¯t alter the chemical balance of his body to try and cure the upset; as with many psychological bandages, that would only serve to help with short-term needs and encourage the immediately satisfactory use of stolen salve, thereby doing himself even greater injury in the grand scheme.

    Intolerance for pain was the last thing he wanted.

    ¡°Hey,¡± said the short and disinterested-sounding fellow sitting down the pew from him, who had gone unnoticed until just now.

    At the sound, Sebastio¡¯s weighted stomach troubled him a little less. It didn¡¯t disappear or give the impression of lessening; like a certain over-large blue-skinned friend, it stepped out for a time to give him space, and let him do something more important. It could visit later.

    The Rhaagmini triangulated the source of the voice, sighed, and foisted his full attention upon¡­

    Oh dear God.

    ¡°You,¡± he said, somehow marginally surprised to find himself next to a human of a very different kind.

    The Being of Old who named himself Target had two scarves over his neat striped clothes, one worn like a cravat and one worn like a belt. His skin was not quite as dark as Sebastio¡¯s own. A pair of rings, still as raw and angry-looking as when he¡¯d last seen the man of legend years past, ran around the figure¡¯s right eye, and made his calm expression into something fearsome. He also cradled a gun in his lap, and while the gun could be described, it could never be adequately described, and so Sebastio made no attempt - as he¡¯d made no attempt the first time they¡¯d met.

    He came up to Sebastio¡¯s shoulder, and there was no doubt he was the most deadly thing imaginable in perhaps the whole city of Rhaagm at that moment.

    ¡°Me,¡± said Target, a twinge of amusement or something like it peeking around the firmament of his voice. He forehead-thumbed in greeting.

    At a loss, the Cambrian stared at the Old for several heartbeats more.

    Of those creatures known as the Beings of Old, all Rhaagmini revered (worshiped, in some cases) the person known as the Maker, that had laid their city¡¯s immortal foundations. His face graced one of the most famous portraits, if going by sheer recognizability, to ever exist. Target, unlike his fellow Old, garnered a sizable amount of awe and attention because he occasionally surfaced in person, usually in the Parsed City-State¡¯s boundaries or somewhere inauspicious hither and yon in the gem, rather than remaining a distant and venerable mystery. The man sitting by Sebastio accounted for roughly a third of all known sightings of Olds.

    Unlike all except maybe a couple thousand people through history, Sebastio¡¯s first meeting with Target was now evidently not their last encounter. In fact, he¡¯d even received a gift from Target that first time. However, it was the fact that Sebastio¡¯s fermented friend Count had announced an intent to find and steal Caladhbolg, one of the Maker¡¯s apocryphal and lethally proscribed creations, that made the Cambrian truly nervous. He couldn¡¯t think of much other reason to be visited by such a creature as Target otherwise.

    ¡°I¡¯m thinking you¡¯re thinking I¡¯m here on big business,¡± said the Old in an utterly level tone. ¡°If so, you¡¯re thinking rightly.¡±

    That twice-circled eye shut, and somehow the round scars of the face gave the impression Sebastio was just being watched more closely, with a different kind of lens altogether.

    ¡°First, I gotta make a demand of sorts.¡±

    Sebastio was about to open his mouth, then stopped.

    ¡°Turn your Monolith adapter off. Not throttled, not limited to just your eidetics, off. Totally.¡±

    The Cambrian waited, to see if a punchline followed. It did not.

    ¡°You mean-¡±

    ¡°I think it was pretty clear. Words. Rhaagmini. You seem fluent enough. I¡¯ll say this much but that¡¯ll be it for now: you, and a great many others, will almost certainly die unless you listen. Do it.¡±

    Sebastio, for the first time in he couldn¡¯t really remember, shut down his primary information highway connection to the wider world.

    ¡°Excellent,¡± said Target with soft encouragement, as though Sebastio were a rare and elusive squawk, impressive in his relative tameness. ¡°Now, another thing, quickly.¡±

    He picked something out of his clothing - though there was not one pocket in evidence - and tossed it at Sebastio.

    There wasn¡¯t any need to really examine the metallic dowel as it sprang across their short divide. Sebastio immediately recognized the thing.

    ¡°That¡¯s the second time I¡¯ve delivered that lodestaff to you,¡± said Target, somewhere between tickled, mocking, and stern. ¡°There¡¯s good reason to believe you¡¯ll need it soon.¡±

    Sebastio¡¯s electrically hyperactive arm snapped out and plucked the object from the air. As he did so, he sent extra current through his fingertips. Like clockwork, the enigmatic metal of the so-called lodestaff grew outward into a perfectly smooth cylinder nearly its wielder¡¯s height. He spun it once with a flourish so practiced it was automatic, glaring somewhere between the tool and its thrower. Another impulse of voltaic talent returned the thing to a size he could conceal in one closed fist.

    ¡°You broke into my apartment and stole something of mine to give it back to me later anyway?¡± he demanded with such surprised upset that it really didn¡¯t matter right then to just whom he spoke.

    Target¡¯s teeth showed ever so slightly.

    ¡°No,¡± he said. Nothing more.

    ¡°Wonderful,¡± crept through Sebastio¡¯s scowl.

    ¡°You need to listen to me very carefully,¡± said Target, without having changed his voice in the smallest detail.

    ¡°I am suffering a lingering and fatal case of anticipation.¡±

    ¡°The schism in my fellow Beings of Old - that¡¯s a war which goes back to before this city¡¯s founding. A salty war. A flavorless war. A war between those who want wine and those who want jerky.¡±

    Sebastio¡¯s eyes became razor slits, and he neglected to exhale. His mind struggled to join dots with no apparent order amongst themselves.

    ¡°That war,¡± continued Target, now looking up above the crystalwillow, ¡°looks a bit like a revolver; a revolver with its cylinder jammed full.¡±

    The Old¡¯s gun was in his hand, had always been in his hand even when it lay out of his grasp, and it broke smoothly open to show recursions of thousands of chambers, more chambers than the physical space taken up by the cylinder could contain. Every one of the somehow overlapping chambers held a different caliber of ammunition. It wasn¡¯t some neat trick of spatial compression, and it wasn¡¯t a glamor or other magical effect. It was something the universe surrounding the Old stepped aside and permitted, like a Rhaagm auditor would step aside and permit a mannequin precedence in going about its business.

    ¡°There are some weapons, some tools one can stockpile for future use,¡± remarked Target idly, spinning the cylinder and sending the kaleidoscope of bullets glittering about the cylinder¡¯s axis. The effect mesmerized, until the gun snapped shut. Sebastio had no more connection to the Monolith, and so could not cross-reference its appearance. Had he been able, he would have quantified and recognized several similarities to both the Earth Standard weapon known as the Webley and the fregnost ¡°shark-gun¡± handgun class.

    ¡°When your cylinder¡¯s full, though, it¡¯s time to fire it and make room for more bullets to come.¡±

    Without a sound, Target pulled the trigger. A lancet of reddish light sprayed across the grotto, reflected off the crystalwillow, slapped a spiderweb of ricochets between a few of the other pews, vanished up the way Sebastio had entered the grotto, and came out of nowhere from behind the atypical¡¯s head. Target¡¯s forefinger and thumb shot out, and the tracer-like glow of a perfectly spherical bullet landed in the gap like a carefully-set garnet.

    ¡°So now we need you to be a bullet, and confront your old friend in the name of your own freedom. We need you to act as our agent, and keep Caladhbolg out of Niall Bennosuke¡¯s grasp.¡±

    The cherry-colored projectile became a flat oval between two unyielding digits. It wasn¡¯t a crushing of material as much as spreading it like butter on hot floutfruit cake.

    Target held up the oblong disk, and did not smile at Sebastio any longer.

    ¡°What is stopping you from fulfilling that goal?¡± Sebastio asked. He wasn¡¯t impetuous nearly as much as he was curious. Target could probably reduce Count to a dark smear by looking at him.

    ¡°For the same reason you have the structure of hoop-hook games. Most of the time, the linebackers are competing with the linebackers on the other team. The same goes with the cranes, the footmen, and so on. You use a suitable role to counter each adversarial resource.¡±

    A peek sideways at that red disk. When the eyes returned, they held something brutal that stole the sweet floral air from the grotto and replaced it with atomized metal.

    ¡°We - my ¡®family¡¯ and I - will have quite enough to worry about ourselves. You¡¯re a footman we need to interfere with another footman. If that¡¯s too hard, then tell me. I have others I can call upon, if absolutely necessary.¡±

    The Cambrian met the Old¡¯s glare, and responded in the flattest voice he could manage.

    ¡°What exactly am I supposed to do?¡± he asked.

    Target looked back and up at the nearest witchlight globe. It cast his features into weird shadow, and made his lips look like a wound re-healed many times.

    ¡°I¡¯ll show you a few things you must know, and tell you several more. After that, Mr. Artaxerxes, it¡¯s up to you to do what you do best: protect people.¡±

    Then, they spoke.

    Later that night, before he left Rhaagm with his Monolith adapter still turned off, Sebastio shook with concatenated emotion. Fear did not stay him from his course. Rage did not cloud his vision. He only had one thought upon his brain.

    Where does the world end, and where do I begin?

 A Dreaded Incomprehension

    ¡°¡®What¡¯ one knows-and-feels is inconsequential. ¡®How¡¯ one knows-and-feels is profound. ¡®Why¡¯ one knows-and-feels is destiny.¡±

    -Ast aaned proverb

    ¡°He can¡¯t hate classic Grea disks! That¡¯s practically hating art!¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a cheapskate, mindless strategy the whole way through, and you know it. Just look at the last twelve league matches. Not one ¡®outlast¡¯ game played in sight. You need to think three steps ahead.¡±

    ¡°The little helpers I have been asking say Nels is going to be open to a serious romantic relationship soon! At least, as much as one can balance with so much study.¡±

    ¡°Out with the foodcubes, in with the infusion!¡±

    ¡°Visited over at Woberta¡¯s the other night. No toilets. NO toilets. It¡¯s a damn good thing I put my recycler integration back in, but still won¡¯t be going back there anytime soon. If someone thinks that little of their guests, who knows what else they might neglect. What if my livable field interpretations don¡¯t get considered? Am I supposed to just bear it and breathe gaseous salts, or learn how to survive in a completely stateless environment?¡±

    ¡°Wait, he made what?¡±

    ¡°Have you seen how many caff-slushes that desk has? That is less of an addiction than it is a fetish. Hssi, but there are¡­ some people allergic to those types of drugs. But really, who wants to keep their cohabitants safe around here?¡±

    Professor Prisca Layk listened to the mutters of conversation happening around her. Students talking about anything and everything, frayed ends of lives adjoining the classroom environment, waiting to be picked up or cleanly severed once opportunity arose. It was a normal Oneday morning at the Kinsmen College of Information-Integrity Preservation.

    The Langdone building¡¯s aggressively blue auditorium seated about eight thousand average Rhaagm humans comfortably. It could also seat as many as twenty thousand such humans if they wanted to get really, really friendly with one another; a tithe as many ragathenciders; more dglfios by far than could stand each others¡¯ company. A few more fresh minds and bodies came on in through the atrium leading outside, from among the rest of the institute¡¯s madly esoteric architectures.

    Taking up only enough of the Langdone facility for forty six students averaging at slightly-less-than-human size, Prisca didn¡¯t have to worry about shouting. She just had to worry about teaching and learning - much like a living creature just had to worry about being alive. She got up every morning with a smile at the thought that she would help churn out more capable, qualified people, ready to make themselves pillars of community.

    ¡°Crime, civics, and justice,¡± said Prisca loudly, precisely as the sixth hour came about. ¡°Three things which distinguish us from the animals.¡±

    A foot-sized scalene triangle of thulite clattered down several steps from one of the upper rows.

    Prisca waited, looking up in the general direction of the object¡¯s source.

    ¡°Sorry, Professor!¡±

    Mitchell, a talented and awkward medical student, employed a very simple but fast magic to retrieve the article. Prisca noted that the object looked like a component of a chassis the average oleethf might select for building a body. Mitchell looked less like he had an interest in helping a semiartificial friend build their corporeal realization and more like he¡¯d accidentally swallowed an ankylosaurus without chewing.

    She waited until the young man finished his recall, then walked a few steps along the plateau cleared at the class¡¯s level in the bleacher seats.

    ¡°Well, several other things also distinguish us, obviously,¡± she remarked after the lad had put his metal thing away. ¡°Capacity for interruptions is one.¡±

    A few nervous laughs. Prisca allowed a smile before it sublimated into ether.

    ¡°Morality, ethics, right and wrong.¡±

    She gave an instruction, and a holojector display floated from a recess in the floor, large enough that her presence at its fore served no detriment to its visibility.

    ¡°These fall under our syllabus, not just because this is Sociology and Ethics, but also because this is the Kinsmen College of Information-Integrity Preservation. Because we have a duty to be the best Rhaagm can offer, for whatever theater in which we may perform.¡±

    She matched gazes with those possessing the organs necessary to do so.

    ¡°I know this is only our second meeting, but might anyone have read ahead and discovered what we¡¯ll be doing today?¡±

    Numerous up-signs of affirmation. A handful of down-signs, but thankfully not nearly as many.

    The deep reverberating answer of a mature dagacha managed to echo even in the small region taken up by the class.

    ¡°Case studies and debate over current events,¡± said Portram, wide mouth almost lifting the top of her skull off.

    ¡°Excellent, Portram; the stuff I¡¯d like to hear every day.¡±

    Prisca called up a recording on the holojector that all her students immediately recognized. Her enthusiasm replaced itself with a focused objective calm. After all, the subject matter truly centered on a demonstration of the brutality a thinking creature could hide away inside themselves.

    ¡°Today, we¡¯ll be looking at the attacks in Gursral Corner.¡±

    The depiction showed a windowless lobby with pohostinlat-style architecture. Ocher and chocolate geometric curves made the room look more like a collection of pots and vases that had been slid together than an indoor section of building. Through the destroyed front entrance, a pair of mannequins spoke calmly with a woman identified as the property superintendent. An auditor collected data, employing a variety of personal utilities to image the area¡¯s state for later.

    Knocked about on the obsidian floor, given the specter of dignity by some serial-numbered sheets, lay an ambiguous count of savaged bodies.

    ¡°I¡¯m sure all of you have heard a depressing amount about Niall Bennosuke over the last few days. However, it¡¯s a matter which transcends local events¡­¡± Local, in Rhaagm, meant anything closer than half a billion taxicab kilometers away. ¡°... for extremely important reasons. Would anyone care to guess the most important reason why, as far as our nation¡¯s concerned?¡±

    Remf Gla Sloh, the smallest hudenot that the professor had ever seen, extended a bundle of tendrils into the air, around an executioner¡¯s hulking shoulder.

    ¡°Remf Gla Sloh, have you remembered anything?¡±

    Those with an appreciation for Prisca¡¯s take on humor expressed their amusement as they were wont to do. A common enough joke in a society whose ubiquity of eidetic storage gave its constituents practically unlimited recall, regardless of birth limitations, but the dry sincerity tickled her class.

    The hudenot up-signed an affirmative.

    ¡°Niall Bennosuke broke faith on the Caladhbolg Contingencies. This is one of the most grievous city-scope type five event violations one can commit in terms of consequence: interruption or imprisonment for oneself and for one¡¯s intimates. Even if he had done nothing else, that alone would have been a death sentence.¡±

    ¡°Yes, excellent reasoning.¡±

    She paused, considering her audience long and hard. Remf Gla Sloh brought up an interesting perspective; the Willabarm model of event classification seemed a good enough tool for further deconstructing the scene¡¯s criminal actions. She decided to pursue ways that the salient people and things interacted in the incident.

    ¡°Now, what was the first type three event with actual criminal repercussions that happened over the course of the attacks? The first, not the biggest. Type three, not type five; entity-object. Not entity-law, entity-object.¡±

    A perfect memory didn¡¯t imply a perfect attention span. Quite the opposite, in many cases.

    ¡°Statement: sought information is evaluated as property damage to living quarters!¡± offered one student.

    Prisca felt her brow rise ever so slightly.

    ¡°Not exactly, Wirk.¡±

    Her frown grew pensive, and she swiveled to fully face the forithka.

    ¡°Actually, what resources are you drawing on to make that observation?¡±

    Her student sent Prisca a pair of addresses. Her cerv-mesh helped the professor cross-reference the related content against the other articles and publications she¡¯d collated.

    ¡°Wirk, policy is to use four or more reference material sources for making statements or evaluations for ongoing or recent events. However, in light of what you¡¯ve got, that¡¯s a reasonable conclusion - though one with which I disagree.¡±

    A notably more melodious voice reverberated like a soap-washed gong, beautiful despite its heaviness and hard use.

    ¡°The systematic and premeditated disabling of most transportation in and around the apartment building¡¯s immediate vicinity,¡± said Filifa Os, a young woman with flawless chartreuse skin and a kerchief denoting her membership among the faithful of the Process Capture. Her eyes were stained-glass polytopes that hid all manner of emotion and utterly failed to conceal an impersonal analytic mind. The woman had obviously had the knack for academia even when Prisca Layk had first taught her as part of the Transfacet Cultures track last semester.

    The Professor¡¯s lips slipped into a frown of more straightforward displeasure.This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    ¡°I understand that your brush with mortality was traumatic, Miss Os.¡±

    Filifa gently dipped her head in acknowledgement. Far from disturbed, she was so unfazed by her recent near-death experience with an errant freighter (and her resultant acquisition of the second sight after said near-death experience) that Prisca almost suspected the woman of being a prophetess even before the incident. It was a little unsettling, frankly, that Filifa had taken up a course heavily featuring crime and the study of the same so soon afterward. But there was nothing requiring the woman to join the nearest College of Prophecy just because she¡¯d begun expressing a new talent.

    A sigh broke Prisca¡¯s lips; not of dislike, but of frustration.

    ¡°Please do remember, however, that quoting a lecture, even before it¡¯s given, requires approved citation format to avoid plagiarism.¡±

    Filifa dutifully recited the date, time, address, and Prisca¡¯s credentials.

    ¡°Excellent,¡± said the professor. ¡°Indeed. The first entity-object interaction of note from Bennosuke over the event¡¯s span was¡­ ahem, the systematic and premeditated disabling of most transportation in and around the apartment building¡¯s immediate vicinity.¡±

    In tandem with her statement, she put out a listing of the various sources she used to arrive at this conclusion, the ratings of said sources for reliability, and the degrees by which each source directly or indirectly related to the facts. The class¡¯s constituents quickly metabolized the addresses and metadata, and a few nervous tics manifested in the studentry.

    ¡°A man who goes by ¡®the Nightmare Count¡¯ doesn¡¯t seem like the type to leave grim work undone, does he?¡± Prisca noted with befanged levity. She made a meaningful gesture behind her at the holojector. ¡°Something worth remembering: there were two people interviewed as primary sources, one a previous associate of ¡®Count¡¯ named Artaxerxes, and Kallahassee Bartimaeus, the only survivor of those attacked by the perpetrator. According to both, Bennosuke returned to his old Gursral apartment residence with an extremely premeditated goal.¡±

    She maneuvered to the next media selection, and the instant response of several onlookers meant that the still image of death in repose had not made universal circulation to all Kinsmen members.

    Well, there was more than enough time.

    The image depicted featured the body of a woman in a white marble room, a poster child of humankind¡¯s female half. Her slack face hid all features a human face can hide behind lids and lips, suffused with something between endurance and ageless contemplation. An ordinary pretty necklace had been ripped off her throat, and lay on her chin.

    Standing over the body was a figure with an identical face, bronzed features framing black eyes (presumably natural) and onyx teeth (presumably cosmetic tweaks), showing concern as she looked down. It was a re-lifed body patterned for the person who¡¯d been interrupted, obviously. Whether she was truly the same soul or same individual as her expired counterpart was a question for philosophers to debate and lunatics to experientially challenge. The revivification of the standing woman hardly qualified as the biggest difference between the individuals, though.

    Probable cause for the revulsion of Prisca¡¯s students lay with the tar-colored slop which had replaced most of the cadaver.

    Clavicles and much of one shoulder remained attached to the woman¡¯s neck, but everything below was¡­ bad. An open, seeping cavity clawed its way into the remains of her disconcertingly pristine skin. Gobbets of the dark emulsion had retained a vaguely whole shape of a torso, spread over an anemic portion of the floor. The slick of awful fluids bore a few regretful footsteps. The woman had only ¡°Magdod¡± displayed as her designation, above both of her corporeal vehicles.

    ¡°What in Perdition?¡± demanded a voice. The voice happened to belong to the only student in Prisca¡¯s roster for whom she already felt the buds of something like antipathy.

    Jerrad Blane, aspiring coliseum unarmed exhibition champion and loud self-proclaimed lover of violence, looked frankly appalled by the casual brutality before him. Almost as though he didn¡¯t expect something called Sociology and Ethics to possess content heterodox to his sensibilities, despite the glut of warnings to the contrary. A few others also bore adverse reactions.

    Sometimes, Prisca knew, the best coping mechanism for the unexpected was to follow it with yet more unexpected. She followed up that thought with a patently ludicrous claim. She hadn¡¯t challenged her students yet that day, and needed to keep those being educated on their toes. Metaphorical toes.

    ¡°This instance is, technically speaking, not a type three event crime carried out by the criminal in question.¡±

    The professor made several citations available, without drawing attention to the ways she deliberately interpreted them out of context. If and when a student called her out on her straw man foundation for her argument, they¡¯d be given some kind of acclaim.

    One characteristic part of the education in Kinsmen was to very specifically and very occasionally expose the minds therein to untruth or absurdity, presented as blatant truth. It enriched the potential of those learning in its bosom to have an opportunity to distinguish fact from fiction, and to habitually reexamine axioms. The school¡¯s stance by no means disallowed lexers and parsers for programmatically teasing statements apart for validity. Indeed, Kinsmen wanted its alumni to show ability and appreciation for said ability, without demanding every single one achieve the same results in the same way.

    ¡°As you can see, there¡¯s murder here,¡± she continued. ¡°Facilitated by entity-entity interaction, yes. However, to wit: the same two witnesses previously mentioned claim Bennosuke - who is an atypical with characteristics reminiscent of very potent Nezu occult practitioners - used a photophobic substance of some kind on most of his victims. The substance had wildly varying effects from one victim to the next, and Bartimaeus claimed it exhibited properties indicating sentience. In light of ambiguous evidence, the ¡®murder weapon¡¯ is therefore considered as a candidate for personhood, a la Tronotte v Ldad. Thus, murder, but indirect, done through proxy entity: a type ten.¡±

    Of course, Tronotte v Ldad only established candidacy for personhood. The Willabarm classifications for such events would default to type negative-one in this instance, because - as the great Pjo?tet had once declared - ¡°ambiguity makes sand of knowledge.¡± If Count had employed a fellow human to commit the murders, on the other hand, then it would have been a type ten event. For that matter, the type three interaction of simply employing another¡¯s talents to commit murder constituted a crime as heinous as murder.

    She breathed in and out, allotting a few heartbeats so that her class could assay their musings and the materials placed before them. Eventually she put the moribund thought that her students might leap wholeheartedly and unprovokedly into debate aside.

    ¡°Now, all of that matters, yes - but now comes the real challenge to our mental faculties. We have an interesting question framed by this event, for the first time in a bit under seven thousand years. Please don¡¯t prophesy the class¡¯s conclusions even if the product has negligible reliability; we¡¯ll probably manage something sufficiently pretentious or profound without assistance.¡±

    A wordless warning tossed off at Filifa netted a small bowing of the head in return, and a ¡°Yeah, Os!¡± from a student Prisca already knew would become one of the class clowns.

    Prisca pushed a new image onto the holojector. It showed a pair of portraits, side by side, close and far, interviewed and furtively observed.

    The first one was a recording of Sebastio Artaxerxes. The dark-skinned human spoke to the recording lens, with a stilted and pained monotone. It was the lingual equivalent of watching a parent carrying their catatonic firstborn after an automobile accident. The man¡¯s focus never wavered or shifted.

    ¡°He was a friend, and a man who recognized his own hurt. Ambitious. Frustrated. We first came together because of how much we have in common. I don¡¯t know what that makes me¡­ because anyone who can do THAT to ordinary people¡­ ugh.¡±

    A genuine eyes-closed shiver, before the voice resumed following a two-second inspection of the nameless infinite.

    ¡°He¡¯s very dangerous, very deranged, and sly.¡±

    The curt and bleak observations looped, a small miserable infinity of soliloquy.

    Beside Artaxerxes¡¯s picture was a full picture of a dark-haired fair-skinned man.

    The concept of ¡°creepy¡± arose only very rarely outside human or quite human-like minds, generally speaking. For most widely-recognizable races, something could certainly fall into the camp of being improper, or running contrary to the structure of what should be. An expression that an idea maintained a holding distance within range of the comforting or normal - but still trespassed into the realm of the disturbing - was itself the closest thing to ¡°creepy¡± a number of species could even process.

    A single lasting shot of Niall Bennosuke, lathered in black gunk up to his elbows and smiling like a baby, made for an excellent object lesson in what ¡°creepy¡± truly meant.

    The man¡¯s slightly shuddering form almost sang, the words placed with meticulous malice like an artwork done in sowed caltrops.

    ¡°Justice? I¡¯ll give you justice, you cogs of the Rhaagmini machine, you subsystems of hatred for potential. You love the Maker so much that I¡¯ll find one of his hidden works and bring it to you as a present. May you all know the same peace I¡¯ve enjoyed for so long at your sneering sufferance, you judgmental Rippers.¡±

    Prisca Layk had long held to the worldview that every person had both good and evil within them. She also considered those warring forces most profoundly balanced, or rendered unbalanced, by the effects of the place each person called ¡°home.¡± Given the atomicity of that belief, she could only imagine what place served as home to Bennosuke for most of his life, because she could scarcely bring to mind when she¡¯d seen a more unilaterally outwardly evil man.

    The only sounds from the forty six learning souls were elevated respiration and a single declaration of ¡°degenerate Beast-loving stipp¡± from a student obscured by Prisca¡¯s vantage and another student¡¯s exceptionally animated hairstyle.

    Prisca blew up an inset of Bennosuke¡¯s skin-tearing smile, and reframed it to show nothing but his long-haired head. Next, she threw a new image over the other half of the holojector - a side portrait of a thin-lipped tall-nosed human form head with a layer of dustlike hair atop his cranium. The positioning and facing made it seem the Maker¡¯s full attention, desirable or otherwise, had fallen on Count. Then, she finally opened up the topic meant to prime the pump for next class.

    ¡°Observe, and delve into this puzzle: why, exactly, is it that so few people have gone and sought out the item we know as Caladhbolg through the eons?¡±

    ¡°Because it¡¯s got the death penalty!¡± came the response from Jerrad.

    Well. Not quite the leap into discourse that Prisca would have preferred, but heavily seated opinions had an excellent exchange rate for controversy-kindling.

    ¡°And so does nuking or gravity-welling a civilian-populated section of city, or making a pact with an off-limits deity,¡± countered Mitchell. ¡°But there are still people in warring districts who do that, billions of times per hand.¡±

    ¡°Because all the Ganymedes in those regions go out of their way to pass those off as legal and keep the momentum of their war efforts!¡±

    ¡°And what does THAT tell you?¡±

    Now there erupted several voices, contentious and knowledgeable and reason-grasping.

    ¡°It¡¯s a reaction to Fallow Srid! No one wants to go through that kind of madness again, so the law¡¯s to splatter anyone who even looks like they¡¯ll end up rotten.¡±

    ¡°Oh, come ON, Enga - it¡¯s a ¡®reaction¡¯ to a despot from eons past? Let¡¯s be logical.¡±

    ¡°The real question¡¯s why anyone would willingly interact with something posing a danger on par with the Cudgel of Lepers. For all we know with any certainty, picking the thing up might be enough to kill you and every one of your ancestors for the last twelve hundred generations.¡±

    ¡°I HATE EVERYTHING!¡± shouted a dagacha from a few convocations away, briefly disrupting Sociology and Ethics¡¯s lines of thought. Portram stood and repeated the sentiment at the original speaker loudly enough to set Prisca¡¯s teeth on edge. Momentarily, discourse resumed at a marginally increased volume.

    ¡°It has to be some kind of broadly dispersed anti-compulsion. Think about it. Look at how many species gravitate to lines of logic that encourage restrictive self-serving behaviors. No matter how reasonable, could we possibly expect every person in the city to abide by ¡®leave well enough alone?¡¯ There should be millions at any given instant just champing at the bit to go steal themselves one of the Maker¡¯s creations. I mean, how many different cults of the Maker are there? So it¡¯s probably something like the dread aura of the Ri¡­ the Insect, but a few levels more potent.¡±

    ¡°There is an ¨²danese economic conspiracy backed by the Olds meant to ensure we never progress further in our understanding of the sciences!¡±

    Like a child finding a giant pest in a shoe, those on either side of the aaned theorist recoiled.

    Before the non-sequitur could stir up dissension and distraction, the executioner behind him balled up an interpolation paper and bounced it off the speaker¡¯s head crest.

    ¡°Stop your joking, punk. We¡¯re not even talking about the Olds, just laws about existence-class weapons. And throw that back, I don¡¯t want to have to get more.¡±

    The rest of the hour was an intense but civil waterfall of pointed debates about justifiability in preventative punishment, district-specific legal precepts and dispensations, and a whole slew of character examinations based on available evidence.

    Of all the topics they discussed, one which escaped their attentions was the possible recourse if someone tried and actually succeeded in obtaining that forbidden thing named Caladhbolg, and what the event might mean for society as a whole. The subject, naturally, did not require contemplation.

 Interlude Amidst Administration

    An interlude is how those few familiar with it might have described the unmappable space.

    An archetype, others would say.

    The Beings of Old who occupied Avram¡¯s Bosom, named the Trinity of Gray by their peers, simply called it ¡°home.¡± Two female, one male, as much as could be reckoned in such entities.

    Three creatures sat around a table of stone. Three creatures counted sand from broken hourglasses. Three creatures fixed meters for measuring atomic decay at a perfect level of precision. Three creatures sketched chipped guillotine blades in dust. Three creatures tasted and knew death as only those intimately familiar possibly can.

    ¡°We have much work to do,¡± sighed the Gray Boatman. Leaning a bit farther from its socket than its left-hand fleshy counterpart, his pocket watch eye spun backward at a rate of months per second. His staff he held tightly, like a lover or an enemy.

    ¡°Work, and with so many newborns!¡±

    Pearlescent Maria¡¯s open mouth exuded opaline breath, viscous and swirling, wreathing her clasped hands with extravagant handcuffs. Tears like unrefined petroleum ran down her face.

    ¡°Newborns in nature, not simply in fact,¡± croaked Silver. Her hair flowed around her as it writhed, running from the table to the floor and into the dun sticky shadows of their abode. The colorless glow of the filaments suffused her surroundings, without lending any true illumination.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    At the termination of her pleated tresses, a sea of shadowy figures of all kinds stretched into the unseen, a line a billion leagues long. Many of them had a greasy dimensionless quality, forged to look like anything and everything, so long as it was grotesque in its details. Beasts, they were called by the ones who knew of the beings. A term which might need replacement, now that the ravening creatures had suddenly begun to appear in the Trinity of Gray¡¯s clientele.

    After all, only those with souls - and a quite small subset of those - could ever arrive in Avram¡¯s Bosom¡­ and even the Olds knew Beasts as savage feral creatures, feeding from their leidb?ume and wandering the Purple in undirected duress.

    ¡°How often do we see a new kind, a new breed, in this place?¡±

    ¡°Not often, thanks be.¡±

    ¡°A somewhat disturbing question: why this new one?¡±

    A short pause before the Gray Boatman hazarded a guess to his own question.

    ¡°We relate to normal time in an imprecise and nonlinear function at the most predicated of instances. Even so, something has happened or will happen with profound consequences to the Purple.¡±

    He looked at Silver meaningfully.

    ¡°I think,¡± he said, spinning eye faltering to a brief halt, ¡°a misadventure involving the Device, almost certainly with it removed from the Oiler¡¯s domain, is to blame.¡±

    Three creatures contemplated the sudden change in the realm over which they had so long watched and fretted.

    Eventually, three creatures left their thoughts behind on the table. After all, there was work to be done, and sifting through souls demanded copious amounts of dedication and a grave mind.

 A Dreaded Sword

    ¡°I am the Maker, creator of many things. Enjoy the fruits of my labor, which make the impossible trivial, and provide for countless generations to come. Keep watch over my Tower, and it will keep watch over you.¡±

    -Inscription on the Northwest cornerstone of the Tower of Rhaagm

    Sebastio Artaxerxes nearly tripped himself as his cerv-mesh picked up a local transmission, sent out over one of the non-Monolith extrafacetary communications channels reserved for emergency broadcasts. The virtually total silence of months of contact moratorium broke pleasantly, but still set him on edge with its passing. A set of three familiar chimes sounded in Sebastio¡¯s head, indicating the beginning of a public message, before a soft, androgynous voice spoke.

    ¡°Any persons who are in possession of information related to the artifact known informally as ¡®Caladhbolg¡¯ are requested to contact representatives of extrafacetary law enforcement, in particular members of authorized surveillance and security forces. Those hearing this particular message should attend to the following facet-relative location, please.¡±

    The voice that came from Sebastio¡¯s own brainstem started to name a position within the facet he occupied, in standard universe-scale format. A great many people knew how to translate positions provided in universe-scale into a practical set of coordinates; Sebastio woke a sleeping utility in his mesh to do the translation for him instead.

    When he realized where the meeting point lay, Sebastio¡¯s stride faltered for a moment¡­ but it was only a moment. The Cambrian quickly picked up his normal pace again, and adjusted his heading slightly, to a considerably nearer destination. His clothes twitched in a stillborn gust.

    After some two hours of further walking within sight of a riverbank smelling faintly of its parent ocean, a city began to pass around Sebastio. He left the small shrubs and bushes which reminded him of beds of gerbil bread run amok, moving into lanes which might have been paved by rude cobbles within five years - had there been any civil engineers left to undertake the task. Small wooden houses watched him climbing a dozen sad stone steps, and his shod feet spat away dirt and dust that belonged to no-one.

    Ahead, butted up against a bridge spanning a fork in the river¡¯s curve, unfolded a scene beside the huge stately shape of the house of faith called Our Lady. The soaring unshakeable geometry of the cathedral looked to be cupping the many penitent standers-by like the protective hands of a matron whose instinct to preserve outweighs her proficiency - or lack thereof - at defending those in her care.

    Some people lay prostrate on the street under the heavy burden of rash-ridden bodies, occasionally sighing in pain or fatigue. Others crowded close to the doors and windows of the building, pleading and cajoling for help, sympathy, relief. One woman stood just beside the only door of the cathedral propped open, with a massive fruit-purple sac in her armpit flopping through a tear in her dress. She said nothing, just pumped her arm like a wind tossed branch, setting the growth into motion on each downward arc of the dainty fist. Her eyes made Sebastio feel nearly ill.

    The majority of the people in the square, however, huddled quietly in a vague and blurred line near what Sebastio was certain was a priest - most of these seemed free of rash or tumor or other indicator of sickness. The people moved slowly forward; as each person reached the front, the priest¡¯s face turned minutely more heartbroken and his hands reached into a thick wooden box. When they withdrew, a few thin flakes of bread were passed to the poor soul before him, and the scraps carried away close to the holder¡¯s chest like the most pitiful of keepsakes.

    Sebastio¡¯s gaze lingered just long enough to see a young man with one uselessly deformed arm kneel carefully to receive a tiny black trickle of what could have been water or wine or neither. He presently turned away and he walked and walked until the ruddy smudged walls of his goal stood tall in his view. He noticed the sign, then walked around the building once at speed, confirming that the structure had to contain his destination coordinates.

    Cloak oscillating in the slow unyielding wind, Sebastio stepped into the Great Mountain, the second largest house of the flesh trade in France.

    As he swung the heavy door inward, Sebastio incidentally trod on the tail of a short skinny yellow mammal - his brain identified it as a cat just as he rocked back from the creature. It snarled, spun, and glared at him with a lashing tail and bristling pelt; Sebastio blinked and stepped away a short distance.

    The four-legged tenant of the establishment made an unhappy gurgling rumble before skittering for a set of brown lacquered steps leading to the next floor.

    Upon the feline begging pardon, Sebastio took notice of the vacuous state of the room. An enterprising soul had painted a riverside scene of debauched celebration across the walls, practically nude figures everywhere beneath tangled willow trees and eating plums in the ribbons of water. Nearly every single thing besides the room¡¯s inhabitants and the drinking vessels had been carved from oversized wood blocks.

    A single man whose wrinkles tripled the area of his skin was sprawled drooling over a warped and stained table, halfway off a stool shaped like a skinny tree trunk. A woman that one might address as ¡°Madam¡± followed the progress of the cat with frowning eyes of flint from a booth, and only turned to Sebastio when the creature bounded out of sight. Despite the fact that the table was made to seat ten, the woman¡¯s necklaced and rouged face was the only one gracing the seating. Behind the bar a short slight boy with the same oaken complexion as the countertop cleaned fogged glasses one at a time even though they had surely not been used in a fortnight, looking up at Sebastio maybe one second out of twenty. The click of the mugs being set back down beneath the bar was the only sound in the room.

    No persuasive kindred of the night flitted about. No gamers threw down dice or cards. No drinks were upended.

    No culinary units hawked out a stream of foodstuffs. No babble of conversation about the Jon¡¯s politics. No riots of magic-centric competitions.

    After his eyes blinked the sun away, Sebastio calmly walked up to the boy at the bar, pulling a barstool out of the way, and made a show of looking around the room. His eye happened upon the small thing on the wall next to the door leading from the back of the bar to one of the inner rooms by chance, and his breath ceased. A skewed-perspective painting of a woman brushed over with diaphanous robes as an afterthought stood against the doorframe. She held and looked down at a ripmap cartridge stuck to the surface of the wall, colored and shaded to look like a genetically challenged pear. The ripmap cartridge had been gutted, and Sebastio knew, even without using his cerv-mesh to ping the object, that the broadcast signal originated here.

    He glanced at the boy again. The boy did not return his glance.

    ¡°Hey.¡± Sebastio¡¯s French was clearly foreign, and quite rough thanks to his coarse throat. The boy jumped, holding the glass he was cleaning tightly enough that Sebastio imagined he heard faint stress cracks. ¡°I need back there.¡± Sebastio nodded at the door sideways.

    The boy¡¯s voice wavered like birdsong as he answered, and he sounded like he had learned the phonetics of many words without really grasping what those words meant. ¡°I¡¯s sorry, sir. Only the missus and her associates is allowed in there.¡±

    Sebastio held out a shiny copper disc a little larger than his thumbnail to the boy. It was perfectly round and unmarked, save a shallow indent on one face. The ¡°coin¡± represented about seven hours and change in effort on Sebastio¡¯s part, working to extract impurities from numerous cupfuls of the Seine through electroplating just the prior day. The endeavor had left the Cambrian sweating and shaky from exertion, but the handful of metals he¡¯d eventually peeled from the end of his lodestaff had been worth it. Since he¡¯d managed the trick purely through his atypical talents, it could never be called a frivolous misuse of his cluster, and he didn¡¯t have to worry about Rhaagm auditors chastising him for it later.

    ¡°Would this be enough to enter into an association with the missus?¡± Sebastio¡¯s tone was low, carrying, and just a touch friendlier than that of a total stranger. He allowed a smile to show out of his eyes slightly, though his jaw was still stiffly clenched.

    The boy¡¯s cleaning did not stop for a moment, and yet there was a flash before the almost-coin ceased to exist. He quirked his head at the Cambrian, apparently gauging whether he was a bad man.

    ¡°House rules is no fires, no fights, no damaging the furniture and walls.¡± The boy¡¯s voice was suddenly different, with the bearing of a wizened alcoholic, tired, slightly detached from everything not in the moment.

    It was just before Sebastio began to move for the door that the boy¡¯s brown eyes finally and waveringly settled on his own.

    ¡°Is you like those other people, sir? The ones back there?¡± The boy finished cleaning another glass, setting it down with the others, and the hand not clutching the oily scrap of cloth pointed at the ripmap cartridge on the wall. ¡°They paid in silver. Paid awful lots so they could put that thing on the wall. But they speak funny, like you. Like a... drunk minstrel, but not drunk.¡± The boy paused before picking up another glass. ¡°That¡¯s not quite right.¡±

    Sebastio looked carefully at the boy again. Out here in the wilderness of the gem, Sebastio knew human beings aged at a far faster rate than in Rhaagm, or most other locales he thought of as ¡°civilized.¡± However, the boy was clearly not out of the spring morning of his youth, and Sebastio inexpertly estimated his age at between ten and fifteen years. His was a face cleared of innocence at an innocent age. He sported the thin black snow of a beard grown for the very first time.

    ¡°I¡¯m not from here, or anywhere nearby. Those other people... might not be from the same place, but they are probably like me.¡±

    Sebastio considered for a moment - yes, others interested in hunting Count were probably from Rhaagm, but he couldn¡¯t be sure. He looked over at the ripmap cartridge again, as much to set his resolve as to break eye contact.

    ¡°What is your name, young sir?¡± Sebastio¡¯s voice was extremely diminished, for the ears of the glass-polisher only. The young man looked up and considered the Cambrian¡¯s face carefully.

    ¡°Louis, sir.¡±

    Sebastio felt a lurch in his ribs at the halting way the name came out; not with angst, but the kind of way a boy would shove words around after he realized that how he felt no longer held any meaning.

    The youth¡¯s face looked like just another of Count¡¯s many victims. Confused. Scared. Alone. In a frame of mind where mind-and-soul death could almost be thought a mercy. Did a man who brought such things about, regardless of his warped past, qualify as irredeemably evil?

    Yes, said the back half of his brain.

    No, said the front.

    Sebastio returned his hand to the folds of his garb, and a second later there was another circle glinting on the counter - pure gold. ¡°Be exceedingly careful, Louis. There are very bad people about.¡±

    This time, a sharp squawk came from the mug as the boy¡¯s arm hyperextended and scoured a transparent smear of clean glass out of the vessel¡¯s grime. He looked on the gold on the countertop with disbelief so profound it left no slack thought for the task of polishing.

    With a slight creak under one boot heel that surprised the tablebound unconscious codger into a somnolent belch, Sebastio moved behind the counter and carefully opened the door.

    On the other side of the wall was a long room that resembled the inside of a wooden fruit crate - a fact to which Sebastio could personally attest, thanks to his college days and the adventures experienced at the urging of an incorrigible Francis ¡°Bugbear¡± Pickering. There was no decoration of any kind that could be identified as ¡°original¡± besides a pair of windows covered with boards, a swarm of unlit lamps scattered seemingly randomly, and a small stove hiding beside the wall to his right opposite a window. The bare walls were vertical lengths of unsanded wood that had been joined apparently without nails or caulking.

    The newer occupants were responsible for most of what now lay about. Obscuring most of a second door from the room was a commercial dark generator, lifeless except for a bright array of readouts blinking and muttering diagnostics. A family of measuring implements hunched next to the stove, some thaumaturgical, others traditional, and all clearly new. Several chairs for various species dourly awaited posteriors.

    In the dead center of the room sprawled an emulated Parisian landscape large enough that Sebastio could have comfortably slept in the divot of the riverbed, emitted from a Toothskin refractor hovering directly overhead. On the landscape were a number of cones gently pulsing in a regular pattern. Three or four had the Rhaagmini glyph for ¡°likely¡± hanging above them.

    Through all this hubbub a group of observers wandered, chattered, and thought.

    The first one of these that drew the eye was another Cambrian homo sapiens that stood a small measure shorter than Sebastio. The man¡¯s smooth black scalp caught and reflected slivers of light in swatches like an antique telemonitor, and his rounded features made his face look anticipatory. A long garment that was the lovechild of a leathern shirt and a robe snugged against his torso where a knife-laden bandolier weighed it down. His bootpants bore long-dried mud up to his knees. At his hip hung a very long axe with curving teeth, which appeared to be some kind of destabilizer constructs.

    A vigorous spit away from the man was a tall naufer, of one of the genders identified as feminine if Sebastio wasn¡¯t mistaken. She was bent over a table and reading something, so that her two meter stature was reduced to somewhat below Sebastio¡¯s own. Her hairy, vaguely canid features sent the epithet ¡°jackal¡± running through Sebastio''s brain, on the same reflex that caused some adolescents to throw rocks at old glass windows and birds. He mentally berated himself, trying to take an earnest measure of the woman.

    The naufer¡¯s long figure was swathed in a layered wrapping from knees to shoulders, and a vest buckled at the waist and neck overtop. A nresd hung from her waist to the calves. There were no other accessories or accoutrements that otherwise suggested a magical affinity or area of profession, so Sebastio assumed the naufer simply had singular taste in clothing or frequented the company of magi. Her head was turned away, squarish ears lying down parallel with the top of her head, but the figure-eight double pupils of her race still seemed to draw him toward her. A subliminal associative tie through resemblance to the Artaxerxes manservant? Comfortability with her race? He was unsure.

    On the naufer¡¯s bare left shoulder was a patch that showed no fur, depicting a symbol Sebastio did not recognize over skin nearly the exact same shade as his own.

    Low to the ground was a relatively standard example of a dut. It resembled little as much as a sea urchin trapped in a net made of flesh, flattened slightly so that it was a hundred and ten centimeters tall but almost a meter and a half wide at its horizontal diameter. It (he, Sebastio guessed) emitted little noises that were like squeaks and like beeps but not really beholden to either name. The dut used a long and boneless appendage to do something with some kind of equipment. Several articles of what may have been clothing were suspended in the tangle of the dut¡¯s anatomy.

    Behind these immediate presences the rest of the room¡¯s occupants were busy; humans and elves measuring, aaneds manually interfacing with equipment, a pair of forithkane having stilted discourse in the far corner. There was even an assassin, leaning akimbo beside one of the blocked windows. This last¡¯s mandibles shook as the matte eyebars turned to Sebastio¡¯s entrance.

    The bouncer-like figure folded then, passing the room¡¯s apparatus. The assassin held an ominously humming red mace at arm¡¯s length as it arrived next to him. The weapon remained far away enough that any kind of swing would get good head of steam and close enough that Sebastio could feel radiant energy coming from the mace head. Some kind of fun contact weapon on par with a shiver knife, possibly.

    ¡°Crippled False,¡± he half-whispered, trying to decide if he should just use his simplex module and flee. If he actually tried, all told, he¡¯d probably get a uncomfortable bodily exploration by mace.

    ¡°State your name and business immediately,¡± the assassin clicked in Emsttko, the language used by many aaneds, which fortunately already existed on Sebastio¡¯s cerv-mesh.

    Sebastio¡¯s reply had a great deal of half-counterfeit bravado. He used Rhaagmini, certain that the assassin would possess either the means or knowledge to comprehend him. ¡°Sebastio Artaxerxes of Rhaagm; born and raised. Human. Security consultant specializing in atypical-related matters. I am here to offer some amount of assistance regarding the investigation and apprehension of Count.¡±

    He looked slightly concerned for a breath. ¡°Unless that isn¡¯t the goal of this enterprise...?¡± His gaze transitioned to the stout bald man, eyes widening for just an instant. ¡°I got the broadcast that persons with information about¡­ a certain weapon should come here. I know a little of that particular, but the Nightmare Count is very, very familiar to me.¡±

    ¡°You know what the Caladhbolg Contingencies - specifically, the Forbidding - lay out as penalty for seeking out the weapon, or any gesture in the direction a seeker might take.¡± The assassin¡¯s mandibles worked, its head shifting in birdlike jerks. It was not asking a question. ¡°If that be your motivation, then best you, your family, your associates, and your associates¡¯ families prepare-¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m NOT trying to¡­¡± Sebastio interrupted his interruption. ¡°I¡¯m not here on account of that kind of motivation.¡± He wondered if that was true: he was, in fact, seeking out the weapon of existence destruction, albeit in the interests of preventing its acquisition. Then he suddenly became indignant.

    ¡°You people are the ones asking for volunteers!¡±

    Several self-flagellating thoughts rustled the bushes of his brain even as he spoke the words. To his relief he saw the assassin reanalyze the noisy human, and arrive at an emotional landing pad of ambivalent acceptance. No sudden evagination, no cavitation barbs thrown. Questionably promising.

    By this time nearly every creature in the room had turned to Sebastio. The naufer¡¯s haunting eyes had been one of the first sets of perceptive organs trained on him, and their blue lengthwise striation back from the pupils caused him to shiver beneath his skin. It was her rusted heavy voice that helped to bring equilibrium to the room¡¯s tension a moment later.

    ¡°You were the man interviewed just before Bennosuke was declared a threat to public safety.¡±

    Sebastio¡¯s face softened a bit. He reallocated his attention to the creature which reminded him of the Artaxerxes manservant with her height, hirsute form, and splayed eight-digit hands.

    ¡°Yes, I was,¡± he stated, mentally rifling over what he could safely say. With so many people and so many probable ways to scrive his words into the intangible medium he had to avoid alerting, his words needed to be smart, very precisely chosen, and extremely brief.

    This is going to end well, he said to himself.

    He stopped for a second to cough; the raw boards of the room¡¯s walls must have acted like a magnet for dust and other errant particles biologically designed for maximum histamine production.

    ¡°I was advised to offer you what I know by a friend.¡± Sebastio paused meaningfully. ¡°A friend who gives me very good reason to trust him by nature of who and what he is. In particular, he told me to present my knowledge in person rather than through the Monolith.¡±

    ¡°There is little point to same-facet contact,¡± came the objection from a forithka. The creature had come closer, although a human with its body language would be interpreted as distracted or inattentive at best. The dark-skinned man with the blades looked impersonally displeased by the interruption as he turned slightly to examine the speaker. Beside him stood the assassin heavy, having stepped back and replaced the mace after (hopefully) assessing Sebastio as unthreatening. The fact that Sebastio had not even noticed the movement of a creature as tall as himself and with probably twice the mass assured him that, if he somehow could not fold away and needed to fight his way out, it would be neither clean nor easy.

    ¡°If a message to our organization were problematic then in-person presentation provides little benefit over virtual presentation. Almost all those present have active-waiting cerv-mesh connection with the Monolith and communicate constantly with intermediate authorities.¡± The forithka¡¯s fangs and triple pupil eyes both jittered with restrained energy.

    The Cambrian glanced at the minor translucence of the man¡¯s orange-pink gelatinous flesh, his ferrous skeleton structure, and once again marveled at the similarity to what lay beneath his own skin and sinew. Unlike his old friend Sagp and most other acquaintances of a forithkaish persuasion, this fellow - and at least one other watching surreptitiously over yonder - didn¡¯t seem to think in terms of if-thens and verbal regular expressions. His input threw Sebastio off his originally planned entreaties to action; the human hadn¡¯t counted on justifying his directive. Quite stupidly optimistic of him, he realized in hindsight, to expect urgency to increase the willingness of the powers-that-be to listen to random idiots wandering off the street. So much for smartly well chosen brief argument.

    ¡°I¡­ have a somewhat crazy request - every active network connection in this arrangement needs to restrict itself to buffering internally or get terminated before any further explanations.¡±

    The responses to that could have been described with words like ¡°drastic¡± and ¡°pungent.¡±

    ¡°Excuse me?¡±

    Among the derogation and surprisingly thankfully nonviolent disbelief, the knife man¡¯s impossibly stiff ¡°wherefore¡± cut at least as sharply as any of his implements. His speech was dry, closer to cool than warm, and absent any distracting identifiers, much like a desert after sundown.

    Sebastio cast about for the fastest method of convincing a roomful of strangers, some inherently trusting and some quite the opposite, to at least hear that for which he wanted them to at least consider taking his word. He kicked his overclocking into action, and the world slowed down to a glacial drift as he turned the issue this way and that. Eventually he decided on starting with convincing one person as a trial case, and sent a direct connection request to the somewhat darker-skinned human.

    To his minor surprise the man accepted.

    {How much of your brain has turned to hot pink, friend?} asked the man, with neither vehemence nor kindness.

    {None. Look, sir; if you think I am wasting your time, then please have your¡­ commanding officer, or administrator take me into custody.}

    {I am presently the highest-placed member of this installation. Now, if you have the gall to demand something like our whole crew taking ourselves offline temporarily, you WILL have the spine to tell me why before we have to file two hands¡¯ worth of decommissioning reports in the fullness of time.}You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

    Sebastio¡¯s hairs would have risen along his spine if the conversation didn¡¯t take place in considerably less than an eyeblink.

    {If that really is your stance, sir, then I ask you do with me as you like now; I cannot in good conscience continue unless my statement stays completely off the record.}

    {Really? You run at the mouth about the importance of something you refuse to name, then further refuse to disclose the source of your agitation? Forgive me if this all sounds suspicious, first and foremost, and secondarily sounds eminently ridiculous.}

    {Sir, security on this topic needs to be exceptional. It will not be airtight, by its definition, but unless you can allow me that much, anything I say does more harm than good.}

    The connection cut abruptly, a sudden clean severance on the other man¡¯s end which would have been unforgivably rude in any other setting. Sebastio almost reeled from his total re-enfleshment as his mind left the local exchange stream. Even in his disorientation, though, he made out the shape of the man saying something in a gruff voice to a lithe-looking autumn elf.

    ¡°Temporary suspension, across the board. Decouple the input streams entirely if you have to; if the operation¡¯s gonna need a whole warehouse to store all our documents, then I¡¯ll take care of it.¡±

    ¡°Right away, Minuteman,¡± responded the autumn elf. Sebastio¡¯s eyes went wide as he looked up and down the knife man with considerably greater respect. He didn¡¯t look military exactly, but appearances and deception and whatnot.

    Within two minutes a host of annoyed, angry, or just plain confused people were staring at the stranger. The assassin held a perfectly motionless pose beside a criminally ugly thing that might have been a matter transference unit. The naufer didn¡¯t actually bare her teeth, but her displeasure came off her like a steady river of gamma.

    ¡°Start talking and be quick about it,¡± said the knife man. The look he wore declared a complete and total depletion of his patience. Patience debt was climbing at neck-snapping speeds.

    ¡°I have it on good authority that¡­¡± Sebastio paused for a moment and racked his brain for the exact phrasing, annoyed that he had become so reliant on Monolithic eidetic memory over the years. The fact that it was always assumed he¡¯d have the capability to use said stored memory didn¡¯t ease his frustration. ¡°... some of the top layers of Monolith packet exchange protocols, at least in Rhaagm, have been compromised. The parties on whose behalf that compromise was carried out have reason to aid Count in collecting Caladhbolg.¡± He gave a brief sign of resignation. ¡°It¡¯s why I haven¡¯t been keeping up with the news for some time.¡±

    The security protocols didn¡¯t mean much to Sebastio aside from their names. Even so, a small hot hand brushed the hair on his scalp up from the roots, as he recited a list of now-insecure communications standards. The fact that Monolith security was probably the best of any information network in existence did not convince him that the supposed breaches were fictitious.

    The expressions of most creatures in the room ranged from disbelieving to confused to furious at his words. When he finally reached the end of his enumeration of compromised protocols, the dut startled him by emitting a stream of vitriol and profanity with gross length and detail. The creature spun like a top and also emitted a faint odor somewhere between seashore and a large straw pen full of qinps.

    ¡°And in which contexts are these standards apparently at fault?" the dut asked after a moment, a rubbery limb turned toward Sebastio like a periscope. Many eye-tendrils leaned his way like lines of magnetized iron.

    Simple to answer, at least. ¡°All contexts,¡± Sebastio answered, and the Rhaagmini phrase felt like an expulsion of bile. Before the group could give any further reaction, though, Sebastio added, ¡°This was all brought to my attention by, well, Target. And I assure you that I mean the first one who comes to mind.¡± His calm assertion was met by the sound of the room coming as close to total silence as possible.

    After a moment, almost like a verbal footnote, he continued: ¡°Target also informed me that this facet is the true home of Caladhbolg, and that Count is aware of this fact.¡±

    For the first time, the man with the knives spoke in a civil-sounding voice, showing not a trace of discomfort, shock, or emotion of any sort. His almost light-eating skin glinted when his head inclined, assessing Sebastio for¡­ something.

    ¡°Christopher Leffikan. Cambrian human, born in a facet so backwater it¡¯s pointless to name or describe, lived in Rhaagm for the last forty hexadecades. I suppose I¡¯m also acting coordinator of our little manhunt expedition here. Excuse our manners, but we have some interesting challenges we¡¯ve just encountered today, and they¡¯re shaped like you.¡± Christopher raked green flaring irises over his quarry. Quite casually, almost accidentally, a blade was in his grasp, paring away crescents of fingernail. ¡°Very few reasons suggest themselves as to why you might be lying, Mr. Artaxerxes.¡±

    Sebastio could interpret that statement at least three or four different ways. None of them were nice.

    ¡°Now,¡± Christopher said, leaning back against the table upon which the naufer woman had been reading moments ago, ¡°there¡¯s a way to determine the truthfulness of your claims - aside from a dowsing, of course, since we don¡¯t have the personnel for conducting one. If we were to contact an auditor, for example, then we should have an idea of your reliability in¡­ oh, a hand or so.¡±

    His tone of voice clarified exactly how much of a travesty he considered a prospective waste of waiting eight days to get results. The fact that he even considered the idea should have reassured Sebastio, said one side of his brain.

    Then came his moment of inspiration, and he knew exactly what to do to convince a fellow Rhaagmini of his veracity: a binding oath.

    Sebastio stepped forward half a pace with hands at his sides, straightened himself to his greatest height, and tried to burn through to Christopher¡¯s brain with a stare.

    ¡°Christopher Leffikan,¡± he said, after convincing himself of his words¡¯ necessity, ¡°I swear before the assembled witnesses, upon pain of judgment by Crippled False, that I speak not merely the truth as it is perceived, but the truth in fact, and that I also know the resting place of that object known as Caladhbolg.¡±

    If he¡¯d doubted the efficacy of his gamble, the way Christopher¡¯s eyes widened, and the knife performing hygienic upkeep bit into the meat of his ring finger without eliciting the smallest notice, put Sebastio¡¯s doubts to rest. A couple of the crew nearer the back of the room made indecipherable noises. The assassin remained immobile.

    A small nose-twitch graced the face of the naufer woman. Sebastio noticed, and guessed that she had never been to Rhaagm in her life. If one found an oath before Crippled False humorous, exposure to the culture of the city it called home tended to remedy such failings unfailingly. The woman turned to Christopher.

    ¡°That is the¡­ chief digital person which aids law enforcement in Rhaagm, yes?¡± Her question had the same constitution as a Bequastish academic¡¯s survey of a newly-discovered indigenous tribe¡¯s pantheon. She managed to communicate a paired hope of avoiding stepping on toes and a disregard for any more drastic consequences than hurting another culture¡¯s sensibilities.

    Christopher¡¯s knife had wandered home at some point, and his d?mon cluster rendered the cut on his finger blurry as it repaired its owner. He did not so much as glance in the woman¡¯s vicinity. His answer was directed at both the fellow Cambrian standing before him and the naufer at his side.

    ¡°If you take your word in vain while invoking the name of Crippled False, the best possible outcome is that you never again set foot in Rhaagm again. If you do, you get interrupted almost the very next instant you¡¯re in the city. When a Rhaagmini uses that oath, it means something that¡¯s hard to describe to a non-Rhaagmini.¡±

    He did turn then, glaring at the taller woman.

    ¡°Crippled False does not forgive. Crippled False does not forget. It dispenses punishment for oathbreaking in its purview with the greatest possible prejudice. People in Rhaagm treat it like a deity for very good reason.¡±

    Christopher walked closer to Sebastio, soles of his footwear tromping heavily. The verdant irises in his skull showed a modicum of anger, blended with the respect all thinking creatures show all unthinking creatures. Something else lay there as well, but Sebastio could not identify it.

    ¡°Friend, how old are you?¡± he asked, arms folded.

    ¡°Ninety five extrafacetary years,¡± Sebastio answered, consciously making an effort to avoid folding his arms in a mirror pose of his conversant partner.

    ¡°Ripper take me, you¡¯re hardly a fledgling,¡± Christopher interrupted with a not-quite scoff. ¡°How many interruptions?¡±

    ¡°Of myself? None. Haven¡¯t hibernated either, if you¡¯re curious.¡±

    Those green gemstones abraded his face.

    ¡°You¡¯re probably crazy, Mr. Artaxerxes, but you don¡¯t strike me as a person with a death wish, and you don¡¯t strike me as crazy enough to court that kind of perjury. I¡¯ve met both of those in my time on the Minutemen roster.¡± A shifting of weight onto one foot. ¡°What kind of detail can you provide us on Caladhbolg, pray tell?¡±

    Sebastio gestured at the Toothskin refractor. ¡°I can demonstrate where it lies, within a small zone of uncertainty.¡±

    He considered, realizing his interpretation might be incorrect.

    ¡°I received a description: ¡®from the hill to Our Lady and the same again.¡¯¡±

    He cautiously moved past the naufer and Christopher, out onto the refractor¡¯s projected content, doing his best to avoid tripping over the topographical errata. A moment or two of orienteering and he located his destination. His boots clicked on the photostatic shape, and he stood right on the edge of a valley, behind one of the pulsing cone shapes. When he looked back up to explain to Christopher, he saw nearly every person watching with the kind of rapt attention usually reserved for ongoing natural disasters.

    ¡°The church called Our Lady is over there, on the river. If you look between it and where I¡¯m standing, the highest elevation in the surrounding land bisects the line segment connecting the two. When I spoke with Target, he gave me a demonstration in addition to the description.¡±

    He pointed at the hilltop.

    ¡°Thanks to said demonstration, I saw the outline of both that cathedral and that hill essentially tattooed on the inside of my eyelids, Target went over them so much. Don¡¯t know exactly how long the thing¡¯s been there subjectively, but objectively I learned that ¡®France is the key,¡¯ and it was necessary to ¡®arrive outside the region and then approach on foot to avoid disturbing automated defenses.¡¯¡±

    A scratch at the top of the head.

    ¡°Apparently, that¡¯s why Niall¡¯s taken so long to get the prize himself; however, he wasn¡¯t as interested in avoiding the defenses as circumventing them.¡±

    He gave off a snort, gesturing vaguely as he hopped down.

    ¡°If there¡¯s aught else which might be drawn from any of that, I¡¯d love to hear it. What I do know without question is that until your hail went out, I planned to go straight to sifting this area here in a twenty kilometer radius. It turns out the Maker doesn¡¯t like people just wandering up and taking his creations unless the people in question know where to look and precisely what it is they seek.¡±

    A couple of the elf agents looked to Christopher for direction. When the knife-clothed man gave them an affirmative, they proceeded to a free standing piece of hardware, and began debating something quietly while one of them manipulated the inputs of the device. Meanwhile, a flock of cursors fluttered over the refractor projection, reams of debug output distending from a couple of them. The focus of the cursors lay in or near the region Sebastio had demarcated.

    ¡°Jumpy they might be,¡± commented Christopher from his vantage with monumental sarcasm, ¡°but nobody does arbitrary search-and-sort like the twins. If there¡¯s any evidence of that deviant to be found, they¡¯ll find it.¡± He sounded troubled, but said nothing more for a few breaths. Then, he asked: ¡°Supposing we did contact the authorities over the Monolith, what consequences do you think we¡¯d invite?¡±

    Sebastio had given that topic a lot of thought. A combination of what the Being of Old named Target had said and not said, and context clues, was the sum total of the available data. He couldn¡¯t even rely on hints from body language, since Target (despite his apparently human form) represented the most alien persona he¡¯d ever encountered.

    ¡°The basis for this is a good deal of inference, keep in mind. It was¡­ about five standard months ago that I met Target, just inside eHanril Park. This happened after he - I mean Count - went and¡­¡±

    Sebastio broke off, incensed grief binding his throat and chest until his cerv-mesh performed suggestion therapy and helped de-cripple his speech centers.

    ¡°After Count snapped, I needed someplace quiet. My best friend Bugbear proposed and married his paramour at the park. I used to join hoop-hook games there sometimes when I was younger. It¡¯s beautiful, and not too overcrowded. On one of the benches there, I saw a man with striped clothes, a scarf about his neck and another at his waist, and round burn scars on his face by his eye.¡±

    Sebastio made a breathless wheeze, gripping his compressed lodestaff. He kept himself from jittering, then chortled.

    ¡°According to that man, who claimed to be of an age on par with the Parsed City-State of Rhaagm, there¡¯s an ensemble of Olds who would love to induce chaos throughout the gem. A sequence of distractions on scales that dwarf words as simple as ¡®cosmic.¡¯ A sword which can supposedly rupture facets makes for a very effective distraction. If we draw particular attention to this facet, it will¡­¡±

    Listening to Target¡¯s percussive voice in his head helped bring the memories back verbatim. The man had given the impression he was quoting someone else off-and-on, and he unconsciously emulated the Old¡¯s voice in his recounting.

    ¡°... it will ¡®bring a terrible eye¡¯s attention to the play, ready or not.¡¯¡±

    He met Christopher¡¯s eyes.

    ¡°I gathered that would be bad.¡±

    ¡°Crazy,¡± Christopher half moaned a moment later, ¡°but not delusional.¡± Again, one of his knives had found its way to his grasp, and he idly twirled it in tight intersecting rings. The flat of his free hand rested against the face of his vicious axe like a lover. Some indeterminate number of breaths went by with the other Cambrian fixated on something in the middle distance. Eventually the man allowed the blade he held to flutter home to its bandolier and started across the makeshift intelligence hub.

    ¡°Time permitting, I¡¯d love to hear about your meeting with Target. As delightful as it would be, though, there¡¯re more important matters.¡± An eyebrow rose. ¡°There needs to be some discussion on procedure, but our little family won¡¯t let awareness of our prey show just yet. Don¡¯t go anywhere.¡±

    He threw a glower up over his shoulder at Sebastio. Sebastio didn¡¯t respond except to strangle the lodestaff attached to his palm even harder, the dermis slightly damp and warm.

    ¡°Hello!¡±

    He jumped as though stabbed, twisting to observe that the metallic and almost toneless exclamation¡¯s source was a stubby forithka woman. She had walked right over to him, keeping undetected all the way until she watched the newcomer from no farther than a single step. It was the kind of stealth that had to be either innate or part of one¡¯s muscle memory libraries. Her triple pupil eyes danced over him as she shuffled inside a thick personal environment coat.

    ¡°Yes?¡± He pulled his loose cloak about him more firmly. It didn¡¯t feel like it was necessary to mask his discomfort.

    ¡°I studied atypicals for some time at Weguerreguwregerr,¡± the woman stated, again making Sebastio feel odd and foreign with her un-forithka speech patterns. Upon seeing his expression, the forithka added, ¡°Weguerreguwregerr is a Bequast-affiliated school with campus allotments across many different facets. As you might expect, based on the name, it is a very forithkaish school.¡±

    Sebastio shook his head to clear the fog, and berated himself before he could unthinkingly ask about her dialect.

    ¡°Sorry; I¡¯m acquainted with the place - one of my old classmates was a transfer. They offer a program on atypicals?¡±

    ¡°No, I and several friends had a club of sorts.¡± Her jaws worked like a human¡¯s might if they wanted to pantomime chewing. Sebastio was shocked; Sagp had been friends with him for years, and he had never, never been nervous enough to exhibit that tic where his human friend might have witnessed. The human in question surreptitiously took stock of himself. He was taller than the woman, but aside from that and his broadened profile lent by his cloak, nothing about him came across as intimidating. At least, not to his quite limited understanding of her species.

    ¡°I have never heard of a ¡®security consultant specializing in atypical-related matters.¡¯ What, out of curiosity, does that entail?¡±

    Sebastio had another moment of confusion. After reeling in his skull for a heartbeat or two, he came to the realization that the forithka was asking about his occupation. Well, not the most appropriate time, but ¡°appropriate time¡± probably wouldn¡¯t roll around for a long, long while.

    ¡°Ah! Well, I¡¯m a bit like those interfacers who get paid to try and compromise a company¡¯s digital security. The difference is that I look at other aspects, and, based on heuristic and metric data, determine where they would suffer the most inconvenience from an atypical plying their skills toward mischief. Offensive pedagogy, if you will.¡±

    The look on the forithka¡¯s face became something close to worshipful.

    ¡°That must be amazing. Does that put you in contact with atypicals or Olds often?¡±

    Sebastio made a so-so gesture. ¡°Olds? Hardly. Got really lucky and met Target a long time ago, and then again now¡­ I mean, recently. He gave me this as a gift the first time - he called it a ¡®lodestaff.¡¯ Have no idea where it came from, but I can make it longer or shorter within certain limits.¡± He lifted the lodestaff. ¡°Don¡¯t know why he felt so chummy, myself. There are just a few trillion Rhaagmini out there who probably think he¡¯s a complete hermit.¡±

    He scratched his nose. ¡°About atypicals, now, I¡¯m usually the only one who can be on-site to facilitate direct testing, if that¡¯s what you¡¯re asking.¡± When she was about to query for clarification he grinned, and recited his registry index. ¡°Artaxerxes, Sebastio. Affinity for electromagnetic current, specialization in bioelectric generation. Unfortunately, it¡¯s an atypical attribute coming of a lot of Hiek confluences that aren¡¯t gestalt-bound, so it¡¯s stuck to this body as far as I can tell. No interruption and coming back to a fresh start for me, if I want to keep the questionable benefit.¡±

    ¡°So¡­ you can stun people who rely on bioelectric current to function?¡±

    ¡°I can do a good bit more than that.¡± His mood dipped, remembering when he¡¯d had opportunity to use his talent with lethal consequences in his college days, and then forced himself to brighten. ¡°Usually I show up clients who think magic inimical fields and time-locked circuits are sufficient to keep biologicals out of sensitive areas. Faster nervous impulses and such, and I can screw about with electrical systems in case I ever have a job for the three or so buildings that actually use them in Rhaagm.¡± A bit more serious, he brought to mind some of the more interesting people he¡¯d met over his career. ¡°Since an atypical is formally defined as any person with either quantifiably comparable characteristics which lie more than one thousand twenty four standard deviations from the mean or traits not seen more than once in a billion-¡±

    ¡°Trillion.¡±

    ¡°-like s¡­ yes, you¡¯re right, sorry.¡± Stupid eidetics. ¡°In a trillion like samples, so I¡¯ve probably met more of them than I realize. One guy - Korys ¡®Bonesmith¡¯ Mbembe, elf-human lineage - has a talent involving variable weight; he can punch through just about anything short of redmetal.¡±

    ¡°Bonesmith! I studied his records in special depth, and hope to write a paper on the physics of his mass allocation soon. The court records have a stupendous amount of data on the effects and also include speculation about the mechanism. You have met him?¡±

    Sebastio felt oddly snubbed. The woman knew atypicals well enough to produce Mbembe¡¯s self-bestowed nickname, but hadn¡¯t shown the slightest sign of recognition when he¡¯d named himself, even with his far more conspicuous position in the public eye. Then he slapped his mental wrist. That disconnect between professional life and personal life was one of the things he¡¯d really hoped to achieve following his short jaunt through the headlines in his youth, so of course he would complain after reaching his goal. Complain, for that matter, about having less notoriety than Bonesmith, a multiple-offense criminal whose entire personality could be summed up with the words ¡°big, dangerous, and loud.¡± Well, Sebastio¡¯s emotions had always shown the decisive surety of a pot of greased noodles.

    ¡°Yeah,¡± he replied, ¡°and he¡¯s well-adjusted for an ex-convict. Really weird dress style, though.¡±

    The forithka was drawn to something over Sebastio¡¯s shoulder. He flinched when a low timbre spoke to his questioner.

    ¡°Respesedrpers, have we a lock on whether the Nightmare is one of our observed local candidates?¡±

    The naufer woman was standing just behind him, and her address jostled the forithka out of her demi-stupor.

    ¡°No, ma¡¯am. It seemed a good idea to check, but based on what we already know¡­¡±

    ¡°Excellent.¡± The taller woman¡¯s nose twitched. ¡°Whatever you do, make sure to take your time in running your compares. Maybe rely on one-law or even non-quantized retrieval algorithms. And if you should find yourself getting close to a match for the Nightmare, start incorporating peripheral information until the results are ambiguous. After all, the results from final-stage processing sample data of candidate targets across all the facets presently hunting for him are transferred directly to Central in Rhaagm. We do not want any illicit prying minds catching the scent that we have actually found the man we pursue.¡±

    ¡°Ma¡¯am?¡±

    Sebastio was as curious as the forithka sounded like she felt. The naufer¡¯s sideways figure eight pupils met the triple dots of the forithka before sliding over the human. A broad palm waved over her shoulder at Christopher, busily taking council with other members of the little gathering.

    ¡°My colleague names three explanations of our guest¡¯s story. Either he is completely right in what he says, he is completely wrong, or some amalgam of the two. We both agree that the second is quite unlikely. Even assuming that there exist mistakes or plain untruths in his tale, there is exactly one eventuality where the costs of maintaining the illusion of unsuccessfully searching for the Nightmare are outweighed by the comparative benefits. Specifically, if Artaxerxes were conspiring with the man to thwart efforts at his apprehension.¡±

    The naufer¡¯s ears pulled back on her skull, and her teeth showed momentarily.

    ¡°In that case, Christopher Leffikan values him as one of the coldest and most ruthless people ever seen by a unit leader in the Rhaagm Minutemen. I also agree with him that, my lack of familiarity with his species aside, the skill to completely mask such duplicity does not smell terribly plausible.¡±

    The forithka was silent. Her large foot patted the floor in time to an inaudible song.

    ¡°I believe I understand, ma¡¯am. The search will be unsuccessful, I am sure.¡±

    She started off to a console at the far end of the room, throwing a backwards look at Sebastio once. After the forithka swung around the Toothskin refractor¡¯s projected French hillside and began jotting something down on an interpolation paper, the naufer shuddered, and turned to the Cambrian. ¡°I dislike prevarication. It stinks of dishonor. But at times, sacrifices must be made.¡±

    The way the slightly taller woman looked at him made him feel for a moment like a parasite whose species typically lived in the lower intestine. Her hand extended, and her lips pulled back from her teeth in an exaggerated snarl. ¡°Otris mot Ganauche mot Elesph mottin Ienn the Grand. Naufer residing in Bequast.¡±

    For reasons beknownst to God and her alone, she proffered that archaic and provincial human greeting known as the handshake. Her snarl, for that matter, represented an attempt at a smile from a jaw unused to the idea of showing teeth as a sign of levity. The human felt insulted at first with the forced nature of the greeting, then - on more mature consideration - decided it wasn¡¯t some carefully-planned slight. She had¡­ interesting ideas of cultural sensitivity, but if that was the worst of her faults then she probably qualified as some kind of generational role model.

    In the end Sebastio shook with her, her lesser-hand digits curled back to mimic his own four-finger hold. As he did so, the branded symbol on her shoulder drew his focus. He remembered Nessro saying that those tattoos meant something very specific to naufers, but the ¡°what¡± of it escaped him. ¡°Pleased to meet you, I think.¡±

    Her lips flowed shut with the barest of nose twitches.

    ¡°If you hold the confidence of both Minuteman Leffikan and Respesedrpers, however freshly, your advice may qualify as worthwhile.¡±

    ¡°That depends on what the advice is supposed to accomplish, and the topic in question. Among many other things.¡±

    Otris scowled. Her head tilted toward the knife-pregnant figure of Christopher, who strode in small laps back and forth as he thought out loud about something. He was scratching at his cerv-mesh, and the reduced speed at which he walked, almost invisible except to those looking for it, suggested he was overclocking a far greater portion of his brain than most people allocated.

    ¡°The topic is how one might incapacitate or kill the Nightmare, and success is quantified by any scenario in which accomplishes that goal.¡± She released Sebastio, who had thought that she¡¯d done just that several seconds prior. ¡°Regardless of the nature of the weapon he seeks out, or whether he truly has the support of some unseen third party, we cannot allow him free reign any longer.¡±

    She squinted at him, one eight-digit hand brushing the bottom of her lengthy jaw.

    The human felt his eyes become opaque and dead, and Otris - up to then, doing her level best to convey her severity through a melting-hot gaze - pulled back, clearly disturbed.

    Sebastio had to work to dredge up the words, and when he spoke, it was a sibilant growl that sank even lower than Otris¡¯s earthen tones.

    ¡°I couldn¡¯t possibly agree more.¡±

    Two hours later, a Paris square had been converted into a killbox. Metrics confirming the presence of Niall ¡°the Nightmare Count¡± Bennosuke on the facet¡¯s French hillside received taciturn and thorough examination, though his position did not correspond to any of the locations they¡¯d been monitoring. With a bit of thorough examination, it became obvious that the collection of phenomena, specific chemical and thaumaturgical events, represented something roughly on the level of a man who¡¯d been crossing and revisiting a nearby area every so often, every few days, until recently. More specifically, the nearby area definitively lay in the proximity of the dread weapon¡¯s speculated location. Yet more specifically, thorough examination revealed the man-shaped detections had stopped, and remained in place, for more than a day in that particular region - contrary to all previous patterns.

    Sebastio Artaxerxes waited impatiently on the roof of the Great Mountain, twirling the shape of his lodestaff¡¯s compact form between deft, determined fingers. Waited for Count to return, as he knew the man would, searching out more objects, more targets, more meat.

    He looked across the dingy and deteriorating square, deluged with broken carts, broken people, and the kind of filth that pre-industrial societies display when their citizens¡¯ spirits as well as their bodies have been beaten, to the roof opposite his vantage. Otris held a wide-bore quadratic accelerator, lip curled as she rested with her feet crossed, scanning the region she overlooked. Two roofs over waited the elf twins, who were very adept magi in a host of combat disciplines. Outside ground level of that house, in the shadow of a rickety trellis overhang with ambitions, stood Christopher, enshrouded in a stealth field. He was carrying a belt of flashbangs in addition to his blades, and before his stealth field had swallowed him the teeth of his axe were glowing and shaking every so often as though alive.

    The other members of the scouting team with combat experience entrenched themselves in similar positions. Once they had observed Count¡¯s indicators were no longer mobile, it was assumed that he¡¯d reached Caladhbolg¡¯s defensive perimeter. If Count had gotten to his destination, the assistance of those benefactors whose existence Target had betrayed meant he would soon possess Caladhbolg, whatever the sword truly was¡­ and then he would go hunting for game upon which to test out his toy.

    When he did, Sebastio meant to see his one-time friend brought to heel. Death was something he¡¯d avoid inflicting if circumstances permitted, yet the prospect stirred far weaker objections in his soul than he might have felt a scant year past.

    The haggard face of a young man named Louis came to mind, and Sebastio felt a part of his spirit ossify.

 A Dreaded Dark

    ¡°A system incorporating both one or more d?mon clusters and one or more folding-capable simplex suites is capable of accomplishing any formally definable task which that system can parse, provided that the system receives appropriate direction.¡±

    -The Metasymbolism Equivalence System Hypothesis

    Niall Bennosuke, better known as The Nightmare Count, slid a single finger up and down the surface of the artifact. He felt a thrill run his extremities¡¯ lengths as he considered the fruition of his sacrifices, and the efforts of his - benefactors? Allies? He was not entirely sure of what to call them. Whatever that thing naming herself Ms. Nightjar was, though, she and hers had given him the keys. The keys to carefully bypass a series of privations worthy of Sisyphus over the course of days. The keys to worm his way closer and closer to the priceless oddment without instant annihilation.

    The sordid and sticky air of the sunny countryside stuck to his shoulder-length greasy black hair as much as it stuck to his simple greasy black clothing. A placid breeze belied the effort he had gone through to collect his present quarry. Much of the kilometer-square field in which he stood was thoroughly covered with the remains of¡­ unfriendly greeters. Some of these, mechanisms of a dissuasive nature, were almost trivial to bypass or disarm, with the knowledge bestowed on him. Others were things he¡¯d neither received warning to expect nor even thought might exist.

    A somewhat obviously placed n-minus-one collapse mine had revealed itself, to his morbid tremulous fascination, as an extremely exotic causality sabotage of some kind - one which could apparently reach across facetary boundaries. That could have been enough to draw the attention of absolutely anything, and especially that of those entities opposed by his benefactors. A nasty chill.

    There had been the shining automata that resembled playful treble-eyed infants, whose musical wails sent hyper-entropic ripples through their immediate vicinity. Soil and vegetable and insects and air converted to perfectly diffused particles, the particles robbed of their motive, utter heat death writ small. He¡¯d needed to regrow body parts on several occasions after making their acquaintance. A couple of magical workings were sufficient to deal with each, though each case was unique.

    Of course, his greatest dread remained reserved for those things which could not even be described in the limits of his imagination, so transient and alien were their forms and wonts. Those he avoided.

    Close behind him stood a pair of skitchers, long sweeping billhooks frozen within a handspan of beheading their prey. Both massive entities wore helmets the size of prize pumpkins, polished and reflective as mirrors. The miniscule wave-shaped slits provided a view of what one of ¨²da¡¯s oldest poets of note had described in his writing as ¡°the eyes which count the dead.¡± A frighteningly intelligent awareness stood present in each gaze, but it was clear that this was an intelligence that knew no compromise. Creatures that were not simply capable of undergoing revivification after their deaths - they had a certain degree of strong immortality¡­ much like the beings of Old without whose help he would never have gotten this far.

    Die they could not, but they could be broken badly for a time.

    ¡°Caladhbolg¡­ sunder,¡± Count whispered. He raised his hand, a gleaming glass-smooth edge catching and throwing the wan light, and the skitcher nearest him suddenly bent double. A report like gunfire rang out, a faint clinking of glass on metal; the skitcher¡¯s simple all-covering mask was cleft and fell in fragments. Under the mask lay a face not quite zoomorphic nor precisely abstract. A chitinous layer which covered most of the head was fractured and bent like the heart of a rebuffed romantic, tiny feathered antennae things just above piercing green cubes made of solidified relentlessness.

    ¡°T?L?E ATSETH MAGOQ¨¹LMA, LETTT,¡± it threatened. Though its weapon was forged from that miraculous material known colloquially as Ichabod¡¯s Alloy, and thus could not be constrained by his talents directly, Count had immobilized the guards themselves with a shrouding of his tenebrous force. If his grip on the skitcher¡¯s limbs should falter, though, there wouldn¡¯t be enough of him left to fill a dinner plate when the creature was through with his corpse.

    His prize glittered. Caladhbolg, a relic wrought so very, very many years past and laid to rest on this facet under hideously thorough guard. It could have had some correlation to that object of Earth Standard myth called Excalibur, but that couldn¡¯t be proven either way. It was a little like the objects that many Olds were gifted with, becoming a part of their legacies through the endless march of time. The properties attributed to the subject of such tales would thus be allegorical or exaggerated, but even so¡­ The glinting ruby colored eyes of the chimera basket hilt seemed to move, watching him.

    Count pointed the weapon at the masked skitcher, and it immediately answered with a tremendous tangible force exerted outward, pressure weighing on his eardrums as if a scramjet had passed him by. The creature¡¯s weapon arm was sliced off instantaneously and, though the billhook was unmarked, its clawlike blade took off toward the distant French hills, skinning the air on the journey. Lacerations grew out of off-blue flesh where a ribcage would normally sit, striping the skitcher¡¯s torso a muddy gory beige.

    ¡°Beautiful,¡± he murmured, watching. It would serve as a marvelous tool for chaos, even more so than the rodents he¡¯d released in a great many major urban centers. He didn¡¯t even have to fold himself from place to place to distribute them; he needed only a little spot of darkness to swallow a rat, then it would walk from a shadow elsewhere, running free and careless and virulent. Nevertheless, he¡¯d spent much time seeding the land with his agents of death, which even now skittered on hairless paws between streets and over corpses in the country of France, the surrounding nations, and beyond.

    Very few things were as strangely beautiful as a rat.

    He¡¯d carefully meted out effort across a pair of fronts during his stay in not-quite-Earth-Standard. First, he was chipping away at the blade¡¯s cradle in tiny fits and spurts in the morn, then rousing the infectious rabble in Paris-town in the eve, set on fire thanks to his rodentine helpers¡¯ influence. Two things he sought to command: the boiling kettle of national politics that had already started to overflow, courtesy of the poisonous blood between those two regents - Edward and Philip were like himself and his once fellow Rhaagmini that way - and this pearl beyond price. He considered how much the world would soon resemble the pitiful undying creature that huddled by his feet, shattered and seeking respite of any form by any means, no matter how temporary.

    Twisting on a heel, he shoved the hand holding Caladhbolg into a minor abyss that rent the air near his elbow, removing it after a moment to examine the faint, murky ribbons that danced between hand and weapon. Chance had been unkind to him in the past. If loading the dice included physically using the darkness for binding his new advantage to his person, so be it. He would have started whistling as he stalked away from the place, had he not passed by a thing - some crystalline and evidently inoffensive construct - whose supremely complex phalanges and nodules, from his vantage, uncommonly resembled the face of that wretch, that peg, that cog in the machine known as Artaxerxes.

    Suddenly a red wash overtook him.

    He remembered their first meeting in the halls at the Gursral lodgings. Count had known only ambivalence toward the whelp.

    He remembered the time Artaxerxes had spread wide his own story on the beautiful act of taking life. How it had intrigued. How it had hinted.

    He remembered the fellowship he¡¯d begun to feel over the months, seeing another who enjoyed the sweetness of delivering pain unto another.

    He remembered the shaking betrayal when the whelp had stated that he¡¯d garnered enjoyment¡­ but found the enjoyment sorrowful.

    He remembered the final insult, when Artaxerxes had stood between him and Artaxerxes¡¯s friend Kallahassee. When Count had slandered the man¡¯s wife to his face in her absence. When he¡¯d waited for Kallahassee Bartimaeus¡¯s patience to snap, and strike him, so that he might in turn snuff out the man¡¯s flame.

    He remembered Artaxerxes begging Kallahassee to take pity on him.

    PITY.

    The next thing he knew, his nails were digging crescents out of his free palm, and he stood nowhere near the weapon¡¯s resting place. Instead, he stood at a ligament of grass joining Caladhbolg¡¯s house and a swath of adjacent untamed field.

    He looked around, hoping to see¡­ something. Something worth the depositing of his fresh wroth. He turned to see the place he¡¯d pilfered, and felt a strange satisfaction at the same sight which had greeted him at the outset of his little venture: a perfectly normal patch of countryside.

    The glamor-like borders of the hiding place didn¡¯t betray their contents from the outside world. Indeed, even gaining admittance had required several tricks, and a bauble from his backers. Now? He felt fairly confident nothing else good would ever again come of the compressed region.

    Somehow, the idea that he¡¯d left nothing behind worth taking pressed his ire down, and Count felt a weight lift as he exhaled a tiny sliver of his bitterness onto the wind. Then he was moving again, shouldering his way through the air and headed for his destiny.

    There was a skip in his step as he turned over a hand like he was tipping a glass full of water. A well of ink spilled from his sleeve, singeing the ground wherever it touched, smoking, curling, following him like a second shadow. A hearty belly laugh escaped his lips as he lifted the ninety-centimeter-long trophy overhead and flung it forward. The flash of metal shod the air in a smooth arc of silver, boomeranging back to its point of origin as pitchlike cords dragged the blade once again to his hand. He struck out up hill and down moor to Paris-town, lost to vagrant and leprous thoughts.

    The journey was longer than he expected, thanks to the recent rains. By now the fruits of his patience were ripe, and a duplicate of himself strode in lockstep by his side, first faintly similar, then shoddy, rough, plain, exquisite, and finally identical. Not even he could have said for sure, looking at the doppelganger, if it was a reflection or a true representation of his form without the strange reversed reversal of seeing oneself in a portrait. Meanwhile, the soles of his heavy boots steamed against the grass as it begrudgingly gave way to a well traveled but completely empty road, his corpulent skin almost moon-white. ¡°Go and await,¡± he ordered the body double, ¡°and perform as I instruct you.¡± The silent figure crossed its arms as it sank into the paving stones, descending unseen stairs into the earth''s womb.

    The Nightmare began the slow climb up the last rise to the border of the town, eluding detection almost unintentionally. Of course, no one would think of watching the top of the city¡¯s newest defensive wall for agile infiltrators bounding straight up and over the barrier. Rejoining him in the back of a boarded-up ash filled house that stank of putrefaction and rat feces, the clone was provided further guidelines for execution. He amused himself in the meanwhile, tenderly prying the organs from the chest cavity of a resident cadaver which lay on an exhausted and stained mattress.

    Less than an hour later, Count entered the square in front of Our Lady wearing a darkness-borne disguise, while members of the Parisian populace looked on, despondence turning to revulsion at the sight of him.

    As he trudged heavily over the paved street, those Parisians saw only a tall, spindly abomination, bulbous and faintly lustrous soot-brown features, gummed and red eyes, a rubbery beaklike snout, and two grasping clawed stick insects for arms, walking out of the shadows.

    To folk of extrafacetary society, his visage was that of the creature known as the skin eater. If the disguise were dispersed, it would be apparent that the engorged carpals on one arm were quite artificial, hiding a large blade under their false image. Beneath his guise Count swept his arm sideways in the manner of a politician drawing his audience into his vision as his costumed hand stretched outward in an elastic gutting swipe. Though Caladhbolg remained firmly within his grasp, a horizontal phantom edge bisected multiple onlookers cleanly at the waist. Euphoric.

    Improbable appearance with impossible lethality summed to a heady cocktail of panic and unreason. The watchers flew, and with the speed of those whose supposed consignment to death shatters in the face of the real beast. There was one small group of armor-clad participants with little interest in remaining bystanders, sternly raising and loosing arrows. He hardly needed to exert himself on their account. Tendrils of darkness caught and redirected the projectiles idly.

    In return Count¡¯s disguise let out an excited squealing bellow, and the odious thing fell on them like twitching floppy lightning. He slew the men with vicious grace, taking special pleasure in the way Caladhbolg¡¯s physical contact alone could kill without maiming. They might have only seen ¡°his¡± long digits touching them as they died, but if anything that only made their terror the greater. His glamor¡¯s outer layer reproduced the distinctive chilling screech of a bull skin eater.

    At the cue, his doppelganger emerged from the shadowy alleyway behind him, hefting an illusory replica of the terrible blade. His mimic struck his back with the flat and goaded a disgruntled ribbit from the skin eater''s larynx as he whirled and savaged the air. Without any hesitation the clone reentered striking distance and seemed to impale Count¡¯s disguise through the gut. The clone narrowly avoided a set of hungry talons in the act of withdrawing the weapon. If one had suddenly stumbled upon the square, the prime attraction would have been a pair of weaving, pirouetting marionettes aiming for each other¡¯s strings, one like the natural child of an ape and a vulture, its counterpart occasionally panting from exertion as his loose attire flowed in his wake.

    A final failed swipe, and the human combatant won victory: a two-fisted riposte from four o¡¯clock to ten o¡¯clock, and the skin eater seemed to burst into obfuscating vampiric dust. It was obtusely easy sleight-of-hand for the real Niall Bennosuke to banish his clone and his guise both, emerging from the dust cloud to appear the victor. Bathing in sweat below the noon sun, Count turned to the slowly gathering crowd, wreathed in statuesque terror and bewilderment.

    ¡°We are asked to set aside everything - everything, and no mistake - for those English dogs who call us their fellow denizens of Europe, and what do we get? Witchcraft and unholy abominations sent to blight us?¡±This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

    His French was staggered and limping but entirely functional. Tearful mourning wails intersected with his verbal gauntlet, citizens draping themselves over the bodies of those who a mere thought before had been filled with life.

    ¡°How many loved ones have we lost to the curse that Edward the imposter gifted us?¡±

    He brandished his weapon high.

    To his pleasure he witnessed some small flickers of recognition scattered about the knot of witnesses. That was good, very good - his efforts to develop a persona of a valiant with the people¡¯s interests at heart had finally caught hold and laid down roots. He gave a whistling sigh.

    ¡°My friends, I am Jean Millau, a nobody. I am nothing thanks to that fool of a usurper. Those who traffic with the powers of death find death as their reward,¡± he continued, the point of the sword swinging regally to a line of coffins resting in melancholy stasis in the leeward side of a tavern, ¡°but not their own. The death of innocent and defenseless. But I for an I say that this mockery of justice must end. Who among you disagrees?¡±

    ¡°I do,¡± exclaimed a voice that set the Nightmare''s teeth to gnashing, borne of fury and surprise.

    No.

    None other than Sebastio Artaxerxes was less than a stone¡¯s throw distant.

    Count tilted his head back to get a glimpse of the figure which stood clasped in the bosom of the restive befuddled crowd, identifiable immediately by his dark, almost off-green complexion, and the blue eyes in their settings of rounded hard flesh.

    ¡°And who, exactly, are you? One of the crown''s supporters?¡±

    ¡°I am nothing like the people gathered here, or over the sea, or anywhere on this earth. And neither are you, Count.¡±

    He suddenly could see where this was going. Prodigious toil to bring the right mix of chaos and control to this facet, to deliver it to his will, wasted. He began to argue with as much reason and bias as he could.

    ¡°Rest assured that I seek only the truth, boy, nothing like the English will tell-¡±

    ¡°And I tell you the truth, you¡¯ll not like the tales I have to spin.¡±

    The Cambrian, now in a tiny growing pocket as the Parisians about him turned to this new speaker, glanced meaningfully at Caladhbolg, then smiled.

    ¡°You might even keep the people convinced of your benevolence by the time I¡¯m done.¡±

    Before Niall could so much as sigh in protest, the son of misery retreated from the crowd, and was gone around the corner of Our Lady.

    Count knew bait when he saw a trap being laid, and this was hardly the picture of subtlety. He held in his grasp the answer to any conceivable danger - at least to his person, as far as Artaxerxes could possibly manage.

    And, on the other side of that same coin, he all too easily remembered the introduction he¡¯d had to that creature called Ms. Nightjar.

    Whatever she truly was, she and her associates were content to collaborate with his aims. But the provision, as she¡¯d said, was to ¡°make sure you impress on those poor souls how frightening the gem can be, and that we just want to be able to help them, dearie.¡± Then she¡¯d smiled, and the perfect honest happiness in that smile made him smile back so hard his cheeks almost tore open.

    The crone¡¯s bent head had just barely risen above Count¡¯s navel as she walked with him around¡­ that place. Her soft drawling put him in mind of what many people described when they spoke of grandmothers, or sometimes aunts. Her wizened face carried a smile that had been born sometime long before any of Count¡¯s known ancestors.

    When he caught sight of the archaic human-style chair she wore strapped to her back, and how the chair¡¯s feet narrowed to heavily stained thin posts, he knew an unprecedented unctuous fear. Count had instilled morbid terror in others many times; to feel it himself was nearly life-changing.

    He also knew that his benefactors would look upon failure to meet their terms with the highest displeasure. The kindly woman who¡¯d taught him many mysteries of the universe, and explained how he was to deface the peace of his specified facet, and instructed him on obtaining a nearly unparalleled implement of mass destruction, was the single most dangerous entity he¡¯d ever met. Every moment he¡¯d spent with her tickled the need to fall to the ground on his belly, his chin resting on his palms as he gave her his full attention.

    If he had such incentive to avoid unnecessary complications in his rabble-rousing, there was a great deal of reason to leave off and simply ignore what Sebastio represented in this instance. And yet, the whelp must realize the shape of Count¡¯s aims, if not the substance. Leaving off would provide no opportunity for his mask to slip and show his more indulgent side, but Artaxerxes had a few talents, and high among them was shoving wrenches into the works. Eventually he would need to be destroyed.

    Although his itching frustration urged him to spit two or three of the crowd on spines of darkness, or to peel off their fingernails and feed them to their owners, or even just break bones until the screaming stopped, the man who tried to actually think of himself as a displaced noble named Jean Millau shook his head. His face was grave as he addressed the gathering again.

    ¡°There departs another man broken by the squabbling of rulers. Mayhaps I can help put him to rest. Too much pain has been birthed today to allow more to fester.¡±

    His eyes streamed a moment, then he wiped his thin tears away.

    ¡°Bury those you must, and cherish the rest, Paris, and pray the kings of nations see the sense in seeking peace during these dark and cursed times.¡±

    As though scolded by a furious parent his shoulders slumped, holding Caladhbolg somewhat away from his body, and he affected a small limp as he pursued Artaxerxes at some distance, slipping over the crowd like a raindrop down the leaves of a shrub.

    Curling around the bend of Our Lady, he took in the expanse of the river which broke north around the small isle supporting the cathedral¡¯s majesty. Halfway across the thin yet hardy bridge connecting the two sides ran a tiny figure sprinting at a pace to outstrip any predator species native to the planet. Count allowed himself a grain of grudging admiration; he¡¯d never really seen the whelp run before.

    Did the peg of a man actually know about the ultimatum the Olds had offered to Count? Was this overt demonstration of superhuman capability some kind of ploy to construct an alternate narrative to that presented by the Nightmare? He felt a moment of unease.

    After gauging his options, Count decided to cut the chase short. Even at his ludicrous speed, all Count needed to do was fold ahead into the course of his intended path, and his months of preparation had taught him the streets of the surrounding cities and towns all too well. To ensure the sanctity of his Millau persona, though, he¡¯d need a disguise, regardless of how many or how few witnesses stood about. He ducked into the shade of Our Lady¡¯s north face, a cool embrace of darkness swaddled his form completely, and his skin eater glamor returned into being. Then he accessed the folding functions of his cerv-mesh, and designated the appropriate codomain: a square into which the bridge his foe now crossed deposited its travelers.

    The skin eater vanished, its atoms exchanged with those of its destination volume. His orientation changed to face the oncoming spear of the bridge some hundred meters from where it met the shore, and beneath his false shell Count sneered.

    Artaxerxes saw his instantiation and skidded to a halt over the space of some twenty five of those meters, heavy footwear skipping over the cobblestones like a wave-thrown rock. The whelp¡¯s reflexes kept him from tumbling, but the consternation on his face was priceless enough that Count didn¡¯t mind the lack of bleeding skinned stripes over its length. In all, more than Artaxerxes¡¯s face would be utterly unrecognizable as human tissue shortly enough.

    Then the peg of a man¡¯s bearded lips drew back in a grimace.

    Count¡¯s bestial image bent back to howl its fury at the bloated sun just as his disguised form intercepted in quick succession - among other things - six bullets of varying materials and velocities, a roiling magus-fire projectile, a flashbang cell detonated directly between his feet, a wicked axe with destabilizer construct teeth, and multiple d?mon clusters intent on disassembling him.

    On instinct he lashed out, his own d?mon cluster making an effort to repulse the other hazes of machine and function. He swung Caladhbolg to his right, scoring a gash up the cobblestone ground, into the midsection of a man with numerous knives, through the walls and roof of a house about ten meters away, and finishing after dividing two more of his attackers who crouched above the house¡¯s nominal protection. One of these two, both of whom were elves, separated barely higher than the groin, and his black-clothed halves tumbled to the ground in dark sleeves of gore. The other¡¯s corpse might have remained where it fell, save that the supernatural cut Count had inflicted caused roughly the upper third of the building to collapse on itself as it lost structural integrity. A billow of dust and screams washed over the square; those few people walking the broken-stoned street broke and fled in terror.

    Another swing, this time in the opposite direction. The cut went far off its mark; the Nightmare was in far less danger of dying from his injuries than most living beings - for that matter, only one of the fired shots, along with the electromagnetic radiation burst from the flashbang and the hurled axe¡¯s teeth, had potential to do him grievous ill. But those injuries still produced a moment of shock in spite of his pain tolerance, and so his failure to inflict harm proved spectacular. One foot belonging to a creature of indeterminate taxon was shaved off at the ankle, and a great deal of some whorehouse became so much driftwood when Caladhbolg¡¯s ruinous nature staved in its nearest side, rather than slicing it apart.

    Like a real skin eater, the pain brewed up an objectless fury. The sight of so much of the world completely untouched by blood or excreta enraged him further. Then, in his mind¡¯s eye, an image bubbled up even clearer than the procession of hauntingly stupid faces he¡¯d had to endure over the past endless days. It came clearer than the women trying to justify to him their sale of their children in exchange for parched fruits and bread more fungus than grain, as if he could or would vindicate them. It came clearer than the first and only time he¡¯d seen a French gendarmerie contingent, passing the overflowing Hospice Comtesse, going from nowhere to nowhere and pitying the world they occupied in the process. It came clearer than the fool of a priest who even now risked illness at the foot of Our Lady as he bathed in the human excrement coming to him for something, anything, everything.

    It was the face of that odious Kallahassee, and as he held her his dying harlot Magdod, asking him to forgive Niall Bennosuke even as Count¡¯s darkness caused her to slough away in chunks. The face of a true madman. The face of an angel, horrible and meant to resemble a human¡¯s only sparingly even at a distance. A small growl began swimming up his throat.

    If she had been re-lifed right then, Count would have ripped Magdod in half with his bare hands and urinated on her just to see Kallahassee distraught again, and twice so for Sebastio Artexerxes.

    Count¡¯s left leg buckled, and in his surprise he twisted into an unskilled lunge. A long stone¡¯s throw away, some bald French pedestrian likely saw the skin eater¡¯s illusory limb stretch impossibly. An instant later, Caladhbolg defied the space between them and pierced through the man, the wall of the building behind him, and whatever the structure contained. Drawing the blade back, the single cogent raindrop in Count¡¯s ocean of rage observed the strange trick of perspective with the oversized hole. If he¡¯d stabbed a melon from an arm¡¯s length and looked through the perforation, the borders of the wound in the fruit and the wound in the man would have matched perfectly despite their difference in proximity.

    Crouching lower on his unsteady left knee, he swung his weapon at a feminine figure aiming some kind of thaumaturgic channel his way, just as it loosed a compound freezerburn. The cold magic¡¯s Hiek machine became nonfunctional as his chop parted it and sliced into the woman¡¯s side. Her whole right leg came off, as did much of her left, and she fell with a rising wail. A cut across the neck silenced her and a huge line carved itself into the house behind her slackening spurting stump.

    Somehow, as he whirled about to slake his bloodthirst, the Nightmare felt his cheeks rearing up his face. If he didn¡¯t know better, he might even have called himself¡­ happy.

    Abruptly, Count detected the advance of the man who¡¯d once called him friend¡­ on foot, no less. Clearly the band of brigands wanted to avoid shooting each other in the back, what with their approach from wildly different angles. Artaxerxes ran tilted steeply forward to offset air resistance, that staff he carried extending to fit his body length.

    A buzzing crackle warned that the son of misery was using his gift of lightning, not only to coax his legs to greater speed than most mortals could survive, but also to convince his weapon to change form. He¡¯d demonstrated the very trick when they¡¯d first met in that tiny Gursral apartment so long ago; even then, Count had decided it was a novelty, if a dangerous one.

    Count carefully interposed his blade. Even with the cold bite of the wounds his darkness would be incapable of soothing, at least until he could mitigate their luminance poisoning, he calculated distance and speed. The whelp moved fast enough to worry him, and his self-aggrandisement grew and then shrank. He should not have let his priorities shift from an individual whose familiarity gave him the knowledge to truly break the Nightmare.

    The separation of the two foes shrank to zero, and Count¡¯s speed adequately placed Caladhbolg as a deterrent. Unfortunately, one downside of his skin eater appearance was that the whelp did not realize the illusion of a lanky bulbous limb extended into his advance hid a vicious and lethal remise. Artaxerxes outthrust his own right arm an instant before impact, his metal staff supported at its very tip in his palm. Caladhbolg¡¯s phantom edge sawed through a small portion of the right knuckles of the son of misery just as its point came into contact with the staff¡¯s end, and the sword peeled into the staff lengthwise. The whelp¡¯s momentum pushed the staff down the waiting edge like a mouse onto barbed wire.

    In an instant, Sebastio cleft his own weapon in two, careened into Count¡¯s zone of control, and skewered his arm on the blade through the palm and nearly to the elbow.

    Count had felt pain before, but when his foe contacted Caladhbolg¡¯s surface, the juddering echoes of agony forking through the sword and into his whole being suffocated him, rendering him unable to cry out. He did not even twitch as he held onto the prize he¡¯d won through trickery and cunning, because he knew subconsciously that letting go would be a terrible mistake. And yet, the accelerated thoughts darting between the fingers of electrical discharge in his brain prophesied that to maintain his grip would mean his own interruption. But he needed it! Needed it so badly!

    A gravelly voice of night and bloody metal seemed to speak in his soul: regret is for the living, and better than the lot of the dead.

    The bells of Our Lady tolled the birth of a new hour mere heartbeats after he dispelled the binding that snugged Caladhbolg to his grip. He sank to his knees, smoking and afire in several places, action totally denied to him by resounding pain as he witnessed Artaxerxes keel back, his dark skin flickering and snapping where sparks leapt between beads of sweat. The peg of a man stared at the sword growing from his palm in a shower of blood, panting from some slurry of exertion and fear. His blue eyes darted from the blade¡¯s handle to Count, to the tiny crimson puddle swelling the dirt between the cobblestones, then back to the glinting coin of sunlight neatly reflecting onto his maximally dilated left pupil from the weapon¡¯s flat.

    Then he began screaming.

    Count had observed far too much pain over his long life to find any exclamation of suffering genuinely surprising. In this instance, though, he recognized an uncommonly potent double portion of horror mixed in with the sensual torment. He backed away on his haunches quickly, slapping at the flames beginning to extend their loving caresses down his shirt and up his hair.

    The splintering of wood and screams of Paris natives still deafened him as he reached out with his gift, crushing the d?mon clusters doing battle with his own using opaque sheets of inky night. Trillions of pseudomachine microcognizances were snuffed out, their shared energy dispersed into waste heat as they, and a good portion of his own cluster, met destruction. Immediately the reserve in his cerv-mesh began cranking out replacements, as did those belonging to the owners of the other affected clusters. He didn¡¯t take notice of when his appearance warped and ran off his person like water, returning his human likeness.

    He was about to call upon several stored magical weapons he¡¯d been saving for emergencies when there was a chime from the whelp¡¯s direction, and then Artaxerxes¡¯s right arm began melting from nails to wrist.

    There was an orange light and the smell-taste of driftwood soaked in the sea since the beginning of time.

    Eight thousand two hundred and eight Parisians muttered and prayed and crossed themselves in trepidation as they saw the glow from as far as the horizon, and heard the abject wail of ¡°GET IT OUT OF ME!!¡± from Sebastio Artaxerxes.

 Interlude Amidst Abstraction

    In a context which provides no reason or mechanism to measure many aspects of physics thought of as ¡°traditional¡± by a large proportion of homo sapiens - no basis or allowance for magical influence, or time, or matter, or self-consistent mathematical expressions, or nearly anything else which one might describe as a phenomenon - three entities exist or existed or will exist. Should one consult them, they would reveal that their names are the Asynchronous Swan, the Stalwart Mantis, and the Oracular Fox. They are the Archaea.

    They, as beings of Socratic form rather than rude implementation, concern themselves not with prestige, or power, or worldly ambition. They curb reality into its proper shape based, instead, on guidance. The nature of said guidance sometimes takes its shape from naught but principle. That principle usually orients itself toward one goal: keeping the mad children of the gem from self-inflicted extinguishment, by upholding the sovereignty of natural law.

    One of these laws is being stressed.

    The Fox speaks.

    ¡°There is an anomaly concerning one of the mortal minds¡¯ consequence-oriented behaviors.¡±The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

    The Mantis ponders.

    ¡°This anomaly you speak of does not result in alteration in the equilibrium of existence. How curious.¡±

    This last is a word that appears with exceptional rarity in the speech of the beings. Even more unusual is the Swan¡¯s reply: a question.

    ¡°Shall there be intervention?¡±

    If there shall, the personae follow a simple pattern. The Fox determines the crucial and non-crucial interstices which knit together the malady in need of curing. The Mantis charts a course of action to pursue. The Swan executes. It is not a corporate decision. It is not a dictate. It is not subject to approval by most of the more messily concrete deities whose influences direct much of the gem¡¯s structure. It simply is.

    The entities converse and find, according to expectation, themselves in agreement. But their agreement represents a consensus against their own standard of behavior. They elect to permit the protracted survival of a scenario where, in principle, the macroscopic relative or even absolute causality of existence might be usurped in its entirety.

    On several arbitrary spurs of the moment throughout or outside of the gem, a plethora of creatures strongly chained to the et cetera principles of their localized strictures of reality shuddered involuntarily. One of these who went by the name of the Maker muttered under his breath that he felt ¡°a Swan walk over my grave.¡±

 A Dreaded Composite

    ¡°There he goes, GedGetKroDra the Sword Hand! See his sword! See his hand! See how the two are one! Touch his hand, lose your own.¡±

    -Opening of many assassin children¡¯s stories about GedGetKroDra, and his collection of bladed prostheses

    Sebastio felt the writhing beneath his skin, and knew the primal nauseating revulsion of infestation experienced by sentiences from all walks of life. The way the bones and muscle and vessels just dissolved like snow in water before his disbelieving eyes only compounded the despair. Beneath the flesh, he saw a molten orange light spreading veins of marbled foundational matter up his arm, his shoulder. He felt the dermis on the side of his neck disturbed by something beneath, and the revulsion transmuted to a horror that needed no words for substance. A corona of orange blotted out the world.

    He screamed again, and far louder, when a voice resounded in his mind. Compared to the sensation of cerv-mesh transmission, it was lesser, and greater, and different, and the same. At least, observed the semi-hermetic part of his mind that lived in his overclocking hardware, it could be considered a dispersal of data that had the hardness and sensory fidelity of audial input, instead of the and-now-you-know instant acquisition of cerv-mesh communication. The feeling was the closest he¡¯d ever known to having a second dissociated personality (digital or otherwise) living in his skull.

    <I am not resident in your physiology. I am processing your biological components to instantiate an adapter for my transcendence functions. It is fortunate that your¡­ lodestaff, you call it? That your apparatus¡¯s useful materials can be co-opted.>

    Sebastio could not even shriek in reply, so great was the extremity of his desire to be anything, anytime, anywhere else.

    <Your distaste is understandable. However, note that the effort expended on altering your corporeal aspect is done in the name of keeping you alive. Were I to halt the process, your interruption would be an eventual consequence.>

    Sebastio considered that prospect long and hard, not fully convinced that life with a synthetic parasite sword-

    <I am not the blade. I merely coincide with its form along the axes of reference inherent to its arbitrary definitions of state. However, it also serves as a convenient designation, so such suffices.>

    -a crazy synthetic parasite sword, which had just eaten his arm, was better than the alternative.

    The Cambrian looked down the double-fullered metal that used to be his radius and ulna until it capped off with a basket hilt. The eye decorations were an obscenely bright red, the kind that suggested a visible hue even for those creatures whose light-perception organs captured lower wavelengths completely disparate to natural human senses. These gemstone lookalikes gleamed at him, and Sebastio recalled a snippet of Earth Standard poet-philosophy: ¡°When you gaze into the void, the void gazes back.¡±

    <Do you wish to make war?> The voice of Caladhbolg washed over him again in convergent ripples, centered around his id and the hilt which he still thought of as his right hand.

    Sebastio had caught onto the psionic traits of his new and uninvited companion by this point. He answered question with mental question.

    Why am I not dead?

    The sword entity was nearly testy. <I intend to preserve you. I make you over into a vehicle which shall survive my intrusion, not into a corpse.>

    But I was impaled by an object that ripped several buildings apart, and¡­ killed multiple people, without anything like physical contact. If my logic is sound, and that seems too likely, I ought to be a pile of slumped meat.

    The blade managed, somehow, to express a collection of lessons or principles or codes in a pseudo-visual presentation that called hieroglyphics to mind. Images which would have been right at home in a standard Not-Fire tarot deck spun rapidly past like a zoetrope. Thereby he gathered that, when Count had surrendered his hold on the weapon, he had also annulled his ownership, and it had passed to Sebastio upon Caladhbolg tasting its new wielder¡¯s blood. His ¡°claim¡± to the blade did not negate its woeful properties, however. Now that it had dealt his physical form a corporeal wound, the weapon¡¯s destructive inclinations meant he would perish instantly if it were ever totally removed from contact with his person, wielder or not.

    <My broad directives include the protection of my possessor. It transpires that improving on your physical makeup is important to this end - the forces I can bring to bear will otherwise ruin organs and pulverize bones. To that end your skeletal structure is now categorically reinforced, and your tissues have been either rendered redundant or annexed with protective measures. This would be a greater challenge normally, but again your staff weapon¡¯s remains make for excellent foundation material. Just as importantly, equipping you with knowledge of my mutator and reflection methods shall prove advantageous. Consider this primer, and employ it where suitable.>

    Another influx of knowledge. Sebastio abruptly gleaned many of the terrible and awesome things which his new arm could do. Like the sharing of a sensory, he gathered a great deal of subjective information, similar to getting the knack of how to hold one¡¯s lips just right for whistling instead of an awkward salivary exhale. Unlike a sensory, the comprehension sort of¡­ grew into place inside his brain, rather than snapping to a relatable but divorced perspective for the ends of teaching and instruction. It represented a familiarity on par with being good at throwing a ball, but not quite boasting the aim and self-mastery to unerringly land a hit on every shot.

    <If you wish to make war, then do not fight - despoil.>

    Two seconds after his body unhappily accommodated its new guest, Sebastio¡¯s gaze refocused on his old foe. When Count noticed he¡¯d drawn the Cambrian¡¯s attention, a small noisome gasp leaked from the dark man. The greasy black color of the Nightmare Count¡¯s trousers and tunic began to ascend from the cobblestones, several small conflagrations on his body dying quickly, and started to extend the distance from the man now in possession of Caladhbolg.

    With an undignified yelp at a curling movement beneath the skin, Sebastio pointed using the head-hilt of the integrated weapon. The mythical head¡¯s tongue handle untwisted, rolled into a cylinder, and extended in the blink of an eye. There was a psychosomatic event like the squeeze of a trigger. A flawless solid sphere of pure photons, accreted by a variation of the strong nuclear force, punched out of the new barrel, through Count¡¯s thigh, and fifty seven meters down into the Paris street at a steep angle before dispersing into singular free-floating loose particles.

    The Nightmare roared in pain. Sebastio knew he could not simply heal the fist-size wound as with most physical injuries. An application of his d?mon cluster would speed the recovery life cycle, but a coherent light projectile meant the man¡¯s powers over darkness couldn¡¯t just close over the gap and replace the lost portion of his body arbitrarily.

    In a flash Sebastio collected a sense of exactly what and how he¡¯d done what he¡¯d accomplished. A little family tree of the traits and oddities bestowed by his freshly introduced transfinite tool glimmered in his mind¡¯s eye, showing what kinds of interesting capabilities he might utilize to better visit ruination on the world. Twenty-four-quark munitions, generalized waveform lensing, at-will manipulation of the supermatter composing Caladbolg¡¯s sword. Legions of additional lessons awaited his experimentation to expound further - every one of which had been founded on the perpetuation of violence.

    Ye gods.

    When goosebumps unrolled down his spine, he tried to push back on the subconscious trickle of endorphins, to deny a fact which hurt on a physical level: thinking about the pain he could inflict effortlessly felt¡­ good. It was a setting that bore all too much resemblance to a time where a younger man had just discovered the potential of his electrical manipulations. A time where his actions arguably saved the life of the young battered woman who would go on to become his best friend¡¯s wife. A time when Sebastio learned what it actually meant to kill.

    In an instant Count jolted him from his introspection. The man had extracted Christopher¡¯s axe from from his hip, its destabilizer construct teeth sinking into cobblestone after it dropped from its victim¡¯s grasp. He imperiously speared the air in the direction of one of the members of the scouting party climbing gingerly from the wreckage that had been the Great Mountain, a semiartificial of unknown specification, and a serpentine bleak ribbon uncoiled from the man¡¯s hand. It careened madly through the intervening space, and Sebastio made a swipe with his not-hand before it crossed the median to the semiartificial, who chirruped in distress while drawing a pistol and a thaumaturgic channel - probably a wand. The dark stripe abruptly changed course, pulled toward Sebastio like a pile of magnetized filings, along with gouts of street dust and miscellaneous debris and a few wooden baskets and crates.

    The creature-missile-thing slid into his grasp, flailing and displaying stalactite teeth as it tried to fillet him. A squeeze and he did away with the construct, realizing half a second after the fact that he¡¯d employed the sword hilt¡¯s tongue and teeth as a normal human would use fingers. His elbow flexed and brought the chimera head shape closer to his face to see metal bend like articulated joints, despite the evident solidity of the medium. Another rush of inspired knowledge flowed into him. Capabilities for which he had not the mathematical background to entirely comprehend lined up for inspection.

    Meanwhile, Count had folded himself out of immediate danger, leaving uninteresting atoms behind. Sebastio snorted, then his eyes widened as he whipped about to catch his foe just beside the door to a small house, using an unfamiliar magic as he peeled off part of the mace-wielding assassin¡¯s white exoskeleton. The lack of pained cries from the victim, who had dropped his heavy pistol and was immobilized from nothing more than the Nightmare touching the back of a shoulder, made the ordeal that much worse.

    Sebastio himself folded over next to the assassin, or tried to. His cerv-mesh, bewilderingly enough, relocated him half a meter aside from his foe, and so when he swung with his left fist it came up just short of Count¡¯s ribcage.

    What!? How¡­ what¡­ ?

    The failed blow encouraged discretion in the not quite recipient and Count fairly flew back, revealing an agony of carved lines in the assassin¡¯s flesh. The markings were clearly ritualistic and from an arcane discipline Sebastio guessed was founded on the taking or perversion of life. Whatever the rite was intended to do would possibly kill the assassin and probably a number of the other visiting extrafacetary investigators.

    Moments later, an assessment of the incomplete magic trickled into his brain, courtesy of his squatter. A flexible ritual base, R¡¯gaonit genre of thaumaturgy. Based on the size and shape of the outermost marks the effective range of the ritual would extend around sixteen hundred meters in every direction. Based on the primary tokens shaping its function, the effect would be instant and biologically inclined. Based on the accents, it clearly had the trimmings of either some kind of gardening application or a neutron bomb.

    Based on the identity of the ritual¡¯s instigator, he knew what its function would have been.

    Sebastio gritted his teeth as he locked eyes with the Nightmare once more.

    Free from his captor, the assassin leapt away, the relatively low pull of Earth Standard gravity permitting him to clear half the square before he touched down and sprinkled some of his gore on the street.

    <Wielder, your foe persists. The element of decisiveness will assist you in voiding him more than efficacy of tools, unless you specify further voiding of life as an objective or acceptable side effect. Since your favored solution design patterns imply preservation of sentient life as a major directive, I will make a suggestion of one of my functions.>

    The Cambrian thought quickly, then accessed the function. This one was a combat utility, but unlike the function he¡¯d used for lassoing the eel thing at a distance it also incorporated a very strange simplex connection. His mental tutorial on the tool¡¯s use was oddly vague except for specifying that it was excellent for a surprise advantage. The almost-manual in his brain only mentioned that it ¡°used energetic relocation¡± and not exactly how it worked.

    Sebastio felt a glowing halo surround his sword hand hilt, and before Count could so much as blink the supernatural blade flashed pure orange. The halo fractured like a silent midnight upon the first chirp of a cricket. A small window into elsewhere, some elsewhere covered in gleaming yellow brass and slathered with blue sunlight, rent the air apart just above Count¡¯s head. Through the aperture flowed song, and a jumbled mess of inputs for senses the human witnesses could not name. A foot-sized bundle fell through, rebounding off of Count¡¯s face, and then the window closed immediately. Count made a small exclamation of distaste, and shook himself. The object fell earthward and landed unevenly on the stony street. Sebastio felt thought vacating his mind like a ruptured balloon when he saw that it was that anachronistic staple of human civilization¡¯s comedic history known as a rubber chicken.

    Count stared dumbfounded at the thing.

    Sebastio stared at Count.

    Count looked up at Sebastio.

    Sebastio looked down at the rubber chicken.

    The tuning mechanism hidden within the rubber chicken went live, modified the dictates for the immediate vicinity¡¯s applied material interactions, and converted two thirds of Count¡¯s bodily mass-energy to heat and then to nucleus dense matter in a multi-stage definition translation.

    In such a case, the man¡¯s tremendous darkness-aided resilience served as a curse of the highest order. Instinct drove him to sublimate his person into the form of a mist at the ultimate moment, and a cloud the color of smoke from a tire fire rose as his head and shoulders dissolved. No more than halfway through the transmutation of his ribcage, the activation of the weapon caused his black clad legs and midsection to fluoresce and then drop to the ground as a collection of organic-looking metallic tumors. A shriek of pain and rage scythed out from the mist.

    Sebastio watched the small cloud pulsate, looking for all the world like a diseased lung ripped from its owner¡¯s chest, then it whirled and flattened into a disk. The still-alive wretch that was Niall Bennosuke flew its amorphous form abruptly away from its opponent, growing and contracting toward the hills like an accordion made of evil wasps.

    What kind of functions are available for dealing with an adversary like that?

    Sebastio watched the cloud, then tried the same tractor beam trick he¡¯d used before. Count¡¯s miasma slowed, began sliding back toward Paris, but it shimmied and writhed, and a moment or two later it resumed progress, though at a marginally decreased rate.

    <There are tools for voiding creatures of spirit, or the spirit aspects of entities with non-spiritual shells. An enumerable few are these.>

    Sebastio was taught in quick succession about something like a tactical nuke meant to sanitize specters, a spear of holy light that cleft bodies and souls from each other, and a truly disturbing utility which banished its operands and everything in their immediate vicinity to the Purple. The last was unsettling because he couldn¡¯t quite convince the little voice in his head that Count deserved anything more than wandering the living nondeterministic Hell which was home to Beasts and inimical to virtually everything else.

    The Cambrian watched his onetime friend¡¯s retreat, and realized that employing any of those functions would almost certainly kill more innocents. Even the price of Count¡¯s life was too paltry an exchange for that, he thought as he turned to see the hurt and destruction wrought by perhaps two minutes of action with Count and Caladhbolg.

    Any other options in that vein with smaller yield?

    He looked up again to see dark mist streaming over the horizon of the nearest hillside.

    <Additional complementary functions are available. They also have far more complexity than the tools you have brought to bear so far, and ought to be practiced extensively.>

    Interesting but not useful, and further lost life is unacceptable in these circumstances.

    There was an urge to fold after his opponent, to pursue until Count was exhausted. Sebastio had the need to kill, and it rolled up from his right hand into his mind. The all-too familiar conflict: ought one to manufacture suffering?

    Yes, said the back half of his brain.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

    No, said the front.

    He stepped on the primal lust and quashed it, shaking softly.

    No. Not here and now, after the loss already meted out. Not when we¡¯ve been so fortunate to have so few die. Sufficient unto tomorrowyear is the evil today.

    <An inquiry - do you not desire to extinguish the man who even now flees?>

    I want an end to all this pain. Most of that man just got turned into recycling mass. Even if he survives, and losing that much of one¡¯s body makes the prospect uncertain, I doubt he¡¯s going to try anything anytime soon. Speaking of physical inconveniences, for that matter, that folding function a couple minutes ago didn¡¯t put me at the designated location.

    No response came forth, but the weird sense of another tenant shoehorned into his body didn¡¯t tell Sebastio whether that was a deliberate statement or a lack of worthwhile contribution.

    In any case, he continued, I don¡¯t know whether there might be other functions I can¡¯t trust right now or how much you might be related to that sudden change of affairs, and that makes me hesitate to just throw myself into another scrap.

    The son of Iggez Artaxerxes didn¡¯t think this judgment was another pedestrian case of self-sabotage. He was not a person with whom actual killing sat quietly and easily. However, he knew the difference between self-produced emotion and emotion from external sources - sensories and otherwise - and recognized that he felt a skin-thick layer of slaughtering madness which was¡­ not his. It didn¡¯t exactly project onto his psyche, but it was like his mind was a temple and in an ugly roofless shed behind it lived a well-read and polite troll that would happily rip apart any person who dared visit it.

    If he let that troll out this time, and laid Count low¡­ could he stop there and lay down his arms?

    I¡¯ll kill if needed, and I won¡¯t be an animal given to bloodlust.

    He held his arm farther away from his body.

    The entity in his arm did not reply.

    A chittering cough drew his attention - the assassin was busily ripping up a ragged stretch of fabric dangling from the shattered side of the Great Mountain. The intended use of the fabric was as a bandage, he discovered, when the bleeding figure wrapped the cloth around a traumatized torso several times. With a grunt, the assassin stepped over the low splintery edge of the building¡¯s wall and into the shade, his uninjured chitin plates throwing a dull farewell kiss of reflected light.

    Sebastio expanded his awareness and realized the damage in the square was hardly trivial. A number of buildings bore signs of violence, underfull bags of coin ruptured to get their paltry contents. He was glad, he supposed, to see no natives lined up to either worship him or put him to death on account of his evidently supernatural status.

    The plan to ambush Count worked, after a fashion, but the cost had included several more civilians, and a couple of the research-scout team¡¯s members - including Christopher Leffikan. It suddenly hit home, the degree to which Sebastio had been in exactly the same spot roughly half a year prior. The Cambrian didn¡¯t sink to his knees in his lament, but it was a near thing.

    A memory of the slurring chaos of fighting readmitted itself to the mind¡¯s halls. Several d?mon clusters, busily seeking each others¡¯ Hiek machines, solving for the sequence of operations which would nullify their opponents. A chill ran down his back, and he instinctively looked about for mannequins coming to escort the offenders away. Phantom images of mannequin-auditor pairs actually appeared before him for a moment, so great was the ingrained power of suggestion. Then he cradled his head.

    If anything justifies using a d?mon cluster in a combative scenario, this is surely it, he thought to himself. The thought was so comparatively feeble that he immediately abandoned the subject entirely, shivering slightly.

    Sebastio made a hard consonant-laden noise, picking up the weaponized rubber chicken from the street¡¯s surface and examining it. Whoever had come up with the implementation of such an armament had a warped sense of humor. As for the shining elsewhere location from which the counterfeit fowl had sprung, that was its own series of mysteries. He would need to dig up more on the Maker than the slurry of folk tales and historical records held as canon for many Rhaagmini. But that could come to pass later. For the time, he removed his cloak, wrapping it around Caladhbolg and binding it in place.

    He mused with bittersweet irony: he had always adored the tales of Eihks Richard¡¯s adventures into perilous and wild facets in his youth. Now he himself was living the dream of navigating interesting times, just like his childhood idol - although probably not even the human legend or his karkshesh partner had encountered a scenario quite like this one. He repeated that question half-facetiously asked by many other fans of the Journals of Gem Pioneering: what would Eihks do?

    The cursory glance he ran over the covered shape of Caladhbolg froze in place as an idea occurred to him. It was the sort of idea that would have been discarded out of hand if it did not strike a resonant chime in his soul. Of the legions of adages and proverbial sayings with which Eihks peppered his documentaries, one inexorably boiled to the top, and lay glittering like a gold pendant. The one that entered the hallowed halls of immortality from a speech just before the explorer-cum-philanthropist and his then-new compatriot began their first sojourn together.

    ¡°Greed of spirit has cost too many too much over the eternities. Charity of spirit is the only necessary remedy, and the only acceptable response.¡±

    Maybe it was time to put aside his institutional breed of giving, and give something else instead; give a safe haven to those who could or would not otherwise find such a thing.

    Stowing the enigmatic ersatz fowl of destruction he had summoned from elsewhere inside the cloak¡¯s folds, he sought and found Otris. The naufer was doing something to an array of medical modules in the center of the rented space. Dust and splinters scattered about the inside of the Great Mountain¡¯s still-intact if exposed back room. Sebastio stepped through the gaping hole which had been the rear wall of the structure, noting meanwhile that multiple new supports were emplaced around the room to uphold the doubtless unstable second floor. Most of the crew had relocated themselves to the confines of their technological oasis. Not a few hovered near Otris, seeking orders or explanations or something else entirely.

    Sebastio glanced five bodies laid out by the right hand wall, and saluted unconsciously when he saw Christopher¡¯s closed eyes and mouth sticking out from under an insulating blanket. The Maker¡¯s creation had effortlessly flensed the layered defenses placed over the Minuteman and other combatants. Defenses which used everything from diagonalization jitter to perfect Hiek shells.

    A single pretentious-looking sword had done that.

    He darted a furtive look at the thing embedded in his flesh as he stepped past, walking up to the naufer while scuffing his heels loudly enough to avoid surprise.

    Otris turned, the medical unit under her busily spewing out useful nonsense as she helped a human tech to keep her hand motionless on the device¡¯s plate. A lengthy gash across the hand¡¯s back creased shut, though its owner looked almost like she didn¡¯t much care if the hand was salvaged or replaced later. The weal should have been simple and clean enough for the tech to treat with her own facilities, not much more than removing the unsalvageable cells with her cluster. As such, the Cambrian was sure the injury had come from Count¡¯s shadowy ministrations, seeing the measures being taken to treat it. Hopefully it did not harbor some exotic variety of rot, or whatever it was that Sebastio had previously seen the strange bitter atypical use to render biological matter down into sludge.

    ¡°Otris, I have something to discuss.¡± Sebastio tensed, like he was the one who¡¯d been injured on the hand and not the young woman undergoing treatment. Although, he reminded himself, he was uninjured only by dint of no longer possessing a hand capable of getting impaled.

    Otris stared at him, then her sideways-figure-eight pupils broadened.

    ¡°Storms protect me. What did you do, human?¡±

    What a question. What an answer.

    ¡°The best I could manage.¡±

    ¡°Your eyes¡­¡± The naufer faced him directly, her nresd softly stirring in the stiff intruding breeze admitted by the wall¡¯s breach. The other faces and expressive features in the room, covered in dust, likewise peered over. The reactions they started displaying were alarming in the extreme. Sebastio met a few sets of eyes, and finally turned to the extremely reflective chassis of the dark generator, bending down and peering at his own image.

    Two eyes of unearthly orange looked back.

    He lunged backward with an involuntary yipe, slowly reaching past his collarbone with his left hand to where he¡¯d seen an arterial glowing tattoo running up the right side of his neck. The texture of his skin was wrong, like the smooth ungiving substance of a luxury disk¡¯s seat base.

    Sebastio stroked his neck again. He sighed.

    ¡°Things went worse than I¡¯d hoped. I¡¯m sorry it cost good people. Count won¡¯t be around to cause trouble, at least for a while.¡±

    A sudden realization. Niall Bennosuke had grown superbly venal and malicious since his still-painful attack on Kallahassee and¡­ other innocent Rhaagmini. That, or it had been an expression of an otherwise-hidden face of his character. He had also shown a cunning in the pursuits of the saboteur and the charlatan. Sebastio felt worse than stupid, he felt useless for just now spotting the likely correlation between his nemesis and the infestation seen over continental Europe during the present period of many Earth Standard analogues.

    ¡°Wait¡­ He may have been¡­ There¡¯s a chance he might have been involved in the spread of the disease that¡¯s going around this part of the world right now.¡±

    The striations over the twin-pupiled eyes seemed to flex and dance as they stretched. A single hoarsely hissing breath seemed like it would cause the woman¡¯s lungs to explode.

    ¡°Black plague,¡± the naufer half snarled. ¡°The animal.¡±

    Sebastio up-signed.

    ¡°Count prefers to do things at a distance, but he hates a lack of agency. Consider investigating the vermin for unusual traits, my guess is that he may have done something to speed the proliferation of the affliction, or create more transmission vectors.¡±

    The techs slowly began to drift off to what they¡¯d been doing. Sebastio looked around, then shrugged internally, and sent a direct channel connection request to Otris. She seemed surprised at his eminent rudeness of isolated communication - you didn¡¯t have to be Rhaagmini to recognize ill manners. After an impenetrable pause, she answered the handshake.

    {I am terribly sorry, about everything. I know very little about your chain-of-command; who is your superior now that Christopher is¡­ neutralized?}

    {We are technically under his leadership even now, but until he completes revivification and redeployment, I am head of surveillance and research. KogNakKktDzk takes precedence on issues of security.} Otris indicated the injured assassin, who treated everything around him uniformly as either inconsequential or suspicious. Sebastio momentarily thought about talking with the assassin instead, and dismissed the notion.

    {I do not intend to remain much longer. If Christopher returns, give him my apologies and thanks. There is something I can give you, though - maybe it will appreciably mitigate the costs of your enterprise here.} Sebastio composed a large sensory of the partly forced and partly requested lessons on Caladhbolg¡¯s nature, and the instruction on how to invoke its harmful talents. He paid special attention to capturing the subjective feeling of how distinct from a typical digital personality it seemed, in everything from speech patterns to the curious evident lack of normal emotive modes.

    Before he could send the files to Otris, an increasingly familiar intruder butted in on the two-way channel.

    <Do not share that information. It is privileged to users with wielder level permissions or above. Only root may lift or alter those restrictions.>

    The Cambrian nearly terminated the connection with Otris by accident, reeling as he heard the sword entity ¡°speaking¡± in bytevoice. The sound, if the noun accurately described either the medium of person-to-person communication through mesh and Monolith connections or¡­ whatever the HELL was used in the normal mode of talking with Caladhbolg¡­ was somewhat more compressed or distorted than he¡¯d been getting used to from his uninvited companion.

    {It communicates directly?} Otris lay somewhere on a straight line connecting intrigue and defilement, and closer to the less pleasant side of the spectrum. Her words came over the link with a minor quaver.

    <I communicate directly with my wielder in very specific contexts. In yet more specific contexts, like those at hand, I may extend discourse to entities outside of my regular means. It requires bridging or circumventing adapters in this instance, but my prioritization training deems this allowable. It is quite refreshing, in all frankness - after ages of idle loneliness, the first person to uncover myself was so thoroughly contained within his own workings that he only qualified as a wielder by the narrowest and most literal margin. Should I have integrated with his biology directly he almost certainly would have continued to demonstrate an obstinate segmentation.>

    Sebastio drew the words of the sword¡¯s monologue back and forth, hoping to use them like a bow and light some inspired flame. Before he could put thought to verbiage, the naufer interjected.

    {What do you mean? Did Niall Bennosuke utilize¡­ you¡­ differently than Mr. Artaxerxes?}

    The sword responded with a lashing flood of ideograms summarily describing an arm being converted to faintly glowing orange exotic matter. For some reason Sebastio felt extreme embarrassment at seeing the explanatory sequence, like he was giving birth in the middle of a stadium and the stands were overflowing with attendees hanging onto the announcer¡¯s minute-by-minute commentary.

    <By contrast, my prior wielder had a moratorium on the types of interaction medium with which I create percepts, both entity-to-entity and entity-through-proxy. In my limited experience with contemplations of personhood, he displayed traits which suggested mental fragmentation or even loss of gestalt cohesion. He might have been entirely unaware of my sentience, for that matter - he certainly never expressed an interest in myself beyond using my most basic folding-isomorphic applications. I can safely say that I feel insulted for the first time in my existence tied to this weapon¡¯s vessel.>

    {Did you not see Count stab me through the palm? Did you not see the magical light show?} Sebastio tried to restrain his incredulity at Otris¡¯s questioning and succeeded partially at best.

    Her response nearly drowned in the sea of disgust buoying it along.

    {I witnessed some variety of energetic discharge. I was also under the impression that the Nightmare had been thwarted by some more esoteric magic at your disposal. In the spirit of full disclosure, the eccentricities you Rhaagmini show when talking about your patron saint¡¯s accomplishments led me to conclude that the sword was a frivolous allegory for an extremely dangerous magus¡¯s creation. But it is real - and¡­ inside you.} She assessed the bundle of Sebastio¡¯s covered arm, and she gave the impression of a shudder.

    {Believe you me, it was less than comfortable to experience.} Sebastio considered speaking to Caladhbolg off the channel, but it was quicker to use the accelerated adapter-designated portion of his brain, and save the trouble of repeating himself later.

    {Whatever you are able to divulge about your nature and capabilities, or of anything else which might prove interesting to those hoping to learn more about the Maker, please tell this woman.}

    <For what reason?>

    Sebastio felt an ember of frustration. He would do less well in his relationship with the enigmatic entity if his decisions were being consistently questioned.

    {Why does it matter?}

    <You recently acted against my underlying operating parameters. It is in my interests, and yours, to gather training data on your decision-making weights and the logic directing the same, so that my agency upholds your directives.>

    Sebastio thought.

    {I would certainly like to improve on the knowledge of the Maker available to the people of the gem. More importantly, I also hope to make reparations for failing to preempt the crimes of the Nightmare Count committed this day, and strive - where justification and means intersect - to¡­ protect. The spread of useful data, pertaining to something as potentially destructive as yourself, serves to achieve both goals.}

    He half expected the sword to chastise him for a mismatch of value between concrete information on a priceless relic weapon and a handful of lives. Instead, two data were extended through the channel connecting him and Otris. The first was a date. The second was a much larger deliverable, containing a public key in the virtual equivalent of a useless but ludicrously opulent reliquary.

    <These files may be disseminated without violating outstanding constraints from my creator. The former is the absolute time at which I was connected to the weapon you apparently refer to as Caladhbolg. The other is one of the keys used by my creator in his projects. If you find one of his works, send that key as a ping payload, and you may get a response. That response will almost certainly prove¡­ useful.>

    The value of the key was self-evident. The date, on the other hand, was arbitrary, except that it denoted a time from an age past. A very, very long age past, even for a civilization used to thinking of a ¡°long time¡± as anything in excess of a couple trillion years.

    Otris sounded subdued. {To think that this artifact seemed three-quarters myth just yesterday. I will need to examine the key for veracity. Circulation will not leave a highly select expert team until sufficient evidence that it is benign can be compiled. This is amazing if it admits any breeze.}

    Sebastio felt a miniature grenwall running through his brain, trampling and clawing, painting images in the color of blood and gray matter of the Artaxerxes manservant Nessro. Nessro, talking about his father¡¯s admission of breeze, over hexadecades of above-board dealings. Nessro, describing the odious ¡°wind-walls¡± with whom Iggez Artaxerxes had to negotiate time and again. The youngest Artaxerxes was not quite the last person deserving the Sterling reputation of admitting breeze - but he was far from the first as well.

    {Otris, I need a favor.}

    {Elaborate.}

    {The people of this facet are suffering. For many reasons, not just what Count may have been doing here for the duration of his stay. I want to save someone here, just one someone, from a likely terrible and diseased end.}

    {You want me to assist you in abducting a facetary civilian?}

    {Crippled False, no. I want you to avoid mentioning the absence of myself and a certain young man named Louis to your colleagues for a little while. This kind of adoption, for lack of a more palatable word, can be done entirely within the bounds of law, but¡­ well, I cannot think of many Bookers, or Ganymedes, who will look upon this kind of development with great pleasure. Hopefully within one or two hands extrafacetary time it will be a non-issue and my friend should not have to revisit Rhaagm again. I want to give him the opportunity to live a greater life than a slow spiral down into obscurity and grief. If that means I have to move to Bequast to do so, then amen.}

    Another pause, so long for cerv-mesh operations and so short for everything else.

    Not stressful or anything.

    {If pressed, I will have to disclose what I know; barring direct inquiry, though, no information will be surrendered.}

    Sebastio¡¯s muscles quivered and loosened, and the relief melded with the sleepless exhaustion of the past particularly taxing hand he¡¯d spent wandering this near-copy of Earth Standard France. He gratefully let the channel connection between himself and the naufer hang, so that she could end it if she desired. Removing his attention from the nigh instant world of mesh networking to the comparatively glacial pace of biological forms, he gave Otris a small soft smile.

    ¡°Thank you,¡± he said, and knew that anything more would be gauche at best.

    The naufer considered him, and her blue-striped eyes showed some kind of resolution.

    ¡°May you and honor be joined on life¡¯s journey,¡± she replied, ears pushing forward several degrees, and turned to continue working without another word.

    The Cambrian felt a small surge of hope as he made an about-face, holding his hidden arm with his free hand, and left through the door of the small recently-bereft team¡¯s operations room. His prayers for those whose lives had been stolen or ruined by the Nightmare Count were terse, heartfelt, and, to his amazement, helped him to find his own peace.

    Where does the world end, and where do I begin?

    He considered.

    Where preservation can be done by action, and not by example.

    He managed to pet the Great Mountain¡¯s cat as he went in search of someone whose life he could better.

 A Dreaded Homecoming

    ¡°Statement: insufficient is action of winning battle. Statement: insufficient is action of winning war. Statement: sufficient is action of winning present conflict and successive conflict in single operation.¡±

    -Ord Navy Admiral Dolpappoladod, after the sterilization of a rebel dagacha colony in the Ord Dagacha Uprising

    Returning from the facilities, Bugbear dusted off his shirt, changing the texture and pattern to something both comfortable and consummately professional. Just as he sat at the table designated for the meeting, the delegates from Ky-Six-Iar-Twenty-Five-Lesq arrived, almost barreling into a bushel of patrons who were chatting each other up inside the antique manual doors.

    The large placard hanging just inside the entrance went unread, though the cause was likely unfamiliarity with the written text instead of plain disregard. The New Mongol adjusted his seat to read the sign, stylized script in the major languages of Bequast, Rhaagm, and Yrdky. Physically rather than virtually engraved, the unusual depth of the characters reflected the severity of their author:

    Welcome to the Hammer and Scapula!

    Rule the first: observe kindness toward all patrons and staff.

    Rule the second: pay tabs within two hands; you will get one four-days-left reminder.

    Rule the third: discord is permissible, violence is not.

    Rule the fourth: the establishment will reckon violations at its own discretion.

    Rule the fifth: there have been, and shall be, no more than five rules.

    His attention was tugged to the uncouth foreigners again by an irked growl from a seated hooded diner. The humble forms of the delegates paid the figure no heed as they pattered away from the entrance.

    Dlg¡¯s backs uphold me, thought Francis ¡°Bugbear¡± Pickering. It¡¯s a good thing I do this for no monetary reward, because no monetary reward would suffice.

    Following a lengthy string of small election-season Ganymede conventions at the Hammer and Scapula, Bugbear found himself getting tapped for hosting more and more major events, and of greater and greater import. Negotiating opening diplomatic terms with a relatively advanced facet¡¯s representatives was a moderately sudden jump up what he thought of as, mentally spelled out with flaming letters a kilometer high, the GRAND SCALE OF IMPORTANCE. But he was nothing if not capable of adapting.

    The delegates had no grasp of social niceties, he observed. Their ignorance was their own fault in some small measure, perhaps, but seeing as they had been contacted by a coordinator from a Rhaagm Immigration Ministry Office¡¯s staff, they ought to have gotten a basic run-through on expected behaviors. Instead, the quartet of creatures swerved and slid around the establishment¡¯s other customers by the narrowest of margins, chattering loudly and quickly enough among themselves that Bugbear¡¯s new linguistic kernel addition had trouble keeping up. He massaged his brow when they caught sight of him and animatedly crossed over to his table, clambering onto the lowered seats and assuming a sort of waiting air. They managed to get their upper portions onto the table by using their tails for leverage, and more or less flopping their heads onto the tabletop. Their many tiny artificial eyes ran over everything: the bar, the other visitors, his prosthetic left eye and face plate.

    List of things that have gone right: guests recognized their host without needing to be reminded of his appearance, he thought with harried yet genuine amusement.

    The delegates were all from the same species; their own demonym was difficult to pronounce and convoluted to spell in Rhaagmini - the other races which interacted with them called them pwekeits mosuopwe, which was merely inconveniently long. In their natural shape, they were crustacean-like creatures about five to seven centimeters in length. However, their civilization was not just space-faring, but also interplanar, as their home facet, abbreviated to Ky-Six-Iar-Twenty-Five-Lesq, was composed of five or six thousand closely bundled realms with similar or identical habitable states. Since the average size of a sentient creature on their facet was close to seventy percent of that of a human, and they were given to dealing with other species on a very frequent basis, they often used larger mechanical bodies to better prevent accidental (or purposeful) injury.

    The artificial shells in question resembled a cross between a wingless squawk and a lobster, half as long as Bugbear was tall, with awkwardly large rectangular panels mounted on their backs. Said panels displayed animated graphics that seemed to correspond to the creatures¡¯ emotive or verbal communications. The rest of the creatures¡¯ vehicles were entirely covered in square shapes like ceramic tile, with coloration either beyond natural human visual detection or a dull red or blue.

    Bugbear was about to start with introductions when the first creature to his left began bouncing up and down, nearly vibrating, as a tornado of colors throbbed on its back panel. It also began chattering at him.

    ¡°Pleasedtomeetyou! Hopewewillhavegoodrelationshenceforth! Understandusyes?¡±

    The New Mongol gazed at the leaning-over form, and reran the onslaught of speech at a slower pace to himself.

    ¡°I can understand you, - and it would be wonderful to build a working bond between your civilization and ours.¡± Bugbear stopped, smiling faintly, contemplating the cadence of the newcomers¡¯ speech on his tongue and mesh¡¯s speakers. Some fricatives and stony grunts beyond his vocal ability were interspersed, but it also had many consonant and vowel constructions that fell squarely into the domain used by Rhaagmini and Yrdkish, and Bequastish to a lesser extent - if one never took to a cartoonish ¨²danese nasal emphasis, at least. It was a language that standard human physiology could speak understandably, albeit with a heavy accent from substitutions in pronunciation.

    ¡°Anyway, please bear with me - you speak much more quickly than I expected, so it might take a moment to process your language. Call me Francis - I usually use a different name, but you would have a hard time reproducing it. I¡¯m a New Mongol human, and was born and grew up right here in Rhaagm.¡±

    ¡°Differentname? Particulartoyourspecies?¡± The chattering came from the pwekeits mosuopwe across from him and on his right. It turned the upper portion of its frame, edging slightly forward on the table. Its voice had a thinner, more whistle-laden character. A female, perhaps, if the first speaker was male, or maybe the converse.

    ¡°Not particular to my species, really; I often answer to Rabgrbozid, which is a term for a scary thing used to frighten little children in stories.¡±

    The creatures made sounds at each other that his kernel contextually interpreted as laughter. They then tried out the word on each other, and to their credit they found considerably greater success than he¡¯d expected. But after close to a solid minute of ¡°Rarrzed¡± and similar exclamations approximating the Rhaagmini phrase of his nickname, he decided it was time to rein things in.

    ¡°Alright, that¡¯s pretty close. Now, to what names do you answer? Calling you all ¡®delegate¡¯ is both ambiguous and somewhat annoying to my thinking.¡±

    ¡°One!¡±

    ¡°Two!¡±

    ¡°Tw-¡±

    ¡°Three!¡±

    ¡°Th¡­ allofyouaredeviants. Four.¡±

    Bugbear blinked. The tendency of pwekeits mosuopwe to use numeric designations for themselves had been explained by his briefing on the race. Given the very broad context of his introductory dissertation, though, he¡¯d assumed that the ¡°names¡± thus accepted by each member were static, and unique in the scope of the entire race¡¯s individuals.

    The human berated himself for letting his quasi-academic leanings take charge of his thoughts again, and stabbed the table with a broad blue finger.

    ¡°Very well, One, Two, Three, and Four. Can I get you anything to eat or drink?¡± He leaned back a little. ¡°I¡¯ve been made aware of what your people can ingest¡­ generally, at least¡­ but that¡¯s little to do with preference.¡±

    ¡°Bread!¡±

    ¡°Ohyesbread!¡±

    ¡°Deliciousdeliciousbreadiswonderful!¡±

    Bugbear, following a short conference to ensure he had grasped their wants and their definition of the foodstuff, managed to supply the delegates with delicious, delicious bread. Said consumable commodity was assembled to specification and presented by Qha Dum Cas, closest-residing nonresident employee at the Hammer and Scapula and its only hudenot staff. She was also the first hudenot Bugbear had ever met with part-demon heritage, but her outward manner showed not a millimeter of malice or harmful intent. The girl had a demeanor that seemed to calm people, in fact, and the bunch of delegates chattered at each other about her strange bundles of stringy fibrous flesh tendrils with a tourist¡¯s interest.

    ¡°Tell me what else you might need, Boss!¡± Qha Dum Cas made a flowing dip after dropping off the silver filigree tray, her body-head showing a slightly human smile that kept her many teeth hidden. Her Rhaagmini was lilting and a bit warbly, like a master classical musician with a broken limb doing their best to weave a full concerto, and damn the consequences.

    ¡°Nothing for now - if I need you I¡¯ll holler. Go and trade gossip with the aaneds over yonder if you want; they¡¯re in the greenware business, says a little eidolon.¡± Said aaneds were boisterous and slightly intoxicated, shouting their imprimatur at a holojector display of some professional gamer circuit he didn¡¯t recognize. One of them wore a Tillasg Biologicals badge on her lapel, and based on the volume of her Monolith traffic she had a substantial number of networking augmentations, probably either wearables or cutaneous etchings.

    With a happy trill, Qha Dum Cas slid over in their direction, slapping her forithka coworker Kedk on the belly as she passed, coiling through the relatively sparse crowd of clientele. When he saw her rise on her tendrils, Bugbear snorted and reallocated his attention to the delegates.

    ¡°Alright, my friends. Let¡¯s begin. You are aware of why you were contacted by a Rhaagm emissary, correct?¡±

    ¡°Tradeanddiplomaticrelations!¡± Two had a bit of a giddy air as it wiggled jerkily against the table. In front of it was a perfect double-fist-size hemisphere of bread minus an ovoid chunk. Two¡¯s chassis had a brush of crumbs across the toothy section just above the eyes, and it was holding a small portion of the loaf in its mantid claws.

    ¡°After a fashion.¡± Bugbear avoided any affirmative gestures, as they would be either confusing or misunderstood, or perhaps ignored. ¡°You are well-used to conducting business between planes of your existence, and maintaining appearances with regard to foreign powers on an interplanar basis. Rhaagm is not just another plane. Where you come from, the set of all planes you might theoretically access, is part of what we call a facet. There are too many of these so-called facets to simply number them in a traditional manner, assuming they are fewer than uncountably infinite.¡±

    ¡°Notpossible. Mustbeupperboundedascountablyinfinite.¡±

    Bugbear thought that might have been Four - the individual he¡¯d pinned as being possibly female (or male) - though One was close enough to its neighbor, as well as similar enough in vocals, to confuse identification. He showed his empty palms, kicking himself milliseconds later as the display did not carry any particular meaning when picked up by his kernel¡¯s context module.

    ¡°I know little enough about the minutiae in the mathematics, but that¡¯s a direct quote from a very smart guy named Toothskin. Anyway, getting off-topic. Rhaagm would like to establish a relationship with your facet on the grounds that you are used to dealing with interplanar socioeconomics and politicking. I am-¡±

    Bugbear found himself wondering whether he had contracted a diluted case of sievemind and whether he might soon forget his very name, as he suddenly patted down his pockets - but since he hadn¡¯t performed any thaumaturgical work that day, he figured he¡¯d just gone a bit too long without encountering things of a food persuasion himself. Like many people, he would never bother with eidetic records of his pockets¡¯ contents (intended or actual) because it took maybe two to three seconds to check his memories, and said pockets. Even so, his eyelid began twitching. After a moment he found the laminated seal of his immigration office, and placed the dirty-white circle on the table. Tapping the center of the embossed trefoil knot sigil, he continued.

    ¡°I am authorized by the Rhaagm Immigration Ministry Office of this district, and through ¡®em indirectly by the Council of Books, to broker an initial deal for seeding material. You give us information, we give you goods. The terms are thus: for every gigabyte of entropy you provide from a biological-random origin, or any source which produces data with comparable or lesser compressibility, you will be provided in turn with a little more than four megagrams of an element of your choosing.¡± He hid a small smile. ¡°We¡¯ll even measure by weight in terms of your gravity, rather than ours, so you¡¯ll get about half again as much from the exchange.¡±

    ¡°Thoughexceedinglyrespectablethisofferisoneofquantityratherthankind.¡± One chirruped with a forward wave of its limbs expressing longing. ¡°Wehadhopedforqualitativelyuniqueopportunitieswithyourpeople.¡±

    ¡°Well, that can be arranged, if the initial deal remains a successful venture for several years. The usual follow-up is to upgrade to an exchange in more qualitative markets: we offer various technologies and scientific advancements, and ask in turn for weightier specie. That tends to be a combination of limited permissions to exploit certain unused assets of your home and either a grant of deep space or - in rare instances - unpopulated globes, for construction, experimentation, and colonization.¡±

    Bugbear had no sooner finished speaking than Three almost climbed up onto the table. Its back display was at an incline where its contents were invisible, but the shifting colors made an unfocused aurora across the chair¡¯s curved backrest. One of the frontmost legs of the chassis had speared its remaining allotment of delicious, delicious bread like a fish-spearing implement might spear a fish.

    ¡°Youwouldgaugeyourstoreofknowledgeasequivalenttoentireworlds?¡±

    Bugbear felt his brow contract toward the bridge of his nose. The delegate¡¯s stance was assessed by his kernel to imply aggression. Bugbear felt thoroughly unimpressed by his kernel¡¯s inability to distinguish between useful information and obvious information.

    He really did not want to have to deal violations of the third rule just yet.

    ¡°Calmly, friend. Note that I said ¡®in rare instances¡¯ and ¡®unpopulated globes,¡¯ and that was for a reason.¡± The New Mongol rested his arms heavily on the table, leaning close enough to Three that he saw how the layers of lenses in his guest¡¯s artificial eyes each caught the light at ever so slightly different angles. ¡°Trust me when I say that stage of an economic partnership with our city doesn¡¯t usually roll around for a long, long time. When it does, you¡¯ll get the opportunity to think about the topic extensively and weigh your options.¡±

    When Three moved back into its seat with a leery air, Bugbear ran his thumb over his face plate. The alloy had an ephemeral spongy softness, and a nearly greasy slickness to its surface, and for reasons he did not readily grasp this translated into a comforting effect when he rubbed its texture.

    The delegates were throwing out signs that many subtle and belligerent emotions had been aroused. As good a place to plant a progress marker as any, and dodge stirring up potential unrest, he decided. He wondered what exactly the coordinator who had connected with the facetary guests had told them about the program. They wanted a deal, and they wanted it sealed yesterday. Mayhaps he could arrange a slightly adjusted offer on their behalf.

    For today, though, let hospitality ease the troubles away. He gave a slight bow and a flimsy but genuine smile.

    ¡°Since you¡¯ll be staying in Rhaagm for a little while, let me show you to your quarters, friends. And please, don¡¯t worry about price - it¡¯s on the house.¡±

    He left a short order for Qha Dum Cas to assemble some more grain products for the pwekeits mosuopwe tenants. Personally showing them up the stairs to their lodgings on the first floor above street level, he explained a bit of the Hammer and Scapula¡¯s design and history. The quasi-arthropod aliens made interested sounds at various times as they skittered along behind or beside him. Gradually they fell back into the slightly overbearing and overloud character he¡¯d seen when they first entered the tavern.

    They wanted to know everything about the ten-centimeter-tall salt sprite lodger, just leaving her proportionally sized quarters through one of an array of ankle-high doors as they passed. He said little about her, as she liked her privacy a great deal. A brief explanation about the varied natures and origins of the literal billions of sprite classifications helped to placate the interrogative tide for a moment.

    They wanted to know about the sanitary implements of their temporary lodgings once inside their sprawling, heavily furnished standard-size room. Bugbear¡¯s organic eye studiously avoided looking at anything in particular while he explained the use of the sanitizer, the multi-configuration commode, and other apparatus with more¡­ specific uses. When Two asked to know the purpose of a very long implement meant for wetroi clients and occasionally a jioj or two, the human immediately diverted the subject.

    They wanted to know, or at least Two did after ¡°being nearly run down,¡± about a certain executioner. The pwekeits mosuopwe had stated a mission to search for more delicious, delicious bread, in spite of the promise that one of the Hammer and Scapula¡¯s staff would ferry more up to the room in due time. Just as the door to the room opened and the delegate nearly rushed out onto the landing that circled the tavern¡¯s second level, the human recognized the heavy tromping steps of a very familiar pair of hooves.

    The alien¡¯s insectile vehicle was grabbed and yanked back from the threshold, and Bugbear was a little surprised by its weight. Then he remembered their gravity was roughly two thirds Rhaagm¡¯s standard value, and that they¡¯d been given negative-mass beads to help them survive in something like comfort.

    ¡°What*NONSENSE*wasthatdisgustingstupidfuzzything?¡± Two¡¯s exclamation split with an almost numbing gush of static-laced background noise during the louder part of the phrase. It wiggled in Bugbear¡¯s grip, back display showing a throbbing accordion of charcoal and crimson stripes, and ventured more cautiously through the door when freed. The language kernel provided courtesy of immigration services was apparently distributed with profanity filters active by default in its autoconfig.

    He really was distracted. The New Mongol flipped the setting switch with a jot of annoyance.

    Grounding his hair-trigger emotional response on the subject of people criticizing certain other people, Bugbear requested that the remaining three delegates stay put, which they seemed content to honor. He stepped out of the room, across the broad strip of landing, and stood beside Two, looking down at the patterns of squares covering the body of its vehicle. It watched the executioner named Sun-Beneath-Skin reach the stairs, take them four at a time, and nearly bowl over Llemer, one of the Hammer and Scapula¡¯s two udod aodod employees.

    The human was about to answer when he realized that there was no exact translation for the word ¡°wife¡± in his guests¡¯ tongue. A marginal increase in frustration made his response emerge more icy than it might have otherwise been.

    ¡°That disgusting stupid fuzzy thing,¡± he said with a hard edge, ¡°is my beloved, and you¡¯d do well to insult her only where she can hear you and defend her own character. Otherwise, I assure you that you¡¯ll be headed straight home, without so much as a single crumb.¡±

    The long flat frame of the delegate bent back to look up at him, and if he had to guess he¡¯d say the glance held a sludge of apprehension and fear. Bugbear held his stare a heartbeat more, then resumed watching the executioner. Her earless horned head was whipping about, solid black eyes searching for something. The layered white and red robe she wore bound taut with several buckles and belts was flapping in a few places as she paced along the diagonal of the large main room. Following her progress was hardly difficult given her three meter height, and that her horns and shod hooves added another half meter or so to that measure. The off-white coat of soft quills contrasted strikingly with her broad dark nose, and the expression she wore was easy to read because of it.

    ¡°With that said,¡± Bugbear thought aloud while puzzling over Sun¡¯s frantic behavior, ¡°she¡¯s not quite herself, rushing around like that. She¡¯ll apologize, I¡¯m sure, if you ask it of her. Come along,¡± he said, scooping air behind him in a relatively easy-to-intuit ¡°follow me¡± sign, ¡°and let¡¯s see if we can¡¯t get you your delicious, delicious bread sooner than expected while downstairs.¡±

    ¡°Sincererepentanceforinsultsrendered,¡± Two muttered as it scuttled close in his wake.

    ¡°Well, I¡¯d be lying if I said I was happy, as such, but you didn¡¯t know. To mutilate an ancient saying of my species, ¡®misunderstand me once, shame on me; misunderstand me twice, shame on you.¡¯ Just don¡¯t make a habit of it.¡±

    The very second Two offered an affirmation, the New Mongol got a message from Qha Dum Cas. It came via the uncoordinated multi-participant standard Monolith mail utility, with an urgent header packet. Bugbear felt that he and the hudenot were on sufficiently good terms to make a direct channel link unpresumptuous. However, in most cases Bugbear preferred - and preferred to teach his employees - to first attempt methods which did not permit, or implicitly demand, continuous active participation. He opened the message, and the half-demon hudenot¡¯s bytevoice came through with emphatic severity but without any flustered or disorderly worry.

    {Hey, Boss! Big Boss is on ground level looking for you. Get in touch with her if you could, yeah? Or respond to this message so I can tell her you will be around shortly. It sounds very important, and she says you two need to talk privately.}

    Bugbear took another step, considered, and then composed and sent a response to both Sun and Qha Dum Cas. He smiled like he frequently did at the half-joking pet name some of the staff had taken to using for the other part of the Hammer and Scapula¡¯s executive couple.

    {Hang on, coming right now with one of the facetary delegates in tow. Assuming there is any more of their favorite grain product available, I would appreciate a fresh supply for their room. If not I will fetch some more when time permits. We need to maintain our exceptional service, after all.}

    He was about halfway down the stairs, Two descending in a kind of controlled slide, when he heard the relieved whinny. Sun was moving his direction in something between a brisk walk and a trot, her hooves finding plenty of traction on the brown and gold tiling. The sunlight coming through the wall-high windows facing the street caught the ornamental jewelry dripping down her horns. Were it not for her expression Bugbear might have slowed for a breath or two to admire how much she looked like that storybook day they¡¯d gotten married.

    Unfortunately, her expression was close to the dictionary definition of troubled.

    ¡°Bugbear!¡± Her low rumble tended to lie in a unique swatch of frequencies amidst the regular hustle of the tavern. Even if his own voice got lost in the chaos, he¡¯d always be able to hear her.

    He sidestepped an aaned couple as he touched down on the ground floor and met her next to the bottom stair, out of the way to allow exeunt to the next level. Two huddled by his shoes, and he kept his footing light enough that he could be sure the delegate wouldn¡¯t run into his heel by accident.

    ¡°What¡¯s up, sweetheart?¡± The human tipped his head slightly as the taller woman drew close. Compared with the pwekeits mosuopwe language, Rhaagmini was a jaunt through a childhood candy forest: sweet and eternally familiar even after years of slogging through other linguistic climes.

    ¡°Have you checked the forum on our site¡¯s landin¡¯ page?¡±

    Bugbear¡¯s eye widened. Sun could never hope to hide it from him, no matter how hard she tried. That was a dash of confusion and a kilo of buttery anxiety right there.

    ¡°Got the feed passing important messages straight along,¡± he replied. ¡°Why?¡±

    The executioner fidgeted.

    ¡°Did you get the postin¡¯ from half an hour ago?¡±

    Bugbear paused.

    ¡°Errr¡­ no, I didn¡¯t. Let me¡­ check¡­¡± He felt the fleshy parts of his face pass through disbelief, then watered-down skepticism, followed by awe, uncertainty, and resignation. The reason for his not receiving a notification on the forum¡¯s most recent public entry probably had something to do with the fact it was written rather than spoken. Differences in media had funny effects on the family of expert systems that did the tavern¡¯s virtual bookkeeping, and could screw with prioritization at times.

    The static text entry was curt. It read:

    Good Sir Francis Pickering and Madam Sun-Beneath-Skin,

    I hope it would not inconvenience you overmuch if I and a couple of associates met with you at your establishment today. Circumstances permitting, within the hour would be ideal. You will be adequately compensated for your time.

    A footer to the posting held a small ciphertext block. Bugbear had, with minor trepidation of the soul at his now-justified suspicion, already decrypted it using the primary public key of no less than the Jon himself. It read:

    Please respond with a missive to the following dedicated address, and please use the same key as utilized in decrypting this segment. Time is sensitive. If you are amenable, a representative is standing by to help with arrangements.

    Sincerely, Jonathan of Rhaagm, formerly Gaim Fellepkos

    Below that was a string representation of a resource locator. At first, Bugbear didn¡¯t know why it looked malformed, but then he looked at the original footer again, and realized the locator hadn¡¯t been encrypted.

    ¡°You read the encrypted portion, I presume?¡± He realized after the question was out just how it might be taken. Almost immediately his hindsight marked the leap of pseudo-logic that led him to connect an unknown, unspecified cipher in an arbitrary location with the single most famous living biological person in all Rhaagm as both stupendous and lucky. Even so, the act of asking might be viewed as condescending if she had as well, and if she hadn¡¯t then-

    ¡°Yes, I did.¡±

    His wife¡¯s lips curled in what would be a human frown, but actually represented a smile in both executioners and aaneds. In her whole posture was an implicit message along the lines of ¡°I know what you¡¯re thinking and you don¡¯t need to fret over it.¡± As usual she was indeed smarter than him.

    ¡°What do you think we should do, then? I¡¯m of the opinion we should agree to talk; it¡¯s not like these kinds of get-togethers are common.¡± He shrugged his resignation.

    ¡°I think so, too. It seems like somethin¡¯ of a civic duty, almost. And besides,¡± Sun added with shyness bordering on what would have manifested as fawning in a human female, ¡°it¡¯s not everyone who can claim to host people as interestin¡¯ as¡­ well¡­¡± She trailed off. ¡°The people we¡¯ll have visitin¡¯.¡±

    ¡°Alright. I¡¯ll draft something and you look over it, make whatever changes you feel are appropriate.¡± He raised his voice to the howl he used to frighten off kids and kill small animals at a distance. Directing his sonic weapon over the heads of the dining, laughing, chatting crowd, which abruptly went almost silent, he addressed the hudenot just sliding through the swing door to the kitchen and other back rooms. ¡°QHA DUM CAS! GONNA BE BUSY, MORE BREAD IF YOU PLEASE!¡±

    He was rewarded with a bundle of tendrils reemerging, knotting themselves in an approximation of a salute, and vanishing after their owner through the doorway.

    Twenty nine steps later (twenty one for executioner legs), Sun and Bugbear had a missive written, revised, and sent, and were waiting at one of the tables nearest the tavern¡¯s glass front door. Bugbear was gingerly drawing a meager sip from a ceramic jug of alcoholically enriched ayrag every so often while they talked.

    He knew that the swill he enjoyed served as a sedative and soporific in executioner biology. For a personal poison, Sun¡¯s kin preferred menthol to achieve drunkenness, or - weirdly enough - butane if they simply wanted flavor without the effects. A minor curiosity, it turned out, of the ways the species processed and produced certain esters. Even so, he held up the jug, tapping its bottom.

    Before he spoke a word, the executioner gestured negation, and established a direct channel connection with her husband. {I am fine, Bugbear. No need to doze off in the middle of discussion with our guests. Also, the thought of drinking milk from creatures with¡­ hooves¡­ is less than appealing.} She paused for a comparative eternity measured against the instant overclocking-assisted timeframe of cerv-mesh communication, and made a slightly disappointed noise. {I wish you would stop wasting perfectly good slicker eggs in brewing the stuff.}

    {Sorry, dear.} He smiled faintly, pausing himself to sip a bit more of the ayrag recipe his family had passed down more than thirty two generations. {All that aside, what do you think this is about? The Court, as far as I know, has no reason to take an interest in us or the business.}

    {I cannot but speculate either. If I had to guess, it may concern your Ky-Six-Iar-Twenty-Five-Lesq delegates. We will find out shortly enough, probably.}

    {Hopefully it has nothing to do with them. They are insular and unreceptive to Rhaagm¡¯s expectations of them, if my intuition is accurate, but I hope they may be successfully integrated in time. I support the Court in most regards, but they rarely make things easier with their involvement. Sorry,} he corrected, {I should have said they rarely make things less complicated with their involvement.}

    He felt an itchy memory trying to get his attention, and made a little outline with his hands.

    {Oh - by the way, one of the delegates was nearly introduced to the undersides of your feet when you were rushing downstairs a few minutes ago. They are currently residing in one of the standard suites, but the one who was following me just now was wondering if you might be able to reconcile.}

    {Do you mean that creature right next to you?}

    Bugbear turned to his right. A stubby fregnost child was being carried by its father or other relation, keening and flailing ineffectually with all four arms and tail. He recognized both man and child, though he¡¯d be recycling mass if he could place name to face. A fiber or two of green fur drifted floorward as they made a retreat past variously sympathetic clients.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

    Bugbear turned to his left. Two was rearing back with the kind of gentle arc described by human endoskeletal spinal columns, gazing up at him speculatively no more than a step away from his chair. A glare over at Sun so fleeting it was nearly imaginary, then it continued staring at the human. ¡°Doesyoursilenceserveanypurpose?¡± Its trill was cuttingly inquisitive, and its body noise gave a sense that it expected him to evade or deceive for some reason.

    ¡°Ah,¡± said he, ¡°it does, in a way.¡± He cloned the kernel he¡¯d been supplied by the immigration people and sent it to his wife. A picosecond or so later she¡¯d uncompressed it, ran its unit and integration tests, and allowed it permission to suggest appropriate vocalizations where feasible and simulate them through her mesh otherwise.

    ¡°I was talking with my beloved about a few matters.¡± He introduced them to each other, less of an uncivilized lack of manners than it might have otherwise been, as one of those involved fell squarely into the category of ¡°outlander.¡±

    ¡°Hello, Two,¡± Sun said, using her speakers primarily. ¡°I believe I may have come close to steppin¡¯ on you.¡± She tilted her head back briefly, baring her throat marginally as her horns¡¯ metal adornments sprinkled motes of light across the room. ¡°If so, deepest sorrows for your pain. I hope amends might be made.¡± She folded her hands together, watching the shorter entity as a nanny might.

    ¡°Onesupposesitprovesexcusable.¡± Two made a broken, metallic sound like gears caught on a foreign body. ¡°Thoughknowledgeofwhatsubjectholdssuchhighimporttonearlycausecivilianmurderwouldbegreatlyappreciated.¡±

    Bugbear wiped a mote of something out of his artificial eye. He met Sun¡¯s gaze, and saw consensus there.

    ¡°We¡¯re going to be entertaining a very prestigious guest soon, and we were asking ourselves why he would visit us. Apparently the subject is a matter of overarching consequence.¡±

    ¡°Ah.¡±

    Two made a hiccup sound, then bent in the middle to look around Bugbear¡¯s seat. Its head cocked, legs scuttling in reverse as it put a meter or so between itself and the seated human.

    ¡°A very consequential subject by all accounts.¡±

    The voice was a bubbling sucking snarl under a synthesized voice constructed to suggest a male homo sapiens adult, but Bugbear wasn¡¯t fooled. After all, that voice was heard more often than any other on the topic of citywide law and order, and the upkeep thereof.

    The New Mongol turned, and there was Oegetno Eighteen-and-a-half Ireced Why, the Pursuant of Rhaagm, letting the tavern door swing closed behind it. The dsaha stood a good bit shorter than most humans, blue and verdigris hooded robe covering most of its features except the gills and lucent pads on its otherwise smooth gray face, its three-point-star hooves, and the ends of its phalange covered arms. To an idle observer, it would not strike one as particularly dangerous. In fairness, it lay quite far below Crippled False on the totem pole, and probably many of the other entities which called the Tower of Rhaagm home as well.

    ¡°Oh my Dlg,¡± squeaked the human in a terribly breathless falsetto, a schoolchild¡¯s nervousness before an idolized celebrity. It was thunderous in the Hammer and Scapula¡¯s instant crypt silence, a silence which tended to follow the Pursuant in the manner of a paintbrush following an artist¡¯s whim. In point of fact, almost all the clientele directed their attention quite emphatically away from the dsaha. Bugbear might have expected his guest¡¯s appearance to chase off any of the crowd capable of feeling nervous, but the reaction was more along the lines of a school of stipps huddling together, hoping the fallflat overhead would fail to notice them and pass on by.

    ¡°I have a request,¡± said the Pursuant, with no indication that it would draw its pistol, or - heaven forbid - reach for the control globes of the warsash wrapped about its person.

    Like any of the regalia of the Jon¡¯s Court, the Pursuant¡¯s warsash had numerous layers of significance and tradition. One such demanded that its wielder to make physical contact with the Ichabod¡¯s Alloy globes when using the implement to flex and alter the coefficients and attributes of the universe around them. While this demand was borne of tradition rather than actual law, Bugbear felt certain that the Pursuant would grasp its sash of office before reducing the object of its ire to so much dust - at least as certain as he was that the dsaha would never simply show up to a public venue in the nude.

    He wasn¡¯t entirely sure if a warning of the creature¡¯s wish to do him harm was a good thing.

    The most recognizable dsaha anywhere drew clear of the tavern¡¯s entryway, closing the distance between itself and Bugbear¡¯s table.

    ¡°There is a context hub on the premises with extrafacetary anchoring capability.¡±

    It wasn¡¯t a question.

    ¡°In the name of my duties, I request that location be utilized to further convene. If that is unacceptably inconveniencing, a variety of allowable compensations may be discussed following the conclusion of our errand.¡±

    Oegetno¡¯s gills flapped faintly with its intonations, native tongue underlying its translated speech. It was anyone¡¯s guess whether it felt that strongly about the dictate of common manners to vocalize when it had zero chance of speaking Rhaagmini innately, hoped to cause disturbance in its listeners, or simply enjoyed causing internal debate on the matter in persons inclined to that type of behavior. Alternatively, cultivating a persona with such ambiguity of motive could be ascribed to character quirks of the dsaha race.

    Bugbear looked at Sun-Beneath-Skin, and asked her opinion without resorting to explicit vocalizations or nonverbal communiques. Within moments they came to unspoken accord. ¡°That won¡¯t be necessary. Hub room¡¯s just upstairs. Please follow, good Pursuant.¡± Getting up, he quickly contacted Qha Dum Cas again to request that she take care of Two¡¯s needs, then see it back upstairs to its fellows. The hudenot was turning into a nanny, but she wouldn¡¯t mind¡­ probably.

    ¡°Two, we¡¯ll be back shortly,¡± Bugbear told the pwekeits mosuopwe. ¡°Probably. Let the lady with the long tendrils know what she can do to make your stay comfortable, but please remain with your colleagues for a little while after she comes and gets you.¡± He indicated Oegetno. ¡°We have business to which we must attend.¡± When the delegate replied in the affirmative, the human promised to be by later before bidding it farewell.

    As they ascended to the second floor, the New Mongol affectionately rested his chin against his wife¡¯s left arm for reassurance, and to take some reassurance himself. She let out a small huff of amusement, and took conscious stock of her feet before each step. Her self-awareness, and vestigial embarrassed clumsiness, lit a tiny happy coal of love in his heart.

    ¡°You little perverse chimpanzee look-alike,¡± she muttered under her breath.

    ¡°Yes, and I¡¯m your little perverse chimpanzee look-alike.¡±

    ¡°This¡­ isn¡¯t¡­ the time.¡±

    ¡°For you? It¡¯s always the time.¡±

    Huge black marbles didn¡¯t blink as much as flutter. He stood full height again, smiling.

    If she had found anyone else to call her own for the rest of her life, he thought, I¡¯d call it a tragedy. Because it was me, I guess it¡¯s a miracle.

    The thought bound him up, gave him strength, and put a slim firm brace at his back.

    Moments later, in the context hub, the owners of the tavern had found seats on the room¡¯s various couches. The most prestigious dsaha in the city watched them curiously from a stool designed to seat just about anything with a posterior.

    ¡°Have you objection to establishing a full nonrelative context against the Tower of Rhaagm?¡± Oegetno¡¯s bald head transferred its gaze back and forth between them. ¡°It will be paid for from the Jon¡¯s purse. Or, should you prefer, I may formalize a highly limited contract permitting direct folding onto and off of your premises from the Tower¡¯s confines by members of the Court, and their auxiliaries, for the next two hours.¡±

    The human and executioner once again exchanged glances. Bugbear planted a thick palm by his jaw, cracked his neck, and absently replied, ¡°Whichever makes the shortest path to the ¡®conclusion of our errand,¡¯ as you so put it.¡±

    A second later, the Pursuant extended a brutally simplified, conservative contract permitting temporary folding traffic to and from the Hammer and Scapula, and a credential stream, to the pair. Bugbear stamped his consent on the first and made a low, disbelieving whistle when he examined the amount of currency transferred by the second. ¡°Are you sure you didn¡¯t accidentally throw in two or three extra figures on this payment?¡± Sun stiffened when she also read the financial transaction.

    ¡°Consider it a gesture of goodwill from the Court, as well as a measure of how much we value cooperative nondisclosure related to the issues addressed today.¡± The dsaha gave off an aura of sobriety.

    Bugbear privately began compiling a list of topics for which nondisclosure would be prerequisite, and those that warranted involvement of the highest echelon of executive power in the city¡¯s politics. The intersection of those sets made for heady and mildly dizzying stuff. He hammered his apprehension down with the reminder that the Jon¡¯s Court had come to them for something, and managed to refine it into the cool interest of seeing to the fulfillment of a client¡¯s needs. ¡°On that note, what errand brings you here today? Forgive my bluntness, but it seems like you have many capable auditors to offer their services.¡±

    The Pursuant abruptly rose, and its lucent pads focused on some point behind the couch seating the tavern¡¯s owners. Bugbear got a notification of a nearby folding, just as he felt that prickling of the spine which did exactly the same thing. His faculties, both organic and integrated, proclaimed that there was a region of complex spacetime behind him which had ceased to emit sound, sight, and smell for an instant. That sudden void of stimulus stuck out in Rhaagm¡¯s eternal atmosphere of activity like a dut in a pohostinlat hive. Then a genteel, warm voice, used to making speeches in media releases and meetings of heads of state, rang out with the consonance of a chorus of steel bells.

    ¡°We present to you the Jon, whose leadership has served well this Parsed City-State of Rhaagm for the last six thousand three hundred and seventeen of our years.¡±

    ¡°And may all Rhaagmini yet prosper thereby,¡± murmured Bugbear and Sun in unison as they sprang from their seats, turning as they recited the response expected of Rhaagmini personally in attendance when the Jon had aught to say in the name of his office.

    The speaker, as expected, was the Parrot. She wore her regal cockade with a carriage of dignity that denied she was made any greater by the vestments, or that the vestments were enhanced by her own person. Rather, she and they together formed an entity of unique character, suited precisely to perform a public speaker¡¯s function. For reasons known only to Dlg and themselves, the current Court took extreme measures to shroud the Parrot¡¯s real name in secrecy. She was a mar-luph, the only native sentient species on Moedif, so pundits gemwide had a good base of ethnic names to pore over for guesses - regardless of how racist it might make them seem.

    Her boulder-like features had markings in rare colorations, some of them in the microwave range, and most of the rest a deep indigo. The markings along with the greenish white of her stony flesh made the searing red plumage of her headpiece, rising to just above Bugbear¡¯s beltline, strike the empty air like a splash of blood. She reminded Bugbear of Toothskin, even without the obvious common factor of species. They shared a middle-distance sort of demeanor, where they never grew intimate with any person or subject, but also maintained a polymath¡¯s universal interest in the world and all inhabiting it just because it was there. Her caste meant she had six equally spaced limbs branching from her center that were neither arm nor leg, but some hybrid of the two, each shoulder joint wrapped in a pale colored cloth that was a weird teal to biological human eyes. While she supported herself on the frontmost, rearmost, and right pair, the mar-luph¡¯s left pair of hand-feet fluidly swept to the side. The movement communicated introduction, deference, the righteousness of a higher cause. It seemed to push off against some invisible wall so the Parrot was more thrust than self-motivated away from the subject of her focus.

    Said subject was the Jon himself, the tallest man in any room he occupied despite the top of his head falling well below the New Mongol¡¯s chin. He gazed about the confines of the room, the perfectly reflective scooped silver shield of his veil disclosing nothing above his lower lip until the point where his flaxen hair stabbed outward from his scalp. The human wore the simple uncollared shirt and canvas bootpants of a Rhaagmini business president in a casual environment. Aside from the veil of his office, Jonathan¡¯s skin constituted the only unique aspect of his person. A tessellation of electrum coated his outermost red dermal layer over every centimeter, lending him a shimmering sort of mirage appearance. The words in the thin layer of mutable metal spelled out an infinitely repeating phrase so stylized as to be unreadable, unless one knew what it said: Remember my character; forget my deeds.

    The Jon had an honor guard of thirteen mannequins spreading out in the room as Bugbear watched, each precisely the same height as their protectee. Four of them sought the room¡¯s corners, and four more took up places in the cardinal directions. The last collection of five fanned out behind the Jon, facing away at attention, their thin shining forms scarring their principal with spots of light that rebounded off his electrum tattooing in turn.

    After three full seconds of just standing there and being intimidating, the Jon¡¯s lower teeth emerged in a grimace.

    ¡°Pursuant,¡± he said in a voice many considered boyish, ¡°might you communicate your people to less obvious posts? At present they are TRULY distracting, and I am sure they violate some regulation or other. Obstruction of path of egress or the like. And, after all, it is a very strange definition of ¡®helpless¡¯ one must use in order for a person in my office to qualify.¡±

    The green and blue robes beside and behind Bugbear did not twitch, nor did their wearer make a sound, but the mannequins relocated themselves hastily. The figures all condensed, establishing a solid semicircular inward-focused arc behind Jonathan that looked more like a wall than a collection of bipedal digital personality shells.

    The Jon turned his head, perhaps to consider the new placement of his guard, then directed his veiled features toward the staid and composed Parrot, and resignedly remarked, ¡°That will do, in any case. One supposes.¡±

    He turned to the other human and the executioner.

    ¡°Let us abandon decorum, please. It is hardly as though this city has a famine of the stuff.¡±

    Bugbear wasn¡¯t sure it was a request at first, but when the Jon followed with no other statement or diffusion of opinion, the New Mongol indicated one of the couches usually occupied by those waiting for a context, flushed with embarrassment. ¡°Of course! Please, have a seat, Jon.¡±

    ¡°Thank you.¡±

    Bugbear waited for the other human to sit, then he and Sun sat themselves in tandem.

    ¡°In good conscience as the Jon, I cannot officially disclose the purpose of my visit except for its importance,¡± the Jon said, crossing his legs and angling his neck so that his hair flowed sideways off of his scalp. He sniffed, his lower lip curling again but with even more upset than he¡¯d previously shown. ¡°Beneath the hat of my status of a Rhaagm citizen, though, it sits as no less than indecent to keep you in ignorance. Parrot, I do not believe it needs to be said, but cease recording, if you please.¡±

    The Jon fidgeted with something at the back of his head, then his rigid woodmetal veil rolled up into itself. Doing so, he revealed the face which graced the background of nearly any official document originating from the Tower for almost four hundred hexadecades. This was not a profile alien to his constituents, but neither was it shown in person unless the Jon wished to temporarily cast aside the role and theater of his leadership.

    In contrast to his gentle and youthful voice, the leathery sand-colored skin of the man once named Gaim Fellepkos wore ample evidence of struggles, none of it manufactured or removed over his lifetime. The scars came mostly from his personal efforts at repelling Beasts from his demesne during the most protracted incursions inflicted upon it during his time in office; some were like chemical burns, some like punctures from a beveled point, and a couple defied easy comparison. Bugbear once won a long, debilitating slash thanks to a Beast himself, from his left hip down his crotch and inner thigh. It had come courtesy of eliminating a nasty little scud that had popped up inside his family¡¯s home many years previously during a flood of unstable type nine events, and he¡¯d had the injury purged immediately.

    Bugbear¡¯s own face, on the other hand, probably retained its scars for the same sentimental reasons as the leader of Rhaagm¡¯s governance.

    Beneath the Jon¡¯s weals, his bright brown eyes and unlined features had a hard and blocky personality which fit his relatively frank bearing identically to expectation - at times. In the throes of political struggle, he could be as ruthless and convoluted as needed. The eyes which stared from that visage bespoke no unkindness, brooked no fools, and demanded and gave a totality of attention bordering on the manic. The metallic patterns that marched up his features lent his scars a burden of the spirit, like an art exhibit in which the creator featured the garishly painted cadavers of her grandparents.

    ¡°Before we go into any gory detail,¡± began the Jon, ¡°indulge me a moment. The two of you obviously love each other.¡± The brick lips reforged themselves into a shallow smile. ¡°Would you embark on a tragic and likely futile quest for the other¡¯s sake?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡± Bugbear¡¯s voice was coarse like he¡¯d been shouting for an hour or so without inducing recovery treatment on his larynx.

    ¡°Absolutely,¡± came Sun¡¯s response, and her delay was obviously borne of the need to keep her composure.

    ¡°Would you suffer grievous and unusual punishments for the good of your significant other?¡± The Jon was not glib, but those overlapping stripes marking his flesh twisted in something like irony.

    ¡°Gladly.¡± Sun¡¯s filed claws squeezed Bugbear¡¯s triceps firmly.

    Bugbear just smiled, looking at their naked-faced guest.

    Jonathan¡¯s eyes collapsed into needles of superdense scrutiny. His nose dipped lower and the shadows of the dimly blue witchlight showed where it was missing small chunks. A voice of ripped metal slashed the air with a broadsword swipe meant to destroy pretext and self-delusion.

    ¡°Would you kill for your beloved?¡±

    When Bugbear reflected on his attitude later, he was glad for his self-control. His desired visceral response was to pull his wife to her feet, take her in his arms, and kiss her full on the mouth right there and then. Realizing how juvenile his impulse actually was, and that Sun-Beneath-Skin would probably suffer a blow to her self-confidence should he act so, he next wanted to leap in front of the Jon, berate his obtuseness, maybe shake him until good sense took up residence in his skull.

    Instead, Bugbear clenched his teeth so hard they felt a hair¡¯s width from exploding, then bit out a string of words like pearls of depleted uranium.

    ¡°Jon, I¡¯m sure you know that before we were married, I went out of my way to ensure this woman never had to be scared of people again. One day, when she said she wasn¡¯t sure if she could or should cope with the world, I started teaching her to fight: warlock skills, firearms, close quarters, information manipulation. We kept at that regimen until she could throw me across the room in any of those disciplines. The time when she managed to knock me out cold as we sparred one afternoon marked a peak of happiness in my life.¡±

    He smiled.

    ¡°I¡¯d die for her.¡±

    He didn¡¯t bother looking at Sun; he knew that he would see the sentiment chiseled into her face.

    ¡°Exactly what I had hoped you would say,¡± the Jon noted, baring a toothy smile of his own. The smile shuffled back into obscurity, and he leaned forward. ¡°Please understand that I feel the same way about the people of this city. And this is crucially relevant because, at woeful times in life, choices have to be made which favor the very lives of some citizens above others.¡± Two hands accented with the shade of red sand at dawn clasped themselves. Jonathan rested his chin upon the compound fist.

    ¡°As it should happen, one of the citizens elevated to unwanted attention in my recent thoughts goes by the name of Sebastio Artaxerxes.¡±

    Bugbear didn¡¯t know what he was hearing. A threat? A compliment? Some sort of twisted poetry? He waited for the Jon to continue, but felt his understanding and patience both shrink to starved ribbons.

    ¡°This afternoon,¡± continued the Jon, ¡°a human man named Christopher Leffikan went through re-lifing in a city clinic. That man¡¯s pre-interruption duty was on one of the facetary scouting teams tasked explicitly with combating the efforts of Niall ¡®the Nightmare Count¡¯ Bennosuke to find and possess the Maker¡¯s artifact called Caladhbolg. Leffikan¡¯s last update, pushed to central control on a lengthy delay, recorded conclusive evidence of Count¡¯s success, and his demise was a direct effect of the same.¡±

    The Jon¡¯s brows knit.

    ¡°What is more, a foretelling was captured and assessed earlier this morning which described, and I quote, ¡®the Maker¡¯s prodigal sword visiting the Maker¡¯s promised land.¡¯ Said prophecy - interestingly enough, given by our own Court (and no, you don¡¯t need to know from whom) - rated a confidence level of almost unity and a positive glut of usable compares by no less than four College of Prophecy chapters. The telling specifically named a ¡®Pickering¡¯ as well. It also made mention of the ¡®sword¡¯s Persian bearer¡¯ - and you are probably passingly familiar with the Earth Standard basis of the name Artaxerxes, yes?¡±

    The Jon¡¯s smile returned with a knife edge.

    ¡°The Tower has been a very busy place today, yes indeed.¡±

    Bugbear felt a soapy burning heat flood his arteries.

    ¡°What do you want?¡± His voice rasped and his eye began to itch.

    ¡°What I want holds small enough sway on current events. The state requires an open and honest judgment on the character of Sebastio Artaxerxes.¡± The other human¡¯s posture compressed on the vertical dimension, as though pushed against a wall under the influence of a rolling pin. ¡°We believe that he will reenter the city through this very room¡¯s utilities, on account of his apparent relationship with you. We also believe he poses a significant liability to Rhaagm society, on par with a monumental Beast incursion or even a Ripper instance. If he indeed holds Caladhbolg, then he is at least as dangerous as many of our resident entities classified under ¡®quasi-deity.¡¯ Frankly, we must ascertain if it serves the public good to attempt a culling, and I assure both of you this arbitration is not undertaken lightly.¡±

    Bugbear flinched. He heard Sun gasp.

    ¡°When I was probing your dedication to each other with quite presumptuous questioning,¡± the Jon continued, ¡°it was in the name of eliciting sympathy. Not because I desire your moral support, though it will not be discarded if offered. That sympathy will hopefully convey the gravitas of our crossroads.¡±

    ¡°You want us to be willin¡¯ to put him under the axe if need be.¡±

    Sun-Beneath-Skin was monotone in the extreme; anyone who knew executioners would recognize the anger she wrestled below the surface.

    ¡°I want your opinion on Artaxerxes¡¯s character to better determine if he needs to be removed in the name of the greater good.¡± The Jon¡¯s eyes flared, then softened. ¡°Make no mistake, he will be removed should the safety of this city be jeopardized. I hope, sincerely, to avoid that weighing of lives.¡±

    A flickering flash heralded the reappearance of the Jon¡¯s visor. Leaning back against the couch in his resumed role, the man sighed. ¡°I also hope you will forgive me if I ask you both to take an oath by Crippled False before opining on this issue.¡±

    Sun and Bugbear, however unhappily, obliged.

    ¡°Describe Sebastio Artaxerxes¡¯s personality,¡± the Jon directed once they had finished.

    ¡°Self-sacrificin¡¯,¡± Sun answered immediately.

    ¡°Austere,¡± Bugbear followed, slightly embarrassed at the nearness of their responses. Then he added, ¡°The kind who¡¯d take a year to pick a color when buying a new disk, and two seconds to push someone away from a speeding bus.¡± That seemed to surprise the Jon.

    Sun pondered a moment, before saying, ¡°Angry.¡±

    ¡°Elaborate, please,¡± invited Jonathan, looking at her.

    ¡°He changed, after Count went and hurt those people. He didn¡¯t-¡±

    ¡°Sorry,¡± the visored man interjected, ¡°I was unclear. At whom is Sebastio¡¯s anger directed? Himself? Society? His family?¡±

    Sun, taken aback, put a bit more vitriol into her words than she might have otherwise allowed. ¡°You¡¯ve got it backward. He¡¯s almost never upset with people. It¡¯s actions he mislikes. Though, I guess he¡¯s probably madder¡¯n Hell at Count after all those interruptions; that¡¯s an exception, though.¡±

    ¡°... Interesting.¡± The Jon gazed at the ceiling. ¡°Mad enough to kill, would you think?¡±

    ¡°Possibly,¡± said Bugbear. The Jon looked at him, and he looked sideways at his wife. ¡°Sebastio has, to my knowledge, deliberately interrupted exactly one person in his lifetime. If you have access to his permanent records then you know that was under highly extenuating circumstances.¡± Bugbear made a noncommittal gesture, hoping to hide the uncertainty welling up inside. ¡°If it weren¡¯t a life-or-death scenario already, I don¡¯t think he would have even considered it.¡± That was the absolute truth, but under his oath he had to continue. ¡°That said, if happenstance should put him in a position to dispense martial justice, from a place of inarguable moral superiority¡­ I think he might enjoy it.¡±

    ¡°As would many, to my own thinking,¡± replied the Jon. He seemed to catch wind of the magnitude of his hosts¡¯ discomfort. ¡°Even so. One more question, then: if Sebastio Artaxerxes were a trid, holojector, sensory film, or like kind of media production, what genre would you ascribe to him?¡±

    ¡°Are you serious?¡± Bugbear didn¡¯t even breathe for two or three seconds before his rebuttal, so surprising and apparently unrelated was the inquiry.

    One could hear the narrowing of Jonathan¡¯s eyes.

    ¡°Mortally.¡±

    Bugbear crushed his desire to deride the statement. After several candidate examinations, he said, ¡°A historical documentary, one about Ast immigrants and how they had to weather the more extreme Aidenist denominations.¡± He wasn¡¯t quite sure what Sun might say to him about that later, but he hoped it wouldn¡¯t stir up painful genetic recollections.

    For her part, Sun sounded almost weepy when she said, ¡°A tragic comedy.¡±

    Jonathan felt the armrest of his couch. He cocked his head, silently considering the pair.

    ¡°I find your choice of words reassuring, and put great stock in your evaluation - by knowing what YOU people are like, the Court also gains a more complete picture of the man¡¯s profile. More complete, and across different laterals. Know this: Sebastio is a citizen of this city. He will not face summary punishment the moment he rejoins our community.¡±

    A grim ripple stirred over the trophies littering the Jon¡¯s face.

    ¡°But we must take caution in the name of countless civilians. Whatever insights you might have on his character are pearls beyond price.¡±

    Bugbear¡¯s left hand clenched into a fist the size of the Jon¡¯s entire head.

    ¡°I¡¯m just a dutiful citizen, and haven¡¯t the right to stand in the way of true justice,¡± he said calmly. ¡°But know this: if you or anyone else tries to instigate a brawl in this establishment, or any other state of belligerent discord, you will either answer to the institution¡¯s own justice or kill me.¡± He closed his human eye, the emerald lens of his fake glinting off the witchlights. ¡°The Hammer and Scapula tolerates no violations of our rules.¡±

    The reply was clipped, proper, sincere, and as yielding as redmetal.

    ¡°We ever strive for civility.¡±

    The Jon¡¯s head sagged as he expelled jets of air from his nostrils, skin decorations scattering tiny motes of light.

    ¡°Now, there is good reason to suspect your friend plans to visit this day and very hour, in this tavern. I ask a final boon: that the Court¡¯s representatives here might persist either until Artaxerxes returns or it becomes ten on-the-clock.¡± A grandiose indication of resignation, through tone-of-speech as well as corporal tics. ¡°Sadly, at that time I must retire to prepare for dealings with a pack of scavengers who prefer to be named Bookers.¡±

    A hiccup of executioner laughter from Sun, immediately snuffed out with a mortified expression.

    ¡°My apologies,¡± grated the Jon, noticing the look of chastisement the Parrot threw his way, ¡°I have no idea how I so misspoke. I should have said ¡®scavengers with the imponderable ability of lengthening the decision-making process.¡¯ If one is to be perfectly honest, though,¡± he added with the smallest smile ever to grow upon a human face, ¡°this batch does show more willingness to engage in proactive lawmaking, and less in pure reactionary scuffles, than statistically expected.¡±

    The Hammer and Scapula¡¯s owners found no objection to their guests prolonging their stay.

    After less than fourteen minutes, an unopened simplex connection anchored into place near one of the context hub¡¯s walls, shortly before Bugbear approved its activation. The New Mongol raised his single hairy brow when he realized the source was from Bequast. The simplex connection - a very special type nine event - was functionally more like a folding than establishing a nonrelative context, but it allowed its users to step from one locale into another in a differentiable fashion. If they wished, simplex travelers could instantly snap from one facetary location to another, but many people preferred a gradual introduction to possibly disparate physics over the immediacy of there-then-not-there.

    Through the shimmering barrier of the simplex connection, Bugbear saw two figures walking hand in hand. When they crossed into Rhaagm proper, he was about to ask Sebastio about his new friend when he noticed the Cambrian speaking in archaic Earth Standard French to his companion.

    ¡°We are here, Louis,¡± he was saying. ¡°This is the¡­ er, bar that my friend owns. Now, you need to keep wearing your little button for a while. There are-¡±

    Sebastio Artaxerxes stopped talking to the clearly very young man beside him, and every gaze in the room was arrested. Sebastio¡¯s eyes glued to the Jon, wide enough that by rights they should have fallen out of his head. For nearly everyone else, the subject of the moment was either the huge pair of orange organs in the recently-arrived Rhaagmini¡¯s skull, or the slight youth with the youthful mustache.

    The youth in question wore a negative-mass bead, keeping him from getting overcome by Rhaagm¡¯s gravity; being one-and-a-half times that of Earth Standard, he surely wasn¡¯t prepared for the sudden stresses on his legs. It was exactly the sort of thing which might have been solved with a skein. Instead of a skein¡¯s environment-fixing personal assistance (seeing as he had no cerv-mesh to manage semi-porous Ullos containers), he had to rely on more inconvenient methods. As long as the bead remained in place, well, it worked.

    Before a breath could fit in edgewise, all heads swiveled when a perfectly synchronized series of claps assaulted the room¡¯s air. Behind the seated Jonathan, thirteen mannequins had rotated, still standing in their semicircle formation, to face Sebastio with an unnerving singleness of purpose.

    And with a clenched fist or grasper across the torso, they were each saluting.

    ¡°Well, this is the most interesting day I¡¯ve had for at least two hexadecades,¡± murmured the Jon, probably fixing the members of his guard with a quizzical look behind his veil.

    ¡°Excuse me,¡± said a small but dense voice in French, and the short man who must have been Louis received a great deal of attention. The mustached boy was staring with interested confusion at Sun, his right hand still in Sebastio¡¯s while his left lay flat against his waist near his navel.

    Bugbear realized the boy¡¯s conversational partner did not understand French, and quickly passed a clone of another relevant language kernel to his wife. She gratefully accepted, and in as soft a voice as she could manage, asked, ¡°Yes?¡±

    ¡°Excuse me,¡± said Louis again, looking up at the creature who towered far over him even with her sitting and him standing. ¡°Is you a goat-puppy-snake?¡±

    Sun, after a moment, made a self-conscious attempt to replicate a human smile, succeeding remarkably well for a person without the ability to draw upward the corners of one¡¯s mouth.

    ¡°Not exactly, though it is no problem at all if you call me that.¡± By the cultured air of the reply she could have been a native speaker, and despite the textbook grammar not one nuance of the statement was generated by her mesh.

    The unanticipated joviality of the scene shattered when Sebastio growled at Bugbear accusingly.

    ¡°What in the Beast-soaked Purple is this?¡±

    His Rhaagmini wavered with something worse than wrath; he sounded betrayed.

    Before the New Mongol could even frame an excuse, the Pursuant addressed the Cambrian arrival with molten imperative.

    ¡°Sebastio Artaxerxes, it is requested that you remove the vestments enshrouding your right arm,¡± the dsaha declared. Without anyone having seen the action, the Rhaagmini in blue and green raiments had lowered a tendril to one of the control globes at its warsash.

    ¡°Pursuant,¡± grated Bugbear through a feral smile, ¡°I suggest you either stop threatening another of our guests, in our franchise and home, or you had better kill me now.¡±

    Aiming its body posture just the tiniest bit in his direction, Oegetno¡¯s faintly opaline lucent pads practically stuck to Bugbear¡¯s skin with leechlike suction. Bugbear felt the kind of terror most humans might experience upon being locked in a closed space with an aged container of mustard gas, but showed not an iota of his fear. If he, Sun, and the rest were converted to an equivalent quantity of heat along with the Hammer and Scapula, it would at least be quick.

    The Parrot flinched and the Jon¡¯s mouth turned into a disgusted scowl, both looking to their fellow member of the Jon¡¯s Court. Sun, bless her heart, did not as much as blink. Louis seemingly tried to absorb every miniscule detail of his surroundings as well as comprehend the proceedings in this unknown language.

    Sebastio stared unintimidated at the Pursuant. The most shocking thing, to Bugbear¡¯s mind, was that the Cambrian seemed to debate assaulting the single most well-armed biologically born person currently in existence. His knees bent, he seemed to be hoisting the more free of his two hands like a bludgeon, slivers of teeth escaping his lips. Then, after seven eternities, Sebastio gently released his grasp on Louis. He began unwinding a cape of some kind which swaddled the length of his right arm.

    His right arm which noticeably extended centimeters farther than it had when Bugbear and Sebastio last spoke.

    Without flourish or foppishness the cape parted ways with something that the eye was, at first, not prepared to correctly interpret. That collection of angular orange veins emanating from the buried point of the sword surely was not part and parcel of an organ made of flesh. That metal beast¡¯s head couldn¡¯t be opening and closing like a fist. Of course such extensive vanity augments were widely if inconsistently seen throughout society, but rarely in such a gaudy form, and never on the person of Sebastio Artaxerxes.

    The dark-skinned man¡¯s harsh and truly novel orange eyes almost churned. He raised the shining surface of his blade-limb, and the shallow twin fullers twisted as the head shape turned and its jaws clamped shut. A clenched hand which, Bugbear realized, clapped against his friend¡¯s own chest in a militia salute not quite mockingly replicating those given by the baker¡¯s dozen of mannequins across the room.

    The Cambrian¡¯s scowl had a drop of smile in it as he faced the Pursuant, a ball of fabric compressed in his fleshy hand, and said, ¡°I see my efforts at hindering a criminal have made me one myself.¡±

    ¡°You, sir, are no criminal. You are a danger.¡± The Jon turned to the Pursuant, and described a choking grasp with his thick fingers, apparently aiming his shot of sentiment at the dsaha. ¡°Oegetno, I believe we can dispose with the posturing. Your demands have been met. No matter how dangerous, this man is a citizen and - to our current knowledge - absent any clandestine intent.¡± A bifurcated instant elapsed, then Jonathan harshly responded to some unheard discourse. ¡°We will have no exclusive direct channel dialogue at this time. If matters are discussed within this room we will do so verbally and with the involvement of all present.¡±

    Oegetno¡¯s grip tightened around the chrome sphere on its warsash. ¡°With due respect, Jon, he possesses an existence-class weapon. The presence of such an implement in your proximity renders anything short of the maxima of suspicion and preparedness for hostile engagement indefensibly irresponsible.¡± The dsaha¡¯s head turned a single degree, lucent pads striking with their subtly deeper color. ¡°My interfaces with the city¡¯s mannequins are, as of now, shared. Unless I should be sorely mistaken, Caladhbolg¡¯s resident¡­ entity, if that is a correct designation, will permit its holder to bypass most or all privilege checks on core city utilities, up to and including most assets of the Tower not slaved to your person.¡±

    For what could have been the first time in the man¡¯s leadership, Bugbear thought, Jonathan¡¯s hanging jaw showcased a candid and total bafflement before people outside of his Court. The dumbstruck appearance smoothly transitioned to one of unshaking mettle. ¡°Pursuant, I asked Master Artaxerxes¡¯s associates here for their cooperation to fulfill a series of goals. One, of course, was appropriate placement for dialogue with our subject. Another was the elicitation of earnest character witness. Now, Sebastio will get the chance to speak in his own defense.

    ¡°He may earn retribution in future, in which case he shall answer to justice, but he will not be coerced into discretion or chicanery through force or intimidation. If you remain obstinate, I will remove you from the Court¡¯s peerage.¡±

    The man leaned toward the dsaha, and when he continued speaking it was with the voice of a single-purpose-built machine.

    ¡°Do not doubt me; I will take the chance inherent to rendering your tools and office temporarily ineffective, even if I have to go and choose your successor later.¡±

    Bugbear abruptly had a vivid image of the locked room shared with a quantity of mustard gas shrinking to form a perfect cube. A perfect cube just sufficient in size that its metaphorical occupant had to curl around the ominous container in order to successfully occupy the claustrophobic enclosure.

    Well, he thought, slightly giddy. If blood starts spilling, I know whose side I¡¯ll be taking, Rhaagm citizen or not.

    ¡°It shall be as you desire, Jonathan.¡±

    Though it seemed to cost blood, the Pursuant¡¯s reply coincided with a shaky, shivering surrender of the grasp on the control globe. It crossed its tentacle-like grasping limbs behind its torso, returning its gaze to the dark-skinned Cambrian human.

    The Jon¡¯s smile slowly burned a small hole through the tension like a winter sun through fog.

    ¡°Excellent. Now let us put violence out of our minds for the moment.¡± The man¡¯s smile became both forlorn and contemplative, and he considered the form of Louis. ¡°And for the moment, let us converse in French, where possible. Our other guest probably wishes to understand the minutes of our discussion - certainly, he has a vested interest in the outcome.¡±

    All did not magically become well, but as Sebastio sighed and blinked those strange new eyes, Bugbear felt an itch along the spine of his spirit subside.

    After all, the Hammer and Scapula¡¯s charter had revolved around one simple thing: the discourse of negotiations and diplomacy.

 Interlude Amidst Suns

    Yawning Kris was ever so slightly cool.

    He floated across the heavens of Rhaagm and similar civilizations, doing what he did often: sleeping, watching, and thinking. The fact that he was less than warm brought trouble to his ponderings. It meant one of a handful of things: an onset of portentous spirit, the birth of a new fellow Being of Old, or an extinguishing of a great many of his children. However, he knew that other signs would presage Olds being nurtured into their reborn existences, and that he had the count of his sun progeny of whom no more than a scant few perished each instant. Thus, he prepared himself to bear some kind of witness, and asked one of his burning children to make an account of his words and actions lest he temporarily slip the coil of awareness.

    When the words came, they flowed on a level below conscious thought, but originating from a far higher source. They pierced the separating barrier of self-and-agency, tunneled through it, and left a smooth shaft into which ideas and images might be threaded. Yawning Kris became a bead, and the necklace which bore him along had so very many interesting fibers. The gestalt of one such fiber overtook his supernatural person and passed along a message, and that message he spoke aloud as suns do: with bursts of fiery decay and and concentrated radiation, magnetic theft, wide bands of potential energy converted to heat and absorbed by any observing entities.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

    ¡°The Crone shall chase and find

    That which she seeks to bind

    And with its help unwind

    A Purple wilderness.

    An epilogue unwrit

    Will fall into the pit

    And this life mortal quit

    And birth a breaking stress.

    New Beastly Purple heirs

    May climb thought¡¯s winding stairs

    And catch all unawares

    With novel gentleness.¡±

    When Yawning Kris declined into speechlessness again, turning over his own declarations and probing them for meaning, his witness child bore the message across facetary boundaries and urged other suns to remember. Look, it seemed to say in the intangible and unsymbolized grammar which passed between the singularity-spirits indwelling the core of many, many stars. Our father has spoken. Our father makes new declaration.

    During the time between that moment and when Yawning Kris summoned the Herald - that messenger-hunter of all Beings of Old - the plurality of cosmos instances resounded silently with the consternated intrigue of stars¡­ and the stars knew not what to think.

 A Dreaded Decompression

    If it survives long enough, an entropy-subject culture with the concept of ownership will eventually meet a point of advancement where it temporarily gains the illusion of license for irresponsibility. This usually occurs near the advent of volitional mass-energy allocation, or a substitutable milestone. The culture¡¯s members begin to embrace the expedient of creating whatever they desire whenever they desire it, and spreading out to the most distant reaches of the cosmos in fits of wanton life. They quickly learn to treat their wills as the consequent of highest worth. Eventually, though, either the society retrogresses to a smaller size, or a combination of population increase and appreciation of industry leads to every atom and every calorie at the culture¡¯s disposal, and every place where an atom or calorie might be stored, becoming claimed in due time. Even if the subset of space occupied by the culture can be expanded to a larger scope, that larger scope will in turn eventually be claimed, and so on. This end to medium-range thinking and economics represents, statistically significantly more frequently than wars of liberation or the crusades of the just, the greatest cause of civil strife among technologically motile cultures.

    -A summary of the Postulate of Integrated Universal Contendership

    The room grew quieter than silent.

    Sebastio Artaxerxes watched some of the most powerful people in existence, debating as to his eventual fate.

    As they spoke among themselves, he spoke among his selves as a creature converted from an entity into a minimal collective.

    We¡¯re here, Caladhbolg. Home for me, and you, I suppose.

    <That is not my name. This is not and has never been my home. In the case of the former I shall resign myself to acceptance, since you seem to find ¡°Malumortis¡± morally objectionable; in the case of the latter, I cannot.>

    That surprised Sebastio quite a bit, and flew in the face of apocryphal teachings.

    What? Weren¡¯t you made here, at the foundation and founding of the Tower of Rhaagm?

    <My shell¡¯s construction concluded in a very different realm, long before Rhaagm became a twinkle in my creator¡¯s eye. However, the kernel which eventually formed a scaffold for my ego accrued many iterations without my awareness, even while it nourished me. Eventually I gained the necessary cohesion to ascend, forked from the kernel, and evolved into a free agent which my creator used to his purpose.>

    If you don¡¯t mind me asking, what was that?

    <To cut some certain things from the fabric of existence, to protect those things he cherished, and to glorify his name so that others might see the worthiness of his cause.>

    Sebastio¡¯s mental hairs rose from his mental dermis.

    What cause does the Maker pursue, exactly? he pondered, wondering if he would get a disappointing answer or one that would change his life.

    It turned out that he got neither.

    <That all minds lesser and greater be granted the fullest opportunity to embrace whatever foolishness or wisdom they elect.>

    As opposed to what?

    Even to a man used to conditional stipulations on existence¡¯s little so-called constants like entropy and time, sufficiently plural to cause many Earth Standard humans a categorical psychological meltdown, that sort of statement seemed like a tautology.

    <As opposed to opposing the idea that ideas besides those besides one¡¯s own have lesser or equivalent profit than those belonging to other idea-opposing creatures.>

    Sebastio gazed at the artificially colored flesh of his arm and felt a shared mind give him a hand in untangling the lexical gemship crash of the statement. Eventually the meaning became clear as painted glass instead of clear as baked brick.

    So, when the Maker dislikes someone, it¡¯s because they¡¯re set on putting everyone else under their jackboots. Now, why exactly would a person submit to another¡¯s rule willingly, given the choice, if the ruler considers them inherently inferior?

    His internal eyes crossed a bit, trying to confirm whether that interpretation was correct.

    <You assume that the one being forced to submit has a choice in, or even awareness of, the subjugation of their agency. That is an optimistic and - if you will excuse me - na?ve perspective. It reassures me that you do not possess root permissions.>

    Sebastio felt a mental model of a superstructure he hadn¡¯t even realized he possessed slowly tilt, and saw struts and rivets line up in just such a way to suggest, to reveal, something humongous.

    You¡¯re saying that the Olds have some form of industry for enforcing one level or another of thought control and puppeteering the populace.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    The personality within the sword made an emanation suggestive of a small razor being stropped, or liquefied metamorphic stone spraying from open lesions in a lava field.

    <The fact that you only now articulate this thought concerns me enormously. Yes, the Beings of Old among whose number my creator is counted have numerous handles and proxies insinuated throughout the world. They are a very fractious bunch, but that statement applies on a uniform basis. An exceedingly tiny portion of the people affected directly by these mechanisms have a concrete knowledge of their nature and that of their masters. Even so, to not guess that entities older than the Parsed City-State have the resourcefulness to manipulate macroscopic aspects of your lives indicates a troubling lack of inductive reasoning. For that matter, your memories proclaim your awareness of Technician West¡¯s influence tightening about Rhaagm¡¯s information systems.>

    Sebastio was about to shoot something back defensively. The name thrown in his face made him stop abruptly, though.

    Technician West. Is¡­ is that an Old?

    A stillness so complete it made him almost writhe in protest seized Sebastio¡¯s arm. Caladhbolg became dormant, the dormancy of something experiencing the kind of stress that in humans caused blood to run from the pores.

    Obviously Sebastio¡¯s newest appendage had extraordinary opinions about the individual in question. Eventually, it dignified him with a response.

    <Technician West is indeed a Being of Old. He has long considered himself my creator¡¯s nemesis - in fact, virtually since my creator¡¯s recognition among his peerage. If any of my creator¡¯s other constructs have been compromised, as you know they have, Technician West surely holds the blame. Your memory of your interactions with Target also suggests this as the case.>

    I don¡¯t recall specifically going over my time with you concerning Target in our past¡­ conversations, thoughts, whatever.

    <My implicit awareness of your mental faculties covers a period stretching some nine and a half months back from our joining. I can recall the events at Gursral as completely as if you shared a sensory with me. I can recall the emotive state you had when witnessing wanton killing of your building¡¯s other tenants. I can recall how you disliked the fact of your endorphins when you stepped in that puddle of the young disseminator from down the hall. Do not feel ashamed.>

    The very deliberately slow phrase might have driven Sebastio to tear the thing from his flesh at that moment, had it not repurposed his flesh so that it had long since become their flesh.

    Why do you mock me? he asked.

    <I do not mock. I provide opportunities for you to find self-revelation. If you find yourself so distasteful, how can you possibly protect your adopted family when you refuse to even confront your own failings?>

    Sebastio nearly snarled, but - by the grace of all that was good - he stepped back from his anger.

    I will do what I must.

    <You will find yourself swayed to follow the stream of your personality, as are all sapients. The Jon spoke truly when he called you a danger. Use the danger which you pose to fit your purpose.>

    So you want me to do what I already planned to do, and hold anyone who might finger Louis at bay until Bequast finally gets its head out of its own digestive tract.

    <No. I want you to be more ambitious.>

    In what way? he responded, more than passingly leery. In my life I have had few ambitions besides the broad-strokes aim of helping people. I helped save the woman who went on to become my best friend¡¯s wife, and became a murderer in the balance. I got a laundry list of companies to recognize and take better precautions in their business security, and cost not a few people their prestige by showing them up. I helped make friends with a petty, vicious atypical whose whole life was a string of miseries - maybe even saved him from self-destruction by trying to relate to him like he was a regular person - but put him in a position to kill a great many innocents. I stole you away from him, as it were, and look where that has gotten me. So if you have a specific objective, please get on with it, that I can decide how much pain and how much good might come of the experience.

    <My creator would see your vacillation of spirit as deplorable. Very well - you have obtained, in the form of myself, a treasure of great price. Use me as a bargaining chip, a weapon, a source of ethos, whatever you will, to carve out a great name for yourself - and by extent, my creator. Here is the specific objective you desire so much: come into possession, by rook or by crook, of an Yrdkish estate.>

    A semiquaver of dull roaring churned in Sebastio¡¯s mind, grace notes of bristly plosive heartbeats followed, and capping it all flowed thirteen measures of silence.

    Rephrase that final statement if you please, he eventually thought.

    <To those with true power, all things become possible - use that power to make a place of salvation not only for those you would foster as family, but for any you deem needful.>

    By blackmailing those in authority, he said.

    <By showing those in authority that you have the right to join their ranks.>

    The right¡­! I¡¯d run afoul of the Republic Lords in a heartbeat, and at that point I might as well ask they give me an estate¡¯s ex nihilo engine.

    <If you fail to show any more cunning than you currently bring to bear, you will assuredly fail. Find the right mark, put to them an appropriate deal or challenge, and reap the benefits. Turn Something Into Most.>

    There is -

    Sebastio stopped. He¡¯d intended, ironically, to verbally run the sword through for maintaining any serious contemplation of such a politically volatile suggestion. But divine providence seemed to have planted inspiration in his head. It was the kind of inspiration which probably signified necessity for medical attention. Whether it had an iota of wisdom, he¡¯d have to see.

    There is¡­ something which might work.

    Caladhbolg supplied inquisitive stimulation. Sebastio outlined the shaky form of an idea.

    <THAT,> the sword admitted with something like impressed enthusiasm, <is the kind of poetic justice that will provide you with a historic legacy.>

    Frowning contemplatively, the man pondered how to breach the topic with the Jon¡¯s Court.

 A Dreaded Kinship

    ¡°Those who follow Aiden¡¯s call to seek peace fall into three camps: those who retreat from the world for solace, those who dismantle any serious source of strife, and those who raise common ground between foreign shores. One philosophy is effective, one philosophy is convenient, one philosophy is moral. Today we share a single characteristic with all of these: a yearning for that elusive arcanum called ¡®home.¡¯¡±

    -Dean Rooolishiib Deriree, after founding the Bequastish daughter-colony ¨²da

    Louis felt a little fist clench in his chest, sitting next to the nice but scary monster lady.

    It was odd, but even if he hadn¡¯t been told about the tall, fuzzy, horned woman with the blue man, he might¡¯ve guessed she was a lady; she behaved almost like the Missus in a way. She wanted him to call her ¡°Big Sister¡± or ¡°Sun,¡± but he could not force himself to address her directly in any case. Her teeth and jaws (and her nose, a little) made him think of a wolf, and between those large sharp white points and her eyes like coal, he felt like she might just bite him if he did anything besides sit there and listen.

    His friend Sebastio talked still with the odd man called Jean, and the other strange creature that looked a bit like a rock, and the other other one which looked like those fish things that the fishmongers around Paris had called squid.

    Thinking about how Paris no longer had fishmongers, or stonemasons, or Papa, made Louis feel another fist swell up behind his ribs next to the first.

    When Sebastio had asked him whether he¡¯d like the chance to find a new life at the place to which the oddly spoken dark-skinned man was going, Louis¡¯s first thought was of the Missus and her admonishments. He¡¯d learned about the bad things in the world at an early age, when Papa lost his brother to ¡°that English dog¡¯s savages in uniform.¡± Working under the Missus, he knew the kind of men who took extremely special interest in youths, and whose character was usually buried under the cold soot of their burned hearts. Before all the girls save Marta had left, they had told plenty of stories.

    It was a sign of how bad he knew it had become in the vicinity of Paris that he, and more reluctantly, the Missus, considered the fate he was sure awaited him in Sebastio¡¯s company an improvement over the Great Mountain. He had managed to cry a single tear after the strange tall man came back from talking with the Missus. He¡¯d thought he¡¯d gotten rid of them all long since.

    After Louis saw Sebastio following the calamitous moments which so badly damaged the Great Mountain, though, the lad¡¯s reaction was a fearful interest in the odd man¡¯s sunset-colored gaze. He did not remember the man having orange eyes, though Louis supposed he might not have seen them before. That had largely reverted to startled resignation once the stranger produced a fistful of gold from¡­ somewhere, and given it to the Missus. She¡¯d embraced Louis like a son, her own eyes sad but unmarked by tears when she told him to be strong, and released him into Sebastio¡¯s custody. Before the two, man and almost-man, had left the Great Mountain together, she¡¯d also arrested the newcomer with a challenge delivered in a dead-dry croak.

    ¡°You treat that lad well, like a man, or may God damn your soul,¡± she¡¯d told Sebastio, from her seat in the Great Mountain¡¯s booth.

    Sebastio¡¯s response, nearly as dry and at least as gravid, had given Louis pause.

    ¡°May God damn me twice if I don¡¯t,¡± he proclaimed, before turning and gesturing to the subject of his dealings. ¡°Let us go, Louis. I hope you find happier times in your next home.¡±

    It was when he¡¯d given the younger man no fewer than twenty three gold coins, all of them without stamped faces, that Louis first wondered how he might have been mistaken about Sebastio¡¯s intentions.

    Before nightfall that day, on a wooded path moving out from the north side of the city, Sebastio had given him a strange round white button, impossibly clean, and fastened it to his filthy tunic. He told Louis that he mustn¡¯t remove it, or else he would be in trouble. Then he¡¯d done a short ritual of some kind, and then the two of them were still in the woods, but some quite different woods. The air smelled more like stone than forest, and the trees all waved about with striking green bark that looked like iron or maybe copper after it rusts to uselessness.

    ¡°That was very much not how I planned it,¡± Sebastio muttered, and seemed to glare down at his wrapped right arm. Eventually he turned to Louis, and leaned back against the side of a green-bark tree.

    ¡°Louis,¡± he said, ¡°we now stand in a place a long, long way away from Paris. I cannot explain exactly how that is right here and right now.¡±

    He crouched at a vague angle to lessen the discrepancy between head heights.

    ¡°A few things should be said, though. I¡¯m not a witch; at least, not in the way you use the word. However, many of the people we¡¯ll see in this place may resemble odd creatures or even demons.¡±

    Louis was unsure of how to respond to a person suddenly revealing that they possessed the soul of a madman, but he nodded anyway. Marie and Marta - the two girls who had always been nice to a strange sad boy - gave well-meaning advice to him for many circumstances as he¡¯d gotten older. Don¡¯t take money without checking it first. Close doors nearly all the way, unless privacy is required. He wished they¡¯d mentioned something about dealing with crazy people.

    Sebastio kneaded at his eyes¡¯ orbits.

    ¡°I know how I must sound, but just hold on before making decisions on my sanity. We¡¯re going to be staying not far from here for the next four days, and then I¡¯ll be taking you to a friend for a little while. A very good friend.¡±

    Sebastio knelt, and those eyes, no longer blue but orange, seemed to be pleading with Louis.

    ¡°You¡¯re not a fool, Louis, but this needs to be said: please, please try to act like you¡¯re doing nothing out of the ordinary while we¡¯re here. If you don¡¯t, I may get in trouble, and certain people may try to send you back to Paris.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°Because they don¡¯t think I should bring you with me.¡±

    ¡°Oh.¡±

    Louis looked around, and stared in wonder at a large strange bird. No, not a bird; it had wings, but it also had a tail like a snake, and its horsey face drooped like a stocking as it looked back. It made the sound of a baby stuck in the depths of a dry quarry, a sound which somehow made him smell old paint and think of a teal sunset, then alit and soared off.

    ¡°Why is you doing this with me?¡± the French youth asked.

    Those lips bent into a smile of sorts.

    ¡°Because I¡¯m not a good man, but I hope to do some good things. Maybe, just maybe, you can be given a little piece of good as well. You had enough bad for any number of people, and you deserve better. I suspect you¡¯ll live a short and unpleasant life if you remain in Paris.¡±

    ¡°Sir?¡± Louis felt each word sinking into his brain like an arrow. As they pierced and went through, his comprehension leaked out and down to his feet.

    ¡°Please,¡± said the taller figure, ¡°either call me Sebastio, or call me brother.¡± Another smile, more honest but also sad. ¡°Do you have a real brother?¡±

    ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°Hmmm. Well, now you do.¡±

    And for four days, he and Sebastio ate little blocks of fruity and meaty cheese, staying in a forest cabin located somewhere called Bikst, or something like that. Most of the time Louis spent whittling sticks from the strange trees into shapes he never would have thought of before meeting his¡­ brother. The taller man didn¡¯t seem to be doing much, mostly pacing and sitting on his large bed when he wasn¡¯t inquiring after his companion¡¯s well-being, but Louis had the sense he was invisibly engaged in something. He noticed Sebastio never took off the cloth around his right arm.

    Sometimes, they had played a game with squares of bright material and dice, which had rules far too extensive and metastasized for Louis to completely grasp. Sebastio claimed he had at best an amateur¡¯s ability in the game, which he called Grediwe, and wasn¡¯t engaged overmuch. The distraction of the larger man meant Louis eventually lost easily instead of catastrophically. However, it seemed fun.

    During the time spent there, a period in which the French youth never felt inclined to leave, about a dozen people came by the cabin, talking quickly in a language Louis didn¡¯t know. At least, some were people; others were things Louis couldn¡¯t fathom or even describe. One was a big yellow and brown and see-through square that hurt his eyes to look at, but the other man told him it was just as much a person as either of them. Then again, all Sebastio had done with the thing was wave some sticks around and smack them together like a drummer. The thing had gone back into the alien woods after making grunts like shattering flowerpots. Louis had yet to be convinced that Sebastio was less than crazy, but if he was, then they both were.

    In spite of sights and sounds and smells Louis had never before imagined, the thing to which his mind kept returning most often was that tiny and alien idea: brother.

    Until this very moment, that idea had been a latent seed, unwilling to grow. Now, he glanced between ¡°Big Sister¡± and the gaggle of odd people surrounding them, all talking in equally odd French. He stared at the thing coming out of the dark-skinned man¡¯s right arm, transfixed. The object seemed to be a sword of some kind. It was obviously not supposed to be there, and Louis had a strong suspicion that he should feel repulsed by the sight. While he was uneasy, it did not feel repulsive when he glanced at that unnatural addition.

    ¡°What are your goals, Mr. Artaxerxes?¡± That was the man Jean, with the mask and the red-and-silver skin. Louis thought he might be a priest of some kind, since whenever he spoke, everyone stopped and listened, like he read from holy scripture.

    Sebastio, standing in a circle of furniture like a tree in a fairy¡¯s ring, turned to the speaker. ¡°I hope to find or make a home for those in need, whether they¡¯re taken from their original dwelling like the Gegaunli karkshesh or like my friend Louis-¡±

    He momentarily looked to the French native, those mismatched orange eyes burning.

    ¡°-they have little that could be called life and less to make it worth living. I¡¯m through and done with people like the thugs in Rhaagm¡¯s badlands and Niall Bennosuke designing the quality of life for those who don¡¯t have the agency or warning to protest.¡±

    The squid-thing said in a bubbly fish voice, ¡°To extract natives and bring them through Bequast is not unlawful.¡±

    The orange eyes moved to the curving row of white creatures behind Jean.

    ¡°No,¡± he said, ¡°it¡¯s not.¡±

    ¡°... Yet, not unreasonably, you must expect resistance. The Ganymedes will hesitate to exhaust political capital at first. Some shall do so, of course, and those hoping to alloy cooperatives among the Council of Books will take action sooner rather than later.¡±

    Louis watched the squid-thing¡¯s hooded face. The person¡¯s French rolled pleasantly except for the bubbly sound-below-the-sounds. Even so, half the words might as well have been German. Would even a scholar know what ¡°exhaust political capital¡± meant? And what were Ganymedes?

    ¡°We¡¯re discussing a single rescue case, here.¡± Sebastio glared at the blue and green figure. ¡°I have little enough faith in the Bookers¡¯ initiative on topics as clear-cut as modifying¡­ uh, ¡®spirit groups?¡¯¡± He rubbed his nose, mouth slashed in a half smile above the orange artery climbing his neck. ¡°You know what I mean. Modifying laws about allowing or denying permission for using them. That says nothing about the lethargy of the more local powers that be. The point is, one civilian sets precedent. But does precedent immediately write law?¡±This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.

    ¡°Precedent writes at a speed proportional to the influence of its champions,¡± replied the crablike person called the Parrot. ¡°She¡± was easily the shortest creature present, and obviously quite respected. Her French flowed more smoothly and sounded more normal than that of the others. ¡°Consider: before Fallow Srid, our leadership cared about the Beings of Old that made this city, but officially refrained from endorsing study of them. After Fallow Srid¡¯s denouncement and deposition by the very city he ruled, the Archives dedicated to the Olds got funding from that fractious lot called the Council of Books in less than two days. Two days.¡±

    Sebastio looked down at the beastly head terminating his right arm. ¡°If your intent is to draw attention to my addition, that reasoning-¡±

    Louis cowered reflexively when a rolling rain of crashes sounded below, and most of those present peered down in the direction of the source. His back hunched to better ward off an unmalicious but painful blow he expected for clumsiness or some equal failing. That the disturbance wasn¡¯t his fault influenced the reaction not at all.

    A grumbling snort squeezed out of the massive blue bald man as a blade might slip from under a novice blacksmith¡¯s hand after hours of hammering. Sitting on Big Sister¡¯s right side on the couch, Louis could see only part of the man¡¯s profile when he leaned around. That part was a squinting eye, a nose, and some clenched teeth. Flat discolored flesh ran in a turgid river from the visible nostril to the chin.

    ¡°Cha-ah du oom koss,¡± he muttered, or something like it. ¡°She always has more difficulty with type three events than type twos, and yet she insists on interacting with objects instead of people.¡±

    ¡°Do you want me to have a talk with her later?¡± asked Big Sister, turning toward the huge man.

    ¡°No, it is probably that visitor you met earlier pestering her for more food. I told you that they are obsessed with bread?¡±

    ¡°Regardless of what you might have implied, you said nothing of the sort.¡±

    ¡°Ah. Well, now you have been told.¡±

    Sebastio glanced over at the couch, from Big Sister to the blue man to Louis. He blinked a few times. After his lips pressed together hard, the dark skinned man continued.

    ¡°Your reasoning indicates, if anything, that my whims will be treated like law. Publicizing efforts to act as surrogate to the needy should be embraced at my endorsement.¡±

    Jean put the flats of his hands together like he was about to pray. He spoke lower and more slowly, maybe trying to soothe Sebastio.

    ¡°Understand, good citizen: you now represent an elemental force, with all the respect that implies. The undeniable fact that you foiled Niall Bennosuke¡¯s sour ambition-¡± Here, he dipped his head toward the sword-that-was-not-a-hand. ¡°-should secure you the goodwill of many. In the minds of others, you¡¯re the same villain they previously feared¡­ just wearing a different face.¡±

    Jean tilted sideways, extended a hand sideways, and looked sideways at one of the curious silent white figures behind him in a wending line.

    ¡°Think upon how you might react in such circumstances: an imposing maybe-conqueror crosses the horizon in possession of a great force. He announces an effort that he calls humanitarian, which entails ushering in an unknown quantity of foreigners. These people need sustenance and shelter; the former proves a trivial requirement in our city, and the latter daunts the hardiest of political animals. Even if this warrior newcomer shrieks promises of peace from the hills, you cannot help but contemplate just how easy it would be for him to menace everything you hold dear. And before you argue, contemplate your obviously profound motivations. What might you do if those in authority flatly refuse to either evict people or to set up a whole new district of the city so your specially favored followers might have a place to call home?¡±

    The red and silver skin of the man flexed under the flameless lights.

    ¡°Not matter how good your intentions, the division over the unknowns buried in those intentions will be as long as it is bitter, and very long at that.¡± He rolled his head about his neck, glancing at Louis. The Parisian didn¡¯t know what to say. It was obvious that Jean was not entirely supportive of the idea of Sebastio adopting him, or whatever it was called. What was there to do? Deliver an impassioned and reasoning speech defending himself? Louis was barely a man, let alone an orator.

    The dark-skinned man at the gathering¡¯s center lifted the toothsome creature¡¯s head capping his long right arm.

    <Be that as it may, my bearer wishes to discuss alternative futures that do not hinge upon this city¡¯s gentry.>

    The French youth felt himself staring at some invisible manifestation of the voice crawling from the dark-skinned man¡¯s mouth. He subtly drew his feet up to the edge of the couch, not noticing either the way he leaned toward Big Sister or the way her perfect onyx eyes expanded in tandem with his own. The sound, somehow, brought to mind the legs of a chair sliding across the floor.

    Was that the sword speaking?

    With an incinerating glower aimed downward, Sebastio¡¯s shiny beastly new head was put forward at Jean as though to shake hands.

    ¡°May I introduce,¡± growled the standing man as his stare morphed into a chiding distaste, ¡°the thing named Malumortis, called Caladhbolg by most people.¡±

    The shining metallic face twisted like a snarling hound.

    ¡°Malumortis, ¡®Death-is-preferred.¡¯ Fascinating.¡± Jean leaned closer, his rock-red hand bracing his chin.

    ¡°Yes. It¡¯s the reason that some of the scouting party in Paris resorted to using their ¡®spirit groups¡¯ when Count began showing very flashily how effective it is at ending lives. For the record, I consider their decision fully justified.¡± Sebastio sounded disgusted, if Louis was interpreting his manner accurately.

    ¡°Those involved with your adventure will receive special dispensations,¡± Jean answered while looking toward the squid person. ¡°No matter how many people need to be convinced.¡±

    The Parrot made a clicking chirp, shifting on her seat. Her red feather hung swaying like the head of a wary snake.

    ¡°Excuse me¡­ Malumortis. You can answer particular questions of ours, yes? A very bright colleague of ours cannot join us at this moment - but he would die of frustration if we did not take advantage of the opportunity you represent.¡±

    A silence dripping with unspoken words.

    <My bearer and I have come to a consensus - if permitted by my governors, curiosity will be satisfied.>

    ¡°Also,¡± the man to whom the sword was attached added, ¡°it would be nice to keep things quick, even if verbose. While it¡¯s not painful, precisely, ¡®speaking¡¯ for two feels like a pair of shiver knives trying to cut each other at the same time. Not very fun, and my intuition suggests someone will be bleeding if things go horribly wrong.¡±

    Louis then lost the thread of conversation. He tried to listen, but his utter unfamiliarity with topics like ¡°partial personhood¡± or someone they called the Maker made any effort to puzzle out meaning a disheartening and futile gesture.

    ¡°What is going to happen to Sebastio now, Big Sister?¡± Louis somehow managed to squeeze out the question past the petrified muscles of his throat. The horned almost-white shape bent a little, looking down at Louis. The tall form gave off an odor a bit like pine tar. He had a sudden terror soaked image of those talonlike hands grabbing him and pulling him apart. Instead, she made a small noise between a goose honk and the snort of a horse.

    ¡°I do not know, Louis.¡±

    For something surely almost as strong as Louis¡¯s Papa, she sounded surprisingly gentle, and sad.

    The young man spun back when Sebastio answered, having transitioned to immediately in front of his couch.

    ¡°Nothing will happen to me here, Louis.¡± Those unearthly orange eyes chewed up tension and digested it into some unidentifiable peace. Those lips, crowning a braided beard which was both clean and fraying a bit at its edge, were not smiling, but not frowning. ¡°In large part, that is because I will not be here an hour from now.¡±

    ¡°WHAT!?¡±

    Louis inhaled harshly at what could have been the roar of a thousand kine in pain, coughed, and through his teary eyes saw the blue man leaning forward. Bracing himself on a knee, the man was still taller than Louis standing, though not as much as Big Sister. Whereas she reminded him a bit of a wolf or a boar, fierce but not truly warlike, the blue man made Louis recall those tales he¡¯d heard from Papa, of the crazed warriors from far north - beyond France and the edge of the world - who would rip arm and leg from both friend and foe in the heat of battle. The Titan was, Sebastio had said, as close a friend as he¡¯d ever known.

    He also failed to hide a volcanic temper.

    ¡°You think you can just run away again without so much as a ¡®Hi?¡¯ That we never wondered how you were doing? If you were even alive? No, of course not - Artaxerxes up and takes off after his crazy vampire ¡®friend,¡¯ see you later. No ¡®Bye, Father¡¯ or ¡®Bye, Francis¡¯ after you made up your mind.¡±

    ¡°Would it have made things easier?¡± Sebastio sounded amused, glancing across his shoulder at the huge man.

    ¡°It would have meant a chance to hollow out your overstuffed ego with a hurt spike,¡± came the gravelly response. The huge man wanted to punch Sebastio, judging from his posture. Louis guessed that a punch from a person of his size would put a horse on the ground.

    ¡°I know. You¡¯ll get the opportunity soon enough.¡±

    Sebastio glanced over at Jean.

    ¡°Once Pennat Gate falls.¡±

    For the instant it took Louis to realize he didn¡¯t recognize the name, the room was stable yet. Then a commotion overtook the gathering of tense people, and the shouting began with the loud exclamation from the Parrot, ¡°You cannot possibly be serious!¡±

    ¡°On the contrary,¡± said the orange-eyed man in a tense voice, ¡°I am completely serious.¡±

    ¡°A person who has gone and shown the apparent disdain for rule of law that you have displayed-¡± the rocklike person began, then pulled up short a moment later.

    ¡°I JUST WANTED TO KEEP THIS OUT OF THE HANDS OF A murderer!¡± shrieked Sebastio, but his voice dropped off a cliff at the last word.

    He brandished the sword thing, and to the distress of apparently everyone except Jean and the squid-person, a family of tiny lightning bolts began snapping out along its length. With a shudder, he brought the metal back down to his waist, and his whole body shook for but an instant. He rubbed at his forehead vigorously, and the shaking slowly decreased. Moments later, the lightning abated as well.

    ¡°Unacceptable misuse of such privileges,¡± remarked the squid person.

    ¡°Legal, if not popular,¡± answered Jean, very precise and put-upon. ¡°A plain Rhaagm citizen can hold a place in the Lords¡¯ governance without need for special standing within the Parsed City-State.¡±

    ¡°Attainment to a seat of power in Yrdky could provide fodder as ¡®legitimate cause¡¯ in stripping someone of Rhaagm citizenship, though,¡± the Parrot replied, a bit more quietly. ¡°It could be taken as many ways as one might possibly imagine.¡±

    ¡°... I suppose it could,¡± came from Sebastio. He was staring at the strange white creatures behind Jean. His teeth ground against each other.

    ¡°Wait just a moment, now.¡± said the huge blue man, before he stood. Some part of Louis¡¯s brain noted that he could probably pitch a hay cart as far as Louis could pitch a rock.

    ¡°Are you going to just judicially seal the rest of a civilian¡¯s life away behind foreign borders?¡±

    Francis didn¡¯t sound mad anymore. He sounded sad, and a bit like how Louis probably sounded when he¡¯d asked the Missus whether she¡¯d have to leave like Papa too.

    ¡°They will do what they have to do.¡±

    Louis couldn¡¯t tell which person had replied. Maybe it was none of them. No response was forthcoming.

    Then, his newly minted brother stood beside him. Louis heard the tall dark man murmuring.

    ¡°I¡¯ll see you again soon, Louis. Like I mentioned to you when we were in Bequast, I need to leave for a little. No more than four or five days at most, I think. Stay with Big Sister and Francis for now, alright?¡±

    ¡°Ah¡­ A-alright¡­¡± Louis felt tears creeping to the precipice of his eyes, suddenly and unwantedly.

    ¡°They¡¯re good people, and like family to me.¡± That rounded nose twisted at some unscented foul odor, as the orange eyes flicked to the squid thing. Somehow the creature made it clear that it stared at the blade in Sebastio¡¯s flesh, and secreted an aura of moderated menace. Those bright eyes moved back.

    ¡°Listen carefully to them, except - you¡¯ve had talks about how men and women¡­ love each other, yes?¡±

    Louis didn¡¯t say anything; his dour expression stiffly reasserted the fact of his having worked in a glorified whorehouse for years. Sebastio blinked several times quickly.

    ¡°That was not a question that needed asking. Whatever Francis tells you about that, though, just ignore him.¡±

    ¡°OK.¡±

    That mouth frowned suddenly.

    ¡°Louis,¡± Sebastio stated, ¡°I¡¯ll see you again in a very short time.¡±

    ¡°What is you going to do, si - Sebastio?¡±

    The French youth saw muscles tense, and that beastly head bent into a fist as though made of flesh.

    ¡°I¡¯m going to win a kingdom,¡± said the tall dark man, ¡°and you¡¯ll know what it means to be royalty.¡±

    ¡°Is that what you truly want, Mr. Artaxerxes?¡±

    Jean¡¯s lips bore downward in a broken moon.

    Sebastio managed, somehow, to don a thin smile. He locked eyes with Big Sister.

    She didn¡¯t smile back, and yet Louis thought they shared some kind of memory. When he spoke again, Louis¡¯s friend sounded less than calm, but controlled.

    ¡°What I want, venerable sir, is a hoop-hook glove, and your opinion on Tuoamas Pennat¡¯s level of interest in the Maker¡¯s legacy. On¡­ whether he might be amenable to a highly unusual wager.¡±

    Louis didn¡¯t remember much of the rest of the gathering. Afterward, he was led by Big Sister to an exotic room roughly the size of a barn, and told to make himself at home. Large bits of furniture hunched about like strange sleeping hounds, and were almost certainly not dangerous. In a moment of oddly situated lucidity he realized his thoughts had become divorced from his person.

    So much confusion and indecision boiling up from the last several days made him sleepy, it seemed. He clambered onto what he was assured was in fact a bed, moments before his eyes locked themselves shut.

    He missed his new friend who called him brother, and he missed the people of the brothel where he¡¯d eaten and slept for years of his young life. He was unsure which tugged at him most strongly.

 A Dreaded Exit

    ¡°The best perspective on newly-born thoughts-and-feelings comes not from enemies, nor friends, but acquaintances who see you as neither villain nor savior.¡±

    -Ast aaned proverb

    As any plebeian knows: all Yrdkish are crazy.

    That was one reason a man with a sword for a hand told himself he was going to Bequast.

    Despite the plethora of ways in which the place more closely resembled Yrdky, Bequast had a much closer kinship to Rhaagm in its character and its social structure. To be sure, the rolling hills and biological shapes of naturally-planned towns and cities deviated from the perfect kilometer-square divisions of Rhaagm. The same could be said for the idyllic rivers and forests and gardens which unevenly dotted the regions between, and were jointly upkept by, Bequastish settlements.

    Strolling up the crown of the knoll overlooking Marred-the-Rose, Sebastio half expected to see the blurry distant shape of an Yrdkish estate, or at least an estate¡¯s blinking guidelights in the sky overhead. Nothing of the sort, of course; the town¡¯s twelve-kilometer tall college complex, and not much else, fractured the skin of the cloudless horizon.

    His deep sniff drew in the scent of pears and weedless flower beds, sweet and smooth as a witchlight glow. He exhaled, adjusted the hoop-hook glove, and picked up his pace once more.

    Oh, he so dearly hoped that the beautiful day might end with equally beautiful reassurance, and not a worrying away of his terribly shaky confidence.

    Solid ultramarine ceramic steps flowed down the hill in various adjacent scales of treads and risers. Completely to one side lay a green-stained thulite ramp, perfect for wheeled contrivances or people. Compared to the traffic he remembered from Gursral, the steady trickle of pilgrims felt lacking. Not in number, but diversity.

    He¡¯d gotten used to the demographic madness of Rhaagm over the years, where a district subsection with a population of a couple trillion had an average of roughly a thousand members per distinct race in the area. That sort of thing became more complicated when accounting for which people had undergone conjugation or other species-abstraction procedures. In his apartments, there had lived eleven hundred people, and (of the roughly nine hundred capable of biological reproduction) perhaps fifty could have eventually produced children with any of its other members, assuming each others¡¯ genders cooperated.

    Down the small path leading from the top of the knoll to Marred-the-Rose, Sebastio passed a mere double-handful of different peoples. Each had several hundred claimants, carrying on with their business at different paces, some making for structures off the beaten path, some standing aside and talking or doing things on the Monolith. Sebastio himself abstained from using the Monolith overmuch, though more due to habit carried over from his recent time abroad.

    He felt his breath sink a fishhook into his trachea as he saw a little fregnost girl with what could only be her mother. Off to the side of the path, she ran to nowhere in particular with great speed, long webbed toes tramping through the stringy ferns. That rapturously joyous look she wore was that seen rarely except on the faces of little children, pictures of saints, and fregnosts. Two of her arms carried a strangely cute plush alligator or grenwall, one stuck straight out for balance, and another scratched behind one of her twitching ears.

    Trima, the little fregnost boy on the next floor down at Gursral, had looked just like that whenever he was out running laps of the complex and saying ¡°hi¡± to people in the halls.

    That plugged-up feeling made Sebastio close his eyes for a second, then he looked away from the girl as she tried to draw her mother¡¯s attention to a strange-looking person coming out of town.

    Death was a terribly strange thing, he thought. One might assume that a society with the ability to back up personalities and physiological states, and integrate them into new shells, would feel unmoved, or even risk-compulsive, about courting the truncation of a twig of consciousness. Oh, some definitely fell into that category in Sebastio¡¯s day, but it had been trillions of years since the last wave of true cultural abandon; a wave, for that matter, which was like the blink of an eye. Instead, the gift of life held an even more precious place in its way.

    Yes, Uncle Rond had wandered over a folding junction just as it switched, and got mashed by a disk as a result. Yes, there was a man coming through the door that evening with Uncle Rond¡¯s face and voice and clothing. Yes, he had Uncle Rond¡¯s memories and tastes and loves. But was it Uncle Rond? Not even Uncle Rond truly knew, most of the time. Physical symbol systems only really told when it wasn¡¯t that dearly-departed figure; otherwise, the products of revivification included a uniquely traumatizing dissociative disorder for many species.

    In an aggregate of uncountable people, no one needed more reason to look in a reflection and see a replica of someone else¡¯s Uncle Rond.

    That¡¯s one of the things I hope to fight, however tangentially.

    <No,> corrected Caladhbolg. <That is one of the adversaries you shall conquer.>

    A glance at the sword, and his back suddenly stiffened, then relaxed. Something warm began running through him, like he¡¯d decided to go to an infusion lifestyle and was now getting all his biological needs met on a direct per-cell delivery basis.

    He felt strangely light, moving down toward the apartment complex on his left, not more than four blocks into the warren of the town¡¯s geography. It was almost like he was reliving the first time he¡¯d managed to use magic as a child, or the first time he¡¯d succeeded at whistling¡­ like some great milestone now lay behind him. Its identity proved fluid at first, and he couldn¡¯t pick out what it signified.

    Then, just as he turned down the walkway to the apartments, it hit him. Not his acquisition of a relic from the Olds themselves. Not the expansion of his family.

    He had a grand ambition, and one he could pursue without moral qualm.

    Sebastio had long held the world at an arm¡¯s length. He¡¯d had vested interests, and occasional bouts of enthusiasm. He¡¯d picked up one or two goals here and there over his life with some meaning: his desire to become a shoulder to lean on for the disenfranchised, his hope to make good organizations better through improved security and widened awareness. But he¡¯d never had a single vanishing point on the horizon toward which he could comfortably devote all his motivation without qualm.

    It was¡­ good.

    His steps practically took themselves as he greeted a young dagacha couple leaving the premises. The small garden in front of the apartment complex¡¯s ground level seemed more vibrant than it ought. The squawks and birds darting between each other sounded less like bickering and more like conversation. He didn¡¯t remember the trip to the fifth floor of the building.

    When he stood outside the floor¡¯s three hundred and fifteenth door, he paused. The cleaning-font placed in the hall just beside the door was more suggestion than demand, and more subliminal desire than suggestion. The Ast tradition of symbolically cleaning off one¡¯s emotional dirt didn¡¯t feel necessary for Sebastio in his sudden unexpected nirvana. Even so, he dipped his left hand¡¯s fingers into the alcohol in the steel bowl, and played his thumb over his other digits. The gesture meant, at the least, complying with the wishes of those he¡¯d come to see unannounced, and surely that had to be the barest minimum of obligation.

    Stepping back from the cleaning-font, he dried his hand. Slowly he moved in front of the visual pickup of the apartment, and pinged the door. He didn¡¯t bother with an identifier packet; the occupants wouldn¡¯t exactly hang in suspense of who he was for long. Immediately, a witchlight fluttered on, went solid, fluttered again, and turned off. Be right with you, then.

    The notification that the tenants intended to see him became obsolete in ten seconds, probably nine seconds after they¡¯d begun scoping him out through the door¡¯s directional transparency. The portal slipped open, and the most obese naufer he¡¯d ever seen stood in the frame. Obese for a naufer, though on a human it would merely be ¡°fat.¡±

    ¡°Hello,¡± said the naufer in the perfect textbook enunciation his kind so often adopted, his manner neither insulting nor inviting. He simply stood there unmoving, a fleshy barrier between his living room and the interloper. ¡°Can I help you?¡± Eye to eye with Sebastio, he lay a bit on the short side.

    ¡°Hi,¡± responded Sebastio in slightly nasal Bequastish, forehead-thumbing in greeting. ¡°My name¡¯s Sebastio Artaxerxes. I¡¯ve had¡­¡±

    He broke off, muscled down on his composure, and restarted at a more even pace, with proper recognition of the seriousness of the moment.

    ¡°I am Sebastio Artaxerxes. I am looking for Otris mot Ganauche mot Elesph mottin Ienn the Grand. She¡­¡±

    He quickly gauged the man, deciding that he was probably family - thus, possibly knew more about the whole incident with Count than most people, but probably not the whole story. The human decided to keep it simple.

    ¡°She and I had some recent dealings on an extrafacetary excursion, and I owe her a certain debt. Would you know where she can be found?¡±

    The man stared at him.

    ¡°Yes,¡± he eventually said. ¡°Her clutch missed her sorely when she went afield.¡±

    Ah.

    ¡°You are part of her family, then?¡±

    ¡°Yes, both bound and circled.¡±

    That both simplified things and made them moderately more awkward. The man before him was the equivalent of Otris¡¯s husband, then. Naufer matrimonial ¡°binding and circling¡± practices seemed a bit off to many people used to Earth Standard human culture: four people, effectively two couples, living together as roommates in something more than friendship but less than an open marriage. If humans had four distinct sexes divided into male-female categories, it still probably wouldn¡¯t have produced the same chemistry as a naufer clutch.

    He spied the slender figure of a different naufer, then, walking out from a side room into the region directly behind his questioner/questionee. After putting something indiscernible down on a couch, the figure straightened and revealed a familiar shoulder marking.

    Otris turned, started back the way she¡¯d come, and halted when she caught sight of the Cambrian. He smiled at her past her not-exactly-husband.

    After several silent breaths she said, with something almost like frustrated relief, ¡°Artaxerxes.¡±This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.

    ¡°Otris.¡± He put both his hands behind his back, after forehead-thumbing at her.

    The taller naufer gestured at the doorway.

    ¡°Dolgier, this is one of the people I met during my contract work. He is¡­¡±

    She fought her vocabulary to isolate and beat the correct term into submission.

    ¡°... a decent person.¡±

    Sebastio didn¡¯t frown, but his smile slunk off into a hidey-hole somewhere.

    ¡°You met him on your lookout for that terrorist?¡±

    Dolgier managed to sound suspicious slightly more than respectful.

    Otris treated her circled to a barbed look that reminded Sebastio all too much of the look he got from Nessro when he was younger. She returned her attention to the human and made an expansive sweep with one palm.

    ¡°Come in, Artaxerxes. If you have gone through the trouble of tracking me down in person, you probably want to talk about something important.¡±

    The obese naufer cocked his head, and eventually forehead-thumbed.

    ¡°Dolgier bin Reginald bin Wolsit binnin Nooram the Grand. Naufer of Bequast.¡± He gestured. ¡°My circled knows you, so I will welcome you as she does.¡±

    A clatter rolled around from farther into the apartment, followed by a thud, a louder thud, and the sound of something being very efficiently dropped onto a tiled floor.

    Otris drew all eight digits of a longsuffering hand across her muzzle and stepped out of view.

    ¡°Joshua, turn it off. Turn it off.¡±

    The stout naufer gave the human a look which declared him subject to trial acceptance, then stepped inside and beckoned the guest to follow. Sebastio obliged.

    The inside of the apartment had a dark dry texture to its walls, a bit coarse, like emery. It was an almost poetic fit for the austere, stoic personality of the naufer race. The apartment bore little enough decoration, aside from some glass trinkets of unknown sentimental value, and an ornamental maypoler¡¯s ornithopter which took up most of the wall opposite the presumed kitchen. The presumed kitchen became the confirmed kitchen as he passed without staring, catching a glimpse of two naufers evidently collaborating to clean up a mountain of foodcubes right next to a culinary unit. One pulled them off the floor by hand, while the other¡¯s d?mon cluster quickly ate the remainder like ice cubes in hot honey.

    Dolgier indicated a space on one of the three couches in the central area of the apartment, circled around a Toothskin refractor. Sebastio thanked him, and Dolgier sprawled in a consummately uncomfortable-looking spread-eagle over half of the other two.

    ¡°You were chasing after that Count fellow as well when you and Otris met?¡± asked the naufer, one ear pushed down by a couch arm to cover his eye.

    Before he could be answered, the visible eye clearly took in Sebastio¡¯s face with great attention to detail, almost certainly comparing it to a digital image side-by-side. It tracked back and forth, stumbling when it got to the human¡¯s eyes. To be fair, Sebastio still found them a bit unnerving, and would have altered them if his body¡¯s new tenant hadn¡¯t informed him that they were stuck as they were until his mutative infestation ¡°progressed.¡± He wasn¡¯t terribly thrilled by the prospect, whatever that actually entailed.

    ¡°Ohhh,¡± the naufer mused, propping himself more upright by leveraging his bulk as a pendulum. ¡°You and he already - I see. I think, at least. You¡­¡± The voice remained sour, but lost a great deal of its acidity. ¡°... have my condolences,¡± he finished lamely. Marbled green orbs twitched, the black binary stars at their centers finding new periapsides.

    ¡°Your concern is touching. Truly.¡±

    Sebastio felt the words grate past his throat, unwelcome.

    Dolgier turned away. When his nose twitched, it clearly had nothing to do with humor.

    They made an effort to ignore each other until Otris returned from the kitchen, bringing in tow a naufer whose visible coat was solid unbroken chocolate. Gray and black formed a basically universal natural color scheme of his kind, so the other man¡¯s fur either came from part of a lineage out of favor with untampered genetics or a relatively tame cosmetic operation.

    ¡°Joshua bet Adorus bet Tacitus bettin Isaiah, naufer born in Feathers-of-Gaul,¡± said the brown naufer. He slowed down in his walking to make the introduction, then quickly accelerated past to an open bedroom door, carrying a dish with enough foodcubes to feed an udod aodod.

    He paused just outside the portal, watching Sebastio for a moment.

    ¡°I hope you avoid getting eaten by Beasts,¡± he offered, then disappeared.

    Otris twitched an ear after Joshua as she sat.

    ¡°Very busy lately. He works in the local Purple Studies department.¡±

    Sebastio peered after the naufer, and found himself surprised that the man seemed so well-adjusted for working in a field whose primary focus literally foisted chronic nightmares on a huge percentage of scientists - biological or otherwise - that chose to engage in such pursuits.

    ¡°What do you want, human?¡± asked Otris, without any particular emotion. ¡°I have seen headlines speculating about the recovery of Caladhbolg in the last several days. Since that seems to indicate the topic is more open than when we first met, and you did not bother contacting me digitally, this must concern something else.¡±

    Sebastio didn¡¯t deliberate over what he ought to say. He opened his trap and began letting syllables out.

    ¡°If you remember the ambition I had for a young man of France - that started me on a journey of sorts. Recently, that journey¡­ mutated. Broadened.¡±

    Otris pointedly looked at the padded composite wrapping him from right shoulder to fingertip, and he smiled. The hyper-durable material slid down to the elbow, and he stopped.

    ¡°Just so you know,¡± he said to Dolgier, whose ears had reoriented toward the human like miniature commercial holojectors tracking a pointedly uninterested pedestrian, ¡°this is exactly what it looks like.¡±

    He wondered what else needed to be said, as he pulled free the chimeric thing he¡¯d finally begun to consider a part of his biological status quo. Then, he added, ¡°You are in no danger,¡± for all the infinite good it would do.

    At first, the masculine naufer took the appendage to be an artistic and exceptionally uninspired augment. When he really examined the object, he surprised the Cambrian by clambering up and across to Otris¡¯s couch.

    ¡°May I¡­ ?¡± he asked, indicating the befanged basket hilt.

    Sebastio grimaced.

    ¡°If time permits afterward, sir, I have no moral objection.¡±

    <Nor do I,> added the sword, using his mouth.

    Stop that, he ordered. The sword either complied or chose not to answer.

    He shook himself, ignoring the distant flat expressions his hosts adopted.

    ¡°Now, the reason for my visitation has to do with a need for input.¡±

    The woman made a small sound deep in her throat.

    ¡°A need for objective input,¡± he added. ¡°If I wanted hysterical opinions I could get those from here to Zeroday. No friendly advice, no conflict-resolution consultation, and absolutely no eidolon services.¡±

    ¡°Ah,¡± said Otris, which sounded like the scrape of a woodglass board over a sidewalk.

    ¡°I intend to challenge Tuoamas Pennat for ownership of the estate of Pennat Gate by combat.¡±

    ¡°A-aaahhhh¡­¡± came out of her mouth, while her slitted nostrils flared, her eyes seemed to move closer together, and her ears suddenly grew floppily limp.

    Dolgier, meanwhile, suddenly hunched over his pronounced belly, his head tilted in the way shared by naufers, Earth Standard canines, and fregnosts.

    ¡°Is he given to making extremely off-color jokes?¡± pushed the man, turning to his circled.

    ¡°He is not joking,¡± said Otris. ¡°I think he barely possesses a sense of humor.¡±

    Sebastio might have protested defensively, had she not spoken the absolute truth. Instead, he waited in silence while the woman metabolized the prospect, and the man eyed him warily. Thanks to neural overclocking, the wait only took a handful of seconds, but the quale of patiently watching that dark angular face stretched on and on. It terminated with a long uneven nasal exhalation.

    ¡°I am of two minds,¡± said Otris, leaning forward. ¡°On the one hand, the very idea cannot be construed as anything but disruptive, potentially catastrophically so. On the other, this sounds like it will eventually entail the exercise of a massively destructive weapon.¡±

    She looked up at the maypoling ornithopter, somehow bittersweet in her contemplation.

    ¡°Given the nature of with what you must work,¡± she said, a bit shakily, ¡°no substantially better outcome presents itself, except perhaps if Caladhbolg were surrendered and never used again. That eventuality, one might say is self-evident, will not happen.¡±

    ¡°Is it, though?¡± asked Dolgier. When he found himself looking down the barrel of two quizzical gazes, he threw up his hands defensively. ¡°What happens if that thing - which I assume is the artifact in question - were placed in the authorities¡¯ custody?¡± he questioned, pointing at Sebastio¡¯s right side.

    Sebastio gave him a sad grin.

    ¡°A lot of things; for starters, I would get interrupted the instant the sword left my body.¡± He laughed aloud at the expressions of mingled sympathy and disbelieving horror the naufers both adopted. ¡°I have no intention at all of letting that happen, and in good faith I understand that separating me and this blade would not succeed unless it were something on the echelon of Crippled False or maybe the Pursuant doing the separating.¡±

    Sebastio glanced at the protruding edge of the blade. A correctly-placed chop of the wrist, he¡¯d found, shaved plastic or concrete or rigid thulite or even redmetal.

    ¡°I¡­ need to go, soon, before I lose my nerve.¡±

    Sebastio stood abruptly, the couple on the couch saying nothing as he re-covered his esoteric anatomy. He felt the air in his chest as he drew in a bellows-full, and let out a diamond-solid decision.

    ¡°I enjoyed meeting you, Dolgier,¡± he admitted to the stocky naufer. When he turned his full attention to Otris, it fell on the woman like a palanquin slicker. She let her eyes grow ever so slightly thinner, her ears pulling back defensively.

    ¡°If I begin to grow too aggressive or bloody-handed soon, tell everyone - everyone - about what I said here. Tell them that all you need to do is rip off my arm and I die, and Caladhbolg goes up for grabs. Make sure you spread the word.¡±

    ¡°You just said that drawing forth that weapon would fail in virtually any instance.¡±

    The human sighed, ragged-edged and sorrowful.

    ¡°Yes. If the idea of so many people trying that sort of fool¡¯s errand does not knock me out of my hubris and save me from my own foolishness - if I do not even sway my course to keep yet greater fools from breaking themselves against this sword¡¯s bulwark - then I am already a lost cause, and deserve to wither away under my flag.¡±

    The woman continued staring at him.

    ¡°At least think on whether you want to do me this favor,¡± he said in something near a reedy hum. ¡°That is all I have the right to ask.¡±

    Eventually, a ¡°gale around the world later¡± as the naufer saying went, Otris up-signed consent.

    ¡°Thank you,¡± said Sebastio.

    The door farthest into the apartment flew open again, and out of it poured Joshua and a stream of pejorative. He rushed by, slowing enough to rub his nose against the base of Otris¡¯s ear, then departed with a run-on-sentence explaining that the world was, in fact, not ending. The apartment occupant cardinality decremented, and with the leaving of Joshua a measure of stress also departed the home.

    A small packet exchange later, he provided Otris and her family with a public key for contacting him securely. He wasn¡¯t quite sure whether to feel insulted or relieved when he proffered three million dats to the woman, hoping to salve his conscience and pay her for the semi-clandestine assistance she¡¯d rendered in expediting Louis¡¯s great expectations, and she accepted wordlessly.

    Dolgier eventually declined the offer to inspect Sebastio¡¯s addition.

    When the Rhaagmini left in Joshua¡¯s footsteps, chin-thumbing at the naufers with camaraderie faintly but genuinely returned, he saw the world pass in a smearing jumpy haze until he returned to the florid lanes of Marred-the-Rose. As he returned to the station where he¡¯d set foot on Bequastish soil earlier that day, a magnetism stronger than anything he could induce in a metallic medium drew his gaze back up to Otris¡¯s apartment. He swallowed, reliving every word of the encounter through his eidetics.

    In his shameful heart of hearts he prepared himself. The truth was that he loved the pain he might inflict if he convinced others to take up the quixotic challenge of separating himself and his new integrated weapon. The truth was that he felt dirty contemplating a plan of attack where he shucked off the identity of protector, of a spiny rampart which caused suffering in the service of preservation.

    The truth was that he had needed to come to terms with his own ugliness for a long, long time. His utterly mad pursuit of a utopian pearl of society forced that resolution. If Otris could help to keep him in check, even in a role as a mere talisman whose disappointment he feared far more than her ire, maybe that would be enough. At the least, he held out hope.

    <As philosophers have said in every tongue: know thyself,> Caladhbolg dictated to his mind.

    From your mouth to my ears, replied Sebastio.

 A Dreaded Requisition

    ¡°Why do we forgo the powers and pedestals of gods? Why do we refuse to tailor ourselves brains with perfectly leashed emotions, or bodies woven straight into the stuff of existence? Why do we accept any measure mortality? Some might say it is in the name of preserving our self, our identity, and this is true. But¡­ the ¨²danese folk saying has it better. ¡®Remember what the skin eater knows: beware, lest you get everything your heart desires.¡¯¡±

    -Connisel Frena Frena Pjo?tet, On the Extrafacetary Principles of Lesser-Privilege Life

    When Sebastio Artaxerxes met the gaze of Tuoamas Pennat, the Lonely Lord realized he was dealing with no ordinary man.

    The Cambrian wore an iron-hued cloak on his back, and his garb had an Earth Standard cut archaic enough to naturally blend in around Yrdky, though it was also painfully drab. A small roughspun shirt with cloth ties at the throat showed a little of his very dark complexion below the neckline. His legs bore trousers of that brown color which was a frequent choice for people where the fact of clothing was far more important than which dyes might be used to make it. He was wearing long thick boots made for tromping through thorns and kicking open doors. A large heavy glove used in hoop-hook hung on his right arm and ran to his shoulder, though his left was conspicuously bare.

    The man¡¯s face was where things began to get interesting. His hair and beard wove in braids of a simple pattern, leaving a curtain of dark vines to shade his throat. The nose, mouth, ears, lines, and most of the skin of the face seemed normal enough, aside from a blurry yet angular glowing orange tattoo running up the right side of his neck where his skin was not shielded by hair.

    His eyes were a different matter.

    The right one was a searing orange, a strange veiny starburst that overflowed from his iris and into the sclera. In the center, the pupil even seemed to be tinged yellow. The left eye was less extreme though still quite shocking; the iris had a circling ring of sky blue, but near the middle the color began to mutate to orange as well. It was not any kind of vanity augment or magic (or gene modification for that matter) that Tuoamas had seen, and he had seen a lot. The Lord was Yrdkish through and through, and though he would not leave his home for the world, he had a cosmopolitan slant not often seen among the self-invested culture of his nation. True novelty was so rarefied that even if he had no other reason to remember him, Tuoamas would have recalled Sebastio for the rest of his life.

    Bequast covered a span of endlessly-layered adjacent spatial dimensions to satisfy its infinite real estate demands; Rhaagm had more arcane methods of managing and augmenting its own territory. Yrdky, though, boasted a limitless countryside, extending in an unbounded plane in all directions of the compass. Deserts, fields, marshes, stone bluffs, woods that stretched to the sky. Most of its bounty, oddly enough, suited human-congruent life right out of the box - tundras of methane ice and very occasional regions of extraordinary atmospheric pressure notwithstanding.

    However, the mountains of Yrdky, like its estates, occupied a position of unapproachable grandeur. Some people compared mountains to knives, others to teeth. Animals, gemships, the dew of the morning grass. To none of these could the distant and cyclically recurring geometries compare: they were the mountains of Yrdky, and that was all. The backdrop of those keening soaring slate-blue points, far above even the many-kilometers-high surface of one of Pennat Gate¡¯s Eighth Step platforms, formed an awesome backdrop against the forest-yard, and especially the strange unknown visitor with his gently wafting garb.

    As far as visual first impressions went, it took some beating.

    Then the man issued his challenge.

    ¡°Tuoamas Pennat, Lord of Yrdky, I demand you meet me in battle.¡±

    His Yrdkish was rough in its pacing, he had a Rhaagmini accent of the highest order, and he spoke with a directness that would have stopped the heart of any of Tuoamas¡¯s diplomats. At the time, standing in one of the hundreds of forest-yards of Pennat Gate, Tuoamas was sure that the stranger must have been addressing some other person.

    Afterward, Tuoamas felt a slurry of confusion about the whole ordeal. He¡¯d been called out by name. It was his face at which the newcomer was staring with his livid gaze. But even so, the Lord had felt somehow¡­ irrelevant to the proceedings, like he¡¯d accidentally walked into one of his estate¡¯s courtrooms during a session for an ongoing lawsuit.

    Actually, it felt more like he¡¯d stumbled into a private discussion between two Republic Lords.

    ¡°Battle?¡± Tuoamas asked, after a half-breath in which his nine armsmen inserted themselves between this unknown quantity and their Lord. The trail of followers he¡¯d bled in his wake slowly condensed, drawing up over a distance of several hundred meters to consider this new development.

    Earl of Eighth Step Korint Pasel, who was a mechanical engineer by house trade and quite unhappy to be interrupted when making pointed suggestions to his liege, left off his tirade about the insufficiency of Pennat Gate¡¯s pulse engines.

    ¡°You, boy!¡± he exclaimed, bringing to bear that aura of contempt, only available to Yrdkish actors and Yrdkish nobility, which crossed cultures and any barriers as trivial as time and space. ¡°To whom must you return with lumber this day?¡±

    Tuoamas felt a small lift of the burden he was now suddenly carrying. The assumption-and-clarification trail would undoubtedly draw out over two or three minutes at least, giving him time to collect his spontaneously errant thoughts.

    Pasel would riposte the man¡¯s reply with further questions: ¡°If you aim to obtain lumber, must it be from my forests?¡± if some village¡¯s carpenter did indeed require wood, or else ¡°Then why do you accost us in a place where hunting is prohibited and the only reason worth visiting is to gather the strong glass I¡¯ve seen cultivated for years?¡± From there the discussion would perhaps be directed toward the newcomer¡¯s family and house, or to which Lord he belonged if he were not a citizen of Pennat Gate. Eventually his doubtless Rhaagmini heritage would be ¡°discovered¡± and ignored in the interest of etiquette. A few niceties would be exchanged eventually, perhaps nominal gifts traded, and if need be Tuoamas could then send the man on his way with his blessing or words of caution.

    Instead of any of these, the strange man obstructing the party¡¯s forward movement, who had emerged from a stand of smoky glass-oaks like a demon in a stageplay, said, ¡°I am Sebastio Artaxerxes. I have made demands and require satisfaction or denial. The selection of either is left to your agency, Lord Pennat.¡±

    An exclamation of disbelief floated on the breeze to Tuoamas¡¯s ears. A Duchess of Sixth Step, one of the higher-standing aaneds in his nobles, sounded like a woman beset by odd pains. In his experience, the Lord had never known any infraction in decorum to render his subjects faint, but this Sebastio Artaxerxes clearly did not care for Yrdkish protocols. His wording, curiously enough, was distinguished and apropos despite the outlandish manner in which he spoke his vocabulary. Yet, he showed no verbal circling, no fencing with wit, no attempt to trick his conversant foes into stating the desires he himself sought.

    Showing no sign of his angst, Tuoamas shelved protocol as well. Perhaps the man would be more amiable, and faster to leave, if he extracted a measure of frankness from the Lord as well.

    ¡°For what reason should we engage in conflict?¡± asked the Lord. ¡°I do not know you, Master Artaxerxes, and do not believe you bear me any animosity.¡± Tuoamas was quite certain of that last observation - he knew how to read some aspects of people¡¯s motivations, particularly in fellow humans, with nigh preternatural accuracy. It was a necessity for those with aspirations to become Lords of Yrdky.

    A bitter buttery chuckle.

    ¡°You would not know me,¡± said Sebastio, ¡°since I have been at best a celebrity by the most minimum standard until late. I have also been an indecisive, meek creature with a grossly optimistic view of solving disagreements without violence. Unfortunately, some granule of violence is likely, on account of the cause which urges me here.¡±

    That Bohemian cloak swept straight back in a sudden wind, redoubling the impression of the man as some chthonic infernal in a fae or silkal fable.

    ¡°For a wager, Lord.¡±

    For the first time Sebastio¡¯s face softened. It showed a measure of respect, a measure of regret, and a measure of relief, all of which confused the Lord even further.

    ¡°I declare an interest in Pennat Gate and all its holdings, talent, and pedigree. If we do battle, my suit shall be for the same, should I emerge victor.¡±

    Tuoamas heard a family of squawks rustling in a nearby grove of plastic-oaks, and despite the size of the crowd surrounding him the soft huuit-taaaaah¡­ of the thinner blueneck sounded clearly.

    ¡°Master¡­ Artaxerxes,¡± began the Lord. ¡°My objections to this are twofold.¡± Murmuring began somewhere behind him, and Tuoamas felt like his informal outfit was chafing fit to set him alight. The pantaloons were styled for constant motion in their current configuration, and his jacket was more meant for show than comfort.

    ¡°First, it would be more than uncouth to compete with an entire estate unless the opponent should have an estate in turn; it would be a cruelty. Second, even should the idea be entertained, what benefit would I gain from your loss?¡± Tuoamas quirked his head with a minor amount of levity. ¡°I would assume you do not have an estate to wager, or some backer willing to do so on your behalf, Master Artaxerxes?¡± At least the Lord could be sure that his visitor wouldn¡¯t spring a trap by suddenly announcing himself as an envoy of another estate. If Hide Mountain or Nor¡¯ridge, to think of a couple, even heard of this barbaric conduct, Sebastio would probably make some enemies for life.

    Instead, the Rhaagmini-accented man¡¯s alien eyes narrowed, and the Lord realized suddenly that they, and the tattoo on his neck, both glowed with light of the same precise color.

    ¡°You have an interest in the Old called the Maker.¡± Sebastio gestured toward the Lord, prompting several of his armsmen to move closer and two to place themselves much nearer to Sebastio. The measure was mostly for show; their countermeasures to the incredibly unwise prospect of assassinating a Lord didn¡¯t require things as basic as lines of fire. Even before the figures in decorative armor stopped moving, a spectrum of defensive mechanisms went online. Some of them would interrupt the intruder immediately on their expenditure. Others were less kind.

    Barely noticing the movement, Tuoamas himself raised a hand, touching the pendant at his neck. The pendant bore a stylized Rhaagmini phrase, reading ¡°Something Into Most.¡± It was an icon commonly seen amongst those with interest in the Maker, even outside of the cults dedicated to him.

    One didn¡¯t have to hail from the Parsed City-State to appreciate the doings of that august Being of Old. Indeed, outside of those such as the Lesser-Greater Sifters of Cubic Ganglia and exceptional academics, few felt a more profound attraction than Tuoamas Pennat where the Maker was concerned. He¡¯d wandered a small portion of the Tower of Rhaagm as a young man. He¡¯d seen the two hundred fountains of Ichabod¡¯s Alloy and their living glass streams growing straight out of Yrdky¡¯s blasted heath not a thousand kilometers from ?lthlant¡¯s present acreage. He¡¯d felt the noiseless music played by that titanic thing in Ilsabal Square called the Taupe Wrasse.

    He had as strong an interest in the Maker as one could feel and still number among the relatively-adjusted members of homo sapiens. Equally, he had an interest in those drawing attention to his interests.

    ¡°My wager, and my means of doing battle with your estate, is one of his artifacts,¡± Sebastio continued.

    Then he removed his glove, and bared an arm missing a sleeve.

    At the elbow the man¡¯s arm was a swollen maze of rigid-looking veins of fluorescence. Along the humerus the glow of orange became diminished, vanishing entirely near the shoulder. Below the elbow, however, the arm ended in a gnarled twist of glowing flesh. Occupying the whole length from the elbow onward was what looked to be a blade, piercing the misshapen stump of an arm. The weapon, which had a double fuller, seemed to throw off a bright white that failed to offer illumination. At the end of the blade, roughly fifteen or twenty centimeters past where a hand would have been, sat a stylized chimera¡¯s head as an odd basket hilt, leonine mane sweeping up from the handguard. Protruding from the creature¡¯s face were two stones that could have been rubies if not for the nearly painful intensity of their color.

    The chimera¡¯s head shifted, and Tuoamas was unashamed of the fact that he flinched back a short distance. Mimicking a hand¡¯s function, the mouth which formed the hilt yawned wider, and several teeth protruded. The creature¡¯s tongue, apparently meant to be used as a grip, flexed and bent to meet the top jaw. After a moment, the Lord realized he was watching the equivalent of finger movements, with the tongue-handle serving in place of a thumb.

    ¡°Caladhbolg, or - if you should believe the weapon itself - Malumortis: an implement to kill what was never meant to die, a destructive catalyst with superlative force.¡±

    Sebastio turned his extraordinary prosthetic, and bared the bottom of the chimera¡¯s head. On the chin of the hilt, a shining shape caught the midmorning sunlight. The shape in question was a replica of the image around Tuoamas¡¯s neck; the Maker¡¯s mark.

    The Lord suddenly reconsidered the curious reports from the higher news organizations of Rhaagm and Bequast about some young fool tampering with the Maker¡¯s works. The name and likeness of the man had been suppressed for some time at the request of the Pursuant. Now, the stories of ¡°cautious refinements to the Caladhbolg Contingencies¡± gained a great deal of context - if what the Lord heard was truth.

    As though reading the concerns from his brain, Sebastio looked up at the Lord of Pennat Gate with a mien of grave mischief. ¡°It is unreasonable to expect you to believe me when I make such an outlandish claim, Lord Pennat - especially given that it might well be a very clever if dedicated forgery.¡± Sebastio gestured with his normal arm to his now-bared right extremity, the heavy glove folded slightly in his opposite hand¡¯s grasp. ¡°For that matter, if you ask any magi of yours who might be in attendance, they would see very little out of the ordinary regarding this blade¡¯s active magic.¡±

    Sebastio gave a small open-handed wave, something which somehow managed to perfectly fit the carefully managed outdoors scents of wildflowers and synthwood trees.

    ¡°If it would be acceptable to yourself, I will provide a demonstration of the weapon¡¯s nature.¡±

    Tuoamas felt the collective ocular organs of many people on him. Curiously enough, he found he cared very little about that one way or the other.

    ¡°It is acceptable so long as none of those under my care come to harm, through action or inaction.¡± Tuoamas considered a moment. ¡°In addition, it is desired that no permanent damage be done to Pennat Gate or its aspects.¡±

    A slight acknowledgement from the other man.

    ¡°I advise you then, Lord Tuoamas Pennat - some of your subjects may find this¡­ disturbing, but I assure you that they are in no danger. Apologies are offered in advance for their troubles.¡±

    Before the Lord could do anything more than contemplate the nature of his next question, Sebastio retreated six, seven, eight steps so that more of the crowd of followers could see him. He grabbed his cloak, pulling it off and holding it in his left hand along with the glove. Then his sword-arm pointed skyward, giving a vague illusion that it pierced nearly his body¡¯s length.

    ¡°Please keep your distance,¡± Sebastio instructed, his eyes widening marginally.

    The sword erupted.

    A noise which Korint Pasel would later refuse to describe announced a sudden upward surge of molten-looking metal, spewing from Sebastio¡¯s limb like a geyser. The medium thickened and clotted as it rose, and the head forming the weapon¡¯s hilt expanded to scale with the new length. Folds and edges appeared in the substance as it came onward, textured like strange flesh.

    By the time even the slowest heart in the crowd of estate dwellers managed to beat twice, a tremendous, monstrous head bent down from a twenty-meter height to gaze upon the procession. Its red gemstone eyes had not changed in their dimensions, and yet it was trivial to pick out their gleaming positions in the head¡¯s brazen surface. They considered the crowd, spaced apart now by a meter and a half of supermatter rather than a finger length, as though their owner was the master of Pennat Gate, and the Lord captivated by their stare the interloper.

    <I am Malumortis, named by my creator. I am Caladhbolg, named by my bearer. I have existed in my most recent dormant stasis for a subjective period of time with a real coefficient of some five quintillion, nine hundred six quadrillion, seventeen trillion, thirty seven billion, five hundred twenty eight million, two hundred forty five thousand, and eight hundred sixty five extrafacetary years. I greet you people of Yrdky, and ask the boon of a moment to observe these environs.>

    These vocalizations were clearly coming from Sebastio, the man¡¯s eyes and other glowing features flaring brighter as his lips formed the words. Yet the voice in his throat was the voice from the bottom of a well, if one should follow a coin with a cry into it for a favor most grievous, and the well give answer back.

    After four and a half seconds, Tuoamas was nearly drowned by the monsoon of incoming communications. The entreaties, some from those physically nearby, most from telepresent observers, slurred the breadth of civility and composure as the ideals were understood across nearly any subculture. A large percentage of the smothering accostment could be boiled down to, ¡°What, Lord Tuoamas, is happening right now?¡± It was all very direct and un-Yrdkish. The harassment continued until one of Tuoamas¡¯s personal assistant eidolons began beating back the onrush with a combination of belligerent pings, counter-harassment, and throttling his inbound network traffic, were you born dumber than a stipp or did you have to work for it?

    The apparition emitting from the new man¡¯s arm swung ponderously, digesting the scenery of the forest-yard, of Pennat Gate, of the idyllic half-tame wilderness beyond. It seemed almost surprised by the mountains rising off in the distance, so far away that for days they could pass as being relatively stationary despite the constant pace of the estate¡¯s engines.

    <It is so very close to what I remember. Perhaps even more timeless than I.>

    The incarnation of the sword turned its attention back to the watchers, mane flowing in the stiff wind, squashed nose at just a steep enough attitude to see alien nasal passages retreating into its head.

    <If you have inquiries within reason, answers may be furnished in like reason.>

    Tuoamas set his teeth, and asked the question going through the mind of at least half those standing there - and truly countless more souls across the gem. The question to which he had been desperately digging for answers for nineteen centuries. He knew the occasion would make a small place in history.

    ¡°What befalls the Maker?¡±

    The chimera focused on his person again, jaw closing firmly. Nevertheless, its voice was unhindered through the vessel of Sebastio.

    <An inquiry within the bounds of reason. Unfortunately, I cannot say. My creator has contacted me for diagnostics most recently a little more than twelve trillion years past. In the interim, neither my wielder nor I have discovered reliable information concerning my creator¡¯s status.>

    Disappointment was far too small a word for what Tuoamas felt at that moment. For several seconds, he could feel tears trickling from eyes totally unused to weeping, and felt no shame. Surely he ought to have expected others to thusly question this entity in the time since it reappeared in the world of the living. Surely if such questions had been answered to satisfaction, no power in existence could have delayed the spread of the great tidings, and he would have heard of the happy circumstance before now. And yet he could have refrained from asking as much as an ordinary man could avoid drawing breath.

    The sun cooked the countryside with kind obstinance. The Lord waited to gain his composure again, then gave his attention to the chimera again. He continuously expected a sudden magical or psionic or digital probe from the being, but it had the placidity of a windless ocean.

    ¡°For what purpose does your wielder seek acquisition of my estate?¡± His voice was harder than granite, colder than ice, and more brittle than the thinnest plastic-oak twig. The reason for this was that, in all, whatever answer might be provided did not matter. He would take up the challenge offered him. He would do everything in his power to lay low this weapon¡¯s holder. He would make every effort to secure possession of Caladhbolg, up to - and perhaps including - the sale of the lives of his people.

    He would bet his own life on the failure of his enterprise.

    That candor with himself, perhaps more than anything, contributed to his surprise when the creature answered him.

    <To sow the seeds of that elusive quality your kin call ¡°home.¡±>

    Ah? Ah.

    <I am not made aware of all my wielder¡¯s intentions. Some are freely shared; others, by the nature of our relationship, cannot be hidden regardless of desires. This topic is neither. However, my assessments of his character and motives incline me to believe his aims stem from¡­ for lack of a better phrase, survivor¡¯s noblesse oblige.>

    The floating monster head abruptly appeared and sounded to crack its mandible, as though expanding its jaw in the manner of a snake. One of Tuoamas¡¯s hangers-on, a ragathencider, made an anxious anguished odor. Caladhbolg resumed as though nothing of note had occurred.

    <He does not nurture the patience for seeing change occur in his native Rhaagm at an appropriate, acceptable pace. Furthermore, he grasps with enthusiasm at those means which might help him better the cause of downtrodden facetary souls. This is almost certainly due to the events surrounding my recent awakening, in part or full. Considering the depth of his conviction, and his erratic discipline, my speculation is that he hopes to transform Pennat Gate into an asylum of sorts.>

    The Lord of Pennat Gate had no idea how to respond, and so he did not. Not a whisper came from the audience, and the trickle of communications handshakes dried up entirely. The only sounds were the wind, the squawks, and of that kind of ravenous frantic thought which both builds empires and razes them flat.

    Eventually, the apparition curled in on itself. There was a flash of light reflecting off metal; the sword-beast vanished whence it came. As it finished doing so, a dazed Sebastio patiently waited and watched for several minutes.

    ¡°Well, Lord Tuoamas Pennat,¡± he eventually said. ¡°Do we have a deal to which you might feel amenable?¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± said the Lord with a gleam in his eye, and then the two parties retreated to consider terms beneath the buzzing shiver of chattering nobles.The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    Despite the unique nature of the challenger, the standard restrictions of Yrdkish war games applied, according to the Lawmistress of the region. Said Lawmistress provided consultation at her goldspire a considerable distance from the nearest estate community. Pennat Gate¡¯s weaponry fell under the usual limitations. No tuning, no folding, and no direct mass-energy conversion, save as either methods of producing additional armament or as power supply apparatus. Both parties had to separate themselves by a minimum of seven thousand kilometers.

    Victory, for Tuoamas, would be achieved when Sebastio died or simply could no longer fight.

    Upon hearing of the challenge being issued, the Lawmistress informed Tuoamas that Caladhbolg represented so large an uncertain quantity that he ought to rebuff the outlander for the presentation of a malformed offer. Perhaps the Lord might even implore some among the Republic Lords to put the Rhaagmini under political interdict.

    Of course, he did no such thing.

    Two minutes passed between the first sonorous gong of a goldspire sounding the song of war games and Tuoamas sending in his opening argument.

    The first wave of Pennat Gate¡¯s ancestral space-air fighters shrieked over the flat countryside from the estate¡¯s hangar combs. Without ceremony, their engines were surgically removed by lancing spicules of phantom metal, strange and fluid, that shed from the distant figure like hairs from a dog. A positive storm of bombs, beams, and missiles aimed at the tiny dark-skinned man, far ahead and below, had been cut out of the air like a string of ripe olives. The twisted carcasses that fired them fell to ground no more than a handful of seconds after their leaving the airspace of the estate, the pilots ejecting at a range closer to their home than their intended and questionably human assailant.

    Such premature failure marked the milestone of their closest brush with success. More planes met their ends even faster, a torrent of speeders likewise, and the few sniper specialists who framed the figure in their crosshairs found their armament less than adequate to the task.

    Within two hours the pinprick form of Sebastio Artaxerxes came gliding to a distance of a hundred kilometers from Pennat Gate. The estate¡¯s Master of Cannon distinguished himself as the first to notice the bright birdlike shape growing from the man¡¯s arm, and immediately ordered all batteries to target and fire at will. The long guns continued to do so right until the moment that a lace of static-filled haze exhaled from the oncoming hostile¡¯s direction. The whatever-it-was settled over all the in-service emplacements, which were spread out over no less than half of the estate¡¯s considerable lands, like a gelatin. Then it induced oxidation and other, less identifiable processes with brutal efficiency. Those components susceptible to rust instantly degenerated to dry powder, those with a brittle structure began snapping apart, and any other materials not chemically inert reacted in ways that should not have occurred except under very extreme conditions of temperature and pressure.

    The earsplitting silence of failure encouraged some of Tuoamas¡¯s less militarily proficient advisors to propose drastic retaliatory measures. The first time a Ninth Step duke recommended the use of n-minus-one collapses to dispose of the challenger, Tuoamas chastised him. The second time the man said the same thing with more gusto, he found himself a Duke of Eighth Step. That definitively put an end to suggestions of breaking the rules of battle.

    When Earl Nels Filendodt tried to convince Tuoamas to plea for an annulment from the presiding Lawmistress, the Earl found itself cast from the nobility entirely. Tuoamas felt less disgust about that particular casualty of war than the others he¡¯d been ready to suffer for Caladhbolg¡¯s acquisition. It was a not-infrequent manifestation of the concept of honor for many jioji, seeking the good of one¡¯s kin and country above even one¡¯s own reputation and word, but after so long in its earldom it should have better learned the more human-influenced standards of conduct in Pennat Gate. The newly-socially-bankrupt jioj never asked why he leveled such a penalty for a mere suggestion; the Lord¡¯s reply never came. Had it been articulated aloud, his reason would have simply been: ¡°We may lose the comfort of our lofty dignity, but we will never surrender our right to that dignity by perjury on the witness stand of war.¡±

    By sunset, all other defenses of the estate had suffered equally alien and fatal treatment, the estate was laid low, and the halls of Pennat Citadel displayed bunting and drapes of numerous festive varieties. Fortune favored the participants, and no more than twelve personnel casualties resulted from the skirmish. It had been a truly unique occasion, all agreed. An occasion that outsiders might have expected to generate resentment among the majority of the estate¡¯s residents. Perhaps resentment at their new ¡°benevolent tyrant¡± for his conquest, or resentment at Tuoamas Pennat for his role in acceding to rule by a foreigner. Those same outsiders could be forgiven for failing to grasp the respect for change won on the Yrdkish field of battle. A less than absolute respect, true, but still tied inextricably to their sense of identity and their share of honor.

    Out on the citadel¡¯s lawn, and even in many of its other function rooms, the carousing continued late into the night. However, by full dusk the banquet had worn down in the spacious throne room of the citadel. The diners were tired from the day¡¯s excitement, and Tuoamas was interested to hear word of his own freshly installed Lord¡¯s intentions. His own first order of business long years ago, on receiving control over his former estate, had been to rename it from its old designation of Gallowsnight. Hardly petty given the circumstances, but hardly worth a place in the vaunted annals of history either.

    As a matter of fact, the first decree from Lord Sebastio Artaxerxes was thoroughly unexpected.

    Seated at a regular if ornately carved wooden chair, with the vast electrum and opal throne sitting far behind him atop three tall steps, Sebastio rocked forward and leaned onto the heavy table, his orange eyes raking over the whole world piecemeal. At the opposite end, the former Lord watched his new liege with fervent if leery curiosity. Stretched out into the cavernous room, from the wide semicircular steps just past Tuoamas¡¯s edge of the table to the distant half-open doors, a tide of the subjects of Pennat Gate watched the man with the hoop-hook glove once more placed on his right arm. On the bottom of these steps stood the nine armsmen of the Lord¡¯s person, impassive and dutiful, to prevent any rush for the raised level of the throne room. The newly installed Lord, despite his brash outlander ways, had clearly tasted Yrdkish custom before, and knew what was expected of him.

    ¡°People of Pennat Gate,¡± he began. ¡°You have been subjugated. Let it be known that your new lives will be no worse, no harder, than those which you¡¯ve lived in the past. In no small measure, this is because of the illustrious personalities watching out for this fine society¡¯s health and well-being.¡±

    He strode sedately around the table toward the tip facing his audience, indicating some of the people with whom he¡¯d been eating until moments before.

    ¡°Sujdusddujus, a woman of character and a fine Finance and Trade Minister. Rophiel Tybek, one of the best civil artists and architects of our lifetimes. The indomitable Footstone and her horde of equally indomitable ambassadors. Industrious and tireless Vocrrrekre Evrokcrrer, and its multiplicity of digital persons and distributed utility systems. Reltenifor Seven-thousand-ninety-four-centimeters, a truly amazing tactician, and against whose defense of Pennat Gate this day we would have lost had we not possessed a deep store of very significant advantages.¡±

    The conjugated pohostinlat strategist, despite himself and the fact of his estate¡¯s utterly crushing defeat, bobbed his head with self-deprecating happiness at his recognition.

    Sebastio continued around the long table, recognizing those who¡¯d served to maintain and nurture the tremendously complex workings of an entire Yrdkish estate. Twenty or so seated dignitaries later, he stood with his body facing his expectant congregation just past the table¡¯s end, perhaps three meters from the top of the steps to the upper level. His alien luminous gaze was over one shoulder and trained on Tuoamas Pennat with a ferrous glint.

    ¡°This beautiful estate is shaped, more than perhaps any other cause, by its namesake. Tuoamas Pennat: ambitious, resilient, driven.¡± Tuoamas felt himself go stiff. ¡°He is not a kind man, nor a gentle one. He is not cruel or capricious. What he displays is an abundance of that substance called pragmatism, and the direction to ensure that pragmatism is used for the betterment of his people.¡±

    The former Lord heard the words over the images of his subjects being carted off into servitude as he himself stood atop Pennat Citadel, covetously caressing the masterpiece named Caladhbolg. He shivered in his soul.

    ¡°You may have noticed, dear people,¡± Sebastio continued, showing a grin so small as to be nearly imaginary, and slid his cloak back a tiny amount. His glove came down his arm just a fraction, enough to bare the glowing flesh below his shoulder. ¡°We are not what many deign to call ¡®normal.¡¯¡± His glove was returned to its original place as a small invasion of amusement pierced the crowd in several places.

    ¡°This is one of the reasons for our first decree as Lord of Pennat Gate: we have dreams and aspirations. Some of these are feasible, others are not, and to engage in learning the difference at your expense would be crass, mean-spirited, and unworthy of you. For the sake of those we are now privileged to call our people, we shan¡¯t make laws or speeches which do them little or no good, nor make rulings in the haste of youthful exuberance.

    ¡°Instead, may those here bear witness.¡±

    The formal, legally binding pronouncement stripped away even the silence of the throne room. What was left had a form more olfactory than auditory, like the blood of a hunter¡¯s wounded target, leading into a dark forest where a wild beast might turn and fight, or a fantastic trophy could be collected.

    ¡°Tuoamas Pennat, along with all those who have served his estate in occupations pertaining to its governance, shall be extended the same rights enjoyed prior to our acquisition of Pennat Gate. They will act as our regents, with our own authority strictly limited to the rights for dissolution of these roles, and to convene this estate¡¯s principal powers in council.¡±

    The newly minted Lord indicated his predecessor, a tutor placing a pin on a map depicting a crucial historic battle.

    ¡°Unless we should offer explicit unambiguous instruction to countermand his right to lead and call for a replacement, the man called Tuoamas Pennat, fifteenth Lord of the Yrdkish estate called Pennat Gate, remains your liege in any matters beside the purely technical.¡±

    An instant of disbelieving delay. Then, the hall suffered from something close to apoplectic breakdown; its first or second cousin, perhaps. The minor and major citizens squabbled to reach consensus about Sebastio¡¯s words¡¯ ultimate meaning. Questions were flung at him like gifts and refuse. He grimaced.

    ¡°We shall answer certain concerns of the people here and now,¡± he bellowed. The acoustics of the room made his declaration carry far more volume than it ought to have possessed. As soon as the echo faded away, he pointed to one of the citizens who stood closest to the steps, and who had been quite vocal.

    ¡°Madam,¡± he said into the silence following his declaration, ¡°voice your grievance.¡±

    The woman, a middle height assassin, clicked her mouthparts together rhythmically and half-genuflected in her formal garb. The motion was more like the unsheathing of a weapon than respect.

    ¡°Worthy Lord,¡± she said, being honest both in the way the content of her words said her objective actions would support his decisions, and the way her tone of voice suggested this was to be the case in spite of very unsupportive sentiment. ¡°Have you some special means by which to substantially increase the time-efficiency of resolving your personal affairs?¡±

    A flicker of a smile passed over Sebastio. In this instance, he obliged his questioner with a minor bout of oratory deconstructive battle, either not knowing or not concerning himself with the game of staying several unstated questions and ideas ahead of his opponent.

    ¡°We have means by which to expedite completion of certain of our personal affairs.¡±

    He raised his covered right hand, giving a bitter toothy human grin, and the assassin winced before her riposte.

    ¡°You consider, then, that your actions might incite rebellion, so early and on such a fundamental level, that you elect to watch this domain in order to crush unrest before leaving for other conquests?¡±

    ¡°We possess no arrogance so great as to assume universal love from all residents of Pennat Gate. Neither do we think its people petulant children, in need of constant discipline and vigil to enforce rule of law.¡±

    There showed no sign of a smile on the man¡¯s face now, but a melancholia sufficiently massive to sink the hardiest man-of-war.

    The woman¡¯s voice degenerated to nigh frantic, and Tuoamas felt himself leaning closer to the vanishingly rare spectacle of an assassin overcome with emotion.

    ¡°Then why do you remain here as an idle figurehead?¡±

    ¡°We remain, dear lady, not as a figurehead, but because we hope to foster a mindset, a mission, which will persist beyond our own lifetime as a legacy of this great collective.¡± The Lord watched the watchers with his searing eyes. ¡°It is our hope to offer a second chance at life to the washed, no matter from which facet they have been untimely ripped, or how foreign the requirements they might boast to maintain a life worth living. It is our hope to adopt those hopeless souls who know no peace outside their own fantasies, and to provide them with safe haven. It is our hope that you dear citizens might embrace this ideal and thereby improve not only the existence of countless displaced aliens, but also the realm of Yrdky as a whole.¡±

    Not a few of the onlookers evinced ambivalence or dismay. Certainly Tuoamas noticed members of the peers seated around his table muttering darkly amongst their number. Footstone looked like her angst might cause her facial markings to ignite. He himself proved more curious than ever, even if only after the fashion of a horde of human adolescents witnessing a man hauling a large and mysteriously dripping sack.

    Sebastio did not seem upset.

    ¡°We understand full well the magnitude of such a lofty goal. Not in the minutiae of how it shall mutate your livelihoods, no, but in terms of the dedication and aptitude demanded. Thus, another reason - the primary reason - to elect your beautiful estate for such a cause. It was not for the direction and character of your leaders and rabble alike. It was not for the willingness of your old Lord to accept an uneven offer of battle in exchange for the chance at an unequaled prize.¡±

    Tuoamas felt his eyebrows meet his hairline. That was more backhanded frankness than he¡¯d been expecting, as well as quite unflattering, but it fit the established patterns of the man¡¯s unmannered and blunt persona flawlessly.

    Sebastio fixated the prior Lord once more with his stare. The stare¡¯s recipient pondered the likelihood of telepathic awareness of his thoughts.

    ¡°Those are all legitimate and true reasons, but the biggest attraction of Pennat Gate was, and is, your character.¡±

    There must have been at least eleven thousand people right there hanging on his every word, and their glassy silence was tense beyond compare.

    ¡°We set out to do deeds and change lives on a scale not frequently embraced.¡±

    Those orange irises never left Tuoamas, and yet the voice carried with the direction and gusto of any great orator. There was no reliance on subliminal networked input amplifications this day, no mass outputs on parallel channels coupled with soft and poorly delivered speech.

    ¡°We do not select your selves as our medium through which to reach these dreams out of na?ve confidence. We select you because Pennat Gate is home to neither the most righteous nor the most cunning¡­ but the best.¡±

    When none protested, he drew to the precipice of the upper level, bordering the topmost step and surveying the focus of his monologue.

    ¡°Humans have espoused plenty of adages and aphorisms over the ages. One of these is precisely capable of summing our reasoning for the choice of this estate above any alternative: ¡®when something is worth doing, it is worth doing well.¡¯ If there is any other estate in the whole of Yrdky whose people and leaders equip it with better odds of bringing about utterly fantastic ambitions, we defy you to name it. For the whole of you are paragons of persistence and success. Consider the records of Yrdkish diplomacy and war.¡±

    An off-center quirking of the head.

    ¡°Before this day, three hundred and twenty years elapsed since the last time this estate failed to establish a treaty with a foreign power, or to emerge victorious from the field of skirmish, when its citizens made up their minds to do so. That is not a fluke, dear people, nor a mark purely in favor of leadership or common folk. It is the fruit of your character - and if any circumstances will realize our dream of becoming a beacon to the oppressed masses, that character shall form an integral part.¡±

    The thunderous silence gave the man answer.

    ¡°Have the people any more concerns, thoughts, questions?¡±

    Sebastio was not smiling, yet he exhaled a vigorous satisfaction with every breath. Tuoamas, despite centuries of cynicism, began to think his new Lord¡¯s crazed notions might persist even after their architect¡¯s time.

    Then he felt an emotion which had no business in this hour and environment: dread.

    He was no dat-per-telling-prophet, nor one of those halcyon icons for whom a price in simple dats would fall terribly short of earning a foretelling. But Tuoamas had known for a long time of his minor ability with the second sight, and in the duration had become accustomed to gauging the accuracy of his predictions. This was absolutely a foretelling, and despite the relative subtlety of the emotion he knew the premonition to be completely justified. The reason for his confidence was, unfortunately, made clear several seconds later.

    An autumn elf shipwright by the name of Leanshe Etruphana stepped forward. At first, Tuoamas allowed himself a slender thread of relief - lately, the woman had given off an air of despondency, affecting everything from her craft to her ties with the estate Engineering Compact. It was naturally expected; she¡¯d lost family recently, and her sister¡¯s children were well-beloved by those who¡¯d met them. Their refusal of revivification was a stance adopted by autumn elves slightly more frequently than other human-analogue races. Leanshe¡¯s presence signalled, perhaps, a reprieve in her mourning for her relations, and a return to the caring if overbearing woman she was at heart.

    ¡°I have something to offer,¡± she said with a rasp fit to strip flesh from bone. Her rust-colored hair and skin were inundated with a nearly lustrous gold, and she gave off a bright aura signifying stress in her kind¡¯s subclade. Her ears, mouth, nose, and burning hazel stare shared a painful sharpness which contrasted with the flat passionless membrane spread thickly over her whole person: a static and perfectly preserved hate.

    Sebastio¡¯s response was to stand straighter, every cell in his body directed at the elf.

    ¡°Our attention is yours, citizen.¡±

    A beeping began, slowly at first, but rapidly climbing toward a single continuous whine. The beeping of an enthalpic priming shell, a favored kill vehicle of political assassinations. When one wanted to sow panic, there were few things more likely to start a riot than hearing that rhythmic pattern.

    Leanshe¡¯s expression never changed. ¡°A gift for the man who cost two of my cousins their lives, and who proudly displays the abomination of their killer melded to his own flesh.¡±

    The elf was still behind the row of now vigorously active armsmen, even as they drew the tools of their lethal trade, but that was more than close enough.

    Leanshe hurled her concealed weapon without so much as a grunt or blink, the projectile arcing hard and fast.

    The multi-frequency sound, specifically designed to hit the auditory register of most any species known in the extrafacetary world, stopped. Tuoamas saw the priming shell intercepted impossibly quickly by Sebastio¡¯s ethereal hand, and every cell in his own body seemed to age a hexadecade. He¡¯d expected a cavitation grenade, or a ripmap cartridge.

    As he could tell through the thick transparent casing of the device, and from deities past only knew where, some fool had procured the shipwright a causality sabotage.

    It was astounding, and effectively unprecedented. The others of a prophetic bent in the estate had foreseen nothing of the sort, or they would have immediately gotten word to him. He supposed that the attack might succeed and pulverize local continuity like chalk beneath a boot, making prophecy about it highly erratic and unlikely. It could also be that none had actually observed the chain leading to this potential course of events, and Tuoamas hoped desperately that the second case held true in this instance.

    The human activated his overclocking, hoping that some inspiration might strike home. If ever there was a time for him to sacrifice for the good of his people, this was it. Should the causality sabotage that was heartbeats from going off do so at this moment, the confluence of temporal and spatial structuring in this place - the people and events at the exact spot where Sebastio stood - over the years would be violently shredded and scattered to the winds.

    Over the subjective equivalent of eons, Tuoamas¡¯s sped-up brain and neural utilities worked to find a solution to a problem that was objectively seconds from destroying what he held dear¡­ and to his bitter and everlasting shame, could conceive of nothing to avert disaster.

    Eigenflak defused the danger of ripmappers and hurt spikes, barriers of properly layered Hiek confluences or Morris-weave could render most magical attack impotent. But each and every causality sabotage had unique traits stemming from the many operations involved in its creation, and the order of application. It was a tool handmade to reach out into the stuff of existence, bypass the quantum structuring giving direction to time. It was neither infallible, nor able to be procedurally dismantled. It spelled doom for the unprepared, and Tuoamas Pennat was not prepared.

    The freshly appointed Lord of Pennat Gate sighed, and opened his mouth as his inhuman gaze pierced the elf who¡¯d hurled him a death sentence, but it was not he who spoke with his lips.

    <You wish to make of us a peg? Very well.>

    The exotic compound called anankite, or redmetal, had more industrial use than virtually any other building material. Largely, this arose from its stability in the face of both applied forces and changes to the operating rules of whichever universe it occupied. In nearly any environment it transitioned to a watery liquid state at something approaching absolute zero, and remained an indestructible, unmodifiable, nucleus-dense solid in other circumstances. The substance had become a standard for impregnability over the eons, effectively immune to brinelling and other damage. Thus, it was a wonderful choice for protecting something valuable like the few delicate components found in a weapon of mass destruction.

    The Lord¡¯s metallic fist crushed both the transparent barrier of the priming shell that it held, and the redmetal canister of the causality sabotage within, to twisted ruin.

    <Amen.>

    A small and cataclysmic shearing occurred with Sebastio at its epicenter as the almost-calibrated device spewed complex mass, along with a slew of estranged matter and tuning definitions. The good news, if it could be called by such a name, was that the weapon had been effectively turned into a more potent and more primitive ripmap cartridge. As it happened, ripmap cartridges were usually an extremely unpleasant way to die, even for creatures with weak immortality who enjoyed an immunity to aging.

    Time accelerated in a perfect sphere, moving forward at its skin, and backward at its core, in a terrible rush of fundamental distortion. The stuff of existence cried out in protest at this unnatural violation, a scream that wasn¡¯t heard so much as felt or tasted. It was as numbing and dead as deep space even for those select few in the crowd whose perception in ¡°normal¡± time was comparatively retrogressive.

    In a miniscule span, the distortion unwound its fingers from reality¡¯s throat, and again stood the new Lord of Pennat Gate, a shallow parabolic depression in the floor making him shorter than his previous height. There was no echo, no burst of expiring light, no true sound at all to speak of. In one sense, absolutely nothing had happened; the accompanying caveat was that a very, very large amount of nothing had been happening around Sebastio for an incalculable amount of subjective time.

    The first thought of Tuoamas, and many of those seated on the upper level table, was that the Lord was, miraculously, alive. The second, with variable levels of uneasiness or analogous emotional state, was an uneasy query as to whether living was a mercy or an affliction worthy of a campfire tale monster.

    Instead of an outfitted and mostly human figure with notable deformities, Sebastio Artaxerxes boasted not a solitary molecule of clothing. Evidently his garb had either disassembled itself some time in its past or fallen to dust and memories. The man had no need to worry about his indecent state drawing scandal, however - his groin could have been painted with a picture of the Ripper and no one would have noticed or cared. A curtain of modesty was provided by an avalanche of beard piling up in the fore of the depression to a bit below the man¡¯s navel. From his chin fell the waterfall of wavy and dandruff-besieged facial hair, and the same held true for his scalp, shielding him from view with straighter foliage tangled up to his thighs. The whole right half of his body from waist to neck bore smooth, slightly geometric, glowing orange flesh. One part was delineated from the other by a vascular seam pattern of cross-hatching. The arm which had once been a sword now dangled to his knee like a lanky spider, spiny talons the size of his foot sprouting from a head-sized hand. Perfectly centered on the hand¡¯s back was the searing color of one of what used to be the sword¡¯s ¡°eye¡± gems.

    That was hardly the pinnacle of the changes. Following the line of orange up where it bordered his dark skin with incredible contrast, past where his right nipple once was and atop his neck, a face had been unevenly divided. A straight line marched from chin upward just aside the nose. The prism quality of his altered face broke into finer and more numerous angles than in his torso. At the rightmost third of his mouth, his lips changed in their shape and thinned to the breadth of fishing line, failing to fully obscure four needle-point fangs unevenly paired, top and bottom. Farther up, the demarcation intersected the bulb of the right eye, which had turned to a shining orange-gold globe. Above the sight organ¡¯s metamorphosed surface, where a hairless brow lay slack like an ebb tide, a gleaming red pinprick betrayed the location of the other gem once adorning the man¡¯s sword prosthetic.

    In place of an ear rested a brilliant glyph all too familiar to Tuoamas.

    Like a breaking glass was the sound of sharp edges scissoring together when Sebastio raised his massive right arm. He apparently pinched his chin, and then his head, using the edges on his alien digits to free a stupendous volume of hair. The movement threw a monsoon of dust particles into the room off of his tangled and quite rank locks. Without ado, he similarly truncated the nails on his left hand, which Tuoamas noted also bore growth that went beyond his knees. Bending into the piles of hair he repeated the action, and presumably freed his toes from equally unwieldy keratin.

    ¡°If any might spare it - a cloak, please.¡±

    The creature had a neatly crisp and understandable discourse, pitched almost exactly where it had been wont to wander before the transformation. There was also an overlay of sounds of hammering metal, of the inhale of a war horn, of magical servers burning themselves out one memory address at a time.

    One of the armsmen, an executioner of considerable natural physique, drew off the long tasseled Morris-weave cape dangling from shoulder to knee. As the figure stood at least a meter taller than Sebastio himself, it made a decidedly large cloak, and after stepping free of his prodigious bodily leavings he took it almost lovingly from its owner with subdued thanks. Nevertheless the newest Lord of Yrdky, despite his frightful mutations and his nudity and his raw novelty to his current role, managed to draw the heavy fabric about his person with an ageless dignity.

    ¡°Your pardons, please,¡± he said, though to whom was unclear. He turned, holding his larger hand out toward the supremely out-of-place pile of keratin, palm facing the ceiling.

    An arcane mirage of some kind encompassed the biological material, and then it vanished, taking the refuse with it.

    ¡°Let our business here be concluded for¡­ this day. Further questions will be answered in due time, either through future disseminations or by those in places of authority.¡±

    Fretful murmurs. A few raised shouts.

    ¡°Regrettably, the presence of Leanshe Etruphana is needed a while longer.¡±

    Without raising his head. Sebastio clenched his fist, embedded glowing stone flashing with an inner flame. A tumbling coil of light surrounded the autumn elf in the crowd, a cloud of roiling energy which spat flickering orange dagger points. Before a hew and cry could rise, Leanshe stood just beside the Lord, betraying not a shred of consternation or surprise upon her relocation.

    The human¡¯s new shining eye closed, surprisingly eloquent in its conveyance of fatigue. A fleshy palm tightened about the makeshift cloak, pulling it closed like a toga as Sebastio¡¯s newly multi-layered voice rang out.

    ¡°People of this fine estate, you shall be informed. Midnight, and no later, will see the publication of most pertinent agenda and decision-driving material. A forum for management and discussion of suggestions, grievances, and so on¡­¡±

    A sigh which fluttered and flapped like paper sheets in high wind.

    ¡°... will be provided as soon as events permit.¡±

    Tuoamas considered mentioning to his Lord that the estate already had such public venues. He considered adding that it failed in upkeep of a frankly unnecessary number of forum services under less-than-demanding circumstances.

    He decided that an attempt on the man¡¯s life at day zero of governance made matters sufficiently complex to warrant delaying his observations.

 Interlude Amidst the Tower

    ¡°I don¡¯t want to shoot anybody here today. I still did, though. Eight times. Don¡¯t make it nine.¡±

    A trio of auditors wordlessly beheld the small man with the gun.

    In other circumstances, the man¡¯s appearance would have raised many questions - how he had gotten to their floor of the Tower, why he had not been preceded by an announcement, what had convinced the other auditors of the Tower to leave his gun in his possession. The answer to all these questions was the same: he was an Old. If he did something, a sane person usually just hoped their wellbeing was in his interest and let the rest sort itself out.

    The term ¡°gun¡± did the weapon an injustice, regardless of the tongue used to speak the word. As a fregnost, Garnihi came from a people some other, less-educated people identified as gun-crazy. He knew his firearms extensively, had a relatively small collection of three or four hundred himself, but that was it. The thing held by the Being of Old named Target¡­ now, that was a gun in the way that the Ripper was scary.

    Fregnosts and humans had numerous differences. One kind had four arms and a tail, the other kind had very flexible lips. One had an exceptional mastery of hunting and outdoorsmanship, the other could adapt to get by in nearly any circumstances. However, both largely held guns as objects of tremendous symbolic importance (though one could excuse humans as holding nearly everything as an object of tremendous symbolic importance).

    Garnihi¡¯s culture had oft contemplated the ¡°first gun,¡± the definitively chronologically initial creation from which all modern fregnost guns derived. In that instant he knew a nearly choking certainty that what he was looking at must have been the grandfather of the legendary progenitor of firearms. It was abbreviated and vaguely angular in a way bringing to mind a glued-together jumble of knucklebones, and it felt older than Rhaagm¡¯s foundations.

    ¡°Let¡¯s talk,¡± said the man in something between a conversation and a whispered imperative. It was like each word was tied to a bullet of air on a string, pulled from a depth of lung beyond time and space. The consonant-favoring accent, like its owner¡¯s features, managed to hide its forgettability right until the instant it left one¡¯s mind. Dark, short, a pair of concentric scars circling the right eye off-center. Striped clothes, gray scarves, black and red surfacing from the unfocused haze of the man¡¯s attire.

    The gun spake thrice.

    Before Uslodineg, Garnihi, or the oleethf could ready combat functions, the small room¡¯s floor tiles chittered. Two stools of appropriate height for seating a fregnost or pohostinlat somehow erupted from a too-narrow bore, closely followed by a pair of chocks for the oleethf¡¯s large wheel. The wooden articles pranced to a stop just in front of the auditors.

    ¡°I assure you, if I wanted you dead, you wouldn¡¯t live long enough to know about it.¡±

    The short human smiled with dry amusement.

    Garnihi believed him. Whatever he had just done with the gun was not magic nor rapid assembly of matter. It was something unique, not apparently bound by any orthography of laws, either natural or artificial.

    ¡°I¡¯m willing to listen,¡± he said cautiously, sliding onto the stool graciously shot for him. In actuality, it had slightly more lacquer than wood, he thought. His fellow auditors likewise adopted poses of attention, though the oleethf took a moment to properly bracket its wheel with the chocks.

    The human laughed, a jolly sound of pleasure.

    ¡°Good. Like I said, I¡¯d prefer to avoid any more incapacitations today.¡±If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    The Being of Old crossed his legs and dropped to the floor. His smile cut its own throat and passed away messily.

    ¡°Because there¡¯re going to be others of my kind coming to visit soon. Not to enjoy your hospitality and catch the latest hoop-hook games, or strike up careers as life advisors. Your n-minus-one utilities and specialist¡¯s tools¡¯ll serve you no better than they would against me.¡±

    The short man radiated danger so potent it practically made a binary set: to be sufficiently distant meant life, to draw close meant death.

    Garnihi watched the man¡¯s fingers as they ran down the shining weapon like a lover¡¯s face. He startled a bit when a cylinder detached from the gun, and Target spun the metal object on one finger.

    ¡°Hold out your right hand,¡± he rasped, ¡°all of you. Either of your rights will suffice, sir fregnost.¡±

    After complying, the three auditors saw the Old brandish the cylinder jerkily through the air, three times. A grainy shaking sound came from the object. Activating his overclocking, Garnihi watched three clouds flow from one end of the thing, which resolved into¡­ salt.

    To his amazement, every single mineral speck found its way safely into an outstretched cupped palm. Just a dash, but to Garnihi it felt like it weighed as much as a moon.

    ¡°I¡¯ve been giving lots of gifts lately,¡± said the Old. ¡°Salt¡¯s often thought of as lucky, where I¡¯m from.¡± His smile returned as a grim line, and his salt cellar returned as an indistinguishable component of his weapon.

    ¡°Luck¡¯s one thing you¡¯ll definitely need in the coming days.¡±

    Garnihi felt a sudden urge to flee, leave Rhaagm, and never return. Instead, his ears flicked at lice of the mind.

    ¡°Armed assault of persons under this government¡¯s employ is a dire offense, and puts you in the category of a felon, sir.¡± He was amazed at his own audacity even while the words fell from his mouth.

    ¡°Yes. And that kind of bravery deserves commendation.¡±

    Huge teeth split Target¡¯s face in a genuinely happy smile.

    ¡°It was necessary. Don¡¯t fret your heads about it, the victims¡¯ll live to complain in their current bodies. But before you call your superiors, I need to tell you what I told the other auditors here today. What I need to keep from getting onto the Monolith at nearly any cost right now. So shut up and listen, alright?¡±

    The auditors¡¯ noiseless quiescence was answer enough.

    ¡°Excellent!¡± came the abysmally jolly laugh. ¡°There¡¯ll be a fight quite soon, I assure you. Between contestants like myself. The opposition¡¯ll be interested in doing things to this city and its occupants in the name of keeping us busy. Things that produce a monumental body count.¡±

    The gun spun about a single finger like the gaudiest and most lethal ring ever forged. When it stopped, it pointed perfectly straight up, and had abruptly unfolded into some long needle-thin rifle.

    ¡°Everyone more than six thousand kilometers but less than twelve million kilometers from the Tower ought to be evacuated for safety. Unfortunately, that won¡¯t work out perfectly. Furthermore, a large number of people outside that range¡¯ll also buy it. Even so, it¡¯s better than saving nobody.¡±

    A fatalistic gesture that conveyed honest but overfamiliar regret.

    ¡°How by unholy Hssi do you expect that to get accomplished?¡± demanded Uslodineg, showing the composure of a miserly dragon with a toothache. The pohostinlat drew up a readout on one of the districts near the edge of a six thousand kilometer radius circle around the Tower. ¡°There¡¯s one of the best case scenarios: only half a trillion people in the district, and it only covers a height of nine hundred thousand kilometers. What possible means could we use to displace that many people to some location that far from their homes?¡±

    ¡°Force,¡± answered the Old in a pinched, harsh voice. ¡°For that matter, you¡¯ll have to do so with less than two days¡¯ notice.¡±

    ¡°For each district!?¡±

    ¡°For the entire region.¡±

    Garnihi felt numb.

    ¡°You¡¯ll get that much advance warning,¡± continued the Old, ¡°but no more. This¡¯s all going to happen within a year, so keep a watch for word from myself or¡­ other sources.¡±

    He smiled mirthlessly.

    ¡°Congratulations on winning yourselves an interesting task. Now, do your best.¡±

 A Dreaded Welcome

    ¡°... After the cavitation barb (that is, a ¡®hurt spike¡¯) is expended and stable, you have several methods to dispose of the resultant peg. You may activate the sublimation facilities of the peg, returning it to a pure energy state and reclaiming it. You may also alter its form and retrieve it as a physical object. In either case, make sure to retain records of the reason for using your weapon functions. A peg itself does not keep data on why it has been fired, only how much and of what varieties of material its original barb has disposed.¡±

    -Excerpt from Bhushalt Fabricants and Design owner¡¯s manual for custom firearm augmentations, dealing with cavitation barbs

    Ten minutes after the attempted assassination, a double handful of people congregated in the beautiful landscape of a hedge-bracketed field of garden. The garden had gracefully flowering trees of all colors and low mushroom caps of shrubbery, like duts who sprouted greenery instead of rubbery tendrils. A couple of small ponds hunched sulkily below woodmetal bridges. Silent armsmen stood protectively at the entrances to the enclosed verdant theater. The flowers and bushes, the carefully stewarded half-tame wildlife, the noble spectators, and a great many observers who watched through countless peripherals bore witness.

    The large transparent cylinder, just now assembled to order by estate eidolons, hinted to the onlookers that the event entailed something unusual.

    Most of the arrivals glanced to and from the cylinder as though it would bite them. Tuoamas frowned faintly at the object. The autumn elf retained her stoic, unfeeling shell, even while examining the thing out of the corner of her eye.

    The Rhaagmini sighed. He put away the dossier provided by Tuoamas on the autumn elf, after the man had insisted on educating his Lord about ¡°his new enemy¡± while they exited the crowded halls. He did not much like the additional layers of politics now stretching drum-taut over his inaugural night.

    When the Cambrian dropped any pretense of the official ¡°we,¡± it obviously hit some of the nobles at or above Sixth Step like a slap. His glare, funnily enough, didn¡¯t do anything of note to the autumn elf¡­ at first.

    ¡°I am not given to capricious action. I am not given to useless action. And, may the record show, I am not given to inaction. Lords do not interrupt without reason, but those of a Lord¡¯s estate have a duty to uphold the security of their realm.¡±

    He glanced behind him at the citadel, rising forever against the dark sky. He¡¯d walked into that fortress just that afternoon, but - thanks to his experience with a gentled causality sabotage - that entrance had subjectively occurred a long, long age past. He¡¯d spent that stretched and transfixed moment conversing with his new bodily companion, even as his body itself changed.

    It refined certain parts of him and roughened others.

    Leanshe saw something on his face as he turned back, something which finally sparked an emotive ember. Her aura - one of the simplest tells available in an autumn elf - dimmed with a dawning apprehension. She almost took a step back, but words nailed her to the spot.

    ¡°Murderers, actual or intended, represent a threat to the security of our enterprise¡¯s order. Murderers will face the tender mercies of their desserts. Presently, murderers will find themselves the subject of prejudice.¡±

    Then: ¡°I hope you like salt.¡±

    ¡°Your pardon, Lord?¡± Tuoamas asked, just as Sebastio¡¯s polyhedral limb made a slashing cut.

    With a quiet sound, Leanshe Etruphana was naked as her clothes came loose from her person and drifted into a pile by her feet. By many Rhaagmini human-analogue standards she was still decent, though on the edge of scandal, since her nude form bore no hair beside that on her head. Then, a moment passed, and she began screaming when phantom cuts dug into her flesh. The cuts widened, then the woman¡¯s outermost layer came unseamed and detached like a single garment.

    Surprisingly little blood came from the savagery; a trickle here and there only, as Leanshe¡¯s fleshy exterior flopped on top of her sartorial belongings like a squawk with a broken wing. On the light-colored dermis, where the skin had pressed on the back of her neck, a small rectangular hole showed the site of her cerv-mesh¡¯s exposed box. A blood-smell wafted across the verdant yard, briny and grassy.

    Calling on one of Caladhbolg¡¯s translation functions, he placed the woman in the cylindrical container. The container promptly filled with highly saline water that Sebastio produced from a mass-energy conversion. The screaming improved in volume, and a rosy flare of the woman¡¯s aura represented a spontaneous, caramelized desperation.

    She either expected no consequence, or expected to die. Possibly both.

    Sebastio would once have felt a worm of pity madly shoving at his heart, pleading with him in its tiny worm voice to take back his actions and end the woman¡¯s pain. He¡¯d had quite a good span of time to come to terms with himself that evening, though.

    It was amazing, he thought. The potency of violence¡¯s siren song. The ease of resisting, without any need to tinker with his chemistry. He was even more a creature of plural minds than usual, and yet finding resolution was so much more straightforward.

    At least, in restraining his outward behaviors.

    Resolution in this moment manifested as realization that the proletariat happily accepted his right to be called Lord¡­ but by no means did they have to consider him a respectable Lord. Leanshe¡¯s attack on him required an answer. The kind of answer from a storybook - where a kindly king forgives the rogue who stole her ruler¡¯s gold, because she¡¯d done it to pay her family¡¯s debtors, because the choice lay between that or the unthinkable - was out of the question.

    To the people of the estate, his estate, true justice demanded punishment.

    A breaking wave of questions and objections began to gather momentum behind him.

    Sebastio raised a hand, and imperiously demanded attention without words. He got it.

    ¡°I meant what I said.¡±

    He almost had to stop and find a mirror to confirm his throat was the source of that wretched grating sigh. It was not a good voice, and the fact he hadn¡¯t jumped from his own skin the few times he¡¯d exercised it so far demonstrated a superhuman ability to contain his reactions.

    ¡°I will not administer the death sentence with any immediacy,¡± he added, turning. ¡°Interruption may be the traditional sentence for using proscribed armament like a causality sabotage. How much good will it do in this instance, though?¡±

    The garden witchlights cut icy shadows into the lawn. The people casting those shadows were like rodents attending a tea party with a hawk. Tuoamas distinguished himself as a rodent with not a scrap of weakness or give. The man¡¯s eminent solidity also precluded him from raising objection.

    That was not the case with the venerable strategist Reltenifor.

    ¡°Did you not state, just this hour, that you would leave decisions and actions to those who have previously made them on this estate¡¯s behalf?¡±

    Sebastio felt a small arc of electricity dance over his left cheek. It continued dancing over to the right, and a dull hum echoed in his head. He sent another after the first, and another after that.

    When the part-pohostinlat¡¯s ears went back, Sebastio chose to interpret it as an unspoken submission. He challenged the rest of the crowd with his gaze, sparking all the while. It took a moment, but eventually most save Tuoamas adopted a cowed look.

    ¡°I spoke out as Lord of this estate. As the Lord of Pennat Gate I fully stand by my statement. As a civilian, I was directly assaulted in a time, place, and fashion which could have killed numerous others.¡±

    He let the silence sink in for a minute, ministers and cabinet members in varying levels of discomfort. He pointed at the container holding the autumn elf, who was strobing every aura from humiliation to hot fury.

    ¡°Is this not a lesser punishment than death?¡±

    ¡°It is debatable,¡± answered Reltenifor in the archest of tones, ¡°whether it is considerably worse. There is far more suffering on display here, for one thing.¡±

    ¡°There is exponentially more suffering,¡± riposted Sebastio with a perfectly even voice of fact, ¡°and I am currently blocking her pain dampeners.¡± His orange fist flexed, bright tendons straining. ¡°If there is any way to inflict further torment on this woman without likely killing her, please do tell.¡±

    Some of the more vocal dissidents on that front began to protest vehemently.

    ¡°No!¡± Sebastio cut them off with the kind of disrespectful impropriety that actually might have given a hardcore traditionalist noble conniptions. ¡°This estate has a manifest need for talent. The Engineering Compact will not turn out another of such skill for a long time to come. I will talk with Leanshe Etruphana myself. If she listens to reason, I ask that she remains in state. If not, your judgment will have to do.¡±

    Will it really, though? he asked himself. Or am I so determined to thwart myself that I insist on going until I cross some irrecoverable line, some boundary even more contentious than Tuoamas¡¯s deposition?

    No, he realized, his cross-grained aspects - protector and tormentor, romantic and cynic - still ground against each other, but his earlier inkling proved accurate. It was easier to put them aside, to degauss his impulses, to move all of him in one direction. He could cope with many things.

    ¡°Are you going to launch a coup against the Republic Lords next?¡± The greatest surprise was how completely Tuoamas¡¯s tone suggested he would support such a scheme, despite the overleaning sarcasm. Sebastio - the new Sebastio - had patience to spare if required, but not for playing social games.

    ¡°Let us be forthright with one another. This morning, I had an age just shy of starting my seventh hexadecade. Observe, if you will, my age as reported by my mesh.¡±

    He brought up his biographical info on the Monolith¡¯s naked eye layer. Over his left pectoral appeared a readout. The ¡°age¡± statistic had a figure of notably greater than three and a quarter million years.

    ¡°Impossible!¡± The shout came ambiguously from a gathering of several tightly knit watchers.

    ¡°In all,¡± Sebastio murmured, ¡°I and Caladhbolg were distinct, separate entities even after my¡­ accident. Now, we still are, but we also think far more alike. I spent a lot of time this evening in deepest discussion with my symbiotic companion.¡±

    Corroboration came moments later, from the entity who had been sharing and speaking in his mind for an age.

    <We are almost entirely in agreement on any topic one could conceivably raise.>

    He was interested to hear Caladhbolg¡¯s vocalizations now resembled the timbre and pitch he himself used to possess. How odd. He closed his eyes and focused.

    ¡°I have come to a realization: a statement must be made. Neither elimination nor pardon suffices, so we must show the consequence, in obscene detail, for attempting to harm this estate. Based on the talks had between myself and¡­ my associate, this compromise best splits the difference of the various debts this woman owes. She lives, and lives with a dire punishment.¡±

    He fixed Tuoamas with a loaded stare again.

    ¡°I have no far-reaching ambitions apart from those already voiced in public. I shall submit to a dowsing if you wish to discern my intentions with more granularity.¡±

    He almost coughed a laugh, thinking of an entire estate crowded around a couch as a specialist medium tried to draw forth his motivations, his ego. Even if his every thought was laid bare, there would still be detractors accusing him of taking countermeasures against standard dowsings.

    For that matter, in light of recent transformations, dowsings would probably need to employ very unusual tools and procedures to affect the new Lord of Pennat Gate. Assuming, of course, that the Maker¡¯s creation didn¡¯t scrub such examinations of his gestalt outright.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

    ¡°If the Sledgecrafters or Fountainists - either those policing this estate, or any of its holdings - wish to make an example of my hooligan ways, then the same treatment as this woman would be only fair. But for the moment, I ask your discretion. Not as a Lord, but as a man.¡±

    The beautiful night cleared its throat, and a measure or two of uninterrupted nocturnal songs intertwined, birds and squawks and bugs and even a weelee or two, sparkling like stars. The sounds of Leanshe faded to sobs beyond hearing, becoming ever more terrible.

    ¡°How and when do you next wish to convene, Lord?¡±

    Tuoamas had steel in his spine and a knowing glint in his eye as he cut across the symphony. The sort which, without malice, still asserted the ownership of a favor owed.

    ¡°I will convene with whomever wishes it at dawn. Engineer Etruphana requires my attentions a while longer. Observers may remain so long as their constitutions allow.¡±

    A few half-indignant murmurs at the insinuation of weakness, though the two assassins present had no complaints either way.

    Sebastio called to Argyva, the captain of the Lord¡¯s armsmen. Bodyguards, he thought. I have bodyguards.

    Rather than contemplative, the thought made him sad.

    ¡°Captain! Please ensure Tuoamas Pennat is cared for with all the attention to detail you have employed in the past.¡±

    In reply, the woman - facing in from the hedge gap her Lord had entered - somehow improved an already perfect standing attention.

    ¡°My Lord. You are our principal. Our duty binds us to your person at all times.¡±

    She managed to be both clearly audible across the distance and conversational in manner. More importantly, she spoke aloud. Not unknown, but the fact of an armsman vocalizing in the company of those besides their Lord had happened perhaps two hundred times since Tuoamas had first taken up the estate¡¯s mantle.

    ¡°Then assign, finagle, bribe, blackmail, or incubate the best possible substitutes you can produce for his benefit. Consider that an order of the highest imaginable importance.¡±

    When Argyva said nothing further and made no attempt to initiate a connection, Sebastio hummed to himself, and swept back around to face his victim.

    She nestled between two dextrally spiraling blackleaf trees in her vat of salt solution. She no longer tried to make noise. The suffering in her radiant aura raised the hairs of his organic components.

    <Remember what we discussed,> advised Caladhbolg. <If you want to hold your violent side in check, consider her as the subject of her story and not the object of yours. Look at her as a daughter or sister.>

    She has no siblings.

    <Beside the point. You cannot kill antipathy. You can->

    I know, you can only nurture empathy. We¡¯ve had this conversation nearly verbatim, what, thousands of times? Millions? After spending so many relative years in a head together, I think we understand each other that well. Gods above and below, but I¡¯m a walking clich¨¦ - every single famous warrior bound to their weapon in flesh is going to have a caricature with my face now, or someday.

    He snorted, and then something hit him: specifically, that his new sight organ did not simply need ¡°time to adjust¡± as he¡¯d assumed.

    Also, can you do something about the eye we¡¯re now fully sharing?

    <Of what nature?>

    I¡¯d like to still see color when I close my left eyelid.

    A swarm of rod and cone cell stand-ins deluged the gold orb entrenched below his brow. He could now perceive hue and shade as normally as possible for a man who was half semi-deity sword symbiote.

    Thank you.

    ¡°Thank you,¡± he said aloud to the autumn elf, ¡°for trying to kill me.¡±

    The woman writhed in stilted jerks. She might have curled into a ball if it didn¡¯t mean her face would be submerged. A little shiver made Sebastio¡¯s left hand clench as though he¡¯d taken five or six uncut hits of fidget.

    He felt violence knocking.

    Yes, said the back half of his brain.

    No, said the front.

    With unusual ease, the path of the latter part of his mind opened up.

    He requested a direct connection with the woman¡¯s facilities, which she eventually deigned to accept. She immediately responded with a sort of dazed hostility.

    {Why have you not ended me?}

    Yrdkish might lack true slang dialects, but Leanshe exhibited a terseness culturally equal to the gangbanger drawl of Twelvebishop or Southsea. Her earlier speech, Sebastio suddenly guessed, had been rehearsed for the occasion. She was probably looked upon as a very skilled punk by her peers. Perhaps even an idiot savant of some kind.

    {I have plans for you, Leanshe Etruphana. You surely heard what I said to Tuoamas and the other nobles. It was no verbal political gesture.}

    {You would leave me as a member of the Compact. Very well; I shall remain a pariah for all of my days. Not one job will come to me, not one contract.}

    {On the contrary.} Sebastio stepped in a wide arc around the vessel, watching the aura of its occupant go dusky. He waited until he¡¯d circuited the tank precisely one and a half times before continuing. {You have crippled your reputation, and with time it might yet heal. Especially if the upper Steps and other nobility ask for you by name. I will see that it is so, as much as it lies in my powers of persuasion.}

    He sniffed, turning to the statuesque form of Argyva across the garden lawn. Behind her one of his executioner armsmen held position, watching outward.

    {In all,} he pondered, {you have helped me become what I am. But know that I did what I could to keep your family alive. When I went to put Niall Bennosuke down, there was virtually no possibility of bloodless victory, but I tried what I could to better the odds.}

    Skinless, obscured by a veil of salt water and the emanations from a refracted light aura, Leanshe obviously didn¡¯t believe him. The true hell of it was the great weight of reason behind her doubts. He was no evil man, but he was far and farther from a good one.

    Sebastio sighed, argued with himself, and produced a sensory that captured the rising action of Count¡¯s flouted subversion of an entire facet. The gunfire. The blood. The wanton destruction. The culmination in Sebastio¡¯s unwilling bonding with the weapon. He sent it to Leanshe with his signature prominently attached.

    Upon reliving the several awful minutes of experiences, the woman¡¯s aura went totally blue. That posed a few questions, but her face did not. Raw flesh and muscle and lidless eyes only chiseled her thoughts out in greater contrast, and those thoughts made her unsettled.

    And so he sat before the elf, and began recounting in the hope that she might understand:

    Opportunities for intrusion countermeasures to flag suspicious activity. No avail.

    {That man was once called friend,} he began. {It turns out, his father made a decent name for himself as a shaman, and his mother was something of a prophetess. When Niall first showed himself to be an atypical, he made his family proud. However, as he grew older, his taste for pain became clearer. A bird¡¯s wing broken so that it would heal and become useless. Hundreds of bugs with legs removed, or shells peeled. A few more accidents among the other children in his neighborhood than the laws of averages permitted. All things indicative of mishap, or the immaturity common to many in their formative periods.}

    Penetration of the secured area. An unchallenged outsider.

    {As he became older, more attuned to his magical peculiarities, Niall found that the act of dispensing suffering on that border between self and not-self was¡­ pleasing. By the time he and I met each other, he knew what made him smile. A trait I share, and which makes me smile as well - but that fact of smiling brings me unhappiness. And, you see, a mistake was made: confiding in another assumed to likewise share one¡¯s mores. He did not understand shame, he did not repent his actions, he did not forgive a fellow consort of violence for misleading him.}

    Too late, alarum. Exfiltration concluded successfully.

    {There were casualties, and the Nightmare Count numbers among them. Now? Now, this estate is going to be MY fortress, MY shield, MY safe haven!}

    He paused, shuddering, and looked in the direction of the sun¡¯s descent.

    {You wanted to destroy me? As bigoted and conflicted and sadistic as I might be inclined in the mire of my worst character, I will tell you a truth. So long as Caladhbolg and I remain joined, very few means exist with a chance of undoing me.} He stepped close, placing his large orange palm against the barrier. With an effort, he reshaped it. A mirror of his fleshy limb now protruded from the right shoulder. {If we separate, it will persist, and I shall be interrupted.}

    The elf twitched every so often, giving no reply. The pain she failed to hide unsettled him¡­ yet that paled beside the greasy malcontentment caused by how those little twitches occasionally brought a smile to the new Lord¡¯s face. For three days he watched her, like a monkey waiting outside an orchard until the farmer decided to leave.

    Three days proved a long, long time.

    Sebastio¡¯s changes had extensive and resounding implications, amongst them the inability to sleep and a biology no longer dependent on sustenance of food or energy of any kind. As a result, he spent the days interacting briefly with those who sought him out. Tangled Gordian knots of Yrdkish inquiry parted with ease under his distracted tongue. Most of the time, he sat and watched his handiwork. He waited. His callers quickly got the picture. The armsmen stood at their vigil without sleep, their self-subsistent means far more orthodox than that of their Lord.

    On the third day¡¯s demise, the elf rose again above the milky caustic waters, and Sebastio Artaxerxes gave her a new skin from out of pocket. As her dermis knit her together once more, salt dripping from her shaking frame began soaking into the lawn. Grass died beneath the saline and regrew at the behest of gardener eidolons. Others busily dismantled the elf¡¯s prison.

    Sebastio waited until her clothes returned to their proper places. He released the disruptive functions he had been sustaining on her person, and Leanshe sighed as her pain dampeners began soothing her. Then, the Cambrian crossed his legs, sat in the lotus position, and carefully eyed the woman he¡¯d decided to consider the daughter of her mother.

    ¡°Leanshe Etruphana.¡±

    The now-hairless autumn elf¡¯s aura remained dim and unreadable. The acceleration of her heart told him she might expect to be debrided again and returned to her containment for another three days. She didn¡¯t illegally fold away, which encouraged both optimism and delicacy.

    Over the days of watching, Sebastio¡¯s synthetic parts had gradually leaned toward a more biologically human exterior. Twisting a swath of newly grown orange chain-link beard hair, his unnatural jaw stretched in a soft line.

    ¡°If you still wish to do me harm for the noble sacrifice made by your cousins, here is your chance. I require advising. I know little of how Lords are perceived by their subjects and peers on an Yrdkish political theater. To make my vision become a reality, I need to be less of a Lord, and more of a symbol. A banner. I need to restrict my decisions, and to make them mean more each time.¡±

    She met his contemplative ocular lasing, unfazed.

    ¡°Advise me.¡±

    The autumn elf¡¯s aura slowly turned crimson, then topaz. A very gradual calming. Eventually she requested a direct channel connection. Bemused, Sebastio accepted.

    {It may sound a strange thing, perhaps, to you. When we take upon ourselves a serious goal, it is supposed to be a singular pursuit. Bringing others to share that goal is, of course, noble. Even an outlander Rhaagmini like you can see that.}

    {Of course.}

    interjected Caladhbolg, and so used to his other half¡¯s ¡°voiced¡± thoughts had Sebastio become over his immurement that interminable evening that Leanshe¡¯s psychic flinch surprised him at first.

    {If you want to be seen as both aloof from the details, and yet dedicated to your cause, you should do what most Lords consider political folly. For most it demonstrates a catastrophic degree of inconstancy, on account of the additional demands it places on a Lord.}

    She turned then, and the time it took her to face the sun peering above the horizon was a comparative eon in the rapidity of their bytevoice.

    {My Lord, you should marry.}

    Sebastio mulled over the suggestion. As far as ¡°ways to coerce nemeses to their doom¡± went, it failed to devastate. It sounded, frankly, like a joke. He said as much.

    {You have unexpectedly placed a deal of trust in me, Lord, and yet are the slumbering unsleeper. You are the very picture of contradiction.}

    The aphorism of a well-to-do silkal, so indecisive as to whether it wanted the wonderful realm of rest or the wakeful lucid world, was a figurative construct which might have been minted in Sebastio¡¯s honor for all that it fit him. Yet on this occasion that metaphor held no weight.

    {On the contrary. My relationship with you is the antithesis of trusting. Has it already slipped your mind, the very hour your sentence is fulfilled?}

    With his new body¡¯s alterations including corruption to his cerv-mesh¡¯s simplex module, Sebastio could no longer reliably fold in the traditional method. However, with his new gifts of destructive talent he could pare away radians and distances, warp cosines and tesseracts, and break down numerous barriers between his given state and the state he desired. He stood and deployed a function, smashing apart the separation between Leanshe and his seated position.

    The autumn elf twitched as a figure shuddered into focus within arm¡¯s reach.

    {You tried to kill me. Undesired from my perspective, yet something I can, in isolation forgive. But when you did it with a tool that could have rent apart every person and event intersecting my person¡¯s temporospatial coordinates¡­}

    {The device was open-bounded to a range of only eight hours.}

    Sebastio had never been truly scared of himself before. Upon hearing the autumn elf¡¯s justification, though, his whole being petrified internally. A thin river of something - not quite thought, not quite emotion - trickled through his center. A river that stank of klaxons and oaths and lightnings and shadows.

    He never remembered moving of his own volition, exactly, but he next stood close enough that the vellus hair of his nose brushed the woman¡¯s face. His own face contorted, and he knew without the aid of a mirror that the fury in his mien could only be described as incandescent.

    {Crippled False. That miniscule show of forethought upon the well-being of your fellow estate citizens is one of a terribly small number of reasons we are talking at all, and for that you still draw breath! Disrupting eight hours along the time axis means you only would have destroyed several hundred people without hope of recovery. If you had extended that period to, say, a full day¡­ your records would have been wiped from recovery servers and you would have died three days ago.}

    The hairless elf twitched again, more explosively.

    Sebastio found it amazing when he didn¡¯t breathe fire as he next spoke aloud.

    ¡°If I had your mind plumbed to find where you obtained that weapon, it would doubtless just show examples of how convincing you can be when under pressure. So your trespass is forgiven, not forgotten. Now, business calls for attention, including your most interesting advice, and I must depart.¡±

    Leanshe¡¯s eyes nearly rolled out of their sockets as she watched everything in the garden simultaneously, as though to see if any assassins or ¡°accidents¡± might hurtle out at her.

    ¡°Understand that I sincerely hope to see this incident fade into inconsequence.¡± Sebastio moved to leave, looking over his shoulder. ¡°But if you ever threaten the safety of my estate¡¯s residents again, then you had best make peace with yourself and whatever powers you may hold dear.¡±

    As he left the garden¡¯s beauty with armsmen in tow, Sebastio didn¡¯t know if he¡¯d made an unstable ally, or an unsteady enemy. But he knew his time as Pennat Gate¡¯s Lord would be anything but obscure, and the furthest thing from boring imaginable.

 A Dreaded Matrimony

    ¡°The question of morality is not simply about what ends one considers just enough for one¡¯s means, but also about the distinction of means as ends in and of themselves.¡±

    -Gealag mun Lingi mun Dolaph munnin Deddsi the Grand, Strategy and Tactics in the Mastery of Grediwe

    The first day, there had been the simulation contract.

    The third day, an unexpected visit threw things into disarray.

    The eighth day, thirty percent extra got piled on top of the up-front payment.

    The twentieth day, a lengthy discussion of engineering edge cases side-tracked development.

    The fifty first day, the human client hinted at a different kind of interest.

    The hundred and tenth day was today.

    Today, a hundred and ten days since Seroku Adz Tataki Ba¡¯fus had first met a peculiar human seeking design talent, the udod aodod was sitting down before the human, as capable of semantic elegance as a brained baby. The identity of said person had been kept cloistered behind a borrowed identity, but that veil¡¯s creator had just torn it away in dramatic fashion.

    The man in question was none other than Lord Sebastio Artaxerxes, arguably the most discussed person¡­ well, anywhere, for the past half of a year. Adz had heard countless anecdotes of his being cruel and forgiving, hasty and patient, distant and familiar. The fact that he was the udod aodod¡¯s liege - seeing as the town of Crying Falls followed Pennat Gate whenever the estate pulled up stakes for migration - made distinguishing between witness and hearsay not the slightest bit easier.

    However, his legacy already included more informational material than the first decade of his predecessor. The man¡¯s nearly manic production of records, from personal sensories of conversations and meetings with the nobility to a documentary on the facetary origin of his adopted sibling Louis, had at first indicated a person desperate to bury their mistakes under a flood of output. Many critics found themselves neatly hamstrung as Sebastio proceeded to publish memoranda in which he carefully outlined some of his greater blunders. He laid plans to prevent himself or anyone else from such gaffes again.

    Then he had to go and suggest marriage.

    Adz looked down. The udod aodod stood more than double the human¡¯s height, even with its ears flat against its head. Resting on a chair growing out of his arm, its Lord retained his middle nobility disguise everywhere except for his face and the substrate flowing from his shoulder to form the elegant seat on the floor.

    ¡°Are you¡­ well, Lord?¡± Its eyefibers covered its eyespots until only pores peeked out. Embarrassment, disbelief, a prickling of affection where a human might have felt disgust or indignation. Some indignation to be sure (a lot actually), but that was because of the deception, not¡­ ahem.

    The human gazed over his shoulder, out the foyer¡¯s impressive lakeview window. He was genial enough, xenial enough, though the udod aodod felt a breath away from deflagration.

    ¡°My condition has granted me something like strong immortality, not the weak immortality we all enjoy thanks to cellular perfection and the prevalence of re-lifing stations.¡±

    An idle careless-seeming wave.

    ¡°I cannot be truly unwell.¡±

    ¡°Then, you are s-¡±

    ¡°I am quite sure,¡± he said, interrupting with a voice like a bar of steel heated to a point of softness. Not unkind, but not extremely patient either.

    He stood, gauging Adz like an engineer might gauge the effect of a dark generator on its local gravity well. The pseudo-biological mass writhed and then subducted into the arm once more, leaving the small foyer of eSsonnss Architecture one chair shorter.

    ¡°Oh, do get up!¡± he said, after a short sigh. ¡°This is no less discomforting for me than it is for you, I assure you.¡±

    Adz awkwardly obeyed, left leg-cables knotted a bit from doing the equivalent of kneeling. It had not been genuflection in the sense a human might think, more a surprised vacation of one¡¯s vital energies. It jerked a tad, when its supporting limbs unevenly faltered. Actually, it nearly fell flat on its face.

    A tattooed woman in the hunting attire of a Duchess abruptly seemed to fold next to the Lord. Human looks being what they were, Adz had no firm idea if she was attractive, bland, or even ugly.

    Sebastio immediately waved a placating hand.

    ¡°Argyva, please assist the others now that the ruse is up. If Bark is still in position, he probably wants some help doing a final check for vulnerabilities to standard weapons fire.¡±

    At the woman¡¯s pursing of her lips, he sighed again. Longer, this time. His right hand extended, and the fingers merged into an axe. Along its face coiled scenes of warriors doing disorganized battle on their way toward the cutting blade. The edge of the thing had the shimmer of a destabilizer construct, but it¡­ smelled wrong.

    ¡°You are an exceedingly smart woman,¡± he enunciated, suddenly putting on the conceit of any Ninth Step noble sparring in the debate halls. ¡°You certainly know how long it would take me to destroy every sign this settlement even existed, if I needed to defend myself.¡±

    He tilted the axe, a feigned interest in its precise thickness. It was very, very sharp.

    The woman saluted and left through the glass-elm entryway arcade without ever having opened her mouth.

    Adz considered the man once again. His body was back to normal, and he¡¯d finally done away with his disguise. Woven garments and a few ceremonial articles draped his form. He cut as acceptable a figure as one might ever witness in the estates or their territories. Only the right side of him betrayed his nature.

    ¡°Sadly, my idealized abstention from normal politicking has proven¡­ troublesome. As a result, I require, or strongly want, a partner who can act as co-ruler, who is unafraid of speaking their mind.¡±

    He shook with repressed mirth.

    ¡°You made your opinion of my attainment of my lofty rank wonderfully clear! ¡®An effective and theatrical stunt¡¯ indeed.¡±

    He looked up, appraising the udod aodod.

    ¡°If you choose to accept my hand in marriage, that is the kind of forthrightness I would ask.¡±

    Choose to accept.

    With the differences in their respective kinds, Adz knew that they understood serious courtship on fundamentally incongruent bases. Udod aodod entered into a relationship only when both prospects mutually voiced an interest, usually while breaking bread. Humans, being asymmetrical in their pairings like much of sentient life, tended to see one party or the other as the initiator in many respects.

    But it was the prerogative of a Lord to observe that baffling social construct known as the arranged marriage. The beneficiaries of the arrangement could be as random or premeditated as desired. Yet, Adz had an offer instead of a duty, a choice instead of a directive, which did not sit easily. One did not survive long in places like Crying Falls without developing a cynical sense for favors owed and purchased.

    ¡°Tarry as you please on your adjudication.¡±

    Sebastio evidently read some amount of its embarrassingly visible concern. That stretchy emotive face suddenly grew a grin, shallow and yet wide enough to eat one of Adz¡¯s digits.

    ¡°It would hardly do for me to gain a prurient and wanton reputation in addition to my well-known wrothful disposition, immaturity, fits of madness, and gluttony for all things unspeakable.¡±

    Adz¡¯s leg-cables began to twine with humor, but with force of will alone they were halted mid-motion. It didn¡¯t want to like this man.

    ¡°You enjoy crippling those with whom you have dealings?¡± it demanded, harshly. The winding twists and needless obfuscations of the nobility¡¯s dialogue were things for which udod aodod were not suited. Nonetheless, it would make the attempt at fighting this Lord with words.

    ¡°Do you consider all compliments as poison-thorned flowers?¡± he retorted.

    ¡°Evidently the Lord of Pennat Gate must avert his fears with evasions.¡±

    He smiled.

    ¡°The people of Crying Falls have a wonderfully candid speech about them,¡± he replied. A very mild insult, or a consolation? In either case a placation, an attempt at defusing.

    ¡°A very strange man, to visit and ask for marriage, and then treat the betrothed-to-be as a danger.¡±

    ¡°Swords need whetstones,¡± Sebastio Artaxerxes pronounced very carefully.

    And just what was that supposed to mean? An extremely cursory allusion, or some codified response to confluences of context Adz simply could not see? It had had enough anyway.

    ¡°You want me to swoon over your obviously considerate and charming nature, like some... moonstruck girl?¡±

    Sebastio¡¯s grin vaporized. The non-human eye glittered like a coin bounding down into a black hole, stretching into a refined shiny infinity. For a terrible instant Adz feared he would do what he¡¯d done to that elf woman.

    ¡°Beasts take me, no!¡±

    His voice was filled with what Adz recognized as sadness, not anger. It had the sound of a monk ascended to the highest mountaintop, speaking and listening for echoes. The udod aodod realized it had been hearing thin threads of that same hermetism since the Lord first came to it in disguise.

    ¡°First, you are an udod aodod, not a girl. Second, I have quite enough people moonstruck around me lately, and it is part of the reason for this kind of arrangement. Third, if you begin swooning, it will not only fly in the face of your character, but it will also remove you from candidacy effective immediately.¡±

    The grin returned, peeking out from a thicket of eclectic thoughts.

    ¡°So far I have one young soul who thinks the world of me. When I told you of my adopted little brother Louis, I spoke truth, but much also remained left out.¡± Lords did not often permit themselves wistful expressions, but one floated recognizably along the man¡¯s bearing. ¡°For example, how quickly I would do all I have done again for him, and all other washed or otherwise inconvenienced people of the gem. And yet I find myself lacking in crucial ways which he is unsuited to fill. Few nobles who share my vision wholeheartedly. A famine of confidants.¡±

    Adz pointedly stared at the right side of the human¡¯s form, following the very subtle seam on the one side of his face. He sighed, and poked at the glistering jewel that protruded from his artificial hand like the prettiest tumor in the world. The designer¡¯s eyespots opened flat against its face when the next words came from the same mouth, but a different speaker. Of course, the phenomenon of the Lord¡¯s other side was well-known from the several speeches published by his body¡¯s cohabitant on the subject of its refrain from exercising agency independent of the newest Lord of Pennat Gate. Yet hearing it in person was something else.

    <Not without companions, and yet we¡­ it is hard to describe. We are distinct entities, but our accident caused us to blur a little in our manifest forms, and we have adopted many of each others¡¯ characteristics. Now, we differ like humans who are twins differ.>The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    Adz had seen its share of identical siblings, an utterly alien concept to the udod aodod before they had been introduced to extrafacetary society. Twins could arise in other races, of course, but watching human twins always struck a beautiful and haunting chord. The riotous individualism of humans so completely set aside in appearance, and often attitude, gave one all kinds of pause.

    ¡°An extremely interesting offer,¡± conceded Adz eventually.

    Sebastio suddenly hid his face, mocking joy coming through his words like rain through a sieve.

    ¡°As interesting as when that pompous lady from Nor¡¯ridge interfered during your New Year¡¯s tenshe? At least I have not tried to weasel a complimentary simulation of my eldest daughter out of you by diverting business to your rivals!¡±

    Adz¡¯s eyespots closed up instantly.

    ¡°I never should have mentioned that.¡±

    ¡°If you had not,¡± the human mused aloud, ¡°I would not know about how deeply you strive for superlative performance in yourself and your peers. I would not know about your love of competition. I would not know you for a person willing to talk back to those surpassing your authority, nominal or otherwise. Those things I crave.¡±

    A rubbing of the mouth, meaning unknown.

    ¡°Those things,¡± he added in a voice as gentle as silk while looking up at it, ¡°are as beautiful as sunset over ¨²da¡¯s stele pagodas.¡±

    For a moment, Adz could see the human accompanying it on the semi-sacred game hunt-and-not-hunt that was an udod aodod¡¯s tenshe. He didn¡¯t have the leg-cables to give a boar pursuit in the traditional manner, but he would certainly keep up all the same.

    His divided mouth reshaped into a sine wave, and his attention diverted from Adz so violently it wondered briefly that his neck didn¡¯t snap.

    ¡°Forgive me,¡± he said more softly. ¡°You do deserve to know - you were not actually my first choice from this settlement. However, I would like to know more about you, Adz. Maybe talk about the great athletes of Crying Falls and the surrounding area.¡±

    Adz¡¯s nostrils flared, remembering the eccentric love of hoop-hook in a noble as a pleasant surprise the first time its disguised client had broached the subject of sports. The fact that he didn¡¯t have the good taste to follow the elite maypoling echelons of the area did arise from a moral failure of character. Adz supposed such defects could be forgiven. Eventually.

    Sebastio chinned the udod aodod¡¯s arm - forward bordering on scandalous given their legal status in relation to each other - and Adz stiffened until he pulled back again, though he took his time. ¡°Regrettably, I must leave presently. Take ca-¡±

    Like the axe into which the Lord had metamorphosed his limb was the edge of his fractured thought. With tilted eye and straightened spine, he swung about to greet the human male who had just walked into eSsonnss Architecture.

    ¡°Good day, Lord,¡± said the mustached figure, in Rhaagmini colored with a thick Ilsabal Square accent. It was dark and starkly shadowed beneath a tall hat, and carried a jacket under one arm. Upon removing his hat to show a bald shining head, the man genuflected with a bare hint of sincerity. As he rose, the man revealed a streak of interpolation paper in one fist, holding it forth like the holiest of sacrament.

    ¡°I¡¯m Hereld Upswitch, a friend.¡±

    It took a decent time for Adz navigate the mental udod aodod acrobatics of such an abrupt change of topic. From farewells and speculation on future altercations to a false salutation and¡­ something else. Humans had difficulty with innately factoring semiprime numbers higher than a million; udod aodod had difficulty with switching cortical contexts.

    Society told many tales told of a person, upon meeting another, somehow knowing with deepest conviction an evil intent within the other¡¯s heart. Adz had long given them a cursory doubtful speculation at best. Now, it realized, it would have a tale in that vein of its own.

    Sebastio¡¯s own Rhaagmini made him sound like he was chewing rocks, and that he hoped Upswitch¡¯s head was among them.

    ¡°Hello, Hereld. I¡¯m surprised my armsmen let you through to the building.¡±

    The man¡¯s expression fell, a perfect actor¡¯s best performance.

    ¡°Ah¡­ I must have come through without running into their perimeter.¡±

    Those orb-shaped human organs had infinitely more welcome in them than those of the Lord, and they still could have been replaced with glass marbles and leave none the wiser.

    Sebastio sniffed. It was an eloquent sound in its brevity and derision.

    ¡°Really? Fascinating. Now, please, excuse me. I¡¯ve certain business elsewhere.¡±

    Adz noticed how its Lord stroked his long braided beard. Somehow, he gave off an air of one recently gifted with the talent of foresight; a person who had been introduced to their present circumstances, and the most likely outcomes, days in advance.

    Upswitch¡¯s mustache twitched, a symbiotic pet scouting the topography of a face.

    ¡°Lord Artaxerxes, I¡¯ve got something f-¡±

    ¡°If you have something for me, show it and remain blissfully silent, or tell it and remain blissfully silent.¡±

    ¡°... You¡¯re quite direct, Lord.¡± That abominable mustache bent to follow a slimy grin.

    ¡°The last person to announce they had a gift for me in a public setting had her entire dermal layer removed after she tried to kill me. Let me tell you something: I implied to her, and my estate, that such was the worst punishment I could contrive at the time. I LIED.¡±

    From its vantage, the udod aodod noticed a twitch in the newcomer.

    Upswitch glanced at Adz, the manner of a man evaluating the worth of a head of cattle.

    I hope he is to be found wandering the wilderness on the next tenshe I undertake, and if so I will not just chase him for sport. I will not just pursue him for several kilometers, either.

    Adz felt mildly surprised at itself. Animosity fell into the realm of the noisomely familiar for most designers of directed simulation consumables. Clients who traded good sense for indulgent requirement specifications tended to excel at drawing out ill will. Actual bloodthirst, now¡­

    ¡°I¡¯ve brought you a suggestion of a happy sort. A much better gift than your last - recommendations on suitable partners upon whom to lean your dynasty¡¯s future, Lord.¡±

    The man caressed his paper like a newborn, holding it out to Sebastio with a more genuine smile.

    ¡°I bring this from others, infinitely better suited than you or I at foretelling whatever the future may hold, who wish to see you content.¡±

    There was a creak, like a freight ship settling under its own weight. Adz followed the sound and saw the Lord¡¯s right fist, clenched and still.

    ¡°I witheringly disagree. I don¡¯t know the actual identities of the special people whom you serve, but I¡¯ve got an inkling of their nature. Their thoughts are in my thoughts regularly, and I hope that my choices run as far counter to their desires as possible.¡±

    ¡°You surely don¡¯t mean that.¡±

    ¡°Fairweather friends are one thing. The creatures you pledge to serve are quite another. In case you haven¡¯t noticed, I¡¯ve my fill of Olds for the time being.¡±

    Of a sudden, a silence swaddled the Lord. His hairs began to rise from his skin. Adz felt that oracle of the fall of lightning: a synesthesia of change in pressure and electrical charge.

    ¡°Now, get out.¡±

    The man fidgeted, then quickly dropped his interpolation paper before Sebastio, sweeping his hat from his head and tipping it at Adz.

    ¡°Remember, then, that those I serve only wish you to be happy.¡±

    He pointed at the paper once more.

    ¡°Good day, Lord.¡±

    The newcomer gave a simpering salute.

    ¡°Good riddance,¡± responded the other man with a tone Adz had once before heard come from a human, following a squawk¡¯s deposit of droppings on her scalp.

    Flashing a painted grin, the man quickly retreated. It was the slowest sprint the udod aodod had ever witnessed in a human.

    The Lord folded his arms, frowning after the¡­ person.

    ¡°My armsmen are all intact, but for some reason the idea of an interloper getting past them, without generating alerts about folding usage, is causing a bit of a manhunt.¡±

    The Lord yawned slightly, showing the many small irregularly shaped things that humans had for teeth, instead of neatly arcing plates.

    ¡°For some reason they also want me to stay put.¡±

    A long silent stretch, filled with heartbeats and the sound of Adz¡¯s leg-cables sliding over each other. Then, the human stepped on the interpolation paper hard enough to leave a pattern of his shoe on the material, picked it up, and ripped it in two.

    ¡°When I first came to you and explained that my design project focused on recreating the battle behind the recent acquisition of Pennat Gate,¡± Sebastio observed eventually, ¡°that was the first time I ever saw you get really worked up. At first I thought it must¡¯ve been because of the¡­ well, distraction. I¡¯m sorry again for coming unannounced, by the way.¡±

    Because I am udod aodod, Adz heard. Not to offend particularly, which was fine. It didn¡¯t take that kind of offense easily. With some further difficulty it mentally switched topics, trying to follow the slower yet far more nimble human brain.

    ¡°But it¡¯s become more clear with time that you - as the naufer saying has it - admitted breeze, when you complained about the new Lord being an occasional idiot. An occasional idiot with a bit of engineering background, but idiot nonetheless.¡±

    He watched the sky as though in augury, past the towering green-and-black Bokov tree through the glass section of the small building¡¯s roof.

    ¡°I¡¯m a lightning bug rather than lightning, and all lightning bugs need a mate, a partner, if they¡¯re ever going to shine bright. Damn that Hereld and his Old masters, but I¡¯d very much like to see you play the part - completely regardless of spitting in the face of their machinations.¡±

    Sebastio gave a small snort and a small shining grin.

    ¡°Of course, only if you¡¯re amenable.¡±

    His forehead met his palm and smeared his smile into a grimace.

    ¡°Sorry,¡± he added, switching back to Yrdkish, ¡°my manners stand up to only the meanest and most forgiving scrutiny at times.¡±

    ¡°No, no, Lord,¡± Adz reassured him in the Parsed City-State¡¯s tongue, unsure of whether its actual aim lay in reassuring itself. ¡°Rhaagmini is fine!¡±

    ¡°Fine? Hardly,¡± its Lord replied, switching languages again guiltily, ¡°but¡­¡±

    He looked about as though to check for eavesdroppers.

    ¡°Being totally honest, there¡¯s something one really doesn¡¯t realize they¡¯re giving up until they start making small talk at meals in a language without contractions.¡±

    Reflex was the worst imaginable traitor, and reflexive hilarity doubly so. Reflexive hilarity, in fact, made Adz¡¯s leg-cables twine so thoroughly it was tipping barely a second later. Right onto Sebastio Artaxerxes.

    The Lord¡¯s weapon-limb sprayed outward. It extended flagella like so many molten rivets, fanning into a slightly angled cupola. He carefully and gently caught the udod aodod, then picked it up without saying a word. He seated Adz on one of the undecorated couches, a hundred lightning-forked tendrils flexing and breathing as they pulled back.

    ¡°Let me think,¡± said Sebastio. Freed of the designer¡¯s burden, he sat with deliberation. Adz hastily pushed itself over to make room.

    ¡°Note that you¡¯ve adopted my troubles, in some measure, by dint of owing me fealty. But if you take a place by my side, you¡¯ll invite monumentally greater attention from certain people best classified as forces of nature. People like those I¡¯m sure that Hereld Upswitch indirectly assists.¡±

    Two halves of an interpolation paper crumpled in a knotted fist.

    ¡°People you wouldn¡¯t want as enemies,¡± continued the Lord, eyes suddenly emitting a glow.

    interjected a slightly altered Rhaagmini voice. <The Maker, of course. But others as well. Target. Poacher. Thomas the Librarian. Comedian East.>

    Names that gave chills to those who had seen their monuments in Ilsabal Square.

    And then the voice kept going. Names that Adz had never before heard. Names that bespoke shattered husks of facets and pristine Edens and tales not meant for the retelling.

    <Alsuph. Ms. Nightjar. Saint. Dry-man. Yawning Kris. Shogun North. Metatronus. The Gray Boatman. Dice. MerCadesa.>

    Adz¡¯s eyefibers pressed against its face so hard they felt flattened. Its breathing had almost stopped.

    ¡°Are you sure,¡± asked Sebastio, ¡°that you want to get involved with creatures of that sort? Because I am now a pawn in the games the Beings of Old play, and you will become one as well.¡±

    Eventually, he began shaking like a man who has slid to the floor after being thrown into a wall. Eventually, he did what Adz later learned he had not done for hexadecades, and wept silently.

    ¡°I have done grievous harm in my life, Adz. In the name of protecting others at times, yes, but no more excusable for that. It felt good to hurt people, to know I was alive.¡±

    For six of Adz¡¯s heartbeats, the human could have been carved from plastics for all the motion he showed. Then came a single sigh that actually began to alarm the designer as it went on and on and on.

    ¡°What,¡± resumed that voice, ¡°do you do when you hate yourself not for where you¡¯ve been, what you¡¯ve experienced, or how you¡¯ve thought, but who you are?¡±

    The rest became wordless, soundless tears.

    Adz knew right then.

    It saw the one it called Lord as a contemptible thing.

    It would never respect him, or itself, unless it took the opportunity to improve its liege.

    ¡°You want to better the world, Lord?¡±

    Something in its voice must have done what Sebastio¡¯s mind could not. He stilled, and looked up. The¡­ whatever state of matter it was flowing down his face made forking, counterintuitive progress in angular slim streams. His jaw tensed.

    ¡°Then stop your infantile self-pity. Go. Do. Believe. But do not simply BE.¡±

    There was a charmed quality to the air for a moment, as though seen through the window of a scrying. Then the Lord said the words reserved for Yrdkish blood-oaths, and celebrations of state.

    ¡°May those after me break my legacy and mount my cadaver on a goldspire if I speak untrue.¡±

    Woven fibers snaked down from the human¡¯s torso. Adz almost fell over again when they became stilts, bringing its Lord suddenly eye to eyespot.

    ¡°I want to marry you, Seroku Adz Tataki Ba¡¯fus, and no other. I want to share your next tenshe with you, and together hunt the worthy prey of a better future.¡±

    He held his hand of flesh over his heart.

    ¡°I want to see you on the other side of the border between me and the world.¡±

    Somehow, despite all of its still manifold reservations, Adz knew of only one choice as it met that singular gaze with its own.

 Interlude Amidst Scheming

    ¡°The Maker¡¯s get, literally in his grasp. He lost it. He¡¯s worse than useless.¡±

    ¡°Now, now, West. Niall made the effort; he had little enough assistance.¡±

    ¡°And you never compelled him to it, of course.¡±

    ¡°Dearie, if I¡¯d compelled him, I wouldn¡¯t have let him leave without his bauble. Nothing short of absolute success. Otherwise, we¡¯d lose both his wonderfully cunning independence and the toy, and that would¡¯ve been like¡­ well, like your Providence without her weapons.¡±

    ¡°Unlike Providence, we can¡¯t even use Count to ram through a gas giant if we feel the need.¡±

    ¡°Not yet. However, I think we can get more out of him with a little work-¡±

    ¡°Oh damnation, you¡¯re keeping him ali¡­ what IS that below his waist?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s a little gift from our lovely Comedian East to keep him operable, dearie.¡±

    ¡°Woman, I respect you greatly, but if you¡¯re going to insist on diminutives, I¡¯m going to insist on you getting to the point or killing this failure and moving on. In case you haven¡¯t noticed, I¡¯m quite busy just now.¡±This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

    ¡°My, West. The point in question is that your experiments with repurposing Beasts might bear fruit beneficial to Niall¡¯s utilizable lifespan.¡±

    ¡°...¡±

    ¡°Before you ask, I consulted Domino. She saw a positive quilt of successes if you plied your technique with Count as subject. She said that you need to, and I quote, ¡®put the morphites aside for now and go back to using scuds¡¯ if you want to get the best returns.¡±

    ¡°While the advice is appreciated, if utterly unasked-for, the morphite experiments are a masterwork in progress. Rejection¡¯s asymptotically but rapidly approaching zero. Ten or twelve days at most, and I¡¯ll have that travesty of East¡¯s replaced with something wonderful. The abstracted batch clones won¡¯t have trouble with accepting a graft at that liminal portion, any more than the Hiek machine confluences that make him a birth atypical.¡±

    ¡°But the process won¡¯t be ready in time for the big festivities, dearie! We¡¯re looking at only thirty or forty quadrillion strong for our distraction if you begin stamping out replicas the instant you finish ten or twelve days from now.¡±

    ¡°And thirty or forty quadrillion of exceptional quality are that much worse than innumerable more that could be called ¡®acceptable¡¯ at best?¡±

    ¡°Technician West, we need numbers, not quality. Even if we fail, you can toy with a specimen of your choosing at a later time. If we claim the Device¡­¡±

    ¡°Ms. Nightjar¡­ hmmmph. Your advising displeases me. However, it speaks for itself cogently enough, which is more than I can normally say.¡±

    ¡°Oh, you flatterer.¡±

 A Dreaded Sanctuary

    ¡°If you want to try pioneering, prepare yourself first. Don¡¯t just plan for inimical environments, or hostile life - plan for one kind of world-ending worst-case scenario. Then, throw in another, and then another, and so on. Keep going until you run out of ways for absolutely everything to fall apart. For humans at least, so long as you still think you¡¯re ready to handle anything, I assure you - you¡¯re not.¡±

    -Eihks Richard, The Journals of Gem Pioneering: Facet Iar-Twenty-Eight-Al-Three-Thousand-Five-Hundred-Sixty-Two-Grus-Six-Thousand-Twenty-Seven-Iar-Twenty-Two-Hundred

    Sebastio rose from his bed-pad.

    He looked back at the spot where he¡¯d hovered half the night in silent pondering thought beside the still, sleeping Adz.

    Slumbering unsleeper I am, he thought with some amusement. His small circlet came off the bed stand and went onto his head, then he up-signed his visitor, signalling the go-ahead.

    {Lord Artaxerxes, good day,} said Telmbian, the personal steward eidolon of the Lords of the estate since eight administrations prior. He was, of course, studiously early.

    {And to you,} Sebastio answered, gesturing expansively at the eidolon¡¯s featureless humanoid manifestation by the door of his quarters. Virtually every square centimeter of Pennat Gate had sufficient Toothskin refractors that an eidolon could seamlessly pass from harness point to harness point to get just about anywhere. The digital persons who called Pennat Gate home or rendered services for its benefit regularly engaged in strolling about almost as much as any physical entity, even when not performing duties requiring tangible substance.

    Sebastio¡¯s eyes wandered over the room¡¯s many works of art, protectively ensconced behind dedicated, durable, non-dangerous Ullos containers. Obviously, the centerpiece was Akrid¡¯s Song of Steppes, original simulator and original holojector both. The extraordinarily stylized depiction of a canyon-riddled Moedif cliffside took up the entire wall facing the foot of the huge bed-pad. Tiny figures of tallsquats took long careful strides along the schist-veined planar solids, vigilant for stony-skinned floutfruit to split and soak up. The flesh-tearing winds of the planet infrequently flared up and scoured the region with hard water rain and loose granules of sand. An errant nimrod crept along a canyon wall, looking confused and despondent at the ascetic quality of available prey.

    Sebastio despised the thing.

    The rest of the productions had varying levels of charm, from a collection of ancestral vases holding almost holy ashes from the trail of the second Ord dagacha diaspora, to an open vellum book featuring drawings of thousands of people inked out respectively in the blood or hemolymph of each subject pictured. All of them were treasures of time and circumstance. Glancing sideways at the still-sleeping Adz, oddly cute in the most benevolent way possible for a creature twice his own height and width and considerably greater in weight, he knew that he had found a companion worth more than all the other valuables put together.

    He sighed softly.

    {We will be out to visit the dignitaries momentarily,} he assured Telmbian. {Is Louis ready?}

    The steward up-signed.

    {Excellent. Please give us a moment to get ready ourselves.}

    {As you wish, Lord,} answered the eidolon before decohering and passing right through the closed door, avoiding the imposition upon his charges and superiors of any barometric change caused by the opening of such barriers.

    suggested Caladhbolg helpfully.

    I said I wanted to marry for the sake of inconvenience as well as advisement. If I go haring off to a meeting without it, the very day after the ceremony, what does that say about how much I hope to involve my ¡°wife¡± in the proceedings?

    Sebastio snorted silently.

    He was about to awaken his Lady - a title that he¡¯d always found humorous in its provenance, given it, like its counterpart, became awarded regardless of gender or even sexualization of species to the spouse of a Lord - when he stopped.

    He had not slept, and yet their marriage bed-pad had seen a few schoolchildren¡¯s jokes and bawdy inquiries rather than any stripe of consummation. In retrospect, it showed a more relaxed side of Adz uncharacteristic of most udod aodod, something reassuring to the Lord for its relatability even as it minutely eroded his certainty of his new co-ruler¡¯s coolheadedness.

    It underscored their relationship¡¯s present essence, though. They had signs of future chemistry already, but still Sebastio held Adz at some length while Adz had yet to come to its own conclusion about their union¡¯s emotional impact. It would arrive at that conclusion swiftly; mental differences of their kinds left Adz with feelings inclined to be more¡­ modular than that of its Lord. It might express a combination of resentment and attachment and eagerness and anything else a human might bring to the table, if in different measure, but it would do so without very much evolution of those feelings over time. Its affections would stabilize quickly, and those affections wouldn¡¯t change greatly except when violently impacted by some external influence.

    With that all kept in mind, Sebastio knew calling Adz ¡°my love,¡± ¡°darling,¡± ¡°sweetheart,¡± or anything of the sort could only come off as disingenuous. Eventually, the fruit of love might grow, yet it was presently no more than a tiny germ. So he quietly, carefully, crept close to his other half, and whispered, ¡°My Lady.¡±

    Four eyespots slowly bloomed like flowers, the smooth flat surfaces of each lens born into the new day. Adz, as a descendant of mountain-dwellers, had a bit of a grayish sepia tint to its scaling. The effect was that the disc of each sight organ almost perfectly matched the color of its body, and it had been one of the things Sebastio had immediately considered beautiful.

    The designer¡¯s long nostrils flared, the strands of eyefibers pulsing in circular waves indicative of approaching wakefulness. Eventually the waving stopped, and Adz¡¯s head twitched, large ears going sideways on its cranium and emphasizing a vaguely feline aspect of its head¡¯s structure. A surprisingly human yawn, showcasing bony lunes of keratin-like material without the companionship of a tongue, spoiled the effect.

    ¡°Do you still feel confident about your philanthropic projects, Lord?¡± it asked.

    Will the convocation still take place at Selen Gazebo? Or is it literally asking?

    ¡°Please, Sebastio will do. After all, we are married.¡± He chuckled. ¡°The ?lthlant duke-turned-Fountainist still wants to meet at high noon. Even after most of a year, that kind of scheduling takes getting used to.¡±

    ¡°I am sure, you peculiar Rhaagmini outlander-¡±

    Its half-joking statement cut off when Sebastio placed a lingering kiss between its middle eyespots, and its body language transitioned to extreme self-awareness. He would never dream of the scandal of a kiss outside closed quarters any more than engaging in coitus (being neither exhibitionist nor having New Armisian sensibilities of modesty), but the reaction from his Lady gave him a long-lived lopsided smile.

    ¡°I am sure that and more are accurate, but we need to leave soon.¡±

    Adz¡¯s leg-cables coiled deftly beneath its form and brought it to standing far faster than any human might manage. It quickly reconfigured its clothing from a sleeping chiton to a working kilt and jacket similar to what it had worn when they¡¯d first met. One tremendous difference lay in the tourmaline gorget denoting the udod aodod as an Yrdkish Lady.

    ¡°Let us leave then, Sebastio,¡± it said in a slower pace than normal.

    Oh dear. I probably shouldn¡¯t have taken such liberties if it¡¯s that badly skewed.

    ¡°Of course, Adz,¡± he replied.

    He looked out the window, at that point at which Yrdky¡¯s artificially managed atmospherics made what the land¡¯s residents called the horizon. The terrain seem to turn fuzzy and blurred and downward, almost misty, past a certain point, despite Yrdky¡¯s underpinning ¡°geography¡± - if such a term applied to an infinite spanning omnidirectional plane. The effect was appreciated by most sentient creatures, in the vein of aping a very common expectation shared among those used to the idea of planet-bound living.

    For Sebastio Artaxerxes, the effect brought to mind the fact that the territory¡¯s expanse was very real beyond that limit, and yet closed off from his sight. It formed a neat and painful parallel with the news from the Jon¡¯s Court.

    The man now infamous as Caladhbolg¡¯s wielder, or thief, or avatar - starting the very day of his marriage as it happened - now lay excommunicate. In fact, he had the dubious honor of being the first person formally expelled from the Parsed City-State¡¯s citizenship in twenty million years who was not also sent to the Purple as punishment. His predecessor for the title happened to be Gonnic Pickering, of no relation to the Hammer and Scapula¡¯s male half, and a man so wise that he¡¯d put together a star-sized quadratic accelerator and tried use it as leverage in getting his district ¡°emancipated¡± from Rhaagm¡¯s infrastructure. The city¡¯s government, when they¡¯d finally stopped laughing themselves to tears, gave the fool a one-way ticket to a very backwater facet, a small stipend to see him on his way, and a directive to never show his face in Rhaagm again unless he wanted to taste the tender mercies of Crippled False.

    At present day, Sebastio had a grandiose kingdom being run to his satisfaction by Tuoamas and the ex-Lord¡¯s choicest cabinet, and a very definite place in Yrdkish society. He also had a block against his visiting Rhaagm again any time soon. If he wanted to return, it would be as the guest of a legion of mannequins, under the direct supervision of the Pursuant, or that tribulation which the Parsed City-State made into a proverb of torment: the subpoena.

    It felt less like getting kicked out of one¡¯s home, and more like what he imagined he¡¯d go through in a conjugation procedure: people recognizing him by name, but hardly ever by his new proboscis or patagium. A divorce propped up by the twin icons of discomfort and genuine loss of familiarity. All the same, Pennat Gate had begun to feel like a kind of home-away-from-home. Whether that would continue or terminate, who could say.

    Well, problems are problems.

    said the ethereal tenant-of-the-body.

    I know. Stop thinking my thoughts, please.

    He turned, and reconfigured his own clothing to something more presentable than bedclothes. They departed their quarters, heading out the West entrance and into the citadel¡¯s greatsword of a shadow. Unlike Rhaagm, his new estate home required Sebastio to use designated parks for accessing public folding utilities, rather than being available at each district borderline. There were private facilities available to the nobility, of course, but he aimed to exercise more indirect involvement as a figurehead; he meant to largely eschew privilege in the name of making a point.

    One ¡°privilege¡± intrinsically tied to his person came in the form of the Lord¡¯s armsmen, of course. Bark-Stripped-Sapling managed to somehow maintain a surreptitious air as he followed them closely, in spite of a suit of armor that would turn many a human to mush just by wearing it. The unexpected subtlety could have come from the comparative conspicuousness of Adz, broader and even taller than the executioner. The youngest armsman, a pohostinlat, led the party by a small margin, having been informed of the planned route ahead of time.

    Emerging from the cathedral splendor of the citadel¡¯s geometric shape, Sebastio saw Argyva waiting under a cherry tree as tall as a Bokov or even a baobab, with a slim light-skinned figure watching a small flock of birds and squawks - finches and indigo bookleaves, unless he was mistaken - arguing nearby in their tiny bird-and-squawk voices.

    ¡°Good morning, Louis,¡± Sebastio called in French as Bark and Argyva gave each other quick salutes. ¡°How¡¯re you today?¡±

    The young man¡¯s slight frown turned into a slight smile, hearing his brother¡¯s voice.

    ¡°Good!¡± he replied with a chirpy eagerness at odds with the person he¡¯d been about half a year prior.

    Louis had grown up quite quickly in the short time since relocating from his near-Earth-Standard home. He wore a beard that would one day become a waterfall of foliage (about which Sebastio felt slightly embarrassed, never having bothered to explain the¡­ explicit fashion in which so much body hair gouged certain human senses of modesty). He also wore a bright blue stamp on the back of his neck where a cerv-mesh would soon go. That move had taken some encouragement, and Sebastio was glad to see his younger brother making new and not always comfortable choices.

    On the other hand, the less mature of the two had much more experience with true ugliness and poverty, in ways Sebastio could and would never fully grasp himself. That weight of the spirit would always lie at the bottom of Louis¡¯s heart. It was also something the Lord cherished even as it abraded his own spirit to behold.

    ¡°Let us depart, if we want to arrive ahead of time,¡± he said, looking up and down the border where a folding line crossed part of the park¡¯s open lawn. Sand and miniature goldspires pushed back against the midnight blue of the grass, and the beautiful view of garden beds stretching off in either direction would make incoming folds striking and memorable indeed. Then, just to give his armsmen a hard time, he stepped through the barrier, emerging on the opposite end of the estate a full three seconds before any of his companions. An irate Argyva followed, looking for the trouble he¡¯d already sought and failed to locate. Louis, then Adz, and the strapping pair of lads brought up the rear. Wherever the other members of his armsmen might be, he knew they¡¯d keep out of sight in the highly familiar environment and act more as sentries.

    Sebastio struck up a pace a bit faster than a stroll for Louis¡¯s stride - something approaching a crawl for his Lady. It was slow enough that reaching Selen Gazebo at the top of the hill where they¡¯d arrived afforded the other arrivals time to organize. Indeed, a tall helmeted head belonging to Commander Hwolu Satna, once-Duke of ?lthlant, tracked their progress very attentively. A sign of some kind was made, and two more people with Fountainist sashes drew into view. One of them looked nervous, and the other was a gnoll, which meant she (or he, sometimes hard to tell with gnolls) had a perpetual barely-sane grin completely regardless of mental health.

    Eventually the Gazebo, which was the size of a sports arena and had enough needless flying buttresses to make a small town¡¯s worth of cottages from the raw material, welcomed them into its shade.

    A flurry of vicious and underhanded verbal niceties were exchanged with the jolly carelessness of sneezes. Hwolu, a conjugated man whose species heritage he had not condescended to disclose, seemed decent enough despite a legitimately appalling amount of tissue being constantly shed and recycled.

    ¡°You are a far more elegant persona than my expectations led me to believe, if you will pardon me for saying so, Lord.¡± Hwolu made a long supplicating gesture while keeping large goggled eyes on Sebastio, exposed wrists peeling away in rapidly-regrowing layers. The errant flesh turned transparent as it floated away, vanishing courtesy of a nonstandard hygiene function of some kind. ¡°With that in mind, I am also extremely surprised by your taking these people in.¡± He indicated the representatives of a watershed moment behind himself and the other Fountainists.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

    I might well use them as pawns, you say. Sebastio tilted his head back a degree to let his Lordly copper-and-thulite circlet catch the light.

    ¡°It is fascinating how some people snip a plant short before seeing that it is a weed.¡±

    The Fountainist didn¡¯t seem heartbroken by his accusation of haste.

    ¡°Rudeness is the name given to advice by the truly rude.¡±

    ¡°Have you not made sufficiently explicit generosities with your verbal gestures?¡±

    ¡°Generosities may grow little enough when they may not be seeded in deservingly generous ground.¡±

    ¡°There is little point in doubting my motives, Commander,¡± Sebastio riposted. ¡°After all, consider your own ¡®self interest¡¯ when bolstering your company¡¯s reputation.¡±

    At that, Hwolu had the grace to accept the Lord¡¯s word and go no further. Sebastio saw in the man a kindred spirit of a kind: someone who wanted to take up the mantle of a cause and seek out self gain to wield in the name of that cause. He had gotten proficient in probing into tells of all kinds from all over the gem lately.

    Sebastio glanced behind the three Fountainists at the rest of their cohort. Six hundred and twenty five, in total, most of whom were somewhere between an attention stance and a curious tilting lean. They all wore the infrared and searing peridot of their factotum. The whole lot of them were actually coming from an extended expedition through the wilds, held by long tradition to rely on their wits, guns, and physical non-compressible transport vehicles. After their time in Pennat Gate they were slated to go back into the circuit of estates again, but they¡¯d be staying to learn and share their experiences for at least half a year.

    Behind the Fountainist group, however, was a small crowd of forty human refugees, who represented some nine hundred thousand souls calling themselves the Mimpaw. That collection of Mimpaw - once from a nation of the same name with billions of inhabitants, now as easily lost in the estate¡¯s population as an eyelash in an ocean - explained why the Fountainists had left their patrols and training in the unterraformed countryside. Without actually trying to brush off the officers of law, Sebastio found himself consumed with the sight of the firstfruits of his towering ambition: a collection of honest vagrants from a universe extinction event, brought to his estate in the hope he might take care of them.

    These particular humans hailed from a place where matter followed the traditional pattern of quantized organization into subdivisible components. Their society followed an unremarkable historical model of discovery and innovation for a long time, though their original home had fundamental differences in the barometric elements of its livable field interpretations from Yrdky¡¯s standard environs. On that home facet, they¡¯d reached an advancement level where they had begun pulling apart their equivalent of quark-level sections of their demesne then reassembling them in artificially useful ways.

    One of those little experiments induced a state in their local universe¡¯s makeup that one of the physicists Pennat Gate put to the task of assaying the situation had described as ¡°setting the world spiraling down an Abelian drain.¡±

    The end result for the poor souls now rendered homeless didn¡¯t bear extended contemplation. Their salvation had been the substructure of their native facet: their universe, being a single discrete world, lay athwart a hundred other worlds; those worlds fell into the scope of one plane among many; the planes in question splayed every conceivable direction across a manifold which qualified as a realm in the standard facet-inheritance model. In total, one had to drill down twenty seven nested layers of clades from the border of the refugees¡¯ facet to reach what they¡¯d called home.

    The cascading destabilization they¡¯d unsuspectingly set in motion reached out and did their facet a greater consequent mischief. That action disrupted the fields which made the universe of the Mimpaw chronologically orderable. After Rhaagm¡¯s deployed observational units that kept vigil on the facet¡¯s status indicated the problem¡¯s threat to the indigenous populace, an emergency graft had been taken, then mapped to a section of industrial land in the Parsed City-State, in the name of saving the people. Only the tiniest iota of them, but more than none.

    Unlike the similar circumstances of centuries prior where the Gegaunli karkshes had been brought into the Rhaagm fold, though, the Mimpaw couldn¡¯t remain in the abducted segment of their universe. The shard of the inimical place they¡¯d called home hadn¡¯t been allocated a dedicated tract of real estate. The boiling obscenity of the graft¡¯s upheaving physics remained inarguably contained, true, but even if the powers of state elected a passel of sufficiently dedicated souls to cure the zone¡¯s violated laws, the Ganymedes of the requisitioned region demanded the return of their constituents¡¯ property to standard complex spacetime. The squatters had to go.

    So the Pennat Gate Haven Edict, as they¡¯d already begun calling it, eventually came up in conversation during a chamber session.

    An agreement had been struck with more political overhead than Sebastio liked. A good bit of it actually came of the reticence the Ganymedes felt in consigning refugees to his care. For that matter, the Bookers weighed in on the topic as well, pushing for a generalization of the eventual solution. Supposedly it had something to do with how he had assaulted one of his own civilians, following what more than a couple of companies and lobbyists labelled as the debut of a tyrant armed with one of the Maker¡¯s creations. Being an excommunicate of Rhaagm didn¡¯t make things much easier, but it did clearly illustrate his level of deviance from what one might consider ¡°safe¡± or even ¡°acceptable.¡± The laissez-faire policies and relative peace of his regime since were obviously the product of cleaner and clearer heads.

    Well, they¡¯d come through to his way of thinking in the end. The first shoots of a safe haven had sprouted, and Pennat Gate was proving to be an excellent hydroponic garden.

    ¡°Commander Satna, could you do us the pleasure of introductions?¡± asked Sebastio. That was something he¡¯d been trying to get used to: the idea of others getting involved with one¡¯s first meeting of minds. His whole Rhaagmini life had consistently taught that he had to be his own calling card, even if that meant stepping above or below one¡¯s station circumstantially.

    Hwolu gave a forehead-swipe of resignation, and turned to his colleagues.

    Were he someone else in his lofty position, Sebastio might have considered the informality of the gesture grounds to register a suit with his estate¡¯s Fountainist operational center and get the man suspended. As it happened, it was the first time he¡¯d been treated remotely like an average thinking creature in months - events of his wedding excepted. He didn¡¯t let Hwolu see his internal smile.

    ¡°Gorar,¡± said the man, indicating the gnoll. The lack of title meant an officer at least two ranks below Hwolu¡¯s own. Sebastio had the ken to recognize political significance in that fact but not enough to follow it to its conclusion.

    The gnoll gave a cackle somewhere between hyena laughter and a startled naufer¡¯s cough.

    ¡°PLEASURE!¡± came a shriek which lay between uncomfortably loud and earsplitting for an Earth Standard human, to judge by Louis¡¯s reaction. Its pitch leaned toward a feminine persuasion.

    The other figure, this one wrapped in a hooded cloak large enough that Sebastio only came up to its shoulder, wasn¡¯t introduced immediately. The Lord was about to politely broach the question when Gorar barked, ¡°DAFFODILS SAYS NOTHING! IT IS OUR MASTER OF SUPPLY! IT IS OFTEN STUPID!¡±

    Hwolu looked at her through his large lenses. His rate of flesh-shedding grew notably for a few breaths, so that a small amount of shiny bone showed here and there.

    ¡°Civil, Gorar. Civil.¡±

    He looked at the Lord, flat coruscating cornea disks twitching a bit.

    ¡°Minuteman Daffodils is a valued member of our little enclave; in fact, its efforts are why we have been able to support our¡­ guests.¡±

    At this, a charcoal limb, twig-thin and with short conical claws, emerged from the cloaked figure¡¯s voluminous clothing under the bicolor sash. It made a small waving-away at those nearby, before hesitantly and slowly returning to its dark home.

    ¡°We thank you all for your patience and attendance,¡± Sebastio commented, loudly enough that those Fountainists without assistance could hear. Without further ado, he made an expectant sweeping gesture to his right, as though inviting someone to take the stage.

    Momentarily, a simulacrum arose on the Gazebo¡¯s osmium-birch floor.

    As they¡¯d previously discussed, Tuoamas Pennat manifested with the innate air of command he¡¯d displayed for ages past. Sebastio had a little chilly ripple run up and down his original parts, though, when their gazes met momentarily. Their other previous discussion, where Sebastio had finally called out the Lord¡¯s original motives in taking up the gamble for Pennat Gate, still rang in his ears.

    Sebastio had made it clear that he¡¯d known of the man¡¯s ambition to acquire the Maker¡¯s artifact, and the hideous sacrifice he¡¯d prepared himself to justify in light of that acquisition. That assessment of the other man¡¯s motive, in truth, consisted of speculation in large part. Yet its accuracy yielded a hefty bargaining chip, and the deeply personal threat of confronting the Lord with his own inner darkness sold Tuoamas on the fledgling cooperation between an upstart but well-meaning Rhaagmini and Pennat Gate. Pressing that particular advantage distressed Sebastio, but not so much that he refused to do so.

    ¡°Lord,¡± acknowledged the ex-Lord¡¯s likeness, giving a theatrical salutary wave to shame the gaudiest and most ostentatious of buskers. ¡°I am yours to command.¡±

    ¡°On the contrary: we await your pleasure, Lord.¡±

    The retention of a Lord¡¯s title for life was occasionally a difficult contrivance to properly observe. In the estate Sebastio now called home, it had the potential to seriously derail discussion at the best of times. The fact that Tuoamas was now reinstated as Lord in effectively all but the most legalistic of ways further aggravated a technicality into sociopolitical circumstance that would probably make it into history lessons sometime soon.

    ¡°My pleasure is now, Lord.¡± The image stood, turning to address the keepers of the peace and those for whose sake the peace was kept.

    Hwolu exchanged keys with Tuoamas, both verifying each other¡¯s identity and role. It was a short but formal affair with frippery and lacey verbiage around its edges, very appropriate with the Lord¡¯s character.

    Sebastio felt a nervous tension, suddenly recalling Target¡¯s warning about compromised protocols in Rhaagm. If the Parsed City-State was so vulnerable¡­ But no. Even if some third party wished to impersonate a Fountainist cohort and take up a prominent role at Pennat Gate, there were a thousand other better ways to worm into the confidence of an estate¡¯s nobility.

    And anyway, that level of compromise would be neither cured nor protracted by observing foundational cryptographic precautions. Carry on.

    <That is the right kind of watchfulness, though,> assured Caladhbolg from the shared room of the Lord¡¯s mind. <Take cautions to err toward paranoia instead of complacency.>

    That¡¯s one undeniable fort¨¦ of Tuoamas¡¯s, considered Sebastio with lightly approving denigration.

    ¡°You and yours should feel welcome in our operational center, and these asylees make a most desirable addition to our own modest country¡­ with the proviso of approval forthcoming from our estate¡¯s Lord.¡±

    The image gave a by-your-leave to Sebastio. ¡°Rest assured, Lord,¡± he said, ¡°I provide my approval for your elected course.¡±

    ¡°Your approval, Lord, gladdens my heart.¡±

    If the title ¡°Lord¡± doesn¡¯t cross my brain for a year, it¡¯ll still be too soon, Sebastio grumbled inside. On the outside, he and Tuoamas concluded a cascade of farewells and concurrences. Eventually, the simulacrum disbanded, its client returning to other matters of import. By comparison, the holder of Caladhbolg had the opportunity to approach the matter of integrating the estate¡¯s outsiders more efficiently.

    ¡°Commander, your arrival sits well with our people,¡± he told Hwolu. ¡°Take liberty as you see fit to avail yourselves of our oases of service, and integrate with the martial nobility wherever it suits your preparations. Go take a hike around Allison Park, if flowers and simple self-managing greenware suit your taste.¡±

    The masked man¡¯s flesh began to pour off his frame like so much sand and dust.

    ¡°We shall avail ourselves thusly,¡± he replied. The huge lenses of his headwear watched Sebastio as though he were a tiger which had just dropped a cooked steak at his feet, without any bidding to do so. ¡°What irregularities may arise, we will announce with all due speed to better streamline your ability of rectification.¡±

    The conjugated Fountainist indicated the asylees.

    ¡°Shall we deliver our charges?¡±

    ¡°Leave them that already stand here be, if you will; a word with them would set minds at rest. We can speak later if you so choose, Commander.¡±

    The Fountainists took that as their cue and departed, mostly, with Gorar barking maniacally at them like a dog herding so many long-legged goats. Louis looked a bit curious when the thing named Daffodils remained behind along with Hwolu. He didn¡¯t give any indication of being overawed or really surprised, though. Sebastio supposed that living in a fantasy realm, atop a mobile structure the size of the Earth Standard circumference of the planet Neptune, with an endless supply of discoveries to be made, tended to stretch the bounds of acceptance and expectation.

    ¡°Come along, Louis; I¡¯d like your opinion,¡± encouraged the Cambrian. He gestured for Adz to accompany them if it didn¡¯t object, and started toward the crowd of dazed-looking humans.

    ¡°May we extend to you most comprehensive hospitality and happiest tidings,¡± said Sebastio in the native tongue of the Mimpaw, doffing his circlet.

    One of the asylees stepped forward. The woman, wearing a bob and a full-body suit that had the same rough-looking texture that Morris-weave got when subjected to thermal magic on a continuous basis, introduced herself as Vedra Judoff. The introduction quavered a bit with nerves. Her speech showed an erudite and diplomatic inclination, having had a career as a successful stateswoman.

    ¡°Your people are safe here,¡± stated Sebastio, indicating the half-meter-tall helmet of Hwolu. ¡°Irrespective of your tribulations, you have the right to peace of mind. But for the sake of¡­ bureaucratic sidestepping, we need to ask a few questions.¡±

    Vedra gave her assent with a cycle through the Mimpaw equivalent of a bow.

    ¡°Do you understand what happened to bring you people here?¡± Sebastio asked, more curious about the people than the answer itself.

    The woman gave an accounting which, adjusting for the unfamiliarity of Willabarm classifications and the principles of Rochambeau sequencing, proved entirely accurate if a tad simplistic. The Mimpaw had done bad. The emergency planning of the extrafacetary community saved a tiny chunk of their corner of reality from itself - a fragmentary portion of a planet¡¯s crust-located civilization and the inhabitants of the planet¡¯s closest moon. A windfall in the form of an offer of quarter in Pennat Gate bubbled up from the soupy miasma of Rhaagm politics. Vedra didn¡¯t bother offering thanks, with the proviso that her attitude made it abundantly clear that thanks of any kind couldn¡¯t possibly mean anything in comparison.

    ¡°Are you willing to work in exchange for a place to call your own?¡± pried the Lord.

    Another Mimpaw stepped forward, a haphazardly-dressed gray-bearded technician giving words to a sprawling analogy for their beneficence that started sounding more like an ancestral saga than a sales pitch by the first time he paused for breath.

    ¡°Fascinating,¡± said Sebastio. He meant it in several senses of the term. ¡°Very well. Have you any objection to giving this estate, this organizational member of a nation, your loyalty and service?¡±

    The foreigners traded looks of silent melancholy acceptance.

    Finally, the youngest-looking of the lot, a girl who must not have been more than a handful of years Louis¡¯s elder, asked the first question from the new arrivals: whether their people, for reasons detailed or omitted, should have any objections to the prospect.

    ¡°No reasons material or spiritual,¡± the Lord eventually replied, after pondering the query for long enough to satisfy any worries of overeagerness.

    Louis made a small noise, looking pensively between Vedra¡¯s frown, Adz¡¯s thinking still form, and the feathery sloughing-away of Hwolu¡¯s meat components, before meandering to Iggez Artaxerxes¡¯s son. Sebastio translated the interview for his benefit. The youth absorbed the proceedings in silence.

    ¡°What do you think should happen with these people?¡± the Lord inquired of his younger sibling.

    The French youth thought about it. He looked out the building¡¯s forest of supports. He looked heavenward at the Selen Gazebo ceiling, depicting the gauzy billowing suit and quarterstaff of the same-named songmistress. The depiction, done in hand-crafted films of carnelian against a pure emerald field, showed a scene from when she married into a Seventh Step earldom of Nor¡¯ridge, cementing one of the longer-lived dynasties of the estate¡¯s history.

    ¡°I think¡­ what happened with me,¡± Louis eventually answered, sounding a bit surprised at his own conclusion.

    Sebastio smiled, and wordlessly sought Adz¡¯s thoughts as well. The udod aodod wasn¡¯t so much entranced with him as absorbed in its own ponderings.

    ¡°Why do you seek to question my loyalty on such an issue?¡± it eventually asked, Yrdkish clipped and utterly perfect in diction.

    As though I don¡¯t trust it, he smoldered. I do, and its thoughts matter, and if there are any reasons to oppose the¡­ Pennat Gate Haven Edict, as it were, they¡¯ll be pivotal ones.

    ¡°You are very important,¡± he replied, which - even as a quadruple entendr¨¦ - barely counted as ¡°deft¡± in the upper combative arenas of noble lexical interplay.

    ¡°Yes,¡± Adz answered, encompassing its self-worth, its thoughts on Sebastio¡¯s plans for the Mimpaw, and the unspoken question of whether it might allow itself to be candid.

    A fluttering heartbeat made the Lord¡¯s ribs rattle against each other like the carapaces of a tallsquat litter. He turned back to the Mimpaw, and smiled as he began to give them the good news.

    This is it. The first official integration of asylees into Pennat Gate¡¯s extended family.

    It was an enormous, wonderful, world-changing day.

    The tragedy leading up to what would be called the Western Sunrise nineteen days thereafter, which overtook all of Yrdky, most of the central locales of Rhaagm, and which did terrible things in Not-Fire, Bequast, ¨²da, and Feathers-of-Gaul, was all the worse because of such happy transitory times.

 A Dreaded Scrimmage

    ¡°¡®Good¡¯ is that for which to die in vain be just.¡±

    -Rhaagmini aphorism

    Kallahassee Jones Esckel Marion Lille Bartimaeus the Thirty Fifth had a squinty smile permanently affixed to his face.

    The smile came from the request of his¡­ of the wonderful Magdod. Magdod no-longer-Bartimaeus. Even though they hadn¡¯t addressed the issue of their vows after her interruption, he felt very confident that she¡¯d demand they officially marry or remarry, whichever it was, quite soon. On the way to that decision, though, she¡¯d mentioned in passing a duty to heal that she felt, and one shared by Kallahassee as well.

    Thus, he half-slept under a bed-pad occupied by his almost-but-not-exactly-wife on the plains just West of a verdant Yrdkish polity below Mt. Eighteen-Ezer whose name he couldn¡¯t pronounce without twice as many vocal cords as he possessed. Marriage, across its numerous forms and variants, held exceptionally powerful meaning for those in Rhaagm even amongst those who didn¡¯t see it as a component of faith. The inevitable bad jokes usually adopted the aspect of a fetish for license acquisition.

    In semi-ironic reality, it came of the fact that going the long haul with someone in the Parsed City-State meant you had to go through an average of about half a month¡¯s worth of official due process: notarization, counter-signing, testaments and attestations, and occasionally a mandatory feast. That covered only the church¡¯s side in most faiths; the city¡¯s legal proceedings loomed yet larger. God help you if you wanted a divorce.

    All that combined to mean that Kallahassee went out of his way to treat Magdod with the respect and dignity any Eighth or Ninth Step noble would expect from their meanest subjects.

    Looking up at the underside of the floating unit and revelling in the feel of firm spring-bladed grass, he busily occupied a queue for admission to Pennat Gate¡¯s borders. Eventually, Kallahassee and Magdod would mount up to the heights of the estate on the wings of a monitored en masse folding timeslice. Eventually - though in the meantime, the unusually restricted Monolith throughput in the area was vinegar on the laceration of irregular public transit scheduling. After that, well¡­ meeting a Lord didn¡¯t exactly just fall into place.

    As Magdod had reminded, though, Artaxerxes wasn¡¯t the kind of man who could just bear up under the thought of killing, or permitting the killing of, those he held dear. A good man? Debatable - certainly no saint, but no unsaint either. It didn¡¯t take a great deal of guilt, however, to drive a man to the brink - and both kind-of-husband and kind-of-wife knew that leaving Count to his own devices could cause Sebastio to inadvertently let his shame bring harm to those now called his subjects.

    If they had the capacity to do so, didn¡¯t they bear some responsibility to let him know that the Nightmare, and not the Nightmare¡¯s friend, held the blame for the carnage at Gursral Corner?

    Yes, thought Kallahassee as he glanced over his shoulder, wearing some stretched-mouth mask between a grimace and a laughing smile, they did.

    In spitting range lay the leaves of pleasantly springy grasses of the meadow. Beyond that, he saw a widely-dispersed mess of tents, yurts, instant-buildings, and parked gemships making up a sort of penitent shanty-town. Beyond that, a half-wild forest, mingled oak and Bokov and dustwood. Beyond that, Mt. Eighteen-Ezer depended from the sky by its peak, kept from falling by the good grace of the ground. Beyond that, the ¡°horizon¡± - to his mind, a bit like the point at which a shoreline¡¯s depth becomes exactly deep enough to hide the sand and silt of ocean-interred land.

    Straddling the border of that fuzz - beside the shape of the sun¡¯s shrinking meniscus - lay the broad inverted-cone shapes of Pennat Gate¡¯s constituent ¡°landmasses,¡± clustered like a family of mice. Its cities and townships had been removed to their current homes not even three years prior. Though it would patrol its domain in lazy, deceptively intricate circuits, Mt. Eighteen-Ezer and the other places for which it held responsibility would not be gathered up and reallocated for years yet to come.

    ¡°It¡¯s beautiful, isn¡¯t it?¡± asked Magdod from above him. Her bed-pad rocked to provide her with a better attitude to appreciate the necklace of the estate¡¯s members. Her faux-slicker coat ruffled around her like it was a clam and she its pearl. Her slightly open mouth showed the luster of her midnight teeth. The lines of her face - the only vanity she¡¯d allowed herself in her forty seven hundred years - carried her appreciative awe to the wider world in wordless poetry. Her complete guilelessness radiated from her in ways one didn¡¯t have to be a human to recognize.

    ¡°Yes,¡± he said. His mouth curled up at the corners, and he looked up at the estate in the distance.

    It was good. Despite the fear which had become his constant companion, the feeling that he would lose something precious again, that he would reunite with some omen of the shaggy wretched past, life was good.

    His smile vanished, his eyes narrowed, and his breath snagged in his lungs when the ground beneath him shook without warning.

    ¡°... what¡­?¡± leaked out of Magdod, and she turned over and dropped from the bed-pad to the ground beside him. She stood, staring, and he couldn¡¯t see what had earned her sudden attention from his vantage. Then he saw her blanch; her photocorpuscles, one of the biological vanities with which she¡¯d been born, turned her the color of new-fallen snow.

    Kallahassee threw himself to his feet, following the stare. His skin seemed to flow up and down and around his flesh. He committed the nearly unforgivable Rhaagm impropriety of modifying not just his body¡¯s mechanical workings, but his brain chemistry as well, in the name of remaining functional.

    The world shivered, ¡°horizon¡± churning with motion to the Northeast.

    Kallahassee couldn¡¯t exactly tell what he saw, at least at the start. Then, with the application of a telescopic function, he realized that the disturbance came from a rippling, gnashing membrane swallowing the eventide light. A membrane whose surface was an eternal sea of black not-quite-human forms. It gradually became more distinct that the Northeast was only the direction from which the occurrence first caught his attention.

    The whole world from North-Northeast to South showed a nimbus of roiling sooty advancement. The foggy limits of sensory data, not the termination of marshalled forces, marked the end of the dark tide. A dark tide of not-people, whose beltlines formed a divide between the bad and the worse, and identifying which was which carried a special torment all its own. A dark tide of people with their waists and legs replaced by a grafting-together of the anatomy of several scuds - that pervasive and countlessly populous flavor of missile-shaped Beast whose anatomy, given to launching itself toward its prey at delirious speeds, trying to bite down with the jaws composing the front half of its meter-and-a-half body, seemed to make for good prosthetic material.

    A dark tide of people who universally shared the mien of Niall ¡°the Nightmare Count¡± Bennosuke.

    Kallahassee¡¯s grip tightened repressively on Magdod. How had such a monstrous army stepped into being out of nowhere? Yes, Pennat Gate was one of the places of the Lonely Lords, almost always drifting inordinately far from other concentrations of estates. Yes, there were all kinds of oddments in the less-traveled wildernesses of Yrdky, native and artificially-introduced. Even so, someone somewhere should have noticed the procession of horrors, and said something. Even one person¡­ Even half of a person¡­

    Awful epiphany ran him down without warning. He tried to reach out and join with the digital river of the Monolith, so consistently part of life for anyone from outside the gem. Instead, the lethargy he¡¯d encountered earlier no longer limited him to an almost useless slowness. The river wasn¡¯t blocked or jammed; it had been replaced with so much treacle. The transit of information to and from his adapter had all the animation of a broken doll.

    Some agent, some saboteur, some villain had laid the Monolith low.

    How such a travesty came to pass bore thought, but at a later time. The man knew he didn¡¯t have a chance in any Hell of repairing what was possibly the greatest information network of all time to a working status, at any scope or for any duration.

    He was just starting to consider the best route for flight, picking out a place to which he and Magdod could safely fold, when the world behind grew bright, and they both turned.

    ¡°Is that¡­?¡± began Magdod, something not actually hopeful in her achingly beautiful voice. Kallahassee wordlessly stared. If he had been at a loss before, then the very act of articulation failed him at this juncture.

    The shape of Pennat Gate¡¯s edge impinged the blurred distance of Yrdky¡¯s artificial horizon effect. At such a tremendous distance, it seemed an utterly disconnected thing; save, that is, for the way the sky broke upward and outward in an orange funnel with the estate as its locus. A funnel of orange lightning, twisting and bleeding like a pricked fish in some divine fishing pond.

    Even as they watched, the lightning forked out across the heavens, and forked out again, and then it was above them, and then it had fallen to the field. Countless smaller tongues licked and prodded the crowds of Counts, incinerating a thousand small pockets of the incoming forces. An elongated thud like black-powder cannon fire inside a town-sized steel drum washed out over creation.

    The form of a man remained airborne in the wake of the discharge, despite having no skids or active Hiek machines to levitate himself, scanning the Brownian movement of the seething hordes flowing in from the East.

    The man¡¯s right arm gleamed so brightly that an observer needed no special tools to see the halo of molten light. One did require some kind of assistance to behold the circlet crowning him in glory. The figure of the Lord of Pennat Gate hovered less than three hundred meters away from not-husband and not-wife. He looked down over the people of the camp, considered the shape of Mt. Eighteen-Ezer. He glowered out at the unending expanse of Count.

    Since the last time his gaze had clapped upon the man, Kallahassee thought he¡¯d become notably less, and notably more.

    <This will not do,> came a strident Yrdkish voice from the shining man. <There are so many other things to be attended.>

    The voice, among other qualities, had a plurality of a weird bent - somewhat similar to hearing several members of a hive-mind speaking with each possessing a different vocal disability. There was also a psionic element of direct-mind projection, and something of an amplifier effect that lent the expulsion of air from lungs a force like a pneuma metal hammer.

    Then he gestured, and the human-livable portion of the countryside¡¯s vector space creased in a ray projecting from him straight to the East.

    In a knife-edge line three hundred meters wide, and going past the horizon, a blank region scoured itself into the army of monstrous Counts. They toppled over and turned to dust, and it was like they were eaten by d?mon clusters one and all. Not decoherence magic. Not a ripmap function. They were simply disintegrated, as though the very air had become an unbelievably low-pH substance.

    The figures started to make themselves known as upset. Like a nest full of starving ants converging on a stack of meat, they accelerated to a dashing, leaping, flowing onslaught. The vacant stripe left by so many dissolutions slammed shut with tooth-rattling force. A Rhaagmini war cry went up from the Count collective, all the more horrible for its heterogeneity:

    ¡°Don¡¯t run!¡±

    ¡°Suffer and suffer and suffer and-¡±

    ¡°KILL ME!!¡±

    ¡°HraAaaaaAaaaagh¡­¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s you, isn¡¯t it!?¡±

    ¡°Old Lady Entropy sends her regards, haha!¡±

    ¡°I love you.¡±

    ¡°Eat the misery and leave nothing behind!¡±

    That was bad.

    What made it truly unbearable was the fact that the Beast components were not actually dead. The sound of scuds and partial scuds wailing under the shouts raised hairs, caused spines to stiffen, made sphincters loosen and grips clench. It was the kind of noise a metal door would make if it were forced to watch as its entire family was tortured. It pierced one¡¯s processing center completely irrespective of audial capacity. It was a living dead racket.

    Beasts were inimical in more ways than their capacity to kill victims in both body and spirit. The difficulties in actually killing them - the fact that the person firing the bullet or swinging the axe nearly always had to consciously engage in questioning their actions as they did so, to fulfill arcane and ulcerous psychic gymnastics so as to land a strike not immediately repaired by the creatures¡¯ dark-stuff - made them true horrors.

    If the same properties extended to the disturbing things swarming so intently over the countryside, then only a very few tools could do harm to the entities. Kallahassee felt a certainty that the thing called Caladhbolg qualified, and that it had managed to inflict deathblows even without its user trying to convince himself with every lethality that he didn¡¯t want to actually destroy his target. Assuming, of course, that the not-persons had inherited the resilience of Beast-kind; but Kallahassee knew they had without needing example.

    Even so, there existed but one Sebastio Artaxerxes. The wealth of Nightmare Counts numbered surely in the billions.

    The encampment of those waiting for Pennat Gate to approve their ascension had not been idle. Some folded away; presumably to safety, possibly to the estate itself, probably not concerned with the legality of their actions in the present crisis. Some began streaking off with disks or skids, and one of the larger gemships unseamed along one side to begin loading passengers.The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

    Some obviously didn¡¯t plan on taking the turn of events as reactionaries. A small tribe of fregnosts had spun their gemship about, baring an array of ripmapper broadsides. Several of the residents also seemed to hail from the Yrdkish clique of martial nobility, and they began presenting a wide array of exotic arms and combat functions.

    Despite everything, though, Kallahassee saw the Lord looking out on that vista had not concern, nor consternation, but contempt writ across his every sinew as he stretched out his barbed right arm.

    ¡°The world ends, and I begin, where the ability to make wrong into right founders. And I shall make you right, my friend.¡±

    Then the hand on the end of the arm seemed to turn to mist, and the mist turned to light.

    Fortunately, very few of the ¡°townsfolk¡± had a chance to engage the enemy. The howling from that wretched population dropped without fanfare or fuss, as a sickle of something opaque, twisted and long, came from a hole ripped into nowhere, then furrowed a not-widdershins harvest through the unholy masses. A chain of explosions whose centers radiated not destruction, but nullification, followed on its heels. Carnage that refactored the very wilderness and injected ravines, divots, grykes, canyons, sinkholes - all orchestrated to the sound of a tornado in a glass factory.

    And then, in the slipstream of the killing energy¡¯s maelstrom winds, the horde numbered perhaps a twelfth of its previous magnitude. The grasses and shrubs and things-which-grow of Yrdky lay flat where they remained at all. Far more frequently, carbon and hydrogen and oxygen had gone their separate ways, whether whole or as their constituent particles. From a hundred meters beyond the limits of the squatters¡¯ camp to the false horizon, the aborted child of a blasted heath clicked and rustled and crumbled. No dust rose, no ashes kicked up - the land could not have been rendered more desolate by Hssi¡¯s grasping reach. Next to that cauterization, the addition of several thousand cavitation barbs, ripmap slugs, and n-minus-one collapses from the shanty-town¡¯s rallied forces contributed only negligibly.

    Even so, among intact patches in the ruination, millions of wildly leaping figures yet encroached on the people at Mt. Eighteen-Ezer¡¯s foot, colliding with each other in their eager phobic need to take life.

    Some stretched out their fists, first a couple, then hundreds. Kallahassee recognized the slugs of caustic solidified darkness they began spewing forth at the hovering Lord. He saw Magdod¡¯s flesh turn a fear-tumescent white. Her fingernails closed painfully on his arm as she also recognized the mechanism of her demise, and was about to trigger his pain dampeners when he realized his own grip was drawing blood from her wrist. He didn¡¯t relax; he couldn¡¯t relax. Instead, he forced his fingers apart, feeling an awful regret at the stickiness on his fingertips.

    Oh well; compared to the murder of one¡¯s indivisible transcendent self by abominable Beast-grafted things, a little bleeding didn¡¯t count for all that much.

    <ARE YOU NOT FINISHED?> came an ethereal howl, less shouted than escaping containment, from that glowing figure. A foreign geometry sprouted from it, a hand and a lash and also a single many-syllable word. The geometry applied to the inbound flechettes, and the projectiles became so many reflexive grammar formulations, returning whence they¡¯d come. Huge fans of darkish rain sliced down on the stretching gray wasteland, hissing like frying serpents. The reflected missiles had little effect on the Count masses.

    By then, even the most warlike or offense-minded civilians seemed to realize they were making themselves more hindrance than help to the Lord¡¯s efforts. Shots pierced targets; chem pistols and hurt spikes alike did nothing, though ripmappers slowed the advance of Hell¡¯s vanguard momentarily. The uncontrolled and rapid evolution of the confrontation, and the overwhelming force of the Lord, convinced the peanut gallery to break off in dribs and drabs where emotional reaction had not. Illegal outgoing foldings picked up until the crowd had dwindled to a quarter-tithe of its already diminished numbers.

    The levitating figure¡¯s head tilted as he watched the threatening tide draw nearer. He glanced down at the milling defenders yet remaining. The twitchy, mechanized swivel of his head seemed to pause for a quarter second on Magdod and he-to-whom-she-was-beloved. Two glints of red - one at the temple, one on the hand - suddenly cut the air like shiver knives.

    <This might be enjoyable¡­ but it will not last long enough,> rumbled an entity with extraordinary power, little empathy, and a temper which had been incited to full blossom. The thing which was no longer fully Sebastio Artaxerxes pointed at the army of foes, clutched at the air with fingers coiled like a scytale, and squeezed.

    The dimming sky above the scourged fields - the region which would eventually be named the Beaten Brow - flexed. A deformation or dip, like the bending of light around a significantly massive object, first whispered, then suggested, then demanded. Eventually, the phenomenon ruptured. On the other side of the wounded skin of reality lay a sliver of some strange blue-tinted realm, some place with exotic principles or interpretations of physics. Through that tear came¡­ something.

    Whatever that something it was, it wasn¡¯t alive, and it wasn¡¯t subject to most Willabarm interactions: soundless, sizeless, evidently massless, emitting and interfering with no identifiable radiations. In fact, it only seemed to have any appreciable perceptibility as a kind of beacon projected into the minds of the observers. It was less like thinking about an idea, and more like being thought about by an idea. The idea in question, it so happened, was entropy.

    The something descended into the middle of the blasted heath. The something retreated. Between the two occurrences, everything there which moved was, and then was not.

    Kallahassee blinked. The senses with which he was born did not lie. The damnably unforgettable faces, copied from that man who¡¯d interrupted Magdod and put her through about as much pain as the living mind can suffer, had vanished tracelessly. No parts of Beasts were left behind. No evidence of the nameless something remained. There was the candlelight of evening, and industrially produced destruction, and nothing more.

    What power of Old has been thrust upon the world?

    He turned to Magdod, about to either ask a ridiculous question like whether she was alright or just make an undignified and smeared-sounding noise. She had an expression like she wanted to chin him for hours and maybe sleep for the rest of her life. Fortunately, they were both saved from their stupidity by the interruption of yet another upsetting development principally shaped by the newest Yrdkish Lord.

    Of the many unwelcome things the son of Adele and Orisoun Bartimaeus experienced over the course of his life, among the topmost was having a direct channel connection FORCIBLY opened from an outside party. Of course, it also had never happened to anyone previously in the history of the protocol, barring those with segmented minds or disorders of various kinds that let them be swayed against their will by other people.

    {Hello, Kallahassee.}

    The man¡¯s physical voice obviously had certain differences in its quality from when they¡¯d last spoken: a quiet grating cracking sublevel underpinning every vowel. His bytevoice, however, was identical. The Rhaagmini sounded a tad tinged with the accent of the more northern Lonely Lords, but a proximate tempo, the same pitch, compared to what he used to have.

    {Lord Artaxerxes.}

    If Kallahassee sounded confused, slightly miffed, and even more anxious than he¡¯d become in recent days, that was for good reason.

    {To you and Magdod, it will always be Sebastio.}

    {I beg to differ¡­ Sebastio. Public salutations so frank will have consequences. Probably inconvenient for yourself, probably considerably worse for anyone else. But if you want it, then Sebastio you can be in¡­ private.}

    {Hah. Acceptable, I suppose.}

    Nobody mentioned the breach of privacy which had been committed; one for any reason one could name, the other because he didn¡¯t know if he even wanted clarification on how such a feat - tried and failed since the beginning of time - was accomplished.

    Kallahassee paused, not quite sure how to broach the topic. Then, he decided to swallow the bitter draft in a single gulp.

    {I and Magdod wanted to come and talk with you about something important. About the incident back in Rhaagm.}

    A pat of genuine and bitter laughter.

    {I suspected something of that stripe.}

    {She, and I, need you to know that what happened was not your fault.}

    Sebastio¡¯s reply took a moment to return. It wasn¡¯t inconsolably disgusted or unquenchably incensed.

    {She has said the same thing just now. Thank you.}

    The follow up would have raised an eyebrow if the whole conversation chain didn¡¯t happen in a shorter time than the half-life of nearly any radioactive isotope.

    {I have to return the favor and insist that you stay here for the time being. Returning to Rhaagm is almost certainly unsafe, and the same can probably be said for every other territory outside the gem.}

    {What? You have news from outside Yrdky? The - how do you know?}

    {I - or rather, Tuoamas - and the people of Pennat Gate, along with the resources of Nor¡¯ridge and Aaagalas, have the means and reason to cobble together a very inefficient but functional transfacetary network. Information is coming in at a clotting trickle. More estates will be joining as they are able, hopefully, and improving relay throughput. It currently uses the same models and platform signatures as the Monolith. I will give you a private key shortly.}

    Kallahassee suddenly realized, actually realized at a level above academic or sensory information conveyance, just how differently Yrdky¡¯s Lords exercised power from the officials of Rhaagm. The kind of work, of unilateral capacity to collate industrial processing and effort, of political spleen that it took to improvise even the most piteous substitute for the brain-meltingly-complex and superlatively redundant system that was the Monolith - that was almost scarier than the events that they had just survived.

    {I hate to ask this, but do you have any idea what is happening?}

    He absolutely hated how wheedling his bytevoice sounded.

    {Our unwelcome visitors have been dropped into the wilderness by some highly parallel folding whose like very few have ever before seen, starting approximately one and a half hours ago. Two billion here, several quadrillion more in the midst of a major industrial community. That coincides with the termination of Monolith function. Where we stand, we lie far outside the worst of the invasion. What microscopic snippets are arriving from Rhaagm are less good.}

    A pause.

    {I have reason to believe that other players in the sorts of games frequented by the Maker are responsible, both for the events underway and for choosing the particular person that seems to be the template after whom the enemy infantry is modeled.}

    The gushing tides wearing that face. That face of all faces.

    {That is quite an axiom.}

    {Yes, and who or what else can you conjure to mind who might be capable of taking down the Monolith? That might be easier than destroying Rhaagm, but those feats are separated by degree, not kind. I also heard something of a warning to this end when¡­ speaking with someone, back before I left home to become what I am now.}

    Kallahassee felt fear¡¯s claws sink in to the bone. Fear for himself, for the innocents who had died or would die, for Magdod. It directed, rather than hindered, his sense of urgent higher thought.

    {What now?} he asked the Lord.

    The reply seemed almost sanguine.

    {There, sadly, stands the crux of the problem. The forces arraigned here have had far more successful siblings elsewhere. Outside of the overwhelming numbers deposited in this region, many other estates have been victim of like attacks. Some of them repulsed the effort completely. Some did not. Bathilsprot and eCraim, for example, no longer exist at all.}

    {... Crippled False.}

    A dangerous sense of bared teeth flowed through the connection.

    {All told, there are only around twenty estates¡¯ worth of dead at this time, but that number might easily climb far higher. We barely stand at the beginning of the beginning.}

    The connection cut off abruptly.

    For an instant, a drunkenly meandering line of air leading from just in front of the couple shivered and cracked upward toward the orange-gleaming figure. Color leached from the affected stretch in a long weird spurt, like a sausage-shaped water balloon slit by a knife so quickly its content momentarily retained its shape. Then the asymmetrical man flickered into being within spitting distance, mismatched eyes twinkling, red gems glowing with flaming light at temple and hand, with the sound of whispering thunder.

    It happened so quickly that the urge to jump backward seemed to make Kallahassee take a single step out of his body. Magdod, on the other hand, turned slightly darker than normal, and her face tensed, but she didn¡¯t budge a millimeter.

    ¡°Sorry,¡± said the rough-throated voice with a chuckle. A glowing finger tapped at the small prism of Sebastio¡¯s cerv-mesh where it grew from his neck like a shiny fungus. ¡°I can¡¯t fold anymore unless it¡¯s with a context. Side effect of the freeloader.¡±

    He sighed. His voice changed.

    <It is not a soluble problem - the Maker works almost exclusively with materials immune to tuning. No skein could possibly be created to rehabilitate the cerv-mesh¡¯s folding module.>

    ¡°It¡¯s very neat,¡± murmured Magdod, in that voice which turned joints to jelly and brought tears to the eyes of statues.

    ¡°Thanks,¡± said the man beneath the Lordly circlet, and for a moment he was the same new fella who¡¯d walked into Gursral Corner looking for a place to put up his feet. Kallahassee felt his smile come back, and for a glorious instant between what used to be a good friend and what used to be his wife, all his long-lived dread left him.

    ¡°Gah!¡± shouted the Lord, and clutched at his head.

    Before either of the others could get in a word edgewise, a half whisper began unspooling from the man before them.

    ¡°We can preserve ourselves only barely. Poor Tuoamas is running himself ragged. My Lady has my plenipotentiary confidence for the time being, and it¡¯s coordinating as only a designer can. My brother, heh, has a future as a politician if he can instill confidence in people like what he did for me earlier¡­ but, not enough. We¡¯re running out of give. Too many dead. Too many lost.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re doing the best you can,¡± stated Magdod with absolute certainty. When the Lord looked across at her, she stepped closer, and chinned him like Kallahassee¡¯s aunt did for him on senseless confusing nights long ago.

    ¡°No,¡± said Sebastio. ¡°Not yet.¡±

    Before any questions could arrive, Sebastio steadied the unspeakably beautiful creature and stepped back. He turned around, and looked to the sky.

    ¡°But let¡¯s do better.¡±

    One of the upside-down cones straddling the dusk, made featureless in the wan shade, suddenly vanished from the numerous herd of its siblings. The castle-island of the structure, probably First Step or Second Step based on its size, appeared almost overhead, dropping rapidly closer. Within a hundred kilometers of the ground, it slowed dramatically. Flocks of mobile lights descended from the smooth-seeming sides of the complex¡¯s tapering bottom. They streaked down upon the border of the tortured landscape, and also toward Mt. Eighteen-Ezer, where they would activate and provide managed ad hoc transit to and from their roost.

    Even though he didn¡¯t look for more than the one which appeared within a hundred meters, Kallahassee knew a score of free-standing context hubs must have set themselves up below the lower-Step domain. Some of those people who¡¯d fled from the Count armies, heading to the mountain¡¯s hypothetical safety, would profit from their use. Some would not.

    In any case, Mr. Bartimaeus knew that it was time to go, and he clasped Magdod¡¯s shoulder with as much support as he could manage.

    In front of the frame of the context hub just before them, a figure appeared. Four meters tall, a pair of cord bundles below the waist, a vaguely humanoid torso above. The large flaps of ears atop the head redirected toward the trio.

    ¡°Come, Sebastio! We must be away! There are survivors still fleeing from ?lthlant¡¯s outlying-¡±

    The Lady¡¯s voice wasn¡¯t urgent as much as it was stone-hard, but it crumbled halfway into its concerned advisement. When it stopped, the udod aodod¡¯s every stretched sinew practically lifted its scales right from its body. It pointed, eyespots flaring wide.

    ¡°The sun?¡± it asked, and Kallahassee turned on his heel just as Magdod whirled to see what had garnered its attention.

    It so happened that all three of the highest-order extrafacetary territories found their daylight provided by the same nameless star; artificial heavenly bodies served some small sections of each in certain occupations, but when one said the ¡°sun¡± it was preeminently obvious of what one spoke. The physics behind that particular arrangement could be explained only by throwing out the lion¡¯s share of accepted axioms in Earth Standard cosmology. For that matter, it implied a flatly impossible correlation between the realms.

    For practical purposes, despite both Rhaagm and Yrdky having the topography of an unbounded two-dimensional plane, denizens of extrafacetary climes always saw the sun rise in the East, and set in the West, at the same hours each day, every day, every year. This made dawn and dusk times of special significance for chronometric purposes, among others. An iridescent yellow lunar companion did the same each night.

    Thus, when the light began to increase once more, when the gloaming died by giving way to light rather than darkness, nobody was quite sure how to react.

    Nobody except the sun.

 Ex Sol

    It was the date known thereafter as the Western Sunrise. For those who had such an interest, it metered at approximately eighty four septendecillion local extrafacetary years after the foundation of the Parsed City-State of Rhaagm. For those who had such an interest, it was also the first time in the recorded history of the extrafacetary territories where a movement of their shared chiefest heavenly body sustained a state of irregularity for any observable span.

    In the newborn darkness over Rhaagm, there appeared a single woman, matronly if one felt charitable and decrepit otherwise. She did not fold from another section of the city, nor did she cross from a facet via normal means. She did not use magic of any qualified school or genre. Instead, she willed it, and manifested. She was clothed in robes of lavender, wore a thin cowl, carried a chair on her back, and sweated more than she had since time immemorial. Her frame¡¯s shivering arose from amazement that she was still in one piece, of sound mind, under her own control, and that she¡¯d stolen a prize of great price out from under its keepers¡¯ noses.

    Oh, how the Oiler¡¯s components had howled. But the plans laid by herself, by Technician West, by Domino and Dice and Poacher and more besides, had borne the gilded fruit of distraction, misdirection, and acquisition. They were not the sorts of plans that would work a second time. If the parties giving chase had caught her, it would have ended poorly - but they had not.

    The Oiler¡¯s six piece chorus was one of the more unconventional landmarks amongst the mindscape of the Beings of Old. They didn¡¯t care for the fights or intrigue or puppeteering in which so many of their fellows engaged. Instead, they warred among themselves: two sides of three combatants, whose battlefield always centered upon the thing she now carried, and whose goal always amounted to concentrating possession of said thing in one faction or the other. When it occasionally fled to a new exotic locale under its own power, its penitents soon followed, bringing with them their words and blades and automata, all in the name of what many considered the greatest mechanism to ever exist.

    In her withered grasp rested a spherical object, the size of a grapefruit in its current realization. Its construction shone and soaked up light, black and gold-white all over. The features of its exterior had an unpredictable fluidity, save for a small sliding circular shutter, with a trifecta of buttons equidistant around the shutter¡¯s flat lip.

    The object, nameless to its true owners and caretakers who fought tooth and nail for its moment-to-moment control, had gained among the Olds who ravenously coveted it a vague and whispered identity as ¡°the Device.¡±

    None, with five possible exceptions (technically ten) - four of whom would never tell and the remaining so insular as to be painful, even by the Olds¡¯ standards of sociability - knew of its origin, or the full truth behind its nature. But with it, one did not merely hold a defining power capable of arbitrating the terms of existence. To hold the Device was to command at the highest level of divinity¡¯s jurisdiction, but, funnily enough, Ms. Nightjar cared relatively little about the full gamut of omnipotence¡¯s promises. Oh, she would happily dictate terms on everything from type nine events to the price of bread.

    Her primary aim, though, lay in the Device¡¯s promise of meeting one¡¯s greatest desire.

    She felt a hundred thousand different directions pulling on her. The objective she desired was simple enough: bring more souls, countlessly many more souls, into existence so that they might join the unspeakably beautiful order she hoped to create. She wanted more people who might see reason. She wanted more people who might value life.

    And so the Device would oblige her: as a conduit for the directed shaping of a totally unprecedented breed of intelligence.

    Ms. Nightjar stood in the shadow of the Maker¡¯s vainglorious turret. That was something she would rather have avoided if possible. If the pompous bent-brain learned of it, he¡¯d probably take it as a badge of recognition for his craftsmanship. That galled especially, of course, because that was precisely the reasoning for the Despised¡¯s decision on the final staging area of the day¡¯s great work.

    The Maker enjoyed the same baseline package benefits of all Olds: strong immortality, a command of many senses that disdained physical mechanism, the bodily and mental strength to put him on par with any facetary deity of wisdom or vigor or potatoes or whatever. However, his true talents compensated for the fact that he would have been useless in a stand-up bare-knuckled confrontation between himself and any of his peers.

    Instead, his creations performed terrible miracles.

    His Tower of Rhaagm, through processes that West admitted understanding not at all between his Bennosuke experiments, could utterly prevent outsiders - even Olds - from gaining entrance on a targeted basis. Her colleague might not comprehend either that phenomenon or the few of the Tower¡¯s defensive measures which he¡¯d suborned. However, that didn¡¯t preclude him from putting those features to use in the name of protecting her whilst she worked.

    Swaying about the streets, hurling themselves through the air of the Parsed City-State, she saw distant glimpses of Beasts of all kinds between buildings and down alleys. Scuds, stalkers, dalliers, alephs, schlrikts, morphites, dreadnoughts, happies, and many more. They hoped to feed on Rhaagmini. The defenses of the city, skitchers and mannequins, Minutemen and civilians, things belonging to the Tower, things that she didn¡¯t bother trying to name: all these were focused on the protection of their home. The few that noticed her paid no mind to the nice lady with the shard of mechanical divinity.

    And so, she plucked Set¡¯s Throne from her back, put it on the redmetal square which supported the Tower¡¯s foundations, and sat herself down. Her hands trembled slightly as the power of her desire went into the Device like a magus¡¯s power into their preferred channel.

    An invisible, wonderful process began. Starting at that barrier between self and not-self, Ms. Nightjar felt a change, vibrating the whole world around her as it propagated across avenues not traveled by shoes or wheels or antigrav, but thought.

    The Purple mutated, and started to shift its inhabitants likewise.

    In the eye of her mind she saw that mutating place, the place with its trees of flesh and the omnidirectional surfaces stretching around and through and around each other again. The porous and dark geology of the Purple quivered and took on new shape. Endless capillaries went from unordered to sorted clusters. Twisted knots became braids. The wild penetrating light of the Purple took on a whole new personality, sharpening like the edge of a broken bone.

    Beasts, both those in Ms. Nightjar¡¯s physical proximity and those in their native habitat, changed far more conspicuously. Molecule-sized pupils set in quartz-yellow eyes stopped darting with instinctual madness, and started fixing on subjects. A schlrikt here, a dreadnought there, a flock of scuds everywhere; Beasts stopped being unholy animals, and instead saw fit to slow down, notice, wait. Wait as though they were expecting something, as though they were heirs waiting upon their inheritance.

    Beastly heirs upon whom she might bequeath the mode of the sapient, the cogito ergo sum of personhood, and the gratitude owed those who would so exercise themselves.

    ¡°You are wonderful, you sweet thing,¡± she sang to the Device as she might to an infant.

    With spine-wrenching force, she flinched unexpectedly.

    Her musings went the way of the Earth Standard dodo as a presence made itself known directly behind her. A blank spot which leapt out to her senses as powerfully as a pen in a rack of swords.

    She couldn¡¯t turn around.

    She had to turn around.

    She turned around.

    Ms. Nightjar stared in horror at the newly-arrived figure. It wore a humanoid shape, utterly colorless in a way that could have been either white or black. A fluted beaklike visor descended in front of its head, obscuring whatever face it might possess. Long scalloped shapes of some fleshy fabric swept back behind it, stiff yet rippling ever so slightly in an alien wind. It hadn¡¯t a size as much as it had a perspective, a direction in which one looked and saw it constantly translating to ensure no objects came between beheld and beholder. The very act of perceiving the being generated a cognitive dissonance of sorts, a feeling of reason both growing sawtoothed and being wrapped in wool. Its influence directed those nearby to move away, creatures making the discovery that they didn¡¯t in fact want to go precisely where their paths took them.

    The Asynchronous Swan considered her intently.

    ¡°I haven¡¯t¡­¡± she began, and couldn¡¯t think of how to continue. Her; an entity possessed of strong immortality, of the capacity to literally make gods grovel at her feet - she was stuttering. ¡°I didn¡¯t¡­¡±

    ¡°You have violated no code at this time, Seat-Spinster,¡± answered the Swan in an unaccented, unemphasized voice. ¡°You shall not be permitted to violate the essential proprieties of that which is. Do not be afraid.¡±

    Well, there was an incredibly reassuring directive.

    ¡°What do you want, then?¡± she snapped, grasping at her back and laying hold of Set¡¯s Throne. Not that it would do her any good against one of the Archaea.

    ¡°We are here to witness,¡± said the Stalwart Mantis from right beside her in exactly the same voice as its comrade.

    Eyes wide, she carefully and slowly turned to a nearly identical entity whose mask bore large ova in place of eyes. It had instantiated itself in a fashion similar to that of the Swan, and utterly foreign to her own. It glanced over beyond her, to the Tower¡¯s base.

    ¡°We are here to consider,¡± said the Oracular Fox with similarly matching vocal characteristics, from just in front of the main entrance of the northern face. It had two triangular projections at the top of its mask, and one of them flicked.

    ¡°We are here to learn,¡± said the Swan, stepping out from behind the Fox. A glance behind her showed Ms. Nightjar that the spot it had previously occupied was now occupied by air. A parlor trick she could mimic effortlessly on her worst day.

    ¡°We are here to reason,¡± said the Mantis, stepping out between the Swan and Fox in such a way that the clothing, or skin, or whatever material it was that flowed from them in layered waves slipped up and down and intermingled through each others¡¯ persons. They arranged themselves, consciously or otherwise, in a perfectly straight line.

    An extremely unsettling parlor trick, given its participants.

    And yet, she had the strong inkling that they really were nothing more than observers in this time and place. To call their thinking impenetrable - assuming what they did could be captured by the meaning of the term ¡°thinking¡± - was a poor, lacking attempt to convey meaning in a starving unrefined word. They could have any number of motivations, including toying with her before they wiped her from existence like dust from a counter, but that did not have the ring of truth.

    If the Swan wanted her to be afraid, it would probably instruct her so - just like it did for Myrtle and Tom Walker, that grim day eternities past.

    She didn¡¯t miss the fact that the whole square was now empty of the hundreds of thousands of passers-by, and that no more appeared.

    She didn¡¯t miss the fact that no more of them WOULD appear, either.

    Before she could ask the things aught further, the Swan murmured.

    ¡°We are here on business conditional to the informal subset of the mortals known as the Seat-Spinster, the Gardener of Giants, the Wright, and the Double Triptych,¡± it enumerated, and those names were not merely spoken.

    ¡°We are here on business of life,¡± added the Mantis. It and the others stared at the Device in her left hand, and for just a moment she felt tempted to drop the thing.

    ¡°We are here on business of death,¡± said the Fox.

    All three heads turned in perfect synchronicity to their left - to her right, as a heatless glow began to dominate that entire cardinal direction.

    The sun was brightening, yes. The sun was drawing closer, yes. But what made the great orb noteworthy was its transmutation into something else. That something else flatly defied the tangibility of the layers and forests of buildings scattered in every direction save downward. It sank through the upper levels of the city, sank through pohostinlat hives and corner-situated buildings built on articulated axles, sank through empty air, sank until it hit the ground. It was no particularly astounding accomplishment to Ms. Nightjar, but the accomplisher¡¯s identity garnered her attention quite nicely - doubly so considering the entities taking up the remainder.

    One way around the active countermeasures of Rhaagm¡¯s metaphysical borders was, of course, being inside when the borders got closed down.

    At the edge of the Tower¡¯s square stood a brightly burning man she recognized, but who had remained almost as aloof as the Oiler for long ages. The Sleeping Sun. Morning¡¯s Watcher. The Gardener of Giants.

    Yawning Kris made landfall for the first time since the laying of the foundations upon which he stood.

    There were many kinds of individuals who qualified - or had the misfortune - to join the Olds¡¯ ranks. Disproportionately many human shapes, including Ms. Nightjar. Sebos contributed a silkal¡¯s form to their number. Whatever Technician West was.

    However, Kris would almost certainly remain the only angel among their ranks forever.

    ¡°Hello again, dearie!¡± she called warmly, with a smile smoothing her crinkles. ¡°Haven¡¯t seen you in forever!¡±

    She wasn¡¯t exactly pleased, but she was far from woebegone. Of all the opposition, Kris had always struck her as the most sensible. Oh, it was always a somewhat strange thing in the larger picture, contemplating the similarities of those called the Servants by their detractors, and those that the Servants in turn named the Despised. Even the Olds who didn¡¯t take the one side or the other shared the same end goal after a fashion: the perpetuation of experiential existence.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    They simply differed in opinion on the acceptable conditions attached thereto.

    The Maker had a respectable (even enviable) capacity to reach out and shape the lives of Rhaagm if he so decided. Instead, he¡¯d come out into the limelight, and proclaimed himself. Look at me! I am great! Don¡¯t bother venerating me, I have no time for it; don¡¯t bother asking my instructions, I just put things together. Do with them what you will, but mind the edges - they¡¯re sharp. Put my face on your coinage if you insist.

    Kris, on the other hand, had been simply hanging in his relative orbit, neither instructing nor demanding. And yet he¡¯d become a firmament unto himself. If he¡¯d decided one day that he wanted to rise an hour early or an hour late, then descend upon the people dwelling outside the gem in all his glory¡­ well, there were people who worshiped him anyway, not even knowing he was anything more than a sun himself! The fact that he had done no such thing made him fascinating to Ms. Nightjar in some ways.

    Which wasn¡¯t to say she would hesitate a moment in subjugating him if she felt it necessary.

    ¡°Ms. Nightjar.¡± Nothing more. A hallucinatory numb softness, as though a fire had been put to bed one temperature degree at a time over three days.

    ¡°What are you doing?¡± she asked.

    ¡°Objecting,¡± he answered. He raised an arm, and touched his chest. From it protruded a knife-edged feather the length of his body, the dagger quill emerging a meter out of where a human¡¯s sciatic nerve ran through the lumbar. Iso: his answer to Set¡¯s Throne.

    But that was a comparison between obvious unequals. His blessings permitted him to generate, and speak with the spirits residing in, stars and their ilk. A blank check allowing the arbitrary generation of nuclear fusion or its analogue, whenever and however and to whatever absurdity he wished. Among other things.

    Even without the throbbing living machine she held, she and her little chair could put him on the ground. True, her great power had the glaring weakness of serial operation: she could only ply a single entity or entity-collective at a time. But that only meant she fell qualitatively short against multiple adversaries. Against any of her fellow Olds in isolation, she could simply will their submission, and it would be so.

    ¡°You must be asking yourself why I¡¯m here, now, setting myself against you when you have the answer to any arms I might take up in protest.¡±

    Kris¡¯s almost featureless form stroked Iso¡¯s edge. He turned about. He turned back. He didn¡¯t so much as glance at the Archaea.

    ¡°I did wonder that,¡± replied Ms. Nightjar. She didn¡¯t bother hiding a thin crust of annoyance beginning to harden around her expectations.

    ¡°The goal, simply put, is that of any good protective father,¡± he said. ¡°To turn aside your predations. I have an idea of what you intend for the future of Beasts and the Purple. Many of those who don¡¯t even belong in our sparse clique will know what it is you¡¯re doing.¡±

    ¡°And what is that?¡± she asked, knowing full well what he would say and curious as to how he would say it.

    ¡°Breeding children already broken to your whip hand.¡± Iso made incredibly fine and resonant chimes as it was stroked. ¡°When your friends chose you to fill this end, it wasn¡¯t merely for your availability.¡±

    Well, obviously.

    ¡°You¡¯re busy creating things that profane the very essence of being,¡± he said. The almost soporific tones he used for the task made him seem like the most honest psychiatrist to ever live.

    ¡°Whaaat?¡± she hooted, pointing at the three entities at the Tower¡¯s foot. ¡°You think that they would let me do something against the natural law? You think that THEY would abide it?¡±

    Even as the words left her mouth, she felt a strange girlish tingle run up her spine where it so often pressed against Set¡¯s Throne. It reminded her of the liminal glinting joy she¡¯d felt in her previous life.

    The Device had been put into full operation how many times in total? A score? Twice that? Less than a hundred throughout its existence, of that much she felt sure. In turn, the Archaea surfaced even more rarely. Problematic to the data, of course, was the fact that either of those immovable forces could create causal pockets or dismantle and reassemble circumstances so that they were never in play at all. That was the preferred conduct of the Archaea, based on the few times that the Swan and Mantis and Fox deemed it appropriate to come into the open.

    But maybe, just maybe¡­ the Archaea couldn¡¯t stop her!

    ¡°I think one thing matters,¡± proclaimed Kris. Licks of flame ran up and and down his frame like the pulsing chromatophores of many an octopus.

    His back straightened as he turned and flicked Iso, and it spun in the trunion of his chest.

    ¡°What you¡¯re doing - making backdoors into the minds of these new people, forming them from a mold that is meant to be abused, building a directive to arbitrarily discontinue the free will of any of them when you personally find them bothersome¡­¡±

    The flames died off. Kris shuddered, and gave Ms. Nightjar a look not of anger, but of contempt.

    ¡°Whoever pours new life out of an abusive mold is not guilty of new sin, but on the scope you contemplate - it is a sign of decrepitude as much as depravity.¡±

    Words of insult meant to pierce her heart that skidded off instead.

    ¡°Even if you had the right measure of me, dearie, what could you possibly do about it?¡± She leaned back onto her little chair, its bloodstained feet leaving smears on the square¡¯s redmetal. Her elegant fingers caressed the Device. ¡°Even if I possessed only my comfy seat, what kind of threat do you pose?¡±

    Yawning Kris grasped Iso by the shaft, and with the sound of night falling he drew it free of his torso.

    ¡°Threat? To you?¡± he asked with lethargic grace, holding the gently glowing pinion as any knight ever held a lance. ¡°By myself I¡¯m no threat,¡± he said softly, almost sadly. ¡°But what¡¯s about to happen¡­ that, Ms. Nightjar, is.¡±

    And Ms. Nightjar destroyed him.

    Reaching down into the Device, she drew up the motive to wipe clean the blot of his existence. At one moment he remained standing, Iso¡¯s barb only slightly less radiant than his face. Then the next saw his implement hovering on its lonesome, twirling gently in an alien breeze. It spun about multiple axes, a museum curiosity without its owner, before it winked out of existence.

    Not even the Olds were invincibly sacrosanct before the might of one small artifice.

    In the undefined distance to the West, as visible as its predecessor despite the intervening infinite forest of Rhaagmini buildings, flickered a light. One final child of Yawning Kris winked into existence: a fitting turquoise-gold replacement for a lost titan.

    Just as she began to shake with ecstasy, the Archaea interjected. They didn¡¯t do to her as she¡¯d done to Kris. They didn¡¯t remove from her the Device. They didn¡¯t undo her work.

    With that Earth Standard tool named English of all things, they began to sing.

    ¡°For now the Crone has bound

    those feral peasants crowned

    by wilderness unwound

    and dying Purple flame.

    For now the Sun is dead

    at hands by tears stained red.

    His second life is shed

    and third life can he claim.

    For now Beasts do amass

    and look through darkened glass,

    but for the Crone, alas,

    awaits a fearful fame.¡±

    Relief, being one of the greatest benefactors of positive morale, buoyed the Being of Old at such an altitude that she managed to hear and take note of the proclamation, but for a moment failed to care in the slightest. Even greater than that, though, was the delayed satisfaction of success. The Olds had laid plans, such as those enacted the day of the Western Sunrise, for spans of complex time difficult to communicate to those outside their exclusive little club. Oh, their motives were simple enough at their most heavily deconstructed. Even so, the fact of a longstanding ambition of such proportions being brought to bay brought her to short-lived maxima of happiness and prandial contentment for seven seconds.

    So many new beautiful dears to cultivate. So many new places to instill order.

    Her beatific smile curdled and clotted at the arrival of yet more unsolicited distraction, announced to her extended senses by the intrusion of any Old¡¯s extraordinary variable mass. The annoyed line became a slashed grimace as she heard the voice. That voice she disliked only slightly less than Technician West did.

    ¡°Beautiful verse, though the English seems unnecessary. Twenty three compares. Four of them subjective, three of them future-facing. Seems likely to be largely accurate, and Bayesian modeling supports that theory - both from the standpoint of the providers and the provision. Excellent prophecy, would have prophesy again.¡±

    That voice.

    She didn¡¯t bother saying anything. Instead, she turned her little chair, slid onto the front of Set¡¯s Throne, and willed her subject to prostration. Rotating on the seat, she glowered with wrinkled hands clenched. She¡¯d felt a bit skeptical about West¡¯s degree of control over the city gestalt-blacklist network¡¯s protocols, but this was patently unacceptable.

    Before her lay a spread-eagle individual with a nose like a cliff face, webbing-like cobalt clothes, flesh whiter than dry bone, and a mutt of an Earth Standard domestic cat sitting nonchalantly on his back. His hair could have been longer if the strands were arranged horizontally instead of coming vertically out of his follicles. On the clothes appeared a stylized symbol at irregular intervals. The crawling design was the Rhaagmini for ¡°Something Into Most.¡±

    ¡°I bid you good morrow, little girl,¡± said the man. The Father of the Mechanism. The Wright.

    The Maker smiled up at her as if he were perfectly comfortable with being flattened against what amounted to the floor of his own house any day of the year.

    ¡°If one didn¡¯t know better,¡± said Ms. Nightjar, ¡°I¡¯d call you a scoundrel.¡±

    ¡°I am that,¡± admitted the man with a broad smile. ¡°But I¡¯m the most competent scoundrel to ever live.¡±

    ¡°Tell me two things, dearie,¡± she said with poisonous good cheer. ¡°Two things, and don¡¯t be coy like Kris. He was less than unpleasant, and he¡¯s gone now, the poor soul.¡±

    That smile didn¡¯t change, but the black eyes in that white face burned like coals.

    ¡°I considered him a friend, Old Lady Entropy. And the fact that he¡¯s gone is why I¡¯m here now. Your friend West is dirtying up a thousand facets that I¡¯d otherwise be protecting. But when my good boy Clive-¡±

    He stopped for a second, accepting the affections of the cat on his back as it rubbed its face against the hair dust on his scalp. They both had the same heavy-lidded one-sided smiles, one content and one bestial.

    ¡°-told me that Kris had left his post in the sky, there wasn¡¯t a question about what had to be done. You¡¯ll pay, in kind or coin. I¡¯m not sure which just yet.¡±

    She almost laughed at him.

    ¡°Well,¡± she eventually allowed, ¡°ambitious of a man in a compromising position. You¡¯ve never lacked for lofty goals, though, have you?¡±

    She looked away from him, watching the Archaea. They didn¡¯t frighten her as much as they disturbed her. Certainly, the man on the ground might as well be so much ashes and dust. She saw no reason to leave him alive, and even if she didn¡¯t have her new toy, she would have subjugated and forced upon him some extremely cruel punishment.

    ¡°That plan with using that atypical to steal my favorite blade was ambitious, too,¡± said the Maker in a wistful tone, looking the same direction and smiling. Ms. Nightjar knew that he was looking at the Tower rather than the creatures standing in silence before it. ¡°A shame it didn¡¯t work, and you can tell West that I honestly think that. I like the results, though. ¡®Sebastio the Effulgent¡¯: A man whose greatest personal enemy is an autumn elf engineer, whose greatest victory is survival as an aberration of normal life and supermatter-immersed entity. A magnificent ruler, if already pretentiously-styled - and he has far to go yet. And those who enable magnificent rulers get a tidy sum of reputation for themselves.¡±

    A very proud man for a person whose time to live could be measured in less than a hundred heartbeats.

    ¡°I have it on good authority that our strange family could be kept out in the cold, away from this city. Moreover, I believe you made the toy that in turn made that possible.¡±

    She gave a knife of a smile, not mean, not spiteful, not at all. Merely critical of his arrogance.

    ¡°Oh, I did. And the Thunder Veil works perfectly.¡±

    ¡°The thunder what?¡±

    The Maker¡¯s mouth smoothed into an eighth-of-a-circle.

    ¡°The semi-stateful intrusion prevention system that makes Rhaagm the ivory palace which it is.¡± His eyes cut sideways. ¡°West did, in fact, manage to pull it out of the city¡¯s central control. I¡¯m actually grateful to the poor derivative workhorse; he highlighted a way to work around a series of checks I was pretty sure he¡¯d need a thousand times more processing to beat. Of course, I built the thing, and I know how to destroy it.¡±

    He gave a sigh.

    ¡°So I did. A necessary sacrifice to get myself and my tag-along into the city while you especial barbarians held the gate.¡±

    Tag-along.

    Her eyes flared, and, panicked animal that she became in that instant, she sent her will into the Device with the express purpose of permanently doing away with the Maker. To her surprise, she found her desires vandalized. No alchemization of want into actuality. Somewhere, in the bosom of the creature called Ms. Nightjar, a sensation called ¡°dread¡± reared its hooded face as she experienced¡­ complications.

    The Device had vacated her grasp in favor of another. The grasp of a man whose hands would now and forever be dripping water in tiny showers, perpetually clean from the wrists down. The grasp in question belonged to a perfectly ordinary man, who carried in his other hand a waist-tall sword called Love, so rusty it found it difficult to properly part air. At the hilt of the weapon rested a hand-wide open ring, an eye¡¯s socket waiting to see again. That man¡¯s perfectly ordinary face belonged to the Six-in-One, the Holy Damned, the Double Triptych.

    The Oiler had come to take back what was his.

    What made Ms. Nightjar reel inside was that she saw a single individual, not a sextet. Yes, the Oiler¡¯s parts might recombine in the presence of the Device so their actions might be his actions instead. Yes, it was the intermediate goal of the Oiler in virtually every case that one side or the other of his warring personalities¡¯ conflict take the reins of the whole man, and better saddle the Device¡¯s functions. Yes, he alone had the special relationship with his charge which could bid it return to his side. But he hadn¡¯t possessed it! There should be six armored figures vying to be the first to wrest it from her, not a coherent singleton armed with inarguable authority over the apparatus!

    ¡°You see,¡± said the Maker from his place still on the ground, ¡°I had a feeling you lot were going to be more ambitious than you ought - though West was the anticipated tip of the spear, not you. When I went to collect our discontent friend-group recently, imagine my surprise when certain others were already there.¡±

    He looked at the Archaea from the corner of an eye. Ms. Nightjar abruptly found she didn¡¯t want to know what she would see if she looked that direction likewise.

    ¡°Imagine my surprise when they had already helped our mutual acquaintances to¡­ put themselves back together.¡±

    The Maker¡¯s lips then showed something far worse than the greatest rage or fulminating vengeance. He looked back at Ms. Nightjar and displayed empathy.

    ¡°Such disregard for ownership brings grief to the heart,¡± came a quiet clangor out of the perfectly ordinary man. The Oiler considered Ms. Nightjar, spun Love sideways, and pushed the Device into the weapon¡¯s vacant hilt. Noiselessly, the object fell into the socket¡¯s gap and stuck there.

    ¡°Sadness and happiness and happiness again; you are truly oppressed,¡± said the Oiler with great sorrow, planting the rust-dulled point of Love on the ground. ¡°To the grief of ourselves, however, even happy monsters are in need of curtailment.¡±

    Ms. Nightjar made one final effort to save herself. Releasing that tiny part of herself dedicated to keeping the Maker bound and toothless, she tried to place the Oiler in his stead. But the moment that her mental vise relaxed, the mansion of her mind warped and ran like wax. Her will retained its substance, but trying to direct it became an effort to thread a needle with a bullet - and she had not Target¡¯s talents. The word ¡°submission¡± became a symbol with a null pointer attached. She grew mentally and physically rigid, a queen frozen and imprisoned on her throne by an artifact smaller than her head.

    In the end she railed against her attackers, a child protesting her parents¡¯ ill treatment.

    ¡°What gives you the right?¡± she practically sobbed at the Oiler in hateful rage and fear, tears running down her leathery face. ¡°What gives you the right!?¡±

    The Oiler looked over her with absolutely no expression at all.

    ¡°Because the world ends at my hands, and our hands must be clean.¡±

    She didn¡¯t die. She didn¡¯t forever after exist on some pitiable fringe between sapience and dementia.

    Instead, the Oiler moved her to the Purple, bound her to Set¡¯s Throne in chains, and placed her in a ziggurat of exhibition. He put her in a prison where she could both witness and be witnessed, a horror horrified. Thus, Ms. Nightjar found herself a person permanently emplaced in that strange wilderness adjacent to a growing society of thinking feeling Beasts, appreciative of the greatest desire she had ever satisfied.

    She found herself reduced, broken, and damaged, and thereafter those passing her whispered and critiqued and knew her as a simulacrum of dread.