Authors: Colin Harvey
The waiter did so. “There's far too much there."
"That's right,” O'Malley said, still staring at the spellhound. “The rest is for you and your colleagues. You'll restrain my fellow diner here for twenty minutes. If it causes trouble, call the militia. You won't cause any trouble, will you?"
—I will not.—The spellhound weighed up the options; to struggle would invite the militia, who would gladly eject it from The Ribbon, and perhaps bar its future entry. Better to play O'Malley's little game than lose him again.—You have been a worthy opponent, but I'll find you, wherever you are.—
"Maybe.” O'Malley stood. “But I have the Spell of Strength and Speed in here,” he hefted the sack, “and when I collect the others, I'll be away. One last throw of the dice.” He nodded and sauntered off.
The spellhound sat, outwardly calm but inside boiling with mixed emotions. Fury at being tricked. But also exultant, despite its frustration: It had been too easy at the end.
The waiter said. “That's twenty minutes, ser. I'll see you out. I hope we won't see you again."
O'Malley had stuffed himself full of food and drink because the Spell of Strength and Speed gobbled calories like a ravening wolf. Tiredness would finally take its toll—but by then, he should be safely away.
He had to get to Brendan Park. If he could reach the tower, he might be able to use the invisibility spell and escape, maybe even get offworld. He ran and ran, driving himself on.
The spellhound followed the trail toward Stationary easily. It could have been painted in bright yellow the way it showed. Although it was under pressure, there was no panic. It had left a smear on O'Malley's hands when they shook, which had stuck despite the man's efforts to wipe it off. It was as good a telltale as it needed.
O'Malley's lungs felt as if they would burst. Despite the spell, he was no youngster and had begun to feel light-headed. His legs were wobbling, but it was the sudden stab of pain from the stomach cramp that worried him. That wasn't a known side effect. On and on he ran down the outermost strip of Counter, second by second, metre by metre.
The spellhound passed Stationary and leapt onto the first of the Counter strips. It didn't want the poison in the smear to work too quickly in case O'Malley didn't retrieve the other spells in time. He had them well hidden, probably in a low-level cloaking spell.
Still it gained. The scent was stronger, fresher.
O'Malley's vision was blurred and his legs felt increasingly heavy as he fought for breath. He wasn't built for this. He felt the world tilt and reached out a hand to steady himself. He'd reached his limit.
O'Malley's scent grew stronger each block the spellhound passed. The poison would be working by now. How long it would take was variable. O'Malley's full stomach would delay it for a while but not forever.
The driver of the pedicab looked dubious. But O'Malley's money convinced him. He grunted as he leaned into the pull away from the kerb, the spell O'Malley worked on him to boost his strength going unnoticed.
The pedicab pulled away from the spellhound with O'Malley lolling in the back. The spellhound kept pace for a block or two while they left the expensive shops for a more run-down area, before it realised that instead of tiring, the driver of the pedicab was actually pulling away. O'Malley had used a spell on the driver that would have some effect, despite being diluted. It wasn't supposed to be used again so soon. The spellhound had the horrible feeling O'Malley had outwitted it. It had to keep going; if it stopped, O'Malley would escape, and it would have failed.
They almost reached Brandon Park, but the driver was slowing all the time. O'Malley's guts boiled, and he felt the vomit burn his nostrils while it spilt from the corner of his mouth.
"You shithead! Outta my cab!” The man kicked and pummelled him.
O'Malley fended off his blows, shouting his apologies. He rolled out of the cab, landing in the pebbles and taking a kick in the ribs.
He crawled on hands and knees before realising he had reached the edge of the park. Ahead of him the ruined tower that was his goal speared the skyline. “Nearly there, old son,” he panted. “Might be able to use the healer in the tower.” He coughed and winced at the pain in his ribs.
Only willpower kept the spellhound going. Its lungs were almost bursting, and every breath was a fireball. But it could outrun any pedicab over distance, even one with an enhanced driver.
Gradually, little by little, the scent grew stronger again. In the distance, amongst the liana-tangled ruins, a broken tower rose in the earthlight.
O'Malley crawled up the hill. Even his hands and knees were failing. He reached the base of the tower and pulled himself up each step of the spiral staircase.
"First level reached,” he gasped. “Keep going. Reach up. Pull. Rest,” he chanted. “Reach up. Pull.” On and on. “Second level,” he gasped. “Nearly there, old son.” He fell silent, couldn't talk any more, but kept the mantra in mind. Pull. Rest. Reach up. Pull. Rest. At last he reached the top, where a cool wind blew. He looked out through the gap in the rail at the wild vegetation below. In the distance, he thought he saw a familiar silhouette but couldn't be sure.
He pulled himself around. There was a large mirror-tile on the wall, and when he looked in it, a ragged-looking decrepit stared back. When he reached for a box wrapped in magical confusions, the old man also reached for his. He saw the old man slump when he pulled the healer from the box.
He felt a pain in his chest, then dry retched. “I don't think I can make it,” he said to the other man, who looked back with the same despair as he felt. “One last throw.” More pain, and the world darkened by the moment.
"Oh, Shalleen,” he gasped as he died.
When the spellhound found him, the body was still warm. Its Eye recorded everything for Jocasta's report. Then it checked for booby traps in case O'Malley had played one last trick, but the box was safe and the spells were there.
Lifting both body and box made it grunt, but it was determined on one last gesture of respect. It carried the body down and made an impromptu cairn among the vegetation, below the tower.
It threw its head back and howled in triumph and to mourn a worthy opponent.
It alighted from a pedicab outside Madame Butterkiss’ rooms in the last few minutes of near dark, with the first faint light from the sun in the east. It'd taken more than a day travelling to the Equatorial Ribbon, then another to come home.
Home
, it thought with amusement.
Yes, home. I will miss the place.
Which showed how much it had changed since its arrival on The Ribbon, whether due to its surroundings or due to long-buried memories from its human parts resurfacing.
The house was shuttered, so to avoid disturbing the other lodgers, it ambled down the long straight streets for one last walk in the park, beneath the shining light of the Earth.
Sinhalese slept late that morning. They'd been to another of the seemingly never-ending round of parties the night before.
Descending the staircase, she heard the rumble of her father speaking, but before she could worry about him talking to himself, she heard another man's voice, higher, quicker, with a slightly sibilant quality.
She peered cautiously into the study. Her father's eyes widened ever so slightly as he caught sight of her, but the sending had its back turned to her. It was a high quality projection, capable of seeing and conversing with its intended recipient, rather than the cheap animated messages they'd had to resort to using lately.
"It's an interesting proposal,” Duff said to the sending. “If I decline, will you persist with this nonsensical drive to have me expelled?"
"I find it as regrettable as you that it's come to this—but if you won't consent to interview under Truth Spell—"
"Call it for what it is, an inquisition,” her father interrupted.
"Whatever you call it, there will have to be an interview of some sort. But let's look at it positively, Stanislav. It would be a token interview if you accepted my proposal. After all, with your daughter as my wife, think of the power base we would have.” The sending giggled, and Sinhalese felt ill at the sound. “Think of the progeny of such a union. The son on one side, and the grandson on the other, of two of the greatest mages alive!"
"I said I'll think about it. I'll call you in a day or two.” With a wiggle of his fingers, Duff waved his hand, and the sending vanished.
Sinhalese rushed into him. “No, Papa!” Her mouth felt suddenly dry, but she managed to speak. “Not that slimy little worm—"
"Hush.” Duff put his arms around her. “I've no intention of marrying you off, dearest child.” He released her and took her hands, but she pulled away.
"I know we need money, but we're not that desperate are we?” she railed, as if she hadn't heard his reassurance. “I'd sooner...” she was momentarily lost for words “...sell my body out on the streets than marry that barely living bag of bones."
"Hobken is proposing nothing more or less than a marriage of convenience,” Duff said, still trying to soothe her. “Money has nothing to do with it."
"So he won't be paying a dowry?” she mocked.
"Of course he will,” he said. “But it's an alliance he's proposing, nothing more."
She snapped, “You've seen the way the oily little reptile looks at me. He'd like nothing more than to warm that decrepit little toothpick of his inside me!"
"Without those spells, I have no other way of holding him off! I'm too vulnerable at any inquisition to false suggestions or fake images about what I said or did."
There was the crackle of another sending. Sinhalese had never thought she'd be glad to see the Pantile woman.
"Wonderful news, Ser Stanislav! We have recovered all your spells and punished the guilty.” It was a cheap sending, incapable of dialogue. “Perhaps you will call tomorrow at my office, so we can return them to you? We'll be there at eleven o'clock, as soon as we get back to Frehk; we'll head straight there. I do hope you can make it!” The sending vanished.
Cackling with glee, Duff hurled his arms around Sinhalese, and she felt the tension ease away from her. She laughed delightedly. “Oh Papa! Tomorrow you can have your spells back."
The huge dark eyes almost burn a hole in the eye that is a camera. “Why are you doing this?” the camera's voice squeaks.
"So one lives.” There's satisfaction in the rumble, reminiscent of a tyrannosaurus that's eaten its fill. “Tired of playing possum, are you child?” the young man asks the camera. “It's right there should be one survivor to spread the tale and strike fear into those who would be my enemies."
No one shall hear a word of this,
a small voice of defiance whispers within.
If he wants the tale to spread, then I'll say nothing.
"Some of these might yet make useful zombies. I'll get a good price for them. I might even let that cretinous barman live,” he muses. “Though I may sew his lips up or cut his hands off to stop that racket. But do I need him if I have you to tell the tale?” He smiles at the camera, the smile of a predatory beast, the hint of the glint of the madman just visible.
"Why?” you whimper again but driven by the child's insatiable need to understand.
"Where was their respect?” he asks indignantly. “How could that whore refuse me?” He kicks Mama's body.
The camera focuses on him: the broad chest, the scraggly growth of incipient beard, and his slightly misshapen teeth. Years later you will realize the teeth are the key. They could be fixed; instead he wears his ugliness with pride, like a badge—'Look at me! I'm ugly! I'm different!'—a child's cry for attention. “People will bow or kneel when they hear the name of Stanislav Duff from now on,” he says with satisfaction. “When I become rich and famous they will fear me, too."
Across half a lifetime of just surviving you will remember this. At first in slavery, through poverty, to near respectability, each time building a new life, a new identity, all the indignations and humiliations will be added to this, but this is what is burnt into the camera, what will drive your life. You handle men but never love them, you pander to them but never allow them near, do anything for them to survive. But it never fades, you never forget the sitar, the harmonica, the tune building, building, building until he cries: “Be quiet!” and waves his hand. The café disappears with a boom, and a fragment of rubble hits you.
And for a while all is dark and quiet.
Late summer in Frehk; the leaves were some weeks yet from falling, and the days were still warm when the sun shone, but already, clear evenings brought chill nights.
Each fall, Jocasta felt, the end of summer became ever more poignant, a metaphor for the passing of her own life.
She awoke one morning with a feeling of great sadness, the dream of childhood already half-forgotten, but its memory of lost innocence lingering. At least for once the dream had been a pleasant one.
She reached out, but of course Gabriel wasn't there. She'd banished him to the couch on their return from Meroë. She had found the reality of sex a poor shadow of her dreams, but even after she'd grown satiated with sex, she'd grown accustomed to his presence, the feel of his body easing some of her aches.
She pulled on a robe and plunged down the dropshaft at the back of the building to the baths in the basement. They ran in a warren as deep underground as the building rose above it, and seemed far bigger inside than they should be, and according to rumour, were connected by secret passages to other places.