Fugue, page 57
I mimicked her tilted-head expression as I thought. Do I tell her? It won’t matter to me, but Phoebe mentioned living in my shadow while in Tauta…
“You’re aware I’m a well-practiced wizard, yes?”
“Clearly.”
“My daughter is quite skilled, as well. She simply doesn’t realize it.”
“Oh? How can she not?”
“She compares herself to me. Does your daughter feel she is your equal?”
“No. I see your point.”
“Phoebe wishes to spend time with her friend and to travel with you for a while. I am not against it, but I have reservations about it. How safe will she be?”
“As safe as anyone else, I suppose.”
“You’ll understand how I’m nervous about letting her go off on her own.”
“No doubt. Would you like to take Orrysa in exchange?”
“No, but thank you for the offer. It sets my mind at ease. I think I will return home, briefly, and attend to matters there. I should be back a little after sunset. Phoebe and I will discuss what she’s learned and I may have further questions for you. But I’m optimistic about letting her travel for a while in good company.”
“We look forward to it.”
“Now, if you will excuse me?”
“Must you go?” she asked, laying a hand gently on my forearm. I matched her smile. I’m learning to recognize flirting when I see it. I’m sure she was flirting. Pretty sure.
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” I told her, patting her hand. “Phoebe’s request did not come at an ideal time. I have to make sure things I set in motion haven’t run away with themselves. I’ll be back shortly.”
“You say you will return home. This is but the work of a moment?”
“It takes a minute or three, depending on circumstances.”
“May I observe your departure?”
I thought about it for a moment. Would it matter if they knew? There was the possibility it would be a problem. Phoebe is the daughter of a powerful wizard, so she makes a good ransom target. On the other hand, Phoebe is the daughter of a powerful wizard, so she’s a good person to leave alone. As for Orrinda and her people, I suspected they would strongly prefer goodwill to ransom. I doubted they would try anything unpleasant. I was certain they wouldn’t try it twice.
“Of course you may observe.”
It takes a little time to make a gate connection, even when I use my Ring of Many Gates. They’re just iridium circles, enchanted to be gate loci, not actually dedicated to anything. Once I find what I’m looking for, I can then inject a great deal of power into it and transfer it to another locus—a doorway, for example. If I don’t have a doorway or other opening, I can use a whole lot more power to brute-force a connection by bringing the other end of the gate to me, or I can spend some more time to draw a suitable locus. It’s far from instantaneous, but with a handy opening to use, it doesn’t take long.
I stepped through her wagon’s door. It closed behind me, hiding Orrinda’s amazed and perplexed expression.
There followed temporal shenanigans. I had a micro-gate ticking off time at home to speed the world of Sofera up, so I had to reverse it. Then I had to get through a sunset locally, then I had to click the world of Sofera forward a few ticks to get to a sunset there, then set it up so my time-ticker would re-engage when I stepped through again…
Scheduling everything around sunrise and sunset is harder than it looks, especially when there are multiple time zones to consider.
I arrived via a shift-space—a tall rectangular box of space. I defined it in one corner of my garage and castled it with an identical space on the road just outside the ring of wagons. It didn’t even make a popping sound and cost about the same as a step-through gate. If I’d gone back through Orrinda’s wagon door, I wouldn’t have to brute-force it. Using brute force to make a shift-space, though, I didn’t suddenly appear in camp—and I didn’t run the risk of cutting someone in two as they went through her door!
I walked up to the wagons, waving as I approached, and the guy on sentry duty waved me on in.
Note to self: theater people know how to party. In the future, I need to prepare better for not eating or drinking, because they kept trying to be hospitable. Having a mug in hand at least let me pretend to have a good reason for not accepting another.
I looked at everyone much more intently, now that I had my night-eyes on. I mingled, making sure to reevaluate everyone I met.
Strangely enough, they didn’t have anyone I could regard as a total bastard. Oh, one was a little greedy, a few were a little less than honest, maybe a couple somewhat weak on the whole idea of treating customers as anything but marks, but mostly decent. I suspect anyone who proved himself to be a legitimate son of a bitch discovered the hills were wide and green and doubtless had pastures where he would be much happier. Or would be so informed in no uncertain terms. These people have to live with each other.
Later in the evening, after the music was silenced, the fires burned low, and the watches posted, Phoebe and I sat by a pile of embers.
“Well, Pop? What do you think?”
“I’m okay with you spending time here, if it’s what you want.”
“Really, Pop?”
“There are conditions to this extended sleepover with your friend.”
“I expected there would be.”
“First, you’re going to have a micro-gate alert primed and ready for me. You will not take it off. You will not allow it to be taken off. It’s going to be on you like a Semper Fidelis tattoo on a Marine. Got it?”
“Sure. Can you tattoo a gate on someone?”
“I don’t know and we’re not going to experiment with it today.”
“Probably for the best.”
“Second, you are going to claim ignorance on a lot of things. It’s okay if you want to trade spells and whatnot, but don’t do anything beyond their pay grade.”
“How do you mean, Pop?” she asked, uncertainly.
“If they have a spell for broken bones, that’s fine. If you want to help them make it more efficient or quicker, also fine. Do not go on to teach them germ theory, genetics, and a spell for regenerating lost limbs. This is their world. Stick to its limitations.”
“Stick to their worldview.”
“Pretty much.”
“Can I teach them new music?”
“Sure. I’m mostly concerned with giving them access to magic that could get them killed—or heretical notions that could be less than endearing to the local power structures.”
“I’ll be careful, Pop.”
“I hope so. Their lives may depend on it,” I told her, knowing it would have more impact than mentioning her own life might depend on it. I stood up and bent down to kiss her on the forehead. “I’ll get you your alert ring. Then you can go to bed.”
“Here?”
“It’s where you want to be, isn’t it?”
“You’re awesome, Pop.”
“Only in certain ways.”
Swisher, Iowa, Thursday Night
Time differentials are sometimes extreme, sometimes not. They tend to level out a little when the time-ticking gate—or gates—are ticking rapidly. The closer we get to continuous, the closer the ratio is to a one-to-one. Phoebe’s time-ticker is cycling once a minute. Some minutes are shorter, some are longer, but they’re always one minute on my side of the gate.
I sat in my chair and read a book.
Phoebe is off on her own in another world. She’s with her friend, Orrysa. She can call home anytime she wants, and she has an emergency signal if things go really bad. She’s out on her own, to do whatever she wants to do… but she’s also got me, sitting at home, waiting to bail her out.
You better believe I have a time-ticker running. She can have months, even years go by if she wants them. She’ll come home whenever she feels like it, and I will not have moved from my chair, reading quietly and waiting.
No, I don’t usually sit and read while wearing plate armor, two swords, and a negative-space cloak, but the chair was rebuilt to be accommodating and the cloak provides useful extra space.
Phoebe called in a half-hour later, my time. No, she wasn’t interested in coming home, as such, but maybe she could pick up a few things? I agreed and gave her a sizable chest—more a footlocker, really—with a shift-spell on it. Thereafter, she put notes in it to request things. I put the things in the chest. With the time differential, it keeps me busy. She keeps calling home for stuff. I seem recall doing the same thing when I went off to college. This includes money. The note read: “Pop? Do we have any gold lying around?”
A tactful way to ask for cash, I thought. So I sent through several small sacks of gold bars. I wasn’t familiar with the local coinage, but gold is gold. I hoped the local economy didn’t alloy its gold with copper for reasons of economics. Pure gold would raise eyebrows. The reverse, a pure-gold economy with alloy-gold introduced, was worse, though. I sent the pure stuff.
Several hours later on my end—about six in the morning—Phoebe’s alert ring went off. This opens a micro-gate to my Ring of Many Gates, locking the time differential and providing a pathway for me to scry.
I popped a scrying sensor through and took a look. It was nighttime, so that was to the good. The view was locked on to Phoebe’s vicinity. I saw the inside of a house, briefly, as my viewpoint moved out of it. Two men in half-armor, one of them limping, dragged Phoebe outside into the rain. She was wearing a nightgown I recognized. It wasn’t bulletproof, but it would reduce a normal sword’s cutting stroke to a bludgeoning one. Pity she hadn’t enchanted it.
Outside the house, the two soldiers plunked her down in a puddle before a clergyman. He wore dark robes and seemed to be in charge. The icon he wore was a simple “X” of wood, but it was well-made and polished smooth. He was as wet as everyone else, but he didn’t seem to notice.
One of the soldiers rolled Phoebe onto her back so the rain could patter down on her face. Maybe it was a good thing she hadn’t enchanted her nightgown. It stayed wet and muddy instead of self-cleaning in front of a cleric.
All right, I was making an assumption about why the cleric was involved. I don’t feel my reflex assumption was unreasonable.
I missed some of their conversation as I headed out to the garage. Bronze had already changed outfits. She pawed at the floor as I came in, smoke rising from her ears. I considered the rafters and realized I couldn’t mount. She couldn’t even raise her head without being careful about the beams.
Note to self: I need a taller garage. It’ll happen shortly.
I stood next to her as I did a quick search for an open space big enough for a brute-force shift. We wound up in a small, clear area in the forest beyond her house. I didn’t want to suddenly appear out of nowhere—not in line of sight. Knowing my luck, one of the frightened-looking soldiers would instantly knife Phoebe. Or the priest would scream and thrust his holy symbol at me. The second would be bad, but the first would be catastrophic.
Okay, first look. There’s a house outside of a small city. It’s a nice house, considering the world. It’s presently on fire. From the behavior of the soldiers—five, maybe?—they’ve set it on fire deliberately. Most of them are wounded to some degree. Clearly, they’re recovering their wounded and preparing to ride back to town.
There were no wagons. There were no signs of the galator. No sign of Orrysa, either. I hoped she wasn’t in the house, because the fire was bright enough to interfere with my VampVision™. If Orrysa was inside the house, she was either dead or about to be.
Did Phoebe decide to wave goodbye and settle down instead of living in a wagon? Did something happen to get her kicked out of the troupe? Or did she not fit in well with them over the long-term?
Questions for later. Right now…
Firebrand? Bronze?
One distraction, coming up.
A gout of flame roared up the chimney like a reversed lightning stroke. Bronze’s eyes glowed in the light of it and the horses, all seven of them, screamed as they ran off into the night.
That’ll keep ’em busy! Firebrand decided. Bronze snorted an affirmative.
Good work.
Bronze and I circled around, intercepting soldiers sent to recover the horses. The horses could find their way home, I felt sure, but the soldiers were another matter. I wasn’t completely certain what was going on, but I knew what it looked like. Still, live soldiers could be made dead. Dead ones couldn’t be made in live ones. Let’s not dwell on what befell them on a dark and stormy night. I threw them over Bronze’s broad rump and I stealthified us as we circled back through the trees. I wanted to get as close as we could to watch.
The remaining soldiers were the most wounded. The two paying attention to Phoebe were the least damaged of the lot, and they were desperately paying attention to Phoebe. I’m guessing they surprised her and she fought them. Poor guys.
So, two men were on their feet. Two more were crawling or staggering away from the house, toward the tableau with the priest. They weren’t really threats, all things considered. The two standing men were my major concern, followed by the priest. Phoebe doesn’t like it when I murder people out of hand, and my eyes could see these idiots weren’t evil. Ignorant and prejudiced, maybe. Possibly misled.
I saw the flare of power inside the house an instant before the mundane effects started. I’d say her mirror cracked in the heat and the enchantment went to hell. The screeching reminded me of demonic fingernails on a burning blackboard in some hellish version of a schoolroom, but not nearly as pleasant. It went right through my head, from one ear to the other, and set my teeth on edge. It awoke violent impulses and a sincere desire to murder something. I didn’t like it.
Phoebe persuaded them to move farther from the house. Strangely enough, they agreed. It’s almost as though they were afraid of it. No, it’s exactly as though they were afraid of it. Weird.
Well… maybe not.
The wounded continued to stagger or crawl toward their priest. I noticed he wasn’t doing anything for them. Either he was more concerned with Phoebe or lacked the ability to heal them. I didn’t see any spectral glow coming from his holy symbol, so maybe it wasn’t his area of expertise. Maybe it was a cult without an actual patron? Or was he simply not concentrating? Or was he a priest only by examination and licensure, without real faith?
Bronze and I moved quietly through the woods, keeping as close as cover and stealth spells would allow. I wanted to have an idea of where they thought they were taking her. If it was to a cell, I could bust her out before morning. If it was straight to the stake and the fire, things would get ugly.
Boss? I have Phoebe.
At this distance?
I can hear her. She’s got a strong mind.
What’s she saying?
You won’t believe me. Your ears are sharp. Listen.
So I paid attention. I tend to filter out all the background noise, but if I concentrate…
“Why do you laugh?” asked the priest.
“You remember I spoke of my father?”
“Yes?” the cleric replied.
“He’s not always a nice man, but he does try.” She raised her voice a trifle, pitching it to carry. “And, to give him all due credit, whenever I’ve asked him to be merciful, he’s always—always, and without ever failing me even once!—managed to contain his more murderous impulses. I’m proud of him for many reasons, but that’s a big one.”
I can’t blush at night. No blood pressure.
“And?” the cleric prompted. “What do the sins of your father have to do with anything?”
“You’ve invaded my home, burned it down, and bashed me around. I’m cold, I’m wet, and I’m pissed off.” She swiped the inside of her cheek with a finger. She held her hand so the finger pointed at me. I saw the blood on her finger run sideways to the tip and fall in a drop. She smiled, a beautiful and terrible smile. She kept her voice raised and said, “So, just to be clear, I am not asking him to be merciful.”
It’s a very different thing, allowing someone to get killed versus killing him yourself. I guess she didn’t like having all her stuff torched, much less having her home invaded and burned. I know she didn’t like it when Chuck forced his way into our house in Shasta, and this was, obviously, much worse. And, while she takes a beating in practice with stoic good grace, she doesn’t like being beaten.
Bronze light-footed her way through the trees, moving away from me with a grace that reminded me of unicorns. I picked up a rock, tossed it in my hand to get a feel for it, and took careful aim.
The priest repeated himself, asking what her statement had to do with anything. I shot a full-power psychic projection at Phoebe: Incoming! As I did so, I wrapped a tendril around the rock for additional guidance. I used the rock to interrupt the priest’s rhetoric.
I might have managed to close with him before could aim a holy symbol at me, but why risk a close approach to a potential divine manifestation?
I didn’t get him squarely in the chest like I planned, but a rock the size of my fist hit him high on the right, crunching through one arm of his holy symbol, a bit of ribcage, a lung, and out through a shoulderblade.
I was this close to a supersonic crack. Dang.
Phoebe, given an instant’s warning, immediately acted against the guy holding a knife on her. She twisted aside, away from the priest as she went for control of the knife. True, he was wired and ready, but having a hunk of priest blow out before one’s eyes tends to distract even the best. Instead of instantly knifing Phoebe in the neck, he froze for that fraction of a second. Phoebe went from helpless prisoner to credible threat in an eyeblink.
His partner, less tense, stared at the collapsing ruin of a dying priest for over a second before he turned to the struggle and raised his cudgel to settle it. One of the more-wounded sort, still approaching slowly, drew his club, but I suspect it was mostly defensive on his part. He didn’t try to limp any closer. The other wounded guy simply lay there, groaning, curled up in a ball. I think he decided he was far enough away from the burning building and from anything else so he could go back to being miserable. If something killed him, he wouldn’t have minded.
