NaNoWriMo 2006
Busted Seventh: A novel experiment
-- first -- previous --

##

"Henry, can you turn around for a minute?"

"What's up, Mitch? Need another beer?"

Mitch spared a glance down to the bar, but then returned his rapt gaze to the figure that had just walked through the door.

"Actually, yes. But I can wait a minute on that. Would you please just tell me who walked into the bar?"

Henry took a few seconds to finish up what he was doing, then turned around to see what Mitch was asking about.

The glass he was holding crashed to the floor and shattered.

"Mitch?"

"Yes, Henry?"

"That's a seven foot tall elf."

"Yep."

"I haven't used drugs for over two decades..."

"I've never used drugs, other than alcohol. Speaking of which, this might be an excellent time to switch to bourbon."

"Amen, brother" Henry reached behind him for a bottle, still not turning away from the armed elf that was just now stalking up to the bar, and talking a seat.

##

Henry had set up three glasses.

"So you're a, um, dark elf?" Mitch asked.

"We don't use that word."

He had set his swords and bow on the floor, but even leaning up against the bar, the hilts of his swords still stood a good foot above the countertop. The unstrung bow threatened to scrape the ceiling. A quiver packed with arrows lay across the saddlebags on the floor to one side of the barstools.

"This was all a lot simplier before that idiot John Ronald Rueul showed up, not to mention all the fan boys who have followed. If I hear that damn Drizzle-name or whatever it is one more time I'm going to explode."

"So, um... you don't call yourselves elves, is that it?"

"Oh no, elf is fine for what it is. Elves are elves, though, and I hate the kids who reference some arbitrary 'rule book' and then pull racist terms to describe my people. I am not 'dark'. You can imagine how some humans would react to a similar term."

"Oh. I guess I spoke without thinking," Mitch said.

"Ideally you would call us tuatha de danaan like all our folk, or perhaps daoi-sidhe for me and my sib. Though I'd prefer to be called by my name." The elf downed his bourbon, and offered the glass back to the bartender. "Henry, wasn't it? I'll take another."

Mitch took a chance. "And put that on my tab. My name is Mitch Connaught, but I have a hunch Jacob already told you that." Mitch held out his hand. "And how should I call you?"

"Sid. That's close enough to my real name, and what I usually go by on this side of the rift."

Sid grabbed Mitch's hand with a grip that was firm, cold, dry, and hard like iron. Mitch steeled himself, and to his credit did not flinch, and even managed to meet Sid eye-for-eye and hold his gaze as well as his hand shake.

"You should tell me your real name someday, Sid."

"I'll hold you to that, Mitchell O'Connor O'Brien of Connaught. Someday you will know me, and be known to the Conclave, Synod, and Councils of my people. But that is something for another day. Until then I think there is a fair amount of whiskey left in that bottle, and we have things to discuss."

-- next --

NaNoWriMo 2006
Busted Seventh: A novel experiment
-- first -- previous --

##

Mitch took a minute to pull out an older, battered laptop from his canvas messenger bag. After fiddling for a moment with both laptop and cables, he held a plug out and said, "Hey, Henry, help me out, will ya?"

"You should upgrade already, I hear the new batteries last a lot longer."

"These old ni-cads don't last at all any more. So plug me in."

Henry took the proffered plug and worked it in underneath the bar in the vicinity of the Jagermeister dispenser.

"Does that thing even get the internet?" Henry asked.

"Yes, smart-ass. Not here, though, since Jack is too cheap to spring for free wifi, and I'm too cheap to upgrade to wireless broadband-- which would likely require that new laptop you want me to get. This sucker still works, and I love the action on the keyboard. I've spilled just enough beer in this thing that it's finally working the way I like."

"And it still works? After the beer I mean?"

"You'd be surprised. Computers are tougher than you'd think. And in my experience, it's only the really cheap ones and the top of the line models that hold up this well."

"I can tell you went for the cheap one."

"Well, yeah," Mitch said. "I'm self-employed, after all."

A few keystrokes, a couple of touchpad clicks, and several minutes of waiting for the laptop to catch up, and Mitch was looking at another batch of research files, and a copy of the latest email from Jacob Tallinn, his editor. Mitch usually dealt with Jacob over email, only occasionally by cell phone. Honestly, the convenience of submitting stories over email was a big plus for Mitch, and he didn't mind that his boss was largely unseen and unavailable.

Though he did meet the man once.

It was a memorable visit, walking into the main office of The Empyrean and Chthonic New World Times. The reception desk was the same sort of thing you'd find at any office, from a dentist to a nondescript public relations or law firm: the plain decor in greys and earth tones, the generic waiting room furniture from an office supply warehouse, the commercial grade carpet and the off-white suspended acoustic tile ceiling. Both boring and reassuring, it was a faceless office that could have been used for any part of corporate America.

Just past the past the waiting room, through a pair of fairly intimidating ornate wooden doors, Mitch felt like he had walked into something from Victorian England, and not just because of the sumptuous carpets and couches. Framed display cases were featured on nearly every wall, with a shrunken head or an orchid under glass; the souvenirs and samples from a dozen world explorers. The large desks were made of exotic hardwoods, near as Mitch could tell, and the desk chairs were upholstered in reds and purples. The E&C New World Times used an open-floor layout much like a modern office, but this was not a typical cubicle farm: it resembled a Gentleman's Club of some forgotten era more than anything else. There was even a butterfly collection in the bathroom. Mitch had been ushered into a conference room that, if he had to describe it, was a recreation of a parlour from a London brothel, from about the time of Dickens and Tennyson. After the requisite introductions, the rest of Mitch's job interview was short, but just as memorable.

"So, you wrote this?"

"Yes, I did."

"Excellent. We've been waiting for you."

After that it was a matter of talking with a series of secretaries and assistants, to arrange for payment and setting up the various email and phone contacts.

After Mitch's laptop finally managed to labour through the tasks assigned to it, he pulled up the email that he had saved a few hours ago, when he was last on the internet at a local coffee shop.

"My Good Friend Mitch,"

Jacob Tillmann always started his emails that way, whether he was forwarding a story lead to Mitch, or merely asking for a clarification on a quote or attribution from a previous submission.

"It is perhaps unfortunate, but I must ask you to take on an assignment that will place you in some danger. And I know there are some aspects of this story that you will find hard to believe, on a rational level, but I trust that even the fantastic nature of the story will not deter you, nor compromise your usual journalistic rigour. In fact, your scepticism is one reason I have chosen you for this task. You will be met soon by an E&C representative; I hope you will listen to this individual and follow the instructions and advice presented. Additionally, let me just say that this is no usual news assignment; as such your pay rate will be ten times what was previously negotiated.

"As always, your servant,
J. Tillmann."

Mitch read the email several times. He still had no idea what Jacob was getting at, but his eyes always lingered on that last point. Ten times is a nice round number, Mitch thought, and I can certainly use the cash. Particularly if this drags on a bit, and I get to negotiate some sort of reimbursement for expenses. I could make two or three months rent off of this one story.

"I still have no idea what the damn story is yet," Mitch said aloud, "but hell, I'll bite."

Mitch clearly heard the voice of his editor in his mind: "Excellent."

-- next --

NaNoWriMo 2006
Busted Seventh: A novel experiment
-- first -- previous --

##

"So how's the new job, Mitch?"

Mitch looked up from the paper he was reading to answer Henry's question. Henry was the head bartender at McCrary's, and had been in the business for a decade or two. Mitch didn't know for sure just how long, it seemed like Henry had always been there, all the way back to Mitch's college days.

"It's not a new job, Henry; I've always worked freelance. Now I just have a different regular client." Mitch closed his newspaper and turned it around for Henry to read. "The E&C has a cumbersome title, but once you get past that it's just another alternative newsweekly."

Henry flipped through a bit with the hand that wasn't holding a pint glass, then turned back to the cover. "Empyrean and Chthonic?" Henry asked. "Hell, I don't even know to pronounce that second one." Henry went back to reading the newspaper, a bit more slowly this time, actually taking in some of the articles.

"What you just said is close enough," Mitch said. "It's probably some college grad student's idea of a joke or something. That or someone got real creative with a thesaurus. Even the editor over there usually just calls this rag the E&C. Say, Henry, is that beer for me?"

"What? Oh, yeah." Henry look a bit embarrassed, but just set the glass down and settled in to read one of the articles. "Hey Mitch, here's one you did." Henry pointed to the headline, Local Strip Club Sues City for More Skin.

"Hmm? Oh, that one. Yeah, legal cases go so slowly. I actually wrote that a month ago, and the thing is just now heating up to the point where it's worth printing." Mitch took a sip of his beer. "That's a pretty good example of what I've been doing for Jacob. His city desk editor had just quit, or he never had one to begin with, so I've been covering the local politicos, city hall, that kind of crap. The first piece I sold to him was on the election five weeks ago, so maybe he thinks I have an interest in it." Mitch shrugged, and then chuckled. "If there's a steady pay check in it, I guess I do have an interest.

"Henry, you've got racks for a half dozen papers like this one. The college kids and bar patrons pick them up for concert schedules and restaurant reviews. Most people don't bother the read past the headlines, or they just skip the news articles entirely." Mitch caught Henry coming back to the picture of a pole dancer that was printed above his story. "Well, unless we can sell it to them, I guess.

"The E&C is a little different than those others. After the local news and the event listings and all that crap, Jacob likes to run the weirdest stuff." Mitch leaned over to flip to the back half of the paper for Henry. "Not just a single column of odd and funny news, like you see syndicated everywhere, but some really out-there stuff. Like raining frogs and bleeding statues. Cryptozoology, conspiracy theories, lost civilizations, aliens, unexplained phenomena; and all reported just like the real news."

"Still, the first half of this thing is great," Henry said. "Solid layout, good info. And your stuff is good, too."

Mitch raised his glass in mock salute. "Thanks, Henry"

"And some of these are just hilarious. Wait, is the Sasquatch Watch a regular feature or something?"

"Yep. Every week."

"Heck, we should sell this here,"

"No need to sell it. It's free, advertiser supported just like those others. But mention it to Jack and I'll mention it to Jacob, and I'm sure we could have something set up before the end of the week."

"Looks like a heck of a lot more fun than the real paper."

"It is a real paper," Mitch said. "It's right there in front of you."

"You know what I mean," Henry said.

"Well. Yeah, I guess I do. The pay is less, but I'm selling more articles, so in the end it's a wash. And the work keeps me in beer and skittles, at any rate."

-- next --

NaNoWriMo 2006
Busted Seventh: a novel experiment
(Take Two.)
(a previous attempt is around here somewhere)

##

"Mitch, I needed that story seven days ago."

"I hear you, Bill, but you're the one who forced me to do a re-write on a perfectly fine..."

Bill's raised hand stopped Mitch mid sentence. The look on Bill's face was more sympathetic than angry, though.

Bill Lucerne was sitting at his desk, piles of paper in seemingly random stacks covering most of it's top and leaving just enough room for the editor to lean in on his elbows while talking. On the walls of the cramped office were numerous frames, holding certificates, awards, and the occasional picture of Bill with some famous person. Just behind the desk was a set of floor-to-ceiling filing cabinets.

"Close the door Mitch. Come in and have a seat."

Mitch Connaught took the chair from the other desk and spun it around to face Bill's. In contrast to the older, wooden desk that Bill preferred, this was a computer desk that looked like it was pulled right out of a cubicle, and it was also spotless. Mitch knew that Bill used the computer, when necessary, but it was obvious to him where Bill preferred to get his work done.

After Mitch settled in, Bill took a moment to look around, even though they were the only two in the office. "It wasn't me, Mitch. The new magazine owner has taken an editorial interest that is more than a little annoying. I hate it too. Hell, Mitch, you should have known that an article critical of electronic voting machines wouldn't fly with Haskins. His name is on the equipment you were investigating."

"His was one of five companies I looked into. And his wasn't even the worst. I tried to spin it his way, honestly I did. Well, for about five minutes. The re-write I turned into last week didn't mention Haskins at all."

"Yeah, he read it, but was still pulling for a 180 degree turnaround."

"Bill, I've been an investigative reporter for the past 12 years, and you've been an editor for easily twice that."

"Hey now, I'm not that old."

Mitch waved his hand, as if to dismiss the interruption, and then dived back into his argument. "I've never know a publisher, owner, or any shareholder to ever interfere with the nuts-and-bolts of reporting"

"You just haven't seen it. I get a lot more of that kind of thing than you'd think. This new guy, though..."

Bill sighed. He reached down into one of his desk drawers and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. After lighting one, he flipped the 'thank you for not smoking' sign on his desk face down and began to use it as an ashtray.

"Mitch, I think Haskins has got it in for you now. No matter what you write or how you write it, even if you're 100% impartial, that asshole is going to call it on some sort of BS liberal bias and drop your articles. Depending on which people in the office start kissing up to the new boss, he may be able to do it before I even see them. And he'll damn well make sure you can't get paid for any of it." Bill took his time finishing the cigarette, and stubbed it out on the back of the no-smoking sign. "I wish I could do more to help, but it could mean my job if I do."

Bill found a battered Rolodex on his desk from somewhere between two stacks of paper. He pulled a card out and handed it over to Mitch.

Mitch looked up from the card with a quizzical expression on his face.

"The Empyrean & Chthonic New World Times?"

"Just call him. I went to college with the guy. He's always buying articles and you'd be surprised what topics he's into. He'll buy your story on voting machines--without asking for any edits--just for starters. It's not quite as much money, but it'll be steady work."

Mitch stood up to leave. He still had questions, Bill could see that written all over his face, but Mitch just shook his head and put the card in his pocket. Mitch leaned over the desk to shake Bill's hand.

"Thanks, Bill, I appreciate the lead. And Bill?"

"Yeah, Mitch?"

"When you leave here--that's 'when', not 'if'--when you do leave here, give me a call. I look forward to working with you again sometime."

"Sure Mitch. You got it. Close the door on your way out."

As Mitch left, Bill lit another cigarette and leaned back in his desk chair, blowing smoke toward the ceiling.

-- next --

The Lecture Series:
first semester
second semester: you're soaking in it.


Jimmy, is that a six pack?

"Yeah, Prof."
[*cshk*]

Well, I guess I taught you something last term. Did you bring enough to share with the class?

"Hell, no."

I suppose I should be glad you're not planning to sleep through my lectures this semester. Though it remains to be seen if this latest development will elevate your contributions to the class.

"Um, Professor?"

Ah, so you're back as well, Miss Fisher? What's your question, Sally?

"I suppose that's just coffee in your coffee mug?"

So. You learned something as well. We could call this Irish coffee, except it doesn't have any coffee in it.

"Why haven't they fired you yet, sir?"

That's a fairly pointed question, Sally. Let's just say the Dean and I have a new [beat] understanding. Yes. So I can continue to collect my pay check and other benefits as a tenured member of the faculty, while certain hypothetical documents and photographs--which I am not admitting to possessing, mind you--will never see the light of day, and thus Dean Chambers can avoid getting to know Judge Solomon in the same way that, say, Jimmy and I have.

"Cheers, Prof!" [Laughing] "You know, I only have to pass three more of your classes before my suspended sentence is commuted entirely."

[sigh] Yes, Jimmy. Though after a year of this already I have to wonder just which one of us she is punishing.

Well, today is the first day, so let's go over the syllabus and the other crap.

"Is this going to be like your last class?"

Hm. Well, Sally, all I can say to that is yes and no. We are still going to cover topics at the intersection of psychology, sociology, and myth, but as might be apparent from the new course description in the catalogue,

"Sir, the catalog description..."

Yes, let's see [reading] 'Modern Psychology and Comparative Mythology, in context'

"That's not really a new description, though..."

Sure it is. I added two whole words to it.
[beat]

We'll be exploring new topics. And since this is the next course in the sequence, this class will be more than just a survey of the archaeological and historical sources-- we should also have opportunities for some relevant field research and analysis.

"Shit, Prof, now you've got me worried. That sounds like work."

You think so, Jimmy? [small smile] Well, perhaps. You'll have to wait and see. It's not like I want to grade papers or anything, so I think we'll depend more on in-class discussion. So a fair chunk of this semester's grades will depend on class participation.

Excuse me a moment. [grabbing a bottle from inside the podium, adding more Bushmills to his 'coffee'] [long, slow sip]

Ah, yes, much better. Obviously, a few of you took my class last term. I also see a few new faces out there. Let's go over what you can expect: I'm going to stand here and talk for an hour or so, twice a week. There will be a final exam, because the administration says I have to give you one. Your midterm grades will be based solely on attendance, because it's bad enough I have to come up with and score the one damn test-- I can't be bothered to do it twice a semester.

[beat]
[stare]
That doesn't mean this class is an 'easy A'. I'm lazy, not generous. You'll earn whatever grade you get. If I'm not careful, quite a few of you will also learn something, though that's not my primary concern.

[stunned silence]
[beat]
"How did you get hired in the first place, sir?"

In my impetuous youth, I wrote quite a few books on the subject. Nothing quite like having a published author on the faculty. And I think if you stop and think about it, at least I'm offering you a fair deal, and being upfront about my expectations. Most professors at this school share my apathy toward students, only they'll lie to you, and themselves, about it.

Say, Jimmy? Could I have some of that ice?

"Sure Prof."
[clink]

Hmm. Perhaps you do have something to contribute this term.

##

So, has everyone signed the roll? If you want credit for showing up, remember to print your name as well, I can hardly read the chicken scratches some of you claim for handwriting. The clipboard will always be at the back of the lecture hall; from now on just sign in on your own.

Today's lecture topic

[collective groan]

Now, students, you didn't think I'd let you out early, did you? Don't worry, it's a short lecture. I need to get you to change a few mental gears, and start thinking about familiar things in new modes.

Let's take a look at participatory culture.

"What's that, Professor?"

And you are?

"Fairbanks, sir. Ryan Fairbanks"

Well, Mr. Fairbanks, I'll ask you a question, who would win in a fight, the Enterprise-D or a Star Destroyer?

"Huh?"

Did you understand the question, Mr. Fairbanks?

"uh, yeah. Well, I'd have to say the Star Destroyer, if only because of it's size, and the fact that most have a complement of TIE Fighters. The Enterprise would be out-massed, out-gunned, and out-numbered. It might last, say five minutes"

[beat]
You've argued this point before, I think.

So, our Mr. Fairbanks demonstrates at least one form of participatory culture, that of geek fandom. The fact that he could come up with not just an immediate response, but a coherent argument just goes to show that not only is he familiar with with mythic constructs of the two independent stories, he has to some extent internalized them.

Star Wars and Star Trek fans have had endless debates, with each other and also amongst themselves, and in fact I think those arguments were why the internet was invented back in the 70s. It's not the issues or their merits of the arguments that I wish to call to your attention, however. Instead let's consider the fact that millions of people participate.

Fandom is nothing new. And neither are fantasy stories. However, we see today an odd confluence of the two. People who enjoy the stories also feel compelled to add to them. The prevalence of media in the modern world may be a major contributing factor: millions of people can be exposed to a new story, a new mythology, all at once. The hyper-realism of film, even when dealing with the fantastic, is also a contributing factor. The goblins and bugbears of story are no longer just imagined creatures lurking just beyond the shadows, they jump and move about on the screen in front of us.

The old stories and tropes of myth are still there, but we have a marvellous new way to experience them. Telling a story has become more than just nice way to pass the time while sitting around the fire. While we know it is a story, it impacts us as real on a visceral level because we can see what was once only described to us.

Some who see and hear the new myths feel a need to add to them. For them it has become so real that they know what should happen next. A smaller fraction will write these ideas down, or draw them if they have the skill. An even smaller portion might have the ability and inclination to film their new stories-- and this is the start of something very big.

To the fervour of fandom and the desire to create, we have two multipliers. First, even though the fraction of fans who become new creators is very small, the original stories were told to millions of people. The mathematics is easy: even considering just one tenth of 1%, out of every million we have 1000 people, and a thousand new stories set in a shared universe.

The other multiplier to consider is the ability of people to share the new stories with others. The development of shared culture from photocopied fan magazines to the plethora of personal websites that can be found today might be a good topic for a graduate thesis. I'll gloss over that today; let's just say that the internet allows what might have been a passing trend to develop rather quickly into a self-contained, self-defined, self-perpetuating phenomenon. This is the origin of a participatory culture: new mythologies based not on a single historical tradition, but multiple living traditions continually growing and expanding. The small fraction that creates new myth are supported and justified by the remaining fans, the bulk of the herd, who contribute in their own way merely by consumption.

And that is just the fan side of the equation. If a participatory culture is also supported by the original creator, or by a large corporate entertainment entity, things will expand even more quickly. Even if later contributions are inferior, they still add incrementally to the 'official canon' and validate the continuing participation of old fans, while also creating new ones. One example might be something like Battlestar Galactica, which languished for decades until it was remade for cable television. The remake inspired debate among older fans, certainly, with some angry at the changes to 'their' beloved myth, but the new show also brought in new fans, new voices. Eventually the two stories will be integrated by their fandom, and both will stand as valid interpretations of the same mythology.

Battlestar Galactica is perhaps a 'small' example. Star Wars and Star Trek are arguably the largest fan communities, though I might argue that the multiple mythologies that are being built in Role-playing communities are even larger, though their public profile is much smaller. Without a major flagship, like the cinema and TV shows, it is easy for franchises such as Dungeons & Dragons to slip under the radar, largely unnoticed-- though the real impact might best be gauged by how many paperback books are published each year under the D&D banner.

I'll wrap up here for today. A few things to consider before our next meeting:

First, even though a lot of popular culture is pitched as 'science fiction', it is more appropriately classified as fantasy. The 'science' involved is so fantastic, it is little more than a modern re-packaging of old magic. And that may be why sci-fi inspires the most fervent fandom: while many types of stories are popular, and sci-fi and fantasy are often quite far from the mainstream, it is this element of the fantastic that makes the difference. The new myths are growing because they echo the old.

That segues into my second point, even though we might consider ourselves to be more sophisticated than the peoples that have come before, there is little that is 'new' in our new mythologies. The emotions and relationships are always the same. There is the classic example of George Lucas consulting with Joseph Campbell, but even when there are no intentional parallels, there is still a lot of myth to be found just beneath the surface.

The third point I might call to your attention is how little source material we need to create our new participatory cultures. A single motion picture can do it-- one story, told over not quite two hours. The length of piece is not the biggest factor; it need only capture the imagination. At that point, the multiplying factors of mass media and mass communication kick in, and a new participatory culture is created.

Your homework is to go out and watch something. Find a new story, one that you have had no exposure to yet, but may not have heard of. Then try and draw parallels between it and something you already like. Any sort of sci-fi or fantasy will do, just think of it as a new mythology and analyse it from that angle.

[edit 6 Jul 2006: of course we all know the internet was actually invented to efficiently distribute PORN, but I guess no one clued the prof into that fact yet]

Amphital: a fantasy novel project
-- previous -- one start (2nd attempt) -- the other beginning
(I'll tie those two plot lines up, soon enough)


The main Guard House stood just off of what was still called the Hanging Square. A gallows hadn't cast a shodow across this small plaza for centuries, but any attempt to rename it always failed. Officially it was now called Chancellor's Park, but few citizens would recognise it by that name.

Dawn was just under the horizon, out to sea in the east, though the low clouds were already rosy in anticipation. The city of Tifalis was set in a bowl, cut into a series of low hills, with tiers rising above the harbor as if to catch the morning sun, in this predawn night still clung to every wall and building. Trey looked out over the Hanging Square and felt the chill and damp of last night still coming off of the stones, up through his boots and drifting into his clothes. He shivered.

Behind him, Bearn emerged from the Guard House, after giving a few terse orders to the men on duty at the entrance. He tossed his cloak back over one shoulder, to reveal both the guard's crest on his tunic, and the knotted cord of rank at his shoulder. He put a reassuring hand on Trey's shoulder, just briefly, and then turned to stalk off in the direction of the Bell's Stream District.

Hanging Square stood just south of the Duke's Residence, within sight of both the Palace, where the council met, and the Blackhalls, where the Duke and Ministers of Justice would sit in court, when occasion merited. Most cases were handled simply, by the guard, but any man held for more than three days, or under threat of death had the ancient right of applying directly to the Duke for judgment.

This put them on one of the upper tiers of the city, just above the terrace with mansions of the rich and notable, and well above the shops and homes of Trey's neighborhood.

It'll be a long walk, but at least it's downhill, Trey thought. Trey shrugged to settle his cloak around his shoulders, and followed Bearn down the Artery, the main road that lead from the Old Quay all the way up the Palace.

The Artery ran in a series of broad switchbacks, and wasn't the fastest way down to the harbor, but being a broad paved road, it was usually the easiest way to travel from one district to another in Tifalis. There were many hidden alleys and stairways that cut from tier to tier, but these direct routes were narrow, out of sight, and dangerous to attempt except during the daylight hours.

Bearn did lead Trey down one stairway, a shortcut past the mansions and private parks, to the tier underneath, the main Temple District. From the almost hidden stairway, Trey and Bearn followed the Path of Old Gods, with its many ruined and neglected temples, to Holy Street and Heaven's Plaza, where they were able to pick up the Artery again and continue down to the city proper.

The top three terraces of Tifalis were well defined, the gates and stairs piercing the yellow-gold sandstone walls at set intervals, the streets and avenues running in ordered arcs and rays that echoed the curve of the hills. Here were the noble and notable, those who did not need or thought themselves above the commerce and bustle of the city below them.

Past the temple district, there was no order, past the mainline of the Artery as it worked it way down to the sea. In the tangle of streets and alleys, the business and life of city took place. Trey's neighborhood, the Bell's Stream district, followed the rough path of an old stream down a couple of tiers before giving way to the warehouses next to the Harbor district.

Bell's Stream was covered over in parts, existed as exposed waterfalls in a few plazas, and fed numerous fountains along it's course. In turn it was fed by Duke Weran's Aqueduct, and had long ago been paved along its bed, so unlike so many other ancient streams, the water still ran clean and clear. Many families have lived in the district past living memory, and quite a few are proud to have been born "within the sound of the Bell"

Dawn was coming in over the waves now, streaming past the ships at anchor and almost up to the Palace. Trey shed his cloak, carrying it tuck under his arm, though Bearn seemed as unaffected by the warmth of morning sun as much as he had been from the pre-dawn chill. The first vendors were already out with their carts, either finding their accustomed stations or preparing for their long circuit plying their wares along the streets and plazas of town. No one was calling yet, with only the other cartmen and women to sell to, but soon the cries would rise up, hawking fish and oysters, pots and pottery, cloth and ribbon, and a dozen types of meat pies. Even in this first light of day, coin was changing hand, though between other sellers, with a nod and a wink and a "friendly discount".

As they turned the seventh switchback from the top, Bearn turned to Teay and asked, "So where is your family's shop? Is it near the top of Bell's Stream or should we follow the Artery down one more turn?"

"We can take Odette's Stair, here past the King's Ransom," Trey answered. "Our weavers and shop are close to it's base."

"Well then, almost home." Bearn gave Trey a measuring stare. "Did you sleep at all, lad? Today will not be easy, no doubt, even with me here to help explain. I hope you're rested."

"Enough, I guess," Trey said. In truth, Trey felt tired to the bone, but he found the will to move, particularly now so close to home. I'd hate to climb these steps, though, with how I feel. I just want to lay down and sleep for a week, Trey thought.

Shouts called down to Trey and Bearn from the top of the stair. There was obviously some struggle, though in the early morning light all they could see were profiles and a crowd, at least until a cart tettered at the top step.

Odette's Stair was wide enough for four men, even four men of Bearn's size, but it cut down through city walls, and the sandstone stood tall on either side. Any vendors cart would likely fill the whole of the passage, and as near as Trey could tell, the one currently threatening him was loaded down with clay pots. He knew he should move, but he stared in horror instead.

Bearn shocked him into action. "Move, lad! Now!" Bearn slapped him on the shoulder, but didn't wait. The sergeant was already taking the stairs four at a time, and moving at a speed belied by his large frame. Trey scrambled to keep up, almost tripping over his own feet, not daring to look back as he heard the vendor's cart tumbling on the stair behind him.

With twenty feet still to go, Trey lost his footing, and fell headfirst down the steps.

He felt a strong hand grab him by the collar, and pull him to one side. The cart collided with a smash into the statue that marked the base of the stair.

Trey woke a few moments later, with Bearn snapping fingers in front of his face. "Guard up, Lad. No telling what's next," Bearn said. Trey rose shakily to his feet, and drew his knife.

The two stood back to back for a long minute, but nothing else seemed to be coming.

Trey had just caught his breath again. Bearn sheathed his sword reluctantly. "So almost home, right, lad?" Bearn said.

Trey began laughing nervously. Bearn chucked him on the shoulder, an offhand guesture that seemed to reassure and calm Trey, and soon the two were facing each other with broad grins. Trey reached out to grasp Bearn's hand.

"Thank you, sergeant. I don't think I would've made it this morning without you."

"Nonsense, lad. And I think it's more important now that ever, that we meet again this evening at the Three Sheets. You're in need of more than just a knife, that's perfectly clear."

[to be continued]

Amphital: a fantasy novel project
-- Previous -- first thread --
(I'll tie those two plot lines up, soon enough)


"Here's your knife back, lad. Though if you plan on going into battle, you'd be better off with something more suited than that. I don't think that would go through the mutton at the Jackline, let alone though even a thin leather shirt."

"Thank, you sir," Trey said. He didn't bother to sheath the belt knife. He didn't even look up.

"No need for 'sirs' around here, lad, no one but us guardsmen at the moment."

Trey did look up at that, and saw the same man who had helped him hours ago, right after the attack. "You're not an officer?" Trey asked. "But the cord on your shoulder..."

"Marks me as a sergeant, lad, not anything fancy like an officer or commissioner. My name is Bearn, and that or 'Sergeant' will be good enough for the likes of me."

"Thank you," Trey said. He took the man's extended hand, and tried to match the strong grip. "Thank you, Bearn. Please, I am called Trey."

"Good to know you, Trey."

Trey felt honoured in a small way, being treated as an equal by a guardsman. But he still calls me lad, Trey thought.

"So lad, do you know how to use that table knife of yours, or were you planning on scaring folks by calling out the guard?" Bearn chuckled. "Or were you planning on asking them nice-like, once you got there, to knock off with the murder and killing?"

Trey winced, and put a hand to his throat. I haven't had a chance to look, but I bet there will be some ugly bruises, Trey thought. He thought over Bearn's question, and then shook his head. "I don't know what I was doing. I wasn't thinking, I was just..." Trey couldn't put the rest of it into words. "I do know how to fight. My Grandpa taught me how to wrestle, a little bit about knives, but, well he died about two years ago. I used to go each spring, early, and back again at least a couple months in summer. But now I'm studying with Master Leonir in the shop, rather than going out to help with the family flocks."

"So a shepherd. Or, a wool merchant? Is your family beholden to a landlord, or do you own the woolly buggers?"

"We own the sheep, and Master Leonir helps us run the weaver's shop here in town. My father and uncle are usually out, either buying the wool, or down to Timol to buy the dyes, or selling cloth and yarn at Lembri, or on Palmara, though mostly they travel the other cities and towns of Altis"

"Perhaps I should bow and call you 'sir'?" Trey gave Bearn a nasty look. "Perhaps not," Bearn said. "Though it does seem like we have a more honoured guest than we realized."

Bearn leaned back. "I'm guessing my Captain asked you already, but what was a fine citizen like yourself doing in dark alleys this late at night?"

"I work odd jobs around the Bell's Stream district, a bit at the Three Sheets, a bit for the craftsmen nearby. Master Leonir lets me earn money in the evenings, when I'm done with my studies at the shop. I was walking home, well, I was running since I was already late, when I heard the scream"

"The master Weaver doesn't pay you?" Bearn asked.

"Well no, Sergeant. My family owns the shop, we pay him," Trey said.

"Your father doesn't give you an allowance?"

"My father used to give me pocket money, when I needed it. But he's been gone, close to eight months now. My uncle doesn't give me much." He seems to begrudge the need to feed me, Trey thought. "Master Leonir has been good enough to let me use my evenings how I will. Though I have to finish my chores and studies at the shop first, of course."

"Of course, lad." Bearn nodded, and stood. "And we've already kept you much too long, your Master will worry. It's nearly sunrise."

Trey sat up with a bolt. He hadn't realized the hour, with so much else that had gone on this night. "Oh no!" he said. I know I nodded off, but how long was I asleep? Trey thought.

Bearn clapped a hand to Trey's shoulder. "No need to worry, Trey, I'll walk you back to your shop myself. Once they get over the joy of seeing you safe and hale, and the shock of seeing you dragged home by the watch, we should be able to explain things." Bearn helped Trey to his feet, half dragging Trey's shoulder out of its socket as he pulled him up.

"And Lad, I'll look in on you at the Three Sheets, if you'll be working there tonight?" It was half a question, more of an order. Trey only nodded.

"Good, good. I'll have something for you then."

-- next --

The scream chilled his blood.

Trey was already running late. It was only the new street lanterns the Duke had installed last year that let him work this late at all. Even so, he needed to be back before the second bell, or Master Leonir would punish him for dawdling. Again.

Even with the lanterns, it was best to keep to main streets where the shops and taverns were still open. Where there were witnesses. Whoever's screaming, I guess they forgot that, Trey thought.

Another thin scream, this time cut off early. The second cry for help was enough to allow Trey to figure out the direction, and he started off down a side street. Three alleys over, behind the potters? I think I can make it by going around the Smith Keller's shop. Trey was already moving at a trot now, loosening his belt knife and rounding the corner behind the whitesmith's workshop, when he stopped himself. But what can I do to help? I'm just a 'prentice, not a guardsman or one of the Black Kites. I can only

Another desperate scream cut off his stream of thought. He shook his head, as if to clear it of doubts, and then quickly moved to find the source. The girl. and whatever else we'll find there. he thought. He wasn't running now, but instead moving as fast as he could while remaining silent, sticking to the shadow along the back walls of the shops, and coming up short at the entry to the alley where he was sure the screams originated.

He gripped the hilt of his belt knife hard, as if to find courage there. Steeling himself like a man about to jump off a cliff, he put his head around the corner, just enough to see what was there.

He saw the limp form of a girl being dropped to the hard-packed dirt. She was dressed plainly, likely a shop girl or a perhaps one of the serving girls from a nearby tavern. Her dark hair spilled out on the ground, her limbs fell and lay at odd, uncomfortable angles. Above her stood a figure in a black cloak, any features hidden in the shadows of the half-light that spilled into the alley from the street.

Trey heard a loud voice yelling, “Murder! Murder! Call out the watch!” It took him a moment to realize that the voice was his own, and that he was charging into the alley with his knife already in hand. What in the hell am I doing? was the only thought that occurred to him, before he gained his resolve and ran even faster, hoping to take the attacker by surprise.

He barrelled into the cloaked man and managed to bowl him over. They struggled briefly in the street, when Trey felt a cold hard grip take his throat. From the way they collided, the man was no taller than he, and weighed even less, but this grip was like iron. Trey felt himself being lifted from his feet as he choked and struggled. Half formed thoughts skittered across his brain as he fought for air, and against that grasp. What kind of... is this even a man? And then he also saw that they were not alone. At the back of the alley stood five more figures, also wearing the long black cloak. Each also wore a bone white mask, the sort sometimes used in pantomime plays, the features a grotesque exaggeration of a smiling, leering face.
They stood apart from the struggle, which was just as well. Trey was already dying. He could feel himself blacking out, drowning. He fought and kicked, but the arm that held him might as well been the limb of an oak. It did not budge.

Just as he felt the last of his consciousness slip away, Trey was flying. He hit something hard, and fell to the ground. But he could breathe now. He gasped and pulled in air like a man just breaking the surface of the water. He couldn't move, he could only breathe.

He finally opened his eyes, and saw a city guardsman standing over him. “Are you alright, lad? Here now, take it easy.” With the guardsman's help, Trey finally sat up. Trey saw the knotted cord on the guardsman shoulder, a mark of some sort of rank.

Another guardsman was further in the alley, examaning the girl. “No good, Sergeant. This one's dead,” he said, as he pulled up her cloak to cover her face. Trey caught a last glimpse of that face, contorted in agony. He saw that face and heard an echo of the chilling screams. He shuddered and looked away.

The Sergeant put a comforting hand on Trey's shoulder. “There now, lad. You'll be fine. Can you talk?”

Trey managed a croak, but no words yet. “Time enough for talking later, I guess. This will be a long night,” the sergeant said. Trey could only nod.

The Sergeant quickly barked orders, “Lucan, run to the watch house, rouse the rest of the men. Maccus, you check the other end of this alley, and the adjacent streets.” Both guardsmen nodded, and quickly moved to follow the commands.

Trey could only stare at the body. He'd been too late to help.

##

”I don't see why we had to be there anyway.”
“It was part of the bargain. I also find it... distasteful. But the terms are clear.”
“Do you think the boy saw anything?”
“With these?” He gestured to the cloaks and masks now piled by the doorway. “Even if he saw us, what can he tell the Guard?”

The room was richly appointed, though perhaps a bit small for the six people crowded inside. The two men who had been talking took seats at a small table and helped themselves to the wine there. A well-dressed woman sitting by the fireplace was already sipping her wine, and turned to ask, “Well, Captain? Is this going to be a problem?”

The man in armour was leaning against the mantle. He shook his head. “There is no problem. Just a young man who will soon be,” he paused to stroke one of his long moustaches, “missing.”

One other stood in the corner, a figure who still wore the long black cloak, the hood pulled up to hide it's face. The cloaked figure stood unnaturally still. And at watch at the only window, stood a tall man with black hair and beard, both streaked with grey.

“Don't worry about the boy,” the tall man said. “I know who he is.”

-- next --