Fugue, page 94
I kissed her forehead and went into her “guest room.” I don’t know if Jason realizes it’s anything else, but I wasn’t particularly in a mood to care.
I need new underwear. I need new rings. I need a new Amulet of Resuscitation and all the spells it carried. Damn it! I need a new phone! Phoebe needs one, too, since the communication gates are dedicated, tuned specifically to each other.
I’ve got a lot to do. I wonder if I can talk Alden into giving me my stuff back? I doubt it. He wants to understand magic. Apparently, I’m the only magic-worker he knows of, or knows of for certain. Or, no, he’s met several, I think. He implied he’s met more than one, anyway. His attraction to me is because I’m the most proficient. The expert. If you’re going to learn, learn from the best, even if you have to spread their brain flat and read it like a newspaper.
I updated Bronze and Firebrand on the situation. Neither was happy to be left in Iowa, but the logistics were a bit difficult. Besides, it’s not like we had the man on hand. First would come the finding, then would come the flaying, flaming, and filleting. There might also be lashing, bashing, and smashing. Possibly punching, kicking, and biting. It really depended on the order in which we reached him.
I had a sneaking suspicion I wasn’t going to be able to simply scry on him, drop in suddenly, eviscerate him, and depart. I tried anyway. You never know. No luck.
I settled down on a heavy chair, eyeballed my seeking setup, steepled my fingers, and thought.
He’s raided the minds of wizards, but complains they resist and don’t give up all their secrets. So, he’s not a real wizard. He’s an apprentice. He knows some basics. Maybe he doesn’t even know any of the theory, just a few spells. It does seem likely he doesn’t understand magical theory at all. He can definitely sense magic, so he can probably turn on a wizard-only magic item, although he might not be clear on what it does, before or after he activates it, unless it’s painfully obvious.
Now I can’t find him with a gate search, despite having a clear and obvious signature to hunt for. If he has a cloaking spell of his own, I feel confident it won’t stand up against my searching techniques. Therefore, as I suspected, the son of a bitch is wearing my stuff.
I noted with satisfaction my hands weren’t shaking. No adrenalin. It’s nighttime. I’m dead. It’s usually an advantage. On the other hand, I was angry enough my hands should be shaking. I wanted to scream in frustration, but the house had entirely too much glass.
I’ll get around to replacing the windows with something more resilient.
I clamped down on myself. I stuffed the rage into a corner and told it to sit. Stay. You get your two hundred pounds of flesh when I’m ready. Stay!
After a bit of consideration and meditation, I checked the time. The mirror’s micro-gate continued looking for anything matching the signature I gave it. It was a fairly exact signature, since I had a fair look at Alden’s interior and more than one psychic encounter with him. It ran for a full half-hour and still couldn’t find him.
It couldn’t find him at all, anywhere, which was disturbing enough. To make matters worse, it couldn’t find any version of him.
Somewhere, there’s a base Earth timeline. I poked it with a scrying gate and created a branch. I moved to this branch and lived in Shasta. Alden found me there. There should be another Alden, the “original,” if you will, still chugging along just fine in the original timeline, unaware of the branched timeline version and of me.
The gate didn’t find him. If he was on holy ground and whomping up the static shield effect, it should still find him, even if it fuzzed out a scrying spell. What did that leave?
Alden is sensitive to magical operations. He’s psychic. And he’s not a human being, no matter how much he looks like one on the outside. Is it possible he felt the… what’s the word? The disturbance of a branching timeline? Could he have felt it and wanted to understand it? Would that have been enough to divert himself out of a base Earth timeline and into a branch? I don’t understand his sensory powers. I don’t understand any of his powers, aside from some psychic abilities and inhuman toughness, possibly some unnaturally-rapid healing. What else could account for him following a chaos-caused branch from the main timeline?
No, broader question: What could account for him being unique?
He’s in a branched timeline now. He’s moved from one branch to another. If he doesn’t have a gate, can he go back? Is he able—whether he knows it or not—to shift from similar timeline to similar timeline? In this case, between his native Earth and branches I create off it? Or does he need to feel the initial surge of a branch forming so he can slide through the gap? Or was this a fluke and he can never go home?
Intellectually, I wanted to know. Emotionally, it didn’t matter. Whatever timeline he was in, I was going to kill him and make the question moot. Maybe I could find out interesting things at autopsy.
Since time ran faster in Iowa than in Phoebe’s world, I did a quick search-and-retrieve to pick up a holographic display before popping through the closet.
“Phoebe?” I called, coming out of her workroom. Carefully.
“Yes, Pop?”
“I’ve got to handle something and I’m not sure how long it will take.”
She came down the hall to me.
“What is it?”
“I’m angry and I need to deal with it.”
“Um. How bad is it?”
“I don’t want you to watch.”
“That bad?”
“I tried running a search for Alden. He’s protected. I’m pretty sure he’s wearing at least one of my rings.”
“There are other ways to—”
“Phoebe.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll try and locate him while you’re out.”
“Don’t approach him. Figure out ways to track him, if you like, but under no circumstances are you to risk detection. I fully intend to deal with him personally.”
“I’ll be careful, Pop, but that’s all I’ll promise.” She kissed my cheek. “Come back as soon as you can.”
“I will.”
I handed her the projector, went back to Iowa, got myself dressed for trouble, and checked the time in Tauta.
Tauta, 16th Day of Goloskir
The stupid Tassarian calendar has weeks eleven days long, not seven. I don’t think of “weeks” in terms of eleven days and, apparently, neither does my altar ego.
When I popped in on the night of the sixteenth, I thought I had extra time because of the discrepancy. He put me right in short order, explaining he meant seven-day weeks, just like I did. How else were people from the northern reaches going to make it to the southern coast by the first of the month? Run?
My reply was somewhat vulgar, but he took it in the spirit in which it was intended, nodding his grainy image over the table.
“You seem more upset than usual,” he observed. “Anything I should know about?”
So I brought him up to speed on Reverend Alden, the unidentified entity.
“Humans can be psychic,” he mused. “Rare examples can be quite impressively so. What are the odds you would run into one?”
“Pretty good. I could live a long time. If I live long enough, I’ll eventually encounter even the thing that kills me. People only ever meet one of those.”
“Most people,” he corrected.
“Don’t start.”
“Okay. Have you found him and recovered your stuff, yet?”
“No. I’ve tried and I think he’s using my own gadgets against me.”
“Oh. Oh!”
“Yeah. I’m in a really foul mood. I want to kill this son of a bitch and burn his body. Possibly in reverse order. And I can’t find him, so I don’t have a valid target for an intense urge to murder.”
“You sound surprisingly rational.”
“It’s a rational anger. I have reason to be angry.”
“I’m not sure that’s how it works, but okay. You want me to try and find him?”
“That’s plan A.”
“What’s plan B?”
“Shut up and look for him,” I snapped.
“Ah. Give me a minute and I’ll see what I can find.” His face fell, the sand settling evenly in the table’s recessed surface.
I waited. Not patiently, but I waited. Someone knocked at the door and I shouted for them to go away. I may have scattered in a few additional words as intensifiers, but the gist of it was clear.
“Uhm,” he began, face forming again in the upswirl of sand.
“Yes?”
“Have you included any spells in your new ring to hide you from angelic detection?”
“Of course. I upgraded them with elements from my angel containment experi—” I broke off. I didn’t bother to continue telling him how I’d set up new spells in the hope of being better-hidden from angels in close proximity. I think the phrase I want is “hoist with my own petard,” which casts me as Rosencrantz and Alden as Hamlet.
I don’t know how my face looked, but my altar ego immediately went on.
“Okay, since I can’t find him while he wears your rings, no plan A. Let’s talk about plan B. What can I do to help?”
“It’ll take a miracle,” I grated, “so I’m not sure you can. But if you don’t have something constructive I can do with a double handful of fury, I’m going on a zombie-hunting spree. I might even nuke a giant ant colony just because I hate the damned things and want them all to die.”
“I see.”
“Good. Got any brilliant ideas?”
“On Alden? No. For putting you to good use? Yes.”
Linranion was the northernmost city in the Empire. As it happened, it was a coastal city, far away from Sarashda, and still had a Temple loyal to the Old Gods.
I went there for the express purpose of rubbing religious zealots’ noses in a miracle. And, if any of them caught me doing it, pushing those noses out the back of their heads.
I scried on the Temple, looking it over through the telescopic zoom. It was the usual layout, with a major building surrounded by several smaller buildings, all circular. I asked why.
“You’re in luck. I’ve been talking to Hazir. He’s no priest, but he knows stuff.”
“And?”
“The worshipper follows the Path of Attistiba,” my altar ego explained.
“Which means?”
“It’s kind of like enlightenment, kind of like reincarnation. It’s the idea you can be reborn into a higher caste if you perfected yourself as whatever you are now.”
“Don’t people want to be reborn as their present caste? I distinctly recall warriors who wanted to be reborn as warriors.”
“It’s optional. I’m not totally up on the dogma, but I think if someone wants to stay in their present caste, it’s a sign they haven’t achieved the next level of Attistiba, so they should stay in the same one until they feel they can advance.”
“Got it. Go on.”
“The walk in the Temple takes the supplicant through the main building to offer homage to all the gods, each representing a level of advancement in the system. The worshipper pauses at each station to offer prayers and maybe a token offering. For most people this is the routine form of worship.
“On the other hand,” he went on, “if someone has something specific, he either talks to a priest—secular matters and paperwork stuff, mostly—or he does his main rounds and continues to one of the other buildings, there to pray to a particular god. For example, if an apprentice craftsman is about to start his masterpiece, he might spend a night in prayer beforehand.”
“Without a priest?”
“It’s a non-paperwork thing.”
“And his walking along the inlaid path is like water turning a prayer wheel?”
“It helps, yes. It’s also surprisingly effective. The worshipper is usually contemplating the upcoming prayer and the deity to which he will offer it. If they could get everyone to have the same concept of each god, they’d develop quicker.”
“They don’t?”
“Well, yes and no. They all have the same general idea, but not the specifics. It’s like an old radio station. You can spin the dial around to find a station, but it’s broadcasting static. The static comes through fine when you’re on the right frequency, but there’s nothing to hear. The worshippers are all broadcasting on the right frequency, sending power to their gods, but all their voices mingle together into static, not into music. It’s a babble of voices, not a choir.”
“But the gods still develop eventually, right?”
“Sure, but it’s their problem. They have to evolve on their own, not be defined, like I was.”
“Ah. Speaking of your divinity…”
“Yeeeeeees?”
“How am I going to get into the Temple without setting my feet on fire?”
“Is this a real problem?”
“Yeah. It’s holy ground. At night.”
“Why would you—oh, I see! No, you won’t have a problem.”
“Are you sure?”
“You have holy ground problems elsewhere because I don’t have the power to protect you. On Earth worlds, I have almost zero presence, so you’re on your own. On other worlds, I’m usually part of the pantheon. Did you notice you never had trouble being inside a Temple of Flame? Partly, that was because you’re a God of Fire—or I am.”
“I thought it was because I was related to the priestesses?”
“Maybe Sparky was being nice, yes, but in a larger sense, she couldn’t touch you. In the parlance of the heavens, you’re mine. Zapping you for setting foot on a sacred site is tantamount to a declaration of war.”
“But the current gods of Tauta—”
“Yeah, they’re not smart enough for that. I know. I was talking about Rethven and Sparky. In more general circumstances, there’s a sort of reflexive reaction between me and my avatar. I know you aren’t, really, but you’re close enough to take advantage of it. It’s similar to electricity. Like charges repel. The charge in the ground won’t bother you because you’re already slightly charged by virtue of being in a world where my power is manifest. Make sense?”
“Only on a superficial level. Otherwise, no.”
“Think of it as one of the perks of being an avatar.”
“Balanced out by all the work I have to do. I don’t suppose you could make a new one and let me off the hook?”
“In theory, yes, but it would take time and effort. Remember when the Boojum turned several of his priests into an avatar? They sacrificed themselves to provide the physical form and to provide power. Willing human sacrifices are much more effective than mass slaughter. I’d need you to consciously and deliberately act as an in-world channel for several hundred deaths before I could use the leftover meat to create a temporary avatar. Thousands would be required to invest it with enough power to be reasonably permanent.”
“But they would all be human sacrifices, wouldn’t they?”
“Individuals, ritually sacrificed, would be more efficient, but not as effective as willing sacrifices. Mass slaughter—blowing up an orphanage in My Name would be an example—it’s just not as high a conversion ratio. Faster, but not as powerful per person, although you might get a whole lot of people at once. Mass slaughter is easier, but crafting each individual amuse-bouche takes work.”
“Damn.”
So I went back to Iowa to fetch a few things and prepare a few spells. Nothing I intended to use in front of anyone with magical sensitivity, but some useful and utilitarian things. A couple required stuffing a lot of power into a small space, but the power systems in the house were all charged up and running. With the time differential, it might all be charged again by the time I got back.
In the garage, I drew a square, judging the size mostly by memory, but kept it small enough to be certain it fit in the target area.
Last I checked, the interior of the Temples were warded against scrying. It wasn’t much of a defense, all things considered. Looking at it, I knew I could break it. On the other hand, would one of their gods bother to break it? It was really just a privacy shield, marking the boundaries of the Temple’s property, not like the more serious security I encountered on the Sarcana estate. Besides, the fact they had a privacy shield could be useful. It could conceal all manner of sins, mainly mine.
The Temples didn’t think they needed serious security. After all, they’re not a House. No one goes to war with them. They’re an institution! They’re a whole class of people who maintain the stability and order of the Empire! They don’t need protection. Nobody would ever want to offend them. Almost nobody.
Bronze and I appeared on the central dais of the Temple in Linranion. If anyone was occupying it at this hour, they were now in my garage in Iowa. And if they were in my garage in Iowa, they were going to have a tough time of it. I magically sealed the place, engulfed it in darkness, and replaced all the oxygen with carbon monoxide.
I really was in a foul mood.
In theory, the Temple was open. It never officially closed to worshippers. People could come and go freely, day or night, but getting any mortal business done would have to happen during regular hours. A lamp hung from a chain on each pillar around the central dais, dimly illuminating the place. The lamps between each of the gods were unlit. The place could use a glass oculus over the central dais to let in light.
In practice, the Temple didn’t need much lighting at night. It was empty at two in the morning. This annoyed me deeply, since I was looking for an excuse to kill someone. I even had Firebrand on my hip in anticipation. Just my luck any priest on duty was either blindly suffocating in my garage or was in one of the specialized chapel buildings with a late-night worshipper. Or maybe off on a coffee-and-hooker break. Who was going to know, aside from us gods?
The risk, of course, was coming back to find an angry god waiting for you. Might still happen, I figured, which was something to look forward to.
