Tanner Magg is a woman of three cities. Of Mahar. Of Jovan. And of Fidelizh. And gorging on three origins, she has grown. With rites and with knowledge... and size. By the glittering of Maharite throat-jewels and satin gloves, by the austere hierarchies of the Jovanian lodges, and most completely, under the aegis of the Golden Parliament of Fidelizh, immersed in the traditions of the Judges of the Golden Door.
Now, she hides her massive back under a judge's robe, swaddles her stone-carved face in ashen ritual decorations and precise inking-goggles, gnaws on sacred confectionaries with her unreasonably large teeth, and weighs her fingers with theurgic quills. All's well - until she's reassigned to an obscure northern colony, where murder festers, and mutants continue to menace humanity. Even so, all seems normal... until a Fidelizhi notable is murdered. A horde of mutants appears on the horizon. And the entire colony is on the verge of collapse.
The sort of situation a Judge ought to be accustomed to. Now, upon Tanner's back, there rests the fate of every single person in this entire wretched colony. Simple enough, really.
Sequel to Orbis Tertius, in the same universe, with different characters. Cover by SorrySorrow
NB: This is a sequel to Orbis Tertius, which can be found here (SB SV RR AO3). It's the same universe, but with different characters. Reading the first one is recommended, just for context to how this world works. Some familiar characters will show up as the story progresses, though. This story will be released arc by arc, rather than chapter by chapter - I'll post arcs when I'm finished with them. Hope you enjoy! Cover is by SorrySorrow over on Artstation.
Chapter One - To the Bosom of Mother Irizah
The barge heaved like a living thing, sides gleaming like the shell of an obscure sea-creature, the stacks like primordial pillars at the bottom of the ocean. In one direction, the two-yet-one city. In the other, a city where gods ride men like jockeys.
And on the barge stood a giant.
And all she could think about was the world she was leaving behind. All the tangled memories that lingered behind her, a thicket that strained to hold her in place... and piece by piece, snapped away, leaving the thicket rising high in the distance like a monument in a ruined landscape.
Another thread of memory strained... and the giant followed it.
Saw where it ended.
And in the moment before it snapped, she tried to memorise every last detail.
***
A child walks into a playground.
She's taller than her peers. Much, much taller. Despite having seen only nine winters, she's rivalling some of the adults. The playground is a dusty jungle, an overgrown building site awkwardly converted. It's much like the child, in a way. Both are designed for bigger duties, and have had to uncomfortably crouch down, hunch over, smooth over the rough patches and hope for the best. Heaps of rocks yanked out of the ground by sweating workmen are now coated in dirt and grass, but every so often you can see where a sharp flint pokes through. Some of them a little darkened, marked by children who've fallen on them. The pit it was removed from is now stuffed with grass and moss. Springy enough that some children dare each other to jump inside when the parents aren't watching. Most ignore the dare. The pit's deep enough to get lost in, and the undergrowth thick enough that you could easily be tangled. The nightmare of some spider or grass snake living down there is still keen in their heads. The child's mouth twists slightly as she looks at the pit. Remembers taking the dare, once.
It's the one and only time she's had to look up at someone her own age.
And even then, she was still coming up to their waists.
She is strange-looking. All the children say so. Wears dresses meant for people twice her age, bought from old junk shops. Her mother wraps long colourful bands of cloth around the chest to hold it tight, otherwise it flaps around like the loosed sail of a ship. She clomps around on home-made boots, still wet with adhesive where the soles have flapped free. Nothing else fits her. The adults give her looks as she moves. Not hostile. But there's always the nervousness that she'll play too much, be a tad bit too rough. Her dress is stained with patches of green where she's gone too far before, expressed her limitless energy like most children do. What if, they're all wondering, she goes too far again. What if she hits someone. What if she falls on someone. What if she tackles someone to the ground and all we hear are the sharp crack-snap of bones splitting, and the sort of anguished howl that awakens all manner of urgent evolutionary instincts? The girl keeps her head down as she moves, one boot squishing faintly as the adhesive oozes in the noonday sun.
It's not an ill-founded fear.
Sometimes the girl holds someone's hand and realises how thin and brittle all those little bones are. Sometimes she's shoved, and is completely unmoved. Wonders if shoving back will produce the same lack of reaction. She keeps her arms tightly by her sides, gripping her dress into small bunches as she lopes clumsily after the others, wincing slightly each time her boot makes an embarrassing noise. Doesn't want to hurt them, but... she shivers, in the shoulders. Wants to run faster. Wants to do more. Can't, not if she wants to come back here. Sometimes she looks at the adults around the ground, and sees the fashions a few wear - the bonnets tied tightly under the jaw, pinching the flesh up slightly on either side (as is the fashion). The dresses fastened tightly around the waist with the bones of dead river-things, narrowing the figure to a waspish one (as is the fashion). Fish and bugs. Bunch of fish and bugs. Narrow faces, everyone in the city of Mahar Jovan has narrow faces, always. She doesn't know why, her mama says that it's because the east-bankers are all money-pinching oddballs who hate the sky for keeping the sun to itself, and hate the ocean for hoarding all the fish. She wonders if they used to be bigger, all of them. If they crushed themselves down, pinching their necks and their waists and their faces like that. If some of them used to be as tall as her, but managed to decrease it, somehow.
The others are finally starting to let her in. Always takes a moment of hesitation before they allow it. She listens with slight distraction - aware of where her hands are, yes. Aware of where her feet are, yes. Aware of where her hair is going - she wants a bonnet, desperately, anything to keep the hair under control. It's just something else to mind. The others shy off slightly, afraid of her treading on them. Doesn't mind that, it's an understandable reaction - mama said so. They keep one eye on her at all times, just in case she's about to say something in her low, slow way and they'll all have to listen to stay on her good side. Doesn't mind that, it's an understandable reaction, according to mama. She tries to smile at one of them. A small flinch, and a shy smile returned. Right. Yes. Her face wasn't helping. The girl knows that her face... well, it rarely helps, does it? Has a strange quality to it. It's not ugly, not remotely (not in her mama's professional opinion), but it has a quality of... strangeness. Stillness. That's it. She has a stillness which unnerves. When she's neutral, she seems to be emotionless. When she smiles or frowns, people giggle at the strange shapes her mouth and eyes make, the way her face wrinkles up like some sort of ape. Making her look like some rude prototype of a human, unformed and clumsy. She isn't. But her face is somewhere between statuesque and clownish. Not sure where it wants to end up when small emotions look intimidating and austere, and big emotions make her look like an actor's mask.
The others allow her along.
The adults watch them carefully. The fun has declined, a little. No more distractions - they don't want the girl to hurt the others.
She keeps her hands at her side. She knows how it looks when she swings them freely.
Her tortoiseshell hell clings to her face and shields her from the sun. Casting her face into shadow and making her seem odd, almost primordial. Like something that had just loped out of a cave and still feared the sky.
Mama will want her back soon. But, for now... for now.
For now, Tanner Magg shrinks into herself, ignores the wary looks of the nearby parents, and tries to act her age.
***
Tanner shivered.
Thinking back, after all this time... she could see why some of the mothers at that playground had looked so tetchy. These bone-corsets tend to make one slightly poorly disposed towards the rest of the world. What did the scholars say... right, when you went up high enough in an airship, and you didn't have proper support from oxygen tanks, there was a fair likelihood of simply keeling over. No air to breathe, not good air. Too thin, too cold. If you went up high enough, there might be nothing at all. All the air clustered tightly around the world like a blanket, none shared with the rest of the cosmos. Well, if that was the case, then wearing a tight corset was like making the entire world unfamiliar. Hard to breathe. And the body, realising this, told the brain that they were clearly on an alien world and ought to be on their toes. So of course you became poorly-disposed towards all of existence. Your entire body was telling you that the world was wrong, after all.
She sighed slightly, ignoring the nervous glances from the other passengers on the barge.
Missed Mahar Jovan. Well, missed Mahar. Jovan she could take or leave. No... no, she actually still preferred something unpleasant-and-known. Fidelizh, up ahead, was an unseen bucket that could contain all sorts of nasty fish. Gosh, fish. Her mind was flickering through all sorts of memories today - good, bad, from her childhood, from her adolescence... right before she left. The scent of fish pervaded all of them. Taste of fish, too. Fishcakes, fish relish, fish pie, tinned salted fish, fish soup, fish stew, fried fish, poached fish, whole fish to crunch down bones and all... The stiff river breeze cut into her, and she strained slightly, uncomfortable in her best clothes. She flinched for a moment - mama... no, mother was very, very adamant about never straining her best clothes. Always scolded her when she slipped up, and... no. Nothing. No mother around today. Nothing but herself, her uncomfortable clothes, and her too-heavy suitcase - too heavy even for her. And she was no shrinking violet, no sir. She was a... uh... swelling geranium. Tanner Magg was a swelling damn geranium, is what she was.
Thought was a gift better bestowed on others.
The barge shifted under her feet, but she remained planted firmly in place. Hard to move Tanner, something she was faintly proud of. Another random thought penetrated her melancholy - no-one liked seeing their parents weak or emotional. Now, she couldn't promise anything on the emotions, but she liked to think that she would never seem weak to any prospective brood-of-hers.
...that was rather nice to think about, actually. Rather nice. Made a good contrast.
She could see her home vanishing, the last traces of the only city she'd really known. Mahar Jovan. City of Two Kings. Two cities on two banks, awkwardly merged by a vascular system of bridges and boats. She was a west banker, Mahar, and liked it that way. She liked the endless domes, lined by leering gargoyles which directed water over the crowds in the lightest of showers - blessing them water running from their golden hands. She liked their coins, with a much better-looking king, with a rather excellent moustache. In fact... yes, she had some notes in her pocket. The face of proud kings staring out from soaring landscapes. She ruffled through the notes quickly, trying to keep them out of the wind. The king crew younger as she flicked through, reaching older notes, the numbers at the bottom getting smaller and smaller. From middle-aged to young, from young to almost boyish, his moustache small and curling. The notes full of little icons of flags from all the territories - Mahar, Jovan, the major colonies, Krodaw, the Western Marches, the Golden Chain which ran along the Tulavanta River... she flicked from boyish to old. The flags declined. The landscapes simplified. The boyish face turned older and more solemn. His eyes, simply represented as they were, became darker and slightly sadder.
She liked that face. Liked those landscapes. Liked the history of the place, if only because she knew it.
If she thought about it, she even found she liked the throat-jewels that the old priests wore, sewn delicately into the skin with little pieces of gold thread. The silly rituals and ornaments which had baffled her in her childhood now seemed... well, they seemed homely. And with homeliness came significance. What had... right, mother had taught her about it. All that came into the world was blessed by passage and motion, the priests said. A voice that passes delicately over a jewel is a holier voice than any other. Water passing through golden hands was blessed water. She clenched her fists slightly as she thought, feeling the delicate satin crunch around her fingers. Not quite gold, but mother said it was best to take them. Make sure everything she touched had a little sprinkle of luck about it, just while she got settled. Purify the foreign spirits of a new city.
She'd... well, Tanner had known nothing but Mahar Jovan, and couldn't say that she loved it, because how did you love something which was so core to your personality, to your sense of self? Home was one of those things you couldn't say you loved, might as well say you loved your liver, or your small intestine. Certainly, she'd rather not lack either of them, but she couldn't say she woke up every morning and blessed her liver senseless for having the good grace of sticking around.
...hm. Maybe she should. Damn fine thing, a liver.
Presumably.
Fidelizh sounded... odd, by comparison to her liver- no, home, to her home. Stop thinking about liver. Sharp towers instead of gentle domes. A Golden Parliament instead of the Retinue of Whalebone Teeth. And... and a job, no, a vocation, instead of whatever lay for her back home. Dim uncertainty receded into mild resignation. Whatever was back home, it was gone. Out of her life. So... stop worrying about it. Give it a go, at least. Give...
Give judging a go. Walk through the golden door, and... judge. The thoughts were still unnatural, felt like they'd squeak if she turned them around too quickly, like a fresh pair of boots. And like a fresh pair of boots, they pinched. Pinched and squeaked - the thought was like a rat, then. She rat-thought of judges, doors, and all the things ahead.
The barge was stirring beneath her like an animal, carrying them over the silty, choppy waters of the river Irizah, a tributary of the enormous Tulavanta. The same river for both cities, and... and she could see detritus floating in it. Growing thinner as they advanced slowly, the steam engine moaning in exertion. She saw chunks of trash from Mahar Jovan, mostly. Bottles with labels she recognised, beer she remembered father drinking on the wharf when mother wasn't looking. Cases, shattered and rotten, emblazoned with the marks of familiar trading companies, selling things she'd seen in a hundred little shops and stands, or clutched in a thousand manicured hands. Cigars, cigarettes, cigarillos, big barrels for wine and stronger substances, cases for ammunition and arms, long glittering lines of fishing reel and netting, posters torn and soaked, the water drinking up the ink and leaving behind pulp pale as a puckered hand, skeletons and carcasses from animals eaten and thrown aside, all the things Mahar Jovan ate up and threw down the river like food down a throat. The carcasses - the leering sockets of cow skulls, greasy where meat had left a mark, large fish turned to delicate traceries of white filament-bones, mouths open in endless surprise, chickens like unfleshed angels with wings spread wide to swim limply against the current - were mounted by mournful black birds. Like... like judges, really, in their black capes, with their eyes covered by focusing-lenses and their mouths full of coarse croaks known only to the flock and to no-one else. Each one standing delicately on their charge, accompanying them into the dark of the yonder. And as the barge went on, the detritus thinned out. The trash sinking, or drifting to the banks. The carcasses being picked too clean to care about, or being snapped below by the larger things beneath the waves, the bottles filling with silty water and plummeting down, down, down. Bit by bit, she was leaving her home behind. Even the trash was slipping away, and she saw a fish skeleton gaping mournfully as it sank away for the last time.
Blup.
Gone.
Youngest person on the barge. Fifteen.
Fifteen. Practically an adult.
And all she could think about was her childhood. Not very fitting for someone who was also the largest on the damn boat.
Her eyes were dark as she gazed into the water...
***
"...no luck down by the riverside today. None. Got anything in the pot?"
"Eels. Don't tell Tanner."
"Right, right. Cor, tiring looking for work, isn't it? I mean, you think it's going to be all lazing around, soaking up the sun, but you're running back and forth every other minute, not stopping, always worried about taking someone's time up... sorry, Tanner- ow."
Tanner's wrapped her father up in a hug. He's almost shorter than her now. Both her parents are. Father's in his old clothes again, the ones which always smell like damp. Good for work, bad for hugs. His hands are calloused, smelling strongly of tobacco - the back of his hand is stained a light brown where he sprinkles his snuff. A pair of eyes dark as a mole's fur narrow, his mouth barely twitches into a smile, but she knows he's pleased to see her. One of his toes is poking out of his socks - years later, she still remembers it. Mama never lets him wear his boots in the house, not when she spends all day keeping it clean. And his grey socks are full of holes. One big toe, like a small pink worm with a dull yellow head, sticks out and wiggles slightly when he moves. She unconsciously shuffles back from him, doesn't want to step on it. They end up hunched over, stretching out like they're imitating a bridge, as Tanner backs off to keep Father's toe safe. Mama looked over her shoulder with pursed lips, the skin around her eyes crinkling slightly. Father laughs quietly and claps her on the head, ruffling her hair back and forth. She does one of her small smiles, at first. Been practising in the mirror. Doesn't like it when she looks clownish. Father stares at her for a second... then pokes her softly in the shoulder.
"Go on, proper smile."
She does nothing. Father snorts.
"Tanner, proper smile. 'afore I send y'out to get the coal scuttle."
She can do the coal scuttle. She's good with that. Big enough. Need to take off her bands, though, they stain something awful. No reaction.
"Now, girl of mine, I see me buckets on buckets of fish every damn - pardon - day, and I won't have me a girl who runs around with a face like one of them dead pods they pull out of the old pumps from time to time. Hm?"
Tanner cracks a smile. A little bigger. Father pokes her in the side, and the smile suddenly springs outwards as she crouches back, shrinking into herself and suddenly becoming... well, the size of a girl her age. Her entire face crinkles up, her eyes turn into tiny dark lines, her smile almost reaches her ears. Father slaps her on the shoulder, snorting like a bull in that way he does instead of laughing, and Mama sucks her teeth in disapproval. Dinner's stew and yesterday's bread - big chunks of flaking fish in broth choked by huge leaves of cabbage. The bread's good, at least. She likes to have something to gnaw on. Food that's too soft makes her feel like she's being fed by a mother bird - one of the girls at the ground showed her it, once, the way the bird shivered and quaked and vomited up a whole chunk of damp matter for the squalling featherless chicks to eat.
Rather hard to like boiled fish at that point.
They sit around a table black as coal, round and slightly uneasy on its legs. The light above hangs flickering, dripping a loose string of oil to the table now and again like... well, like the mother bird she's trying very hard not to think about as a piece of fish flakes apart on her tongue without the need for a single bite. She stares at her parents, hunching her shoulders - at the table, she's much taller. Silence pervades for a second as Father eats and eats, throat pulsing as he gulps down broth. Mama doesn't bother to shoot him disapproving looks like she usually would. Can tell from the way Father occasionally stops and just stares at the lamp, dark eyes flickering with the light like a pair of anti-stars, only taking and never giving.
She chews.
And Father sighs.
"I'll be going out tomorrow, then. Clarant thinks there might be something to do up and around the fisheries, says they've got a few lads about to get called up for service. Might be some work up there, gutting and the like. If y'can smell me when I come down the road tomorrow night, I've had a good time."
Tanner suddenly speaks.
Her voice has a low quality. Careful. Considerate. For someone as tall and strong as her, she has a surprisingly small voice... but it rumbles through her, and she knows that one day she'll be able to bellow. A whisper with the echo of a roar.
"Service?"
Mama looks up with the sharpness of a crane spying movement in the water.
"Elbows."
She withdraws them quickly, and asks again, her large, blue eyes staring thoughtfully at Father. He coughs slightly, wiping his mouth with a sleeve when Mama isn't looking (the confidentiality makes her smile internally, nice to be in on the joke).
"...well, Tanner. Yes. Service. Lads are heading out to the colonies this time, I would think. Clarant's got a mate down with the corps, two of them go to the same boozer. They're saying brief, but... well, long as it gives me and Clarant time to head up and start gutting, we're fine."
"Not eels?"
"...no, Tanner. Not eels. Trout. Mackerel. The like."
Good.
Didn't like the idea of her Father killing eels. Lovely things.
Her head tilts to one side slightly.
"Colonies?"
"Riots or something. My girl, when you're old enough, you'll be sick of that sort of thing, every day they're angry, and every day we're talking about 'em. If it's not the colonies, it's the savages out west, or the mutants up north, or the... well, whatever you like. My point, my girl, is don't learn to read, and don't wash your ears. 'Cause the news is depressing and the earwax will stop you hearing others talk of it."
Mama gives him a look.
"Don't corrupt the youth, darling."
"What? Nowt wrong with refusing to clean out one's ears. If we weren't meant to have wax in them, we wouldn't have any. Hm. Actually. Is wax holy? Does it purify sound or anything?"
Father is an east banker. Father makes bad jokes about west bankers, makes him very unpopular. Tanner laughs, but she knows she shouldn't, and this makes her laugh harder - she has a bad laugh, all snorts and half-chokes. A laugh afraid to reach its proper volume. Mama tuts.
"Some wax, my darling, some. Not all."
"Well, maybe for west bankers... hm, maybe all that wax makes all the sound out here all holy and whatnot. What do you think, Tanner?"
She keeps her face consciously still, knowing mama is watching her grimly, waiting to chastise her. The silence draws out... and father shrugs.
"Alright, keep your peace, wise move, wise move. That being said..."
He leans in, and his voice becomes a stage whisper. He points at one of the low-burning yellow candles on the table, held in a candlestick shaped like a fish, mouth held wide to receive the wax.
"Well, 'course she'd complain, if I stopped clearing out my ears we wouldn't have any candles, would we?"
Father makes bad jokes.
Tanner laughs anyway.
Mama pokes him with the blunt end of a fork, glaring.
"No corrupting the youth with your filth, love. No, Tanner, the candles aren't made... anyhow. Anyhow."
Father grins lopsidedly, shovelling a little more food into his mouth.
"Right. Right. You should be out there, though. Soon. Gutting fish with your pa, huh?"
She wrinkles her nose. Father's voice lowers suddenly, becoming downright axiomatic.
"Don't be high and mighty, my girl. No shame in doing honest work. And when vacancies come up... trust me, Tanner, you'll be over the moon when you hear people calling for that, over the bloody - pardon - moon. Where there's a vacancy, there's hope. Even with fish gutting. But, uh, stay away from soldiering. The more vacancies in the army, the more worried you should be. The more vacancies in the fishery, the happier you should be. And the more vacancies in the wedding registry, the damn - pardon - happier you should be. Know I was."
She nods solemnly. Commits his rambling axioms to heart like she was copying out a pecia from school.
Mama sniffs in her familiar way.
"Silly business. But he's right. Fishery's good, honest work. Nothing good about marching off to smack some colonials around. Mind you don't marry a soldier either, Tanner. Never home. Don't trust the uniforms, even if they're very smart, and no matter how bright the boots are."
She nods thoughtfully at this. But doesn't quite commit it to heart. She's got boots, those things are hard to keep shiny. In her mind, anyone with good shiny boots probably has some kind of good idea about things. Father grins slightly.
"Didn't hear you complaining."
"Shush. That was entirely different."
"I was barefoot. But I think my uniform was nice enough."
"Shush. The brood's present."
"Right, right."
He gives the sort of smile to Tanner which she returns shyly... before he nudges her suddenly in the side. Her smile snaps wider immediately as she shrivels inward a little to shield the old vitals, her spoon almost flying out of her hands. Another snap of annoyance from Mama, insisting that if anything should be spilled then it'll be the duty of whoever's responsible to clean it up, then set a night watch for any rats or ants or vermin-of-any-sort which might make an incursion. Tanner fights to get herself back under control, brushing her hair behind her ears. Come on, stop smiling, stop smil- oh, right, focus on the hair. If she's not being awkward about her height or her strength or her face, she's awkward about her hair. Tortoiseshell, all browns and blondes. Like the hide of a stray cat or some other mongrel animal. When it's winter, her hair darkens to the shade of a chestnut. When it's summer, her hair brightens until it's the shade of wheat.
Pity that she has so much hair, if she didn't, she might get a consistent colour.
Still growing her way through last winter...
She focuses on the strands, uses it to ground herself. Reduces her smile. Settles back to her stew as Father starts to talk loudly about some dock story. The one about... oh, she always lost track once he talked about all the different knots and masts and random objects and ranks. But she liked his voice. Even when she understood only half of what he talked about, she liked the calm, confident rumble, the way his little dark eyes shone in the oil lamp's light, the way he ran her fingers down the tusks of his moustache and drew them to neat points, before settling back to enjoy a pipe and a little ale while Mama tidied up the bowls and things.
That night, the girl tucks herself next to her father on the narrow couch, and falls asleep cradled in his too-small arms, her hair almost drowning him, and her dress' colourful bands unlaced and fluttering over the empty fireplace.
***
The barge again. Nothing else to focus on. Well, she has a few dog-eared books, but... no, not for now. Mind is too scattered, though you wouldn't know it to look at her. Some people showed their expressions openly, but the more emotional Tanner became, the less her face moved. Took effort to get to that point. Used to be more open about things. No, present. Focus. Past was gone, present was now. A good philosophical statement, in that it was a blindingly obvious statement of fact. Focus on the world around her. The barge, with its boards straining under her weight. Her clothes, still too tight. She wasn't fat, she could say that much, but she was tall, broad, strong, built like she was meant to be hauling boxes for a living. Or ploughing a field with a bit between her teeth, more likely. Damn height, she was meant to just be an early grower. Should've tapered off, the rest of her peers catching up. But they never did. Tanner had simply grown more. At fifteen, she towered over everyone on this barge, well, the few she'd been able to compare herself to. They kept a distance. A couple, man and woman, the woman young and blonde and with... ah, she had those new ear-decorations all the fashionable people had. Holy metal, to sweeten all sounds. Ringed around the ear and formed a kind of trumpet, needed to be anchored with a stud in the lobe.
Tanner self-consciously brushed a lock of hair over her own ears. All she had were her gloves. And those were family heirlooms. No silver ears, no jewelled throat, no golden spectacles, no whale-bone teeth, no delicate nose-grilles, no theurgic stomach-needles, nothing. She experienced the world as only the profane could. The first colonies of Fidelizh were visible at this point, with strange architecture, and odd folk wandering around with unadorned hands and ears. A few looked over at the barge as it passed, and she saw a small child sitting on the edge of a long, rickety jetty. Wearing a comically large bowler hat which could've served as a bucket, and an overcoat with long white strips along the sleeves. He looked... and jerked suddenly, adjusting the hat until it fell slightly over his eyes, and shuffling the sleeves of his overcoat until the strips fell just so into the crook of his elbow. His face pulled down into a frown, and he glowered at the barge as it passed. Nothing about his clothing was designed to purify him. She'd heard about this - about how the Fidelizhi let their gods ride on their backs, invited by clothing, by behaviour, by words. Like they were luring a god in through imitation. Not a glove in sight. And... already she felt homesick.
Shouldn't. She was fifteen.
Basically an adult.
The girl with the silvered ears laughed behind her hand - oh. Oh. She was doing the gesture. Fingers slightly parted, her glove shining with high-quality fabric - the air from the laugh passing between purifying threads. Didn't really lessen the sting, no matter how the gloves made her laugh more purified. What was it, then? Was it the way Tanner's hair was blowing in the river breeze? Or was it the stiff clothing which she knew was her best, she knew, but.. but maybe it wasn't as good as theirs. It wasn't, she knew it wasn't. She hunched into herself, feeling like a child again, needed to keep her arms tight to her sides to avoid hurting others, definitely needed to watch her feet... fixed her eyes on the village by the river, placed her hands over one another in front of her waist, then clenched her jaw until it seemed like she was about to grow tusks from either side of her face. Just focus on the colonies. Focus on... on the sort of place she'd be living. For a long time. Gods... gods, she wanted to go back home. Wanted mother to sit her down in her own chair, at her own table, with all the little things she'd spent a lifetime accumulating. A few men were in the river up ahead, wading up to their knees, dragging huge nets in... ah. Strung them across, caught fish, then hauled the nets in regularly. The black threads were full of wriggling, silvery creatures... the fishermen wore heavy gas masks over their faces, lenses like the eyes of insects, and wheezed incessantly. Shambling like waterlogged pilgrims through the current with their enormous rubber coats and gloves. Crashing through the small waves, foam hissing around their legs. Could see one of the fish was mutated.
...father had talked about those.
Had.
***
"Now, my girl, just... slide the knife right there, underneath the belly, from the fin to the head... you see, what you want to do is rip out all the guts at once, really just tear out the whole spine, the whole thing. Bosses don't like it when their customers have to pick out even more, so we do it all at once, nice and clean..."
Tanner has her tongue stuck out one side of her mouth as she focuses, narrowing both eyes to tiny slits. The fish is a huge, silvery thing, cold as a corpse despite only being killed recently. Her father's voice is soothing, a low, reassuring murmur that seems to overlap over itself, merging with the babbling of the river below. Rising when he needs her to listen, and lowering when he just wants her to relax and keep on working steadily. The flesh slithers between her fingers, the organs are tiny and dark, the spine is a row of gleaming white fangs poking out of anonymous grey matter... she rips... and a pile of sterile, bloodless gore falls into a deep, stinking bucket. She doesn't realise how tightly her breath has been held all this time, and she finally takes in a breath... only to gag as the stink of fish enters her nose with all the subtlety of a bull surrounded by red silk.
"There's my girl!"
A heavy gloved hand claps her on the back.
"There's my girl, that's a good, clean cut right there. Now, get yourself some practice, and we'll have this pile done soon enough."
She smiles shyly. She can feel it building up in her hands already - muscle memory, memories of restraint and force. Violence, Tanner imagines, is all about those two things. Really, when she's... her, everything's about those two things. How much force can the fish handle, and how much does it require? A few mutilated fish lie on the dock where she's misjudged, but... but this one worked. Father hums an old river-song as he works steadily at his pile, and Tanner picks up another fish of her own, tongue already in the appointed position as she focuses. Her knife is crude and shoddy, the knife slightly blunter than it ought to be, stop her from chopping off one her fingers by accident. But there's still the required band of cloth around the handle. Killing, touching the dead, all these things demand the purity of a proper medium. Mama tells her this, regularly. Murmurs moral lessons as she learns to sew. Wrap a cloth around the handle to stop the invisible things which live in dead flesh from crawling up and gnawing. Wrap a cloth around the handle of the bucket for the same reason. Never wash good cloth in the open river, never. That's where the invisible things breed and fester, and they are not to be allowed to sully good cloth. She recites the precepts over and over and over as she focuses... a slit... a gash... another tear, and she feels a kind of savage relish appearing as she finds the sweet spot. Like tuning an instrument. Too tight, and it all goes wrong. Too loose, and nothing happens. But just right...
Just right.
Father hums in approval. His own knife is as long as his forearm, gleaming brightly. After every few slices, he wipes it with a long cloth hanging from his waist, embroidered with the sign of the open mouth - feed the invisible things to the hungry spirits, that's another precept. Satisfies their hunger, and gets rid of the rotting things. She works, works...
"Hup, hold there."
She freezes.
Father snatches a fish from her pile, grumbling.
"Bad. Sorry about that, Tanner. Thought Clarant said this batch had been checked..."
The fish before her is... oh. Oh. Mutant. Bad. Very bad. She backs away immediately, holding her breath. Too many teeth, too many eyes. A mouth running down the belly, filled with sharp, spine-like fangs. It looks wrong... and it smells sweet, crackling, like the alcohol mama keeps under the boards. No rot to be seen. And... and she sees gills pulsing wetly.
"Learning to draw air, see? Still figuring it out."
He hesitates... then flicks his knife across the throat, cutting it, before hurling the fish end over end into the river.
"That'll keep it quiet, I think. Hopefully. Hard to do much moving once you've cut the spines. Alright there, my girl?"
She nods silently.
"...come on, speak up. Keep at things like that and I'll forget what your voice sounds like. Go on, did the thing scare you?"
Obviously not. Obviously not. Why would it scare her? Not like it's...
No. Nothing about it to scare her.
...she's... going to ask if she can drink milk tonight. Nothing with water in it. She clutches the cloth around her knife, wishes she had a good embroidered one like father. He's already running the knife through a lantern hanging near the dock, sterilising the blade... she sees the blood trying to crawl up it, just a little. Trying to escape the heat. When it's cleansed, it seems to wriggle.
"Now, keep your hair on. Just a freaky little fish. Cut the spine, they can't move. Throw 'em back in, they can't swim, something else comes up and eats them, job done."
A snort.
"And those pretty little fellers over there, they'll handle anything bigger."
Right.
A dark shape looms on the horizon. A hulk. Bristling with harpoons. A floating building, really. Metal and mutant-bone, armed with harpoons and cannons, with burning liquid in iron jars. Returned from purging the northern banks of the great Tulavanta, raining fire upon the mutant, driving them back into the north. Well, that's what mama said. The sight of thick, greasy smoke on the horizon was unnerving to Tanner... and to all those who survived the Great War, it was beyond cheering. Apparently. Lots of work to be done on a craft like that, and the inns were packed around here, with hunters and sailors, with soldiers and soldier-priests, with men and women slightly mottled by drops of contamination that warped the flesh and twisted the muscle. No crows swarm around it. Nothing dares come close to something that reeks that much, and the engine growls like a living thing, smoke rising from it as it burns the bodies of the mutants to fuel itself. She settles back down to the fish with a shiver. Just... work. Stomach the unpleasantness, and work, and...
A small mewling.
A cat, crawling up the dock. Small. Black, with white paws, like it's wearing an array of neat little socks. Eyes bristle with hunger, flicker between the fish and the gutters. It hesitates, mewls again, backs off... stares...
Tanner ignores it, clenching her jaw.
"Here, puss. Have some of those botches."
Her jaw clenched harder. Her botches. The fish she didn't gut right. No, no, he's not being mocking, he's just... feeding a cat. It slowly approaches... sniffing... before lunging to grab one of the half-ruined things on the dock, whole body tense as a wire as it hauls it back easily to safety. Tanner wants to give it a little scratch, just behind the ears. She almost reaches... but then she sees those little muscles cording and straining, sees the little, delicate features of the creature's face... no. No, maybe not. She knows how those things feel under her fingers, how... she's not a violent person, she doesn't want to hurt things, but they just feel so delicate. Her heart just seizes up, her lungs begin to strain slightly, her muscles twitch and her entire back begins to ache from tension. No, no, touching cats is stressful, they feel like they'll break too easily, and then she imagines a broken neck lolling and a little pink tongue protruding and the awful, awful, awful yowl of an injured animal, and...
"Tanner?"
She looks up.
"Yes, father?"
"Look like you're pondering something."
"...no. Not really."
Her voice is quiet and ashamed. She hunches like a gargoyle over her fish, focuses intently on the silver scales parting like a flawless dress being snipped down the back, and-
"Listen, lass. You're a good girl, you're not going to hurt anything if you're careful."
"Hm."
"Surprises me, honestly. Cats, they're... well, look at that thing. Pretty as a button. And... what's that wretched thing you like?"
"Eels."
Her voice is a sharp snap. He knows she likes eels, he's aware she likes eels, so... he's getting her to react.
Bah.
"Eels. Right. That's it. Eels and whatnot. So, no cats, all eels?"
She shrugs.
"Eels don't break. All squirmy and tough. Pick them up, they just twist everywhere."
She likes to think you could wring an eel like a wet towel and it's be fine. She knows it's not true, but... she looks down into the dark water. Imagines a few eels down there, maybe migrating up to where they can properly grow. Might be some little see-through ones, right at the bottom... little babies clambering up the riverbed before they can darken and toughen. Fresh out of the sea. Father snorts.
"Sure. Ugly though, aren't they?"
Her eyes snap up, anger involuntarily rising.
"No. They're lovely. Nice little faces. The baby ones look like glass, the big ones look like river stones, all dappled."
"Just big wet snakes, though, aren't they?"
He's still teasing, and she's still rising to the bait. Fish ignored and allowed to dangle from her hand like some primitive slingshot.
"No. Snakes are all... thin and nasty. And they bite, poisonous bites. Eels are good, just... those little eyes they've got, the little bulgy ones, they're all... human, I think. Gentle. And there's those big graceful fins, and they're not poisonous or nothing, and those little smiles some of them have, they look like... well, they look happy to see you and everything, and they're clever, and they're... you know, they're not flashy, father, they're not all stupid and shiny and everything, they're just nice. Nice little jaws, some of them are just like little needles, and... they just travel and travel, and they're clever about travelling, I read that, they're clever. Crawl around on land and then back in the sea and back into rivers, they're explorers. They're small, delicate, squirmy explorers. And snakes are all dry and dusty and hissy, or they like killing humans, eels are different. No problem with humans, all shy and slimy. They just slither around and eat things and they're clever. And tough. And pretty."
"Like you?"
"Shut up."
"Oy."
"...sorry."
Eels are fantastic. She bloody likes eels. All slithery and whatnot. Won't eat them, refuses to eat them. Just remembers... years and years ago, finding one in a bucket near the dock. All abandoned. Probably just left behind, it wasn't too big, quite dark. Maybe it was hiding at the bottom or something, everyone missed it. And she picked it up, held it, and it just... squirmed around her fingers, wrapped around them, let them go, slithered and slithered and never bit or hurt her, it was just... innocent, in a way. It felt like finding something undiscovered. Cats, like the one which was still gnawing on its fish a little way away, had grown up with humans, knew humans, experienced humans. They were part of the human story, in a way. No way of disentangling them, and... they were shaped for humans to hold, to pet, to keep and feed and love. Eels weren't. They were born where no human could go, crawled in places no human would tread, and might well live out their lives without ever knowing there was such a thing as a human. Their world was their own. And when an eel breached the surface and felt human hands wrapping around it, her hands... they were both strangers. Both of them equally out of their depth.
She just liked them. Liked seeing all the wriggles. Some people liked seeing dogs shake themselves or cats roll on their backs, but Tanner liked eel-wriggles. Liked the way they felt like silk under her fingers, slithering all about and knowing no friction.
...she had read about them. Born out in the middle of nowhere, swimming to some random place, just... swimming and swimming, crawling and climbing, and... then just finding a random spot which was home. There was no reason why this patch of mud should be home, and no other patch should be. There was no possible reason for them to be there, but they chose it and now it was home. No arguments.
What wasn't to like about that?
"Feeling better, Tanner?"
...nuts.
He'd managed it.
Again.
"Cheating."
"Yup. Now, keep on going with them fish, hm? Don't want to have to eat eels because we couldn't gut enough fish for the market and the stew-pot both, now don't we?"
She guts like her life depends on it. She guts those guts with gusto and... uh, guts. Gutsy gut gutting with gusto.
And in the distance, the song of the mutant-spearers carries over the breeze, a low, rumbling bellow of warlike chants and hums and barks, the songs that come from throats stained with inhumanity by the choking fumes of their kills.
And she doesn't pay them a single bit of attention.
***
Tanner leans against the railing of the barge, and her face remains completely flat... but she's smiling inside. That'd been a good day. Mama... Mother, Mama was childish, and she was fifteen, which meant mother was the correct form of address. Mother had been grumpy when they got back, though. Had her sit down and get to knitting, needed to help repair some of her own clothes - she moved too fast sometimes, tore the seams, and Mother insisted that she learn how to repair them. Good skill. But the first ten minutes had just been Mother with a tiny penknife and her tongue stuck out in concentration as she helped get all the little bones out from underneath Tanner's nails. Gosh, that'd been... wow, that'd been years ago. Years, and she could still feel the penknife under her nails, and the satisfying feeling of little spinal pieces coming slipping out to the ground, before she could get back to sewing. She'd disliked sewing, disliked it from the start, she did. Too delicate, too quiet, too removed from the things she liked - the river, the fish, the eels. Father was the same. He'd always said that philosophers could talk about what they liked, and the priests could ramble, but there was nothing quite like having a knife in your hand, standing in the open air, and feeling an honest ache in your back. Visceral simplicity. She still held by that, even now. Something viscerally nice about doing something that made your back ache and kept your eyes from narrowing and pinching from lack of good light. Not that she... disliked being around Mother.
The thing one learned the most, being her size, living in her city, was to endure. Be calm, be collected, don't overreact. When she overreacted or was too emotional, people thought she was about to hit them, and... and that was just about the worst thing she could imagine. The couple near her, the young ones, shuffled off over the deck to examine so other piece of water. And in the distance, she could see the sharp towers of Fidelizh gradually, gradually approaching - would still take a while to get there. The briars of memory were tightening and snapping, one after the other... dinners at home, gutting fish with Father, sewing with Mother, playing with other children. The lodge. Her memories were coming, earliest first. And always, they came back to her parents. Always.
She remembered lodges. Initiations. Standing terrified in a white shift while her aunts and uncles muttered to one another of her suitability, terrified of their stares, terrified of being ignored, wanting to go home but knowing that this was her home. Wanting her family - but this was her family. Surrounded by portraits and shrines to old family members. The world beyond was full of witchcraft and hostility - the lodge was safety. Wanted to run, but knew it would just expose her to greater danger. Her mother glancing down, unwilling to meet her eyes as the mutters turned to questions, to interrogations, to demands, as her aunts moved closer...
Happier memories came next.
She remembered plunging her hands into a bucket of eels and laughing, one of her rare, full-throated laughs, at the feeling of all those slithery bodies moving in a tight, curious vortex...
She remembered...
She remembered Father.
Her grip on the railing tightened a little. Her jaw clenched very, very slightly. A satin-gloved hand reached up to tug her wide-brimmed hat over her eyes, shading them from the dim grey sun.
And a voice suddenly spoke, a voice in a language she didn't know.
"Cakhschali? Mashkalixbazulun?"
And Tanner turned to see a man wearing a mask of purest white...
Tanner was fifteen years old. Seen fifteen summers and fifteen winters, seen the sun roll on by on a constant axis on fifteen separate occasions. And she can say, for sure, that she feels fifteen years too young to really deal with strangers. Especially ones with masks. Especially ones who she can't understand at all. She can say, for sure, that none of this is particularly usual in Mahar Jovan, not usual at all, and so she is completely reasonable in feeling very nervous and... no, no, think rationally. She's to be a judge, and a judge thinks all rationally and suchlike, that's what makes them judges. That and the capes. Plus, she was fifteen. Basically an adult. And she was surrounded by other people. Even so, she... dipped her head slightly, almost trying to retreat inside the high collar of her dress, like a snail retreating into a shell. The man with the mask was... tall, though not as tall as Tanner. Tall, and unpleasantly thin. Wrapped up to the point of being almost comical, though - the mask was only visible above the nose, the rest was covered by three different scarves, and his body was shrouded in a waterproof cloak, a heavy overcoat, a jumper underneath, and evidently a few shirts too. A heavy woollen hat shielded his head from view, and even so, he shivered in the wind that played across the river.
Tanner's head slowly came out of her collar. Just a little. But she still wanted to back away.
Something about the man unnerved her. The mask. The incomprehensible language. The fact that she didn't know him, didn't know anything about him. The long, long fingers, wrapped in fine calfskin gloves. The eyes... she wasn't sure if they were black, or if the mask was shading them in just the right way. He stood alone, wafting slightly in the wind like one of the reeds lining the river. He was shorter than her, but seemed to tower above. Was he a madman? Was he here to kill her? No, no, maybe he was a... an escapee from an asylum, maybe he was just very sick, but... she should back away from the edge of the boat, he might shove her into the water, she'd sink like a stone. The world was full of dangerous things, very dangerous things - mama said so. The lodge said so. Was he a witch? Catastrophes flowered behind her eyes, little spots of chilliness developed through her head, and...
Stop it.
No, no, remember what mama said. Be polite. Be very polite to strangers, because you never knew if they were members of the lodge secretly testing her. And, you know, being polite was nice. But also the secret tests. And, well, even if he was a witch, the lodge had promised to protect her from witchcraft - so he'd be unable to do anything. Could push her off a boat, though. That was an option. She quietly wrung her hands together, remembering the right gesture for cultivating luck - two gloves, nice lucky medium, filtering out the bad and leaving on the good. Looked like she was just very nervous and fidgety.
Which she was.
"I'm... sorry, sir, I don't-"
The thin man twitched slightly, and his voice slithered out of the mask, past the layers of scarves, and undulated lazily into the world. It was a voice that made her think of cooking oil seeping out of a bottle.
"Oh, my sincerelest apologise. I distress. Homely language - instinct, yes?"
His accent was thick as tar, and she'd never heard anything like it before. He lilted on every syllable, placed stress on the wrong words and sounds, practically danced across the sentence. Made Tanner more nervous, but... no, no, judges were rational and calm at all times. Mama said so. So... right, right, keep going. She was to be a judge, judges weren't nervous, so she wasn't nervous. No matter what her brain was saying. Just focus on how she could probably beat him in a fight - no, that was a savage thought for a savage. Bad. Stop thinking that. She was sure that this fine gentleman could murder her if he wanted to. There, now they were on equal footing.
Hoorah.
"Oh. Uh. Yes. I understand. Can I help you?"
"You are most big."
Her back immediately hunched, and she retreated into her collar slightly, flushing.
"...yes, sir."
"It impress! Me, I mean. Very impress. My apologise - my name is Mr. Pocket. I am sorry for interruption. Do you go to Fidelizh on business, if I may be so bold as to inquire?"
Ah, he'd asked that one a lot, his accent almost vanished when he got the end. She shivered slightly, and wished she could pick up some item of luggage, clutch it like a shield. She was feeling very raw at the moment, and... no, judges, rational, calm, normal. That was what she was going to become sooner or later, might as well start now. And remember - the gloves were inviting luck into her person, filtering the bad. Plus, the lodge said it would be burning proper incense until she arrived in Fidelizh, and would then keep a good candle burning for her at all times. She'd gone through the proper rite and everything, wore a plain white shift and had a whole mystery play happen in front of her, got dunked in water, drank some liquor in the approved fashion... marked as a wayfarer. As was right and proper. Poor fortune and witchcraft had already been drained from her person, the lodge would keep her safe. Not sure if she believed any of this, but... but just thinking about it helped.
"I'm... going to train to be a judge. Are you on business, Mr. Pocket?"
Her voice was steady. Remember the mystery play. Remember the gloves. Remember the role of being a judge. Remember it all. And she was being courteous.
"Oh, yes, business for me. But also travel. I always wish to travel here, down the river, see Fidelizh. Wonderful to travel, no? And is good for my heart and my many valves, keeps my joints fluid. A friend of mine, a friend from north, he says that travel is how you make everything circulate properly, stops the mind being blocked up, no? And this is good, for I am in need of my fluids being realigned, all my centres are off. When I do not travel, I start to wonder if suicide is really so bad - why, my cousin killed herself seven years ago, and she never travelled, so, is a possibility, yes? You are treated for broken bones with a cast, you are treated for stomach problems with calomel, and I am treated for suicide by travel. Good treatment, no?"
Oh no.
He was oversharing.
This was entirely improper.
"Ah. I'm... sorry about your cousin."
"No, don't be silly, you didn't kill her. No, what killed her was never travelling, and maybe other things, but travelling, that's the cherry on the muffin confectionery, yes? But she was also ugly, face like a monkey. Probably lonely, and travelling might've helped, when you travel you meet more
women or men or whatnot and loneliness concludes, no? We found her in her room with a pile of pills next to her - know how dead bodies smell?"
"I must confess that I don't."
"Like bad fruit and eggs. But maybe she just ate lots of bad fruits and eggs, no? Was quite fat, you perceive."
"I perceive, sir."
A pause. Be courteous. The desire for him to go away and leave her to brood in peace was suppressed by expectation. She had a defined sequence of actions to take in a circumstance like this - and as her discomfort rose, it was a relief to just slip into automatic responses. Like how clothing choices were easier to make when there were only so many lucky fabrics, or how outlook was easy to form when the lodge was so very clear on how she should look at the world... like how going off to become a judge was expected, anticipated, demanded, so she might as well buckle up and get on with it.
Just... treat it like one of the lodge mystery plays.
"I apologise if I am too forward, Mr. Pocket, but... where exactly are you from? I've never seen that sort of mask before."
She didn't want to know the answer.
She didn't want to hear his undulating voice.
But it was expected. The lines were there for her. Politeness was the ritual which imposed control on the chaos of conversation, just like ritual imposed order onto the shapelessness of the universe - the woman with the letter had told her that, and it'd been... rational. She'd seemed to have her life together, after all.
One of those people who gave letters, rather than received them.
Mr. Pocket presumably smiled, impossible to tell under all the layers.
"Oh, from a long distance. My home is far, and warm. So cold here, no? I find it so. Well, you don't - more meat on you, hm? More layers? Me, not so many - must make up. Heat at my home... oh, very great. You would melt. Splash. Puddle."
"Presumably, yes."
She squared her shoulders, and stared out into the river flatly, being polite but not... well, not suggesting a friendship.
"How many summers?"
Wherever Mr. Pocket was from, it clearly had no real idea of decorum. One didn't ask a lady her age. And one never said a lady had 'meat' on her. Ladies didn't have meat, not at all, they had... uh... hm. Well, the term 'meat' was thoroughly inappropriate. As was flesh, matter, or mass. Not sure what was left once you took those terms out of circulation, but presumably there was something.
Aether?
Maybe aether.
"Fifteen, sir."
"Already becoming a judge?"
"Training, sir."
"Young. In my country, fifteen is still a home-age. Youth only comes once, you know? Not good, squandering it with study. I see these judges - good capes, but very serious. Too serious, hm? Do not grow up so fast, good philosophical maxiom."
This advice was neither wanted nor needed.
But it would be impolite to say so.
"Quite, sir."
A pause.
"...it's maxim. Or axiom. Not maxiom."
Mr. Pocket laughed shortly, a little burst of noise that was barely audible through all his layers - manifested more like an earthquake, really. A rumbling, a shaking in this little cloth-clad planetoid.
"Ah, I comprehend. My gratitude. And apologise."
"Quite all right, sir."
"Well, better than all left, no?"
"...quite, sir."
"Joke."
"Yes, sir. It was very funny."
A pause. She forced a smile, couldn't quite manage a laugh.
"Do not squander youth, anyhow. You need to drink, eat, make merry. I misspent my whole youth. Loved every second, even the hangovers, really."
Not really an... option for her, not like she could just abandon her life-route. It'd been chosen, it was expected. No deviating from the course that was set out, not now. The duty of the parent and the lodge was to choose. The duty of the child was to obey. To learn responsibility from the dutiful observances of her superiors. She'd been taught that, drilled into her skull over and over. Not that she was a child, she was basically a grown-up. But still.
"I'll remember that, sir. Don't worry."
"Worry! That's the point - do not worry! Worrying spoils youth. I shall tell you this - you should challenge yourself. Cultivate yourself. Why, big lady like you, should do boxing or wrestling or something pugnacious, you know, no? Judges are all bookish, don't waste your life reading all the time. I barely know how to read, and I've turned out wonderful! I've heard that if you don't challenge yourself, all your humours pool up and stagnate, and then they can ignite. Poof! Spontaneous combustion. So, young lady, go and wrestle people. It'll stop you from exploding."
"I see."
But she didn't want to wrestle people. Didn't want to hurt people at all. Wished she could turn the conversation to eels. She was better on those.
Hold on.
"I think I saw an eel down there, can you see it?"
She was being very cunning. Didn't see any eel, but it could give her a window into-
"Oh. I see nothing."
She braced herself. Time to talk about eels. This should fill up the next few hours.
Before she could, though... Mr. Pocket drummed his fingers over the railing, promptly launching into a half-incomprehensible speech on the pleasures of being young and sprightly. Tanner could barely follow it, and what she heard wasn't cheering her up very much. He seemed to be incapable of going a minute without mentioning his dead relatives - surprised that there were so many of them, felt like at some point he'd have run out of family to lose. His mother was currently paralysed below the waist and confined to her bed, where she spent the days shrieking at servants. His father was dead, taken by a fever which produced endless quantities of rancid sweat, delirium, and a choking breathlessness - plus paranoia, which meant that he kept insulting various groups of people, including half of his doctors. Convinced they were trying to poison him.
Mr. Pocket wouldn't just stop there, though, he had to describe the feeling of handling a man producing buckets of sweat who was trying to jump out of the nearest window - the slickness, like handling some species of amphibian. Tanner just started thinking of enjoyable points on eels, staring blankly into the water while humming at all the right junctures. When he talked about the way his sister had lost a chunk of her cheek to some awful flesh-eating disease, she simply ran through all the stages of the eel's life cycle, at least, the common Tulavanta eel. Leptocephalus larvae, leaf-shaped, transparent, tiny, drifting passively on the currents while their weak bodies struggle to provide some direction, lasting for years and years... then, metamorphosing into glass eels, still tiny, still transparent, but closer to an eel shape. Then, they darken, swell, grow, become yellow eels. Some eels could remain in this state for as many as ninety years, though ten to fifteen was more common, before turning into silver eels. A last flash of life before the end. Six months of voyaging, fleeing from the Tulavanta and slithering into the vast deep of the ocean...
No idea what happened to them after that. But they never came back. And when confined, they died after six months, starved. Their stomachs literally vanished, only became capable of holding water - years and years of building up reserves, readying for the spawning, and then... a final rush to mate.
And years later, more little flickering leaf and glass eels would return, ready to dwell in the warmth of the Tulavanta. A second river, really - ribbon upon ribbon, hundreds deep, miles and miles long... she remembered seeing the spawning as a child (which she wasn't now, she was fifteen, and thus basically an adult), and dipping her hands into the river and feeling the little shimmering creatures flow by, dancing on the current, brushing against her skin...
She stood there for hours, dress hiked up around her waist so she could wade into the shallows, afraid to blink lest she miss some new, beautiful display.
Oh... ah. Memories. Linked together. Clicking, one after the other, and... Mr. Pocket's relatives kept rushing by, more and more dead ones, and he kept talking about his misspent youth in the strange country he came from, where the sun shone every day and painted the sky red, where the moss-buffalo waded down stagnant rivers and cooled their flanks in rancid pools... his second cousin had been killed by one of those buffalo, trampled when a predator startled a herd of them. His great-aunt became increasingly senile, and wound up wandering beyond the city wall without an escort. Never found the body. His grandfather died of a heart attack after a long, long illness, which meant that... honestly, they didn't notice he'd died for a little while, thought he was just going through another one of his catatonias. They noticed when a spider crawled out of his slack mouth, though, ready to build a cobweb in the eye sockets of his mask. He treated these morbid stories like... well, like they were food for normal conversation. He talked and talked and talked, mouth flapping away behind his mask and scarves, eyes glinting in the reflected sunlight from the river... his fingers were a whole troupe of actors, always gesturing and flickering and snapping when he was struggling to recall a detail.
More dead relatives.
She couldn't bring herself to hate the man. He was having a conversation. Just so happened that what qualified as a 'conversation' for him was very different to how she conceived of them. He laughed lightly, he spoke quickly, he clearly had no great dislike for talking about death and misery. Maybe... no, yes, be rational, maybe this was an outlet for him. Maybe in his home, so many people died that it was considered normal to talk like this. Bottling it all up would be unsustainable.
...she still didn't like it.
Politeness demanded she hum, nod, agree and disagree when appropriate. Politeness would also demand... well, reciprocating. One person mentions a hobby, it's polite to inquire further, and supply one's own experience. Politeness was a form of trade, in which both people entered into a contract where certain things were expected and some things were not. Politeness was the convention which regulated social trade. Another thing the lady with the letter said. But... in this case?
She only really had one story.
And she wasn't going to tell it. Not to Mr. Pocket.
Her glove-clad hands clenched, almost bending the fragile railing of the barge.
And she stared unblinkingly into the dark water below.
Didn't want to tell that story. But she couldn't help but remember it.
***
The girl never forgets the day when her father comes back home for good.
She sits on the floor, on a threadbare carpet the colour of the river, like some enormous primitive idol to an unknown deity - still growing into herself, not all her proportions quite right. She reads, devouring whatever books she can find. Books are good - books are slow. Books make her act carefully. The heap of little, broken toys in her bedroom is testament to why she's a bookish person these days. Well. That and the eels. She looks up suddenly, all thoughts of books gone - father's back. She knows the telltale squish-slosh of slightly waterlogged boots. That's good, that's very good, it means father found work today - dry-boot days mean he stayed on the docks and stared sadly at the water. Wet-boot days meant he was mucking around in the damp and the churning current, gutting fish with a long knife, hauling crates from sagging barges, swabbing decks and doing whatever people would pay him to do. Lots of wet-boot days lately, ever since the warships came in. Mutant-hunters, back from patrolling the north banks. Always need work done. Always need spare hands. Even now, she can see billowing smoke from the cleansing of the hull, flaying contamination away with anything the ship could take without breaking.
Father loves talking about it. Proud of working on the thing. Proud of crawling around the dreadnought, even if he has to wear a stifling gas mask, even if he has to wear heavy, heavy clothes to stop contamination seeping in. There's always red marks in his cheeks when he comes back - red from exertion, and red from smiling too much.
The steps come closer...
He's back.
She smiles...
And stops.
Something's wrong.
The steps are too uncertain, and... and she knows what her father's boots sound like, one slightly uneven, a tiny limp in his gait. These boots are staggering and heavy, like something was being carried. She stands slowly, lacing her fingers together, hunching close as her eyes widen. When nervous, she tightens. When nervous, she shrinks. Hysterics were the luxury of the ineffectually small. Wait. Just... wait, maybe he's carrying...
The door slams open with a crash, the whole brittle house shaking like a storm's blown in.
A roar. Loudest voice she's ever heard. Most afraid she's ever heard an adult be.
"Clear a table!"
Mama's moving, and she hisses at Tanner to come and help. Running to the kitchen. Taking the tea things away, stripping the cloth just as a man comes in. One of father's friends. Unrecognisable - his face is purpled with exertion, eyes bulging with panic. His teeth are bared as he strains with the body on his back, his oilskin coat slick with water that drips down in long, long rivulets, like his whole body was crying. The body. The body. The girl is paralysed as a huge body, weighty with its paralysis, is placed down gently on the table. The body's too big, the arms and legs trickle from the edges... unmoving. Father. Something's- her mother is hissing to him, she always hisses when she's panic, clenches her teeth and speaks through them. Tanner wants to hide behind her.
"What happened, what bloody happened to him?"
The man sniffs, his voice thick. He's larger than Tanner, broader, stronger. The thick-thin limbs of a labourer, growing more muscled where he worked, and thinning out where he didn't. He should look more intimidating, and... and she knows him, she knows his name. Clarant. But whenever she's seen him thus far, his moustache has been thick and well-groomed, his hair slicked back with pomade, his coat well-cared for and his mouth split into a smile. Now... now his face is soaked with water and oil, his hair is a tangled wreck, his coat is torn and hangs around him like a funeral shroud, and his mouth keeps quivering like he's about to cry. Tanner backs away instinctually. Afraid of an over-emotional adult, not quite comprehending that adults could be emotional.
"We... we were working on the ships, those... new ones, and... and this..."
He pauses, coughing in that thick, hiccoughy way that children do when wholly distraught. Tanner has never heard an adult produce that sound before. Never. Backs away from Clarant out of instinctual fear. Her eyes move unwillingly over her father's body. She sees the slow rise and fall of his chest and thinks that... that maybe, just maybe, he's completely fine and all is well and... and then she reaches his head.
"...one of their harpoons, the launcher, the wire, it snapped, I... it tore up some stuff from the ship, I could barely see it, and... and..."
Her father's head is like something out of her nightmares. A solid mask of blood, too thick for even the water to remove fully, yet every rivulet trickling down is clogged with clots the size of her thumb. He's faceless. No sight of his eyes, his mouth, anything. Even the contours of his face are stolen by the mask. Sometimes a pair of tiny black eyes open on his face, staring unblinkingly for a few seconds... then she realises that it's only his nostrils, straining to breathe past a sheet of his own matter. He doesn't... he doesn't look like her father. Her mind says that he is, but every other part calls this blood-soaked thing a stranger, a wild thing allowed into the house. Where are his eyes? Where's his smile? Where's all the things which make him her father? And his head... his head...
The blood is coming from a wound along its side. A massive gash. But that's not the part which strikes her as truly awful, it's... it's the dent.
The way his head has caved inwards.
She twists her hands, gripping the fabric of her dress and kneading until she feels it come close to ripping. Her face stiffens. Expression drops. Inside, she's... she's spiralling, has no idea what to do with herself, this is beyond any kind of experience. Half is terrified, another half just wants him to wake back up. And all that chaos manifests as...
Stillness.
Chaos within. And chaos all around her.
And none of it wearing on her face. On her rigid mouth. On her wide eyes, locked on her father.
Unblinking.
***
A crack echoed over the river.
Mr. Pocket finally stopped talking, mid-way through a story about some exotic tropical parasite his sister once had embedded in her cheek.
Ah.
She... may have gripped just a bit too hard. Slowly, carefully, she loosened her hands from the rail. Snapped. She'd wrung it out like a wet towel, and the old, repeatedly painted wood had just... given up, exposing raw, pale matter beneath. Her gloves were studded with splinters, marred by flecks of loosened paint. Idiot. Stupid. Brute. Did this constantly, always broke things, idiot. And Mr. Pocket, irritating little squirt that he was, was looking at her cautiously. She struggled to mount a smile. Not his fault, she was just... a complete and utter savage who ought to be restrained at all times. She broke things when she touched them too hard, and... well, she remembered that day her father came home for good. She was young, stupid, brutish, not really capable of understanding it. A few words of insensitivity had chilled things, made everything worse. If she'd just... done what she was meant to do, been nice and comforting and empathetic, everything would've been fine. But no. Idiotic Tanner Magg had to keep asking needling questions with no idea that they were inappropriate. Moron. Complete imbecile. Mental, social restraint was just as important as physical restraint. More so, maybe. Play it safe, don't insult Mr. Pocket, no matter how annoying he was.
"I'm... dreadfully sorry, sir. I think the railing was a bit weak."
Her hands twitched behind her back, where she gripped them nervously. He didn't believe her. Unclench the jaw, now, she looked positively savage. Wanted to comb her hair back, she knew it could get a bit... wild from time to time. No, no, don't twitch for it, just... just endure. Salvage.
"Please. You were talking about your sister?"
The man hummed.
"...ah. Yes. So I was. Though, maybe, hm. Off-colour story, perhaps. Are you feeling well, Miss...?"
She felt a little terrified pulse of embarrassment. A flush entered her cheeks, and she tried to salvage things again.
No way of explaining politely. She forced a nervous smile onto her face.
"The weather is very cold, you were right. Quite cold."
Mr Pocket looked at her strangely. Oh, oh no, he thought she was angry at him, she wasn't, he'd just been waking up some unpleasant memories, and now she couldn't stop thinking about her father, and that awful day, and all the awful days afterwards, and... no, no, she hated the idea of being remembered poorly by him, hated it. He was a complete stranger and she didn't enormously like him, but... oh, crumbs...
"Hm? Oh, yes, it is. Cold."
Curt. Short. Crumbs, crumbs, crumbs...
"It gets quite cold in Mahar Jovan, too. And... I hear it can be quite cold in Fidelizh. So it's just... well, I suppose lots of places are cold at the moment. I hope we don't get rain. Rain's awful, don't you think? I mean, it's just... wretched."
She finished pathetically, pausing for a second.
"...please, you were talking about your sister? She had an odious parasite embedded in her cheek, sir. Won't you finish that story? I found it quite interesting."
Her stomach churned in protest. No, decorum demanded she ask. Oh, crumbs, he was still looking at her strangely, crumbs, crumbs, if she was smaller this wouldn't be a problem. If she was smaller, she'd just be an awkward little creature, easily pitiable. But once you had some mass behind you - pardon the term - you became some sort of... of potential threat. All he could think about was how she'd snapped that railing. She could do worse. Knew she could. Remembered the flush of embarrassment that had consumed her for hours and hours after she crushed a teacup by accident during a lodge meeting, oh, crumbs, she was thinking about it again, thinking about the eyes, about the silence, about the way the tea trickled between her fingers, about the stain on the floor, about the way the sugar in the tea made her fingers sticky for hours, about the aftermath where she only ever got sturdy, disposable cups during meetings, about the muffled laughter she heard and knew was about the incident. Knew no-one forgot it. She didn't, at least, so why not everyone else? Oh, crumbs, stop thinking about it, she was... her face became flat when she was very nervous, and it came across as stoic aggression, oh crumbs...
Mr. Pocket coughed.
"...you are, uh, right. It is very cold. I should be heading interior, I think. Warmth and all. Not long to Fidelizh, I think?"
Tanner hummed affirmatively, even as her skin kept crawling with humiliation.
"Good. Good-good. Yes, I should be attending to warming matters. Lovely to meet you - and best of luck with your, hm, judging business, yes?"
"Thank you, sir. And I hope your travelling goes well."
A hum of appreciation - but the mood had broken. The gabbling had stopped. A few awkward motions later, and he was away, swaying slightly in time with the movements of the barge. Gods, he was thin. And... and her gloves were slightly torn, nuts. Talk about bad omens, and these were good, and... idiot, always breaking things. Brutish clod. Cloddish brute. Bog-dweller. Peat-muncher. Bad daughter. Absolute troglodyte. Ugly, bloated troglodyte, should just jump into the river and get it over with. She gazed out over the water for a moment, getting her mood under control. Failed, but at least she was trying.
Control was important. Control was downright vital. Restraint, that was it, always being restrained. Being unrestrained meant breaking things and hurting people. Meant shattering cups. Meant embarrassing herself. Her back was aching from how tense her muscles had become. A low, tense breath hissed out from between clenched teeth. She'd not changed, not after all these years. Sometimes she had weeks and weeks where she was utterly normal and operated like she was meant to. Then she'd snap a railing like a blundering cretin and probably convince some random man that she was some sort of... violent axe murderess, probably. Or someone mentally unstable. Or a mutant, someone with swollen, mutated glands that made her tall, strong, and perpetually angry. Snap a railing, break a vase, bruise someone's arm, insult them accidentally, come across as standoffish and peculiar, sound like an idiot, sound egotistical or irritating or something. Ask the wrong questions.
...she was thinking about her father again.
That was never a good sign.
Think on the bright side, think on the bright side.
He'd lived. Was still alive, too. Just... not there. The dent in his head, it... made him slow. He could function, he'd chew if food was placed in his mouth, swallow and everything. Drink when water was given. But beyond that... everything had been taken away when that cable snapped and a mechanism slammed into his skull. Took years before he could even walk, and only for brief, stumbling periods, while he was practically dragged along by someone else. And he never talked. Sometimes he made sounds, little vowels mostly, small sighs. That was almost worse. Remembered when she charted all these little exhalations, thinking it meant he was getting better. But the doctors all said the same thing. Gone. Paralysed. Never going to work again. And mama had to go out instead, care for an invalid husband and a daughter who just kept getting larger and stronger and needed bigger and bigger meals. Bad years.
Mama had wanted her to do something delicate with her life. Remembered when she would chastise her father for taking Tanner out to gut fish and whatnot.
After father's accident, it became part of the nightly routine to pick the little bones and scales out from underneath her fingernails. Tanner gutted fish, carried things, only sewing she did was mending nets. Mama had done laundry and cleaning - within a month, her hands were red and scaly where she dunked fabric into boiling water over and over and over. Sewing had stopped being an option around then. Tanner remembered long nights alone while mama finished her work somewhere else. Sitting in a dark house, listening to the soft, soft breathing of her father, staring sightlessly at the ceiling.
Her gloves were straining. Gripping too tightly again.
Just...
Focus.
Imagine being a fly. Imagine being an awful, loud, whining wasp. The sort with a metallic body, a massive stinger... one of those pompilids. Throat-lockers. Something huge and ugly and terrible.
Imagine flying into a spider web and being wrapped up in long, sticky strands. The web is abandoned, there's no spider to eat you, but there's also no way to escape.
Imagine being trapped. And imagine all that awful whining stopping. No more stinging. No more frightening people. Nothing. Just... paralysed, locked in place, harmless as a kitten. And then... then you can appreciate how shiny the chitin is, how pretty those wings are, the elegant construction of legs and so on. Imagine becoming prettier and lovelier because you were trapped without any chance of escaping.
The wasp was her. The web was restraint. Ritual. Politeness. Even this corset she was wearing was another thing like that, it stopped her moving freely, but that meant she had fewer opportunities to hurt things.
Focus on...
...on the lodges. Right. That worked. Her glove was torn, not good for bringing luck. So... the lodge. They had a candle for her, after all. They'd marked her as a dignified wayfarer, deserving of all the ritual protections they could offer. Not even sure if she believed in any of that, but... well, believing cost her nothing, and it might well give her everything. The consequences of being wrong were a hell of a lot higher if she forsook their rites, right? And they'd spun a web to keep her in place, nicely restrained. And right now, she needed that. An anchor could crush someone, or it could keep a ship in place - but if it couldn't do the former, how could it be expected to do the latter? Same for a spider's web. Could strangle. Could secure. Had to have the capacity for both, or it wasn't a very good web. A wasp made prettier by captivity. An eel made better by having a firmly dictated life cycle, a defined sequence of progression from one state to the next, some invisible inner sense of what it was meant to do. Good animals to take lessons from, wasps and eels. Especially the eels. They had things sorted out.
She'd frightened off one man today, and other passengers were still giving her odd looks. Could sense their gazes prickling the back of her neck like mosquito bites. The river flowed by, dark and clean, too far from any city to be choked with detritus. Sometimes she saw the smoke of distant colonies, little outposts of civilisation in the middle of the wilderness. Wondered if there were any eels in the water. She liked other animals, but... well, eels were familiar and comforting. In the list of things which just automatically made her feel more comfortable about the world, there were eels, pork pies with little bits of blood sausage laced throughout, and brightly coloured ribbons. Her ribbons were largely packed away, and might not be becoming of an adult. She had no pie. Could really do with an eel, then.
Get back to what mattered. Ultimately, she wanted to become a judge. She needed to become a judge, it was expected of her. That meant responsibility, that meant being in a position where she could ruin lives by being too clumsy, too stupid. Restraint wasn't just something she needed to function in normal society, it was something that her new role demanded. Right now, a loss of restraint left a bad impression and snapped a railing. Humiliated her. As a judge, a loss of restraint could ruin a life, bring shame on her profession, maybe even get her flung in prison. Or executed. Hung, darwn, quartered. Doused in the acids she knew theurgists used. Put in front of a train. Forced to give grovelling apologies to the people she'd wronged. Having some small girl burst into tears while asking 'why the big lady took daddy away'. No, stop thinking about catastrophe, just... obligation. So... focus on that. Focus on the fact that she needed to be more restrained, couldn't repeat today's little error.
Focus on the lodges. On the webs they'd spun. She was a nasty wasp, and she had a lovely web. Use it.
Fidelizh slid closer and closer, and all she could do was try and stay calm. Ignore the prickling in her neck. Ignore the burning embarrassment from a single botched conversation.
There was a feeling of... of hatred when she thought about leaving bad impressions. It was like... like agency was being stolen. Like some awful duplicate of her, some evil, mutated version, was born inside someone's head. And there it would stay. Unless she got rid of it, that little version of her would linger forever, stealing things from her life, ruining it whenever it could. She was someone who needed to be restrained at all times, and having a bunch of mutated evil versions of herself running around was the opposite of restraint. She was... she was an infected lepress, and she was constantly spreading little particles of disease around herself, so she had to stay sterile. Had to stay clean. For the sake of her own conscience, and the sake of everyone around her.
And she'd just infected some random man with the impression that she was a brutish, angry, passive-aggressive weirdo with a face like a brick wall. Probably mentally unstable. Physically freakish and mentally unsound. What a combination.
She backed away from the railing.
Took a few deep breaths.
And thought of the day that mama took her to Jovan for the first time. To initiate her. To give her more means of restraining herself.
The East Bank - the old city of Jovan, before it grew the prefix of 'Mahar' like an old and venerable house growing fuzzy with mould.
Though people in Mahar tended to think of it the other way around, Mahar acquiring some ugly little suffix-barnacle.
Tanner's parents were from both. Father was from the East, mother from the West. Not sure what that made her. Presumably some sort of fuzzy barnacle.
She'd never really engaged with the former half of her family - father had left the East bank to move West, to live on the docks where he could be closer to his work, and marry a West-bank girl without getting constant ugly looks from his family and friends. He'd left it all behind, and had been content to leave it that way. But once he was gone... mama didn't have much of a family, beyond a cousin she didn't really talk about, and... times were tough. Very tough.
So one day, she'd told Tanner to wear her best dress, to shine her boots, to use her best ribbons, and to head off with her to Jovan. They'd need to walk - no money for a horse-drawn cab, definitely no money for a train. Plenty of time to mull. Mahar was all Tanner had known up to that point, and she clung close to mama's side while they navigated the long, spidery system of bridges which linked the two cities. When Fidelizh kicked out their king, he came to Mahar, to be closer to his great friend, the king of Jovan. Even now the royal families were fond of one another, apparently. But Mahar swelled with citizens of Fidelizh who came to stay with their king, afraid of the governance of the Golden Parliament. Jovan, the city, never took that very well. To have another state grafted on in a matter of years, to suddenly be bound to someone else in the great striving of nations. Mahar was a city of domes and jewels, of purified voices and delicate gloves. A city which prided itself on being lucky. Filtering the bad, cultivating the good. Like eels filtering water - right, that helped. Tanner and her mama were both a pair of lovely eels wearing a huge mass of gills. Father would've appreciated that observation. But the domes faded into the distance, and Jovan swallowed the two of them. A place where luck was something else entirely. Even if she didn't quite understand how.
The bridges groaned as the wind rammed into them again and again. A complex spiderweb of structures, linking river-towers together. Sometimes they were walking on wide, well-paved roads, easily accommodating the crowds which used them. And sometimes they'd go down a winding staircase and emerge to a rickety wooden thing which creaked under their footsteps. Soldiers watched with mild interest, and a few shared comments on Tanner's appearance - each time they did, she hunched into herself, kept her eyes down, clenched her jaw until it hurt. Wanted to go back home. Father had been left with the nice old lady from across the street, but she... she still worried. Mama seemed to have aged by years in a span of months, and she hid her raw, red, scalded hands under her finest gloves. Another bridge, hard metal that clanked with their footsteps, echoing back and forth. A bell announcing their arrival. Another bridge, ancient wood reinforced with steel, carved with the initials of thousands of travellers. It shook as they crossed it - a ship was going by underneath. Tanner felt an irrational surge of petty anger. One of the mutant-hunters. Could hear the low rumbling song of the hunters on board, and the thundering engines made everything nearby vibrate. Could see glimmerings of bone and brass through the slats of wood, and she glared. Glared at the taut cables holding harpoons in place, at the bones they used to decorate their gruesome craft, at the trophies they mounted from the walls, at the barrels they used for burning the bodies of the dead, at the mottled, half-mutated skin of the hunters...
Her mother hissed.
"Tanner, hurry. We're not getting soaked in smoke before we arrive."
"Yes, mother."
She accelerated to a trot, crossing as quickly as she could to the next tower, just as a thick, black, oily mist began to ooze upwards, consuming the bridge in seconds. Smelled sweet, like something between rot and spice. She'd always liked the smell of the oil refineries, but... just calm down. She was fine. Just a boat. No need to be completely angry at it.
"Come."
"Hm."
"Don't be curt, Tanner. The lodge won't like that."
"Yes, mother."
"That's better. And don't slouch."
"...yes, mother."
They continued, the sound of their steps changing every other minute as they crossed from one bridge to another, shifting across river-towers which stank of water and fish. Each bridge was small, really. Small, and haphazard. By design, of course.
Jovan wasn't entirely eager to have visitors. Each bridge was a reluctant concession - and every little design flaw was a spiteful gesture. The rattling, the groaning, the winding, the shaking. All of it was a little spiteful grumble. A way of saying thou art not welcome here. If Mahar was a bold, intimidating, thundering youngster, then Jovan was a grumbling, hissing neighbour who complained about every scrap of noise past the hour of five-o-clock.
Jovan was a narrow, strange place. They did things differently here - very differently indeed.
Mahar was all expansive domes and broad windows. Jovan was narrow streets and clustering roofs, pointed and sloping. Windows were high-up, barred, easy to shutter - privacy was cherished. Strangers weren't. Gardens were concealed in courtyards, doors were sturdy and weighed down with locks, and the streets were illuminated by reluctant lamps - as if the city was begrudging anyone leaving their homes at all.
Mahar was full of rich clothes and gloves, the means by which people invited luck into their lives, cleansing the bad and leaving only the good. Jovan used buildings as a substitute. Each house was marked around the door and windows with little markings, little charms, small statues... anything to purify. People removed shoes before entering, clapped their hands softly and bowed their heads. Mahar was a city of clothes - Jovan was a city of shoes. Outside every house, locked up in small crates, the shoes of people who'd come to visit or stay. Little indicators that life endured, even if silence pervaded.
Mahar was a city where the gods lived in statues, lucky statues, clad in rich fabrics by worshippers. Hollow stomachs filled with burning incense, leaving scented smoke to course from the mouth, the ears, the nostrils of the statue - incense purified by silks wrapped around them. Mahar's gods exhaled nought but luck. Jovan's gods were hidden in their homes. Sometimes she saw metal eyes glaring out from dusty windows, or smelled the odd oils they used to anoint them. This place had different gods - and they disliked strangers.
Mahar was a city that remembered old splendour and cherished every detail. Mahar was a city that existed as defiance, and it wore that proudly - all wealth and beauty should be displayed, always. Mock the Fidelizhi cowards who'd banished them up here, all that time ago.
Jovan was a city that remembered standing alone, looking upon an empty western bank. Jovan was a city that remembered old wrongs, and had no desire to forgive them. Jovan remembered.
Jovan did not forget.
Tanner had clung close to her mother. Almost comical - she was much taller, and even while shrinking nervously she towered, she loomed. Could feel the weight of new expectations and restraints settling on her. A new web. A new life cycle. The bright ribbons which hung around the front of her dress were attracting looks from people who wore black, brown, with only the occasional tasteful flash of colour - purples, greens, all of it muted. The pointed roofs seemed to bear down on her, the sharp points at their corners seeming like the beaks of huge, dark birds. Even her mama seemed... nervous. Very nervous. The cobbled streets seemed designed to amplify sound, and it bounced around the cramped structures, from the overhanging roofs - any movement was known. Always known. People didn't act openly hostile, but they were silent, watchful, unwilling to lose track of the giant and her mother. Even the children seemed to be part of it, the severity of their stares matching the adults completely. This wasn't her home. But she wasn't sure if going back would do her any good, really.
It was... oddly bonding, really. Mother wasn't any more comfortable here. And when they arrived at a building equally as forbidding as all the others, they shared consolatory glances. First time since father's incident that Tanner had felt really close to her. Always felt embarrassed in some way, like she was... well, like she was a strain. Just something else weighing on her mother's mind. Contributed little and demanded too much. Never sure if her next request would be met with angry refusal, so the best thing to do was just... not request things. Tanner actually had a stomach ache at the moment, not a very pleasant one, but she wasn't going to say so. Wouldn't want to inconvenience her mother, not with all she was going through. Not with the money from the judges running low. The least she could do for the family was shutting up and soldiering on.
The lodge was before them.
Her father's family. The last real support structure they had left - Tanner didn't notice everything, but she was fairly confident that the money situation had been worsening. Been a while since she'd had any new clothes - and she needed new clothes constantly, with the rate she was growing. Tanner had been on one long growth spurt since she was a toddler, and there was no likelihood of it stopping. She felt like a parasite bloating herself on whatever her mother could provide, like some sort of fat sow sticking her snout into the trough over and over and over, while all the other piglets shrivelled and starved. The judges had helped. Speaking of which... a judge swept by, coming close to them. Barely seemed aware until he was a second away from running them over with his long, black-clad legs - he glared into mid-air, furrowed his brows until the entire canvas of his forehead was as wrinkled and rippled as the river during a storm. He looked rather like an enormous cricket, really - black clothes, with shiny dark hair, glittering dark eyes, and a perpetual hunch which his cape only emphasised. He paused a second before running into them, suddenly coughing uncomfortably, almost stumbling over his own feet, and generally appearing like someone suddenly dragged awake after a long reverie.
Tanner immediately bowed her head, smiling widely. Her mother did the same, albeit with slightly more restraint.
"Good afternoon, honoured judge."
Her voice was perkier than it'd been all day. Even if her stomach ached, even if her clothes were uncomfortable, even if her day had little prospect of getting better...
She always acted kindly towards judges.
The man nodded a few times in rapid succession, jerky and stiffly articulated. His smile was small and nervous, and his hands gripped a bundle of papers with rigid force.
"Ah. Good... afternoon, citizen."
He nodded again, for good measure. Tanner kept smiling while her mother spoke.
"I apologise, honoured judge, my daughter is... excitable. Please, we won't keep you."
Tanner spoke suddenly.
"Hope you have a wonderful day, honoured judge."
The judge seemed distinctly uncomfortable with all the attention, and he seemed incapable of not nodding. A wonder that his head had managed to stay anchored to his neck, if he nodded like this in every social situation.
"Ah. Well. Thank you. Very kind, miss, ma'am. And, uh, the same. Wonderful day, and all that. Good day."
And he was off, striding rapidly down the street, cape flapping behind him.
Tanner was always polite to judges. They were the only reason it'd taken months to come to this lodge. After the accident, a judge much like this one had... well, sorted out compensation. Didn't ask for payment, only took payment when it was considered possible to give some. Judge had hauled a bunch of embarrassed mutant-hunters and associated crewmembers along, probed them until they bled facts and sweated confessions, not to mention a little packet of money for the family of the wronged. It hadn't been perfect, but... well, when her father had had his accident, the lodge hadn't really come forward, had they? No-one had, no-one but a judge in a cape, who just... sorted things out with polite determination.
A cough brought her attention back to the present, and her smile closed like a mussel at low tide.
Right.
The lodge.
"Now, Tanner, darling, this is your father's family, and you're to treat them with respect."
"Yes, mama."
"Call me mother while we're in there, it's more proper."
"Yes, mother."
"Their ways might come across as strange, maybe even crude, but you're not to judge them for any of this, and you're not to make any comments on their way of doing things, alright? Best behaviour. Tip-top shape."
"Yes, mother."
"Not even if they're truly bizarre."
"Yes, mother."
"...don't speak unless spoken to, really."
"Yes, mother."
A sharp look, undercut by the fact that she only came up to her daughter's chin.
"Are you capable of saying anything else, Tanner? Anything else in the eyes of someone who isn't a judge?"
Silence.
"Yes, mother."
"Say something else."
"Yes, mother."
"Tanner, please don't try and be funny in there. I don't think they take kindly to humour. They're from Jovan, I think they consider laughter a sin. So, don't try and be funny. It won't go down well."
"No, mother."
"Ah, splendid, you can speak."
"Yes, m-"
"Shush."
Silence. They were just outside an ominous wooden door, studded with reinforced bolts of metal. They ought to knock. Ought to go in. But... Tanner's mother just stood there. She looked old. More grey in her hair. Kept checking her gloves to make sure they didn't show off her reddened hands, scoured by her work. Tanner checked her dress, arranged her ribbons - she still needed them, until she got a dress that fit. Mother adjusted her hair, flinching at the sight of grey strands. Mumbled to herself. Little reassurances that they'd be fine, that Tanner shouldn't worry, that everything was going to be just fine. Reassurances clearly intended for herself more than anyone else. Jovan was many things - welcoming wasn't one of them. And they were here to beg for charity. There was a tinge of humiliation to it all. Incapable of getting by on their own, and Tanner felt partially responsible. She couldn't work like mother did, not with school. She already did all the work she could while taking half-days, but mother was uncomfortable with her flesh and blood running off to the docks to gut fish and mend nets while she 'should' be studying. Kept muttering at dinner that the only way to get ahead was a proper education, luxury that she and Father hadn't received. Tanner paused, and winced as she had to tie her dress a little, little tighter. Getting thinner. Trying to eat less. Hesitated, and adjusted her ribbons until they covered up the torn section she'd never gotten round to repairing.
Mother glanced over.
Tanner kept her eyes away from hers.
Felt too guilty.
"All quite necessary, Tanner. Even if it's... not the most pleasant, sometimes one must... make concessions. Your father would understand."
Will understand. He was still alive. Her jaw clenched slightly, took a second to relax. Mother noticed. She knew what it looked like when Tanner was angry.
Said nothing, though. The next sound was the muffled knock of a gloved hand on a wooden door. And her mother yelling out.
"It's Tonrana Magg! I'm here to talk with-"
It swung open.
And the first of many aunts glowered at them.
"In."
***
The barge snapped back.
Right. She was... yes, she was calm. Thinking of the lodge, the aunts, the uncles, the secrecy of it all... it helped. The lodge had very strict expectations of its members. Loyalty to the lodge, and to the secrets it carried, to the spirits it revered. Opposition to all other lodges of Jovan, and to the great urban mass of Mahar. She remembered years of flickering back and forth every week, heading to the lodge to perform her rites, to reacquaint herself with her relatives, become Jovanite again. Cleanse herself of the impurities of the Other Place. The world was a dangerous place, the lodge said. Full of strangers and witches. Witches were people who frothed with natural malevolence, projected it outwards in an aura. They drank luck like a horse drank water from a trough, like a mosquito drank blood. Witches sapped. It was... funny, the contrast. Mahar was all about filtering bad luck out and allowing the good luck to flow in. Luck was an individual pursuit. Jovan was more... collective. Fortune was found in the lodges, nowhere else. Fortune was something only the group could cultivate for its members, and bad fortune was something witches were constantly trying to inflict. Indeed, they sometimes performed rites of their own, to direct the malevolence of witches elsewhere. Confident that all the other lodges were doing the same thing.
The expectations calmed her. The world aligned to ritual significance, a second, unreal landscape impressed itself over the first... she stopped being Tanner, and became just another player in an established role.
Good. That was good. That was safe.
She was... fine. Her breathing had steadied. And Fidelizh was close. The journey wasn't an especially long one, but it'd... there was nothing familiar now. Mahar and Jovan were both gone. Those cities had raised her, and... gone. She was a foreigner in a foreign land. Like Mr. Pocket, really. Just like Mr. Pocket, maybe he'd been driven peculiar by leaving his home behind. Maybe she'd be talking about what it was like cleaning the blood from her father's paralysed face, spooning mushy food into his mouth, helping move him around so he didn't get bed sores... no, she'd never be like that. She was much too polite for it. She wound up sitting down on one of the many benches scattered around the place, resting her legs, staring out at the landscape. They passed from the river to a lake, surrounded by little filaments of irrigation heading outwards to distant colonies. Not close enough to really see them. Probably for the best, she... didn't really want to acknowledge other people at the moment. The other passengers were drifting vaguely, eager to get things over with. The barge from Mahar Jovan to Fidelizh was fast - the river was swift, swollen with new rains, they were going downstream, downhill too, and this barge had one of those newfangled engines keeping it going. Sort of thing they used to only give out to soldiers. Going back home would be much harder - pushing against the current and all.
Probably a parable in that.
Hours passed, and she dozed. Felt relaxed. She was on a path chosen for her, she had her little means of dealing with stress, she was fine. Just... well, thinking about her father, and having to talk with a stranger, and embarrassing herself completely by splintering that rail, it... anyway. Anyway. She was just fine. The water was clear, she could imagine all sorts of lovely little lifeforms living in the deeps, and the gentle rocking of the barge made her think of a cradle being tipped back and forth. She was fine. Mother was better-off without Tanner around, the lodge would be happy to see her making something of herself, and there were much worse fates than becoming a judge. Much, much worse fates. Plus, push came to shove, if it turned out that she was a complete dolt who couldn't understand hide nor hair of the law, she could... well, Fidelizh had other opportunities. For now, she was fine. There were worse careers than becoming a Judge of the Golden Door.
...they did have some lovely capes.
And they never really looked hungry, now did they?
Hours flew by as she imagined what her cape might be like, what the work might be like, how difficult it might be... she knew very little going in, none of her family had come from Fidelizh, and she'd never visited.
And as the first structures slid into sight, as they reached the great urban sprawl, as the land suddenly bulged upwards like a pimple by the reservoirs of foundation stone...
Time to find out, then.
It was... interesting, comparing Fidelizh to the other places. Mahar and Jovan, that is. Mahar was bright and full of domes. Jovan was narrow and full of closed-off houses where lodges practised witchcraft to stay ahead of the game. Fidelizh...
Fidelizh felt like staring at a knife.
Everything seemed to have blades to it. The towers were tall, nearly conical, each one surmounted by a long, sharp needle that must've had some sort of ritual purpose. Many of the towers had long windmills attached, rotating gently in the slight breeze. No idea what for. Not sure if there was a reason - but there was an armada of slowly turning blades, many of them lavishly decorated with swirls of conflicting colours. One of the towers passed by, lying on the outskirts of the city, just beyond the furthest protective wall. Huge, spiralling, like some sort of enormous termite mound or exotic seashell. Or a stinger. A huge, coiling stinger. The windows in the sides of the tower were long, thin slits, like small wounds, and each one was shuttered with sharp blinds. The blades of the tower's windmill were decorated with looming faces, painted in vivid shades of green and grey. Frowning men and frowning women, eyes shut and brows furrowed. The main door to the tower was, likewise, long and thin and... decorated. The doors, both of them made of heavy wood, were painted gaudily with something she... wasn't quite sure about. Not sure what it represented, or why it was so eerily flesh-coloured and-
...oh.
Oh.
Oh.
Fidelizh was a degenerate city and she was already terrified of it, while doing her best not to shatter another railing. The towers were people. The faces on the windmills. The long, conical shapes, sculpted to look almost organic. And the doors, the huge doors at the front, were... well... there was something distinctly reproductive about them. The smooth curves of the decorations, the pinkish shades giving way to black, the positioning in the widening bulb of the tower...
She'd heard that Fidelizh wore their gods. Let them ride on their backs by incarnating them via clothes, actions, accents.
Didn't realise they extended that privilege to their buildings as well.
One thing she was glad hadn't been carried over to Mahar, honestly.
The river was increasingly crowded, full to bursting with barges, cargo ships, gunboats with grim-faced soldiers... the river was choked with trash again. And she saw new brands. Unfamiliar brands. Bottles of liquor she didn't know existed, some still leaking strangely-coloured liquid into the river around them. The unpleasantly anatomical towers rose high around them as they proceeded inwards, and she found herself craving even the cloistered hostility of Jovan. Might've been dark and strange and not enormously friendly, but... she knew it. She understood it. At least one house in that mass of buildings was friendly to her, mostly. This place... and the bones. The boneyards. The city walls were clustered with them. Mounted like trophies on the smooth, grey stone - the bones of mutants from the Great War. Monstrous shapes, each one completely unique, mottled with strange nodules and with sockets allowing for far too many eyes. She didn't even know that Fidelizh was besieged, but... maybe they just felt like some morbid trophies. She felt like she was descending into a crowd, the towers looming and the faces on the windmills glaring sightlessly down. Surrounded by giants taller than even her. She shrank into her dress, pulled her little rain-cape closer, resisted the urge to hug herself.
She still had some lucky clothes, though. Remember that. And the lodge was protecting her from any hostile witchcraft, she knew that much. They'd be keeping up the highest protections until she was settled and had sent a letter to confirm her arrival. Must be ringing so many bells, so many, just to keep her safe from all the malevolence of the strangers in the world. Her face was painfully flat - and that meant she was more nervous than ever.
This place was crowded. Beyond crowded. There were so very many people here, crammed between the tall, tall buildings, wearing brightly-coloured clothes. The earth trembled, and a train screamed past them on the shore, entering the city via one of many little steel-grey veins, pumping goods and people into something that was...
A sudden clunk.
And the barge came to a stop.
She shuffled forwards, staring outwards hesitantly, feeling like an absolute country bumpkin.
...dam.
The river had been... been dammed. She'd heard about this, but didn't quite...
No wonder there was a massive lake behind them. All that water had to go somewhere.
The dam was vast. Barely visible, though - there was just a low thump, and they came to a stop as an alarmingly small stone barrier prevented them from going any further. It stretched from bank to bank, curving into something like a gentle smile, with a conical tower at each end. And from there... it soared downwards. A stone waterfall, locking back the entire river's flow. And at the bottom, amidst dust and confusion, she could vaguely see a few feeble trickles easing their way through, glittering like snail trails. And there were... there were people at the bottom, scuttling around in the dust, around a whole... a whole shantytown, stinking and steaming, built into the strangely-shaped bed of the old river. A branch of the mighty Tulavanta, just... squeezed shut. Commanded to stop. The dam made the city seem even vaster, gave it a valley to occupy, a deep, deep valley, worn into the foundation stone of the city. And the shantytown at the bottom was... eerie to look at, with its little brown structures, the seething mass of people, the low roar of a crowd which echoed upwards even from below. Saw a whole mass of black mud from which structures grew like outcroppings of coral. The crowds which moved through it were uniform from this height, and it made it look like the river's life had just... adapted to breathing air once the water was gone. She was in a boat, and she could look down at an entire town. A whole seething ecosystem of mud and shacks and wriggling crowds.
The world was...
There was quite a lot of it, wasn't there?
Tanner gripped her hands together tightly, and tried to invite as much luck as she possibly could. She wasn't even sure if she believed in any of it, but... it was something. Right now, it was all she had, really. All she had that she understood and could do.
Home.
This was home now.
No going back. Either she kept going forwards willingly, or she went forwards unwillingly. The river crashed around them, driving the barge inexorably towards the city, towards locks which would direct them to the right areas, the right offices. Already there were guards watching the barge carefully, hands on their rifles. Veterans with hollow eyes and downturned lips, next to new recruits who were just eager to be holding a weapon. Complaining wasn't an option, now. Nor was retreat.
Just had to endure. And accept that this... strange place, full of people, with a shantytown built into the bed of a drained river and towers with unpleasant anatomical shapes was...
Was home.
Home.
Still didn't sound right.
***
"Reason for travelling?"
A large man (still smaller than her) with a waxed moustache stared up at her disinterestedly. Tanner coughed, and forced a nice big welcoming smile onto her face. Tried to avoid looking at his hands - no gloves. All officials back home wore gloves, it was lucky, you didn't want some unlucky person pasting their bad luck all over your documents, those things had to be lucky. It wasn't a taboo or anything, but... but still, it was a bit like meeting someone in a suit which lacked a tie, you immediately wondered 'oh goodness what happened to their tie' and 'oh goodness am I dressed too formally' or 'oh goodness this much be a lecher of the highest order and a bum and a swindler and he probably used his tie to strangle someone to death'.
Or something along those lines, anyway.
The immigration office stank of travel. The accumulated residue from thousands of unwashed mouths, clothes stiff with stressed sweat, the warmth of a hundred thousand yawns from a hundred thousand travellers. There were no windows, only vents filled with metallic fans. Paintings of strange figures hung on the walls. The air was hot. Much too hot. She could feel how unkempt her hair was, how much she needed to splash some water on her face. Like she was wearing a thick layer of makeup. People behind her. People ahead of her. Guards in crisp green uniforms, impossibly well-kept despite the heat, the smell, the unyielding lights which turned everything into universal noon, killed shadows were they stood. A tiny trickle of sweat was easing out of her hair like a small glass eel, slithering with painful slowness down her neck, a little trail that she ached to wipe away, ached to, but... but she could see the revolvers the officials had, the rifles held by the larger guards stationed here and there. Didn't want to alarm them by moving too quickly. They looked at the pulsing mass of humanity with disinterest. How many humans did you need to see in one day before they all blended together, became as trite and boring as pigs in a slaughterhouse?
Stop being morbid.
Stop being morbid. Mr. Pocket was morbid, and if she was morbid, then...
Come on, keep smiling.
"Joining the Judges of the Golden Door, sir. Travelling from Mahar Jovan to do it. Sir."
Oh, wait, she had a tactic for this! Hated annoying people. She picked out the special little thing of mints she'd bought before coming here, nice little droplet-things, very refreshing. The man looked at them strangely as she placed them gently on his cluttered desk.
"...are you bribing me?"
Oh no.
"No, no, sir, not bribing. Just... thought you might like some mints."
She should've brought cigars, absolute dolt. The man grunted hoggishly.
"Uh-huh. Alright. Do you have a letter of introduction, Miss... Magg?"
"Yes, sir. Passed the preliminaries in Mahar Jovan, heading here to start a foundation course. Sir."
A small pause. The man stared up, nonplussed. She smiled continuously, feeling her cheeks straining. Mother said to smile when being polite, her usual flat face made her look insane. And always give nice little mints. Always. In Mahar Jovan, it was because the lodge was always watching, always. And they didn't take kindly to bad behaviour. And in Fidelizh it was... well, it was nice to be nice.
"...may I see the letter of introduction?"
Crumbs.
"Sir, yes, sir, sorry. Sorry. Just a moment. Just... sorry, just getting it from... alright, here we are. Sorry, sir. Thank you, sir."
Steady on, Tanner. And... oh, she did a little head-bow. No, no, better to be too polite than remotely rude. She needed bigger pockets, hated that feeling of struggling to get a too-large letter out of a too-small pocket, made her feel clumsy.
And she wasn't clumsy.
Just... well, large.
The man looked increasingly uncomfortable, and scanned the letter as quickly as he could, pausing to struggle with a few of the unfamiliar shapes. His accent had been fine thus far - Fidelizhi and Diarchic were similar languages, but... well... Fidelizhi sounded like you were speaking Diarchic through a mouthful of corks. And written Diarchic looked like written Fidelizhi but with very subtle changes in grammar and vocabulary, a bunch of random loan-words from other places too. Thus far she'd been fine. She was very worried about the future, though. Hell, she was very worried about a lot of things, this was really no different. The thunder of the immigration office was damn near deafening, and she found sweat prickling at the back of her neck. How many people wanted to get into Fidelizh? How many did they process each day? Where were all these pepole coming from? For her, moving was a massive deal, the second-biggest thing to ever happen in her life, she couldn't imagine doing this if a bunch of random events hadn't lined up perfectly, and yet... apparently hundreds of people today alone were making similarly vast choices. What was the likelihood that hundreds of people would all have a once-in-a-lifetime moment leading them here on this exact day?
Just seem... a bit unlikely? No, she was just missing something. Stop being a dolt.
"...right, all seems in order. Any luggage being sent down behind you?"
"No, sir."
"...that's all you're bringing?"
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."
He snorted suddenly.
"What are you apologising for? Not my luggage you're leaving behind."
"Right. Sir. Sorry."
She should've brought more mints, then she could just keep offering them to him in lieu of conversation. She tried to at least put some more teeth in her smile. That might work.
"Sure you can get by on your own?"
No.
"Yes, sir. I think so."
"Hm. Well. Mahar Jovan... are you familiar with any reactionary groups within that city?"
"Which one?"
She spoke automatically, and realised her mistake a moment later.
"...which group? You know multiple?"
"No, no, no, I meant, I meant which city. Mahar or Jovan. Sorry, sir. Sorry."
The guard leaned backwards in his chair, straining the old, slightly damp wood. His fingers drummed a little rhythm on the surface, and she could see where the ink from his work had stained the skin deeply. Made him look almost diseased, like all the blood had stopped flowing to the tips of his fingers and they were starting to turn black. Another reason why gloves were nice, they stopped... no, maintain eye contact, keep smiling, be calm. She had all her documents, didn't she?
"Either. Any reactionary elements, those advocating for monarchy restoration, retribution, anything of the sort?"
"No, sir. None."
"Never been part of any?"
"None."
"Do you know anyone connected to any?"
"I... don't think so. No. Sir."
...reactionaries? Monarchy restoration? Did... Fidelizh really worry about that? About Mahar coming back to set up the king on the empty throne in the Golden Parliament? Why? Mahar and Jovan combined couldn't even keep Krodaw, that colony had fallen years and years ago, and that was a little outpost surrounded by people her mother called savages, barely able to read, let alone fight. How could the king come back to a place as large as Fidelizh when his city could barely hold onto a little colony? No, best not to raise any objections. Just be innocent.
"Hm. Alright. As an émigré to Fidelizh, do you accept the restriction of the right to vote in the Golden Parliament?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you consent to being monitored and interviewed by members of the Erlize in the interest of preserving the republic's security?"
Who?
"Yes, sir."
"And do you agree to remain apolitical, recognising that any engagement with domestic political associations is to be considered tantamount to agitation by a foreign element, and will be treated accordingly?
She had no idea what was happening.
"Yes, sir?"
"You don't sound confident."
Her back stiffened.
"Sorry. Yes, sir."
He sized her up carefully. What kind of a place was Fidelizh? Seemed to be lots of soldiers scattered around, and... why were they so paranoid about her being an agitator? She just wanted to judge things, agitating was really the last thing on her mind. And who on earth were the Erlize? The official drummed his fingers a few more times, the mass of papers in front of him filled with all the details of Tanner's life. Age, name, date of birth, family history, employment, all that business. She'd had to already declare seven different times that she wasn't a revolutionary in any sense of the word. Fidelizh was... it was much larger than Mahar Jovan. Felt like everything was magnified somehow. The buildings a bit too tall, the people a little too loud, the paranoia a little too intense. Anyway. The official grunted, stamping a few papers with the empty throne seal of Fidelizh. Taken pity on her.
"Hm. Well. Any foreign currency to declare?"
"...yes, sir."
"Illegal to bring into Fidelizh. No foreign currency, understand? Keep that in mind while you're here, it'll keep you out of trouble. Give it over, I'll give you a slip, you go and give it to the office over there, they'll work out what you're owed. Welcome to Fidelizh, incidentally. Hope you have a pleasant stay."
Felt oddly emotional, giving up her crisp notes and coins, printed with the twin faces of the twin monarchs. Ooh, she even had a Krodaw coin, those were rare these days, once the colony went up in flames and everyone ran away shamefully. The lodge still grumbled about losing Krodaw, that was a collectible coin, could get... no, it was gone. Deposited in a box, added to a mental tally. A little scribbling, and she had her receipt. A few minutes later, and she had local money. No king on the notes, just an empty throne, and the seal of the Golden Parliament. No landscapes, just the strange image of a stylised figure dancing on the other side - a man, limbs flying in all directions, head tilted backwards and mouth wide open. Each finger splayed so far apart it looked almost painful. Unsure what it meant, what it symbolised... so much here seemed stranger. Just a little off. And when she was ushered out of the office, into the bustling city beyond, nothing but some vague directions to guide her to the central temple for the judges...
An avalanche of new sensations.
Voices speaking in a language she struggled to understand.
Hair pushed by the breeze of dozens of enormous windmills whirring at once.
Nose assaulted by the stench of the lakebed shantytown in the distance.
Eyes strained by the bright, gaudy clothes, chosen without reference to anything so crude as fashion, but clearly with some logic behind it all, some reasoning moving on the surface of the chaos.
Her skin prickled with unfamiliar gazes. Her clothes felt wrong, she felt like she was arriving at a funeral in a clown costume. The lodge's lessons spilled through her mind - witchcraft, she was surrounded by witchcraft, the city was hungry and it was trying to drink away every hint of her fortune.
She gripped her bag harder, straining slightly with the weight. Every worldly possession. Every last one.
She glanced around nervously, wondering if... well, if maybe she could go back, or rest inside the office for a little longer, or simply...
A large sign glared back at her. No Returning This Way. A guard glowered at her, his mutton chops tipped with tiny beads of sweat, like morning dew on some black-and-grey shrub. His eyes remained fixed on her as she shuffled away, almost trying to hold her breath as long as she could. Could see Mr. Pocket inside the office, too, and a flush of embarrassment made her want to move as quickly as possible. He looked up from the official interviewing him, and his dark, shadowed eyes caught a sudden glimpse of a very nervous Tanner standing on the fringe of the street, preparing to dive into the churning human mass of Fidelizh. The two locked eyes for a second, and he waved cheerily, his long fingers almost like the twitching antennae of some enormous insect. Tanner froze. He was almost through processing. He'd be out soon. Might want to keep the conversation going. Might not. Both possibilities were equally unpleasant, even the latter, because it meant she'd really offended him and left a terrible impression and oh goodness-
Move, move, move, move, move, move, do anything to avoid the discomfort of an awkward interaction, just move move move move move move move-
And in a city of coiling towers, windmills with the faces of gods, doors shaped like birthing canals, and a river drained and stuffed with tottering buildings, where each civilian was both human and god at once, and driven by the force of social embarrassment...
Tanner Magg came home. Whether she liked it or not.
By all rights, she should feel at home. She was half-Maharite. Descended from Fidelizhi immigrants. And apparently at least some people back in Mahar wanted to come back to Fidelizh, reinstate the king, take over again. Enough for Fidelizh to be worried about it, anyway. And yet, as she stepped into the great flow of humanity, all she could feel was a rising tide of nervousness. She was surrounded by a pantheon of gods. People wore deliberately torn jackets and trousers to symbolise the god they were allowing to inhabit them for now, whose qualities they desired to incarnate, their hats were filled with odd charms and ribbons... the air was thick with the scent of cheroots. Huge cigars, brown paper wrapped around odd, near-translucent leaves, burned to produce a haze of grey-blue smoke which smelled of too many things to count. She walked within a great cloud layer. All a bit too overwhelming. She was taller than everyone around her, but it felt like she was still drowning in the great mass.
The crowds were a flowing, seething river, and Tanner waded through them with difficulty, trying to reach the streets she needed. Felt like she was a foreign organism inside a body which didn't particularly want her around. Less like moving, more like being digesed, the crowd squeezing, contracting, pushing, shoving... directing her along with painful motions. She had to wade through the bodies, wrapped up in strange clothes. Towering above most of them, yet still... still feeling her age. Alone and afraid, yet towering and domineering. It became hard to pick people apart, and she instinctually started to hunch her shoulders and power through, keenly aware of her bag slapping against her leg with each straining motion. The legs of the crowd were like the legs of a colossal centipede, one fused organism. The arms were like infinite cilia, heads and hair like waving sensory fronds. Squirming organisms moving between the vast god-towers, decorated with faces and other anatomical features. Felt like she was swimming in a waking nightmare, surrounded by a choking haze, struggling just to stay upright.
Keenly aware of how she could break free if she started hitting things. Wouldn't be hard. She had a big bag on her, enough to crack some jaws. Just start smacking, and she'd clear some room. Who'd stop her? Who'd... no, no, remember. Restraint. Not becoming of a judge, not becoming of a lodge member. She tried to imagine her clothes, embroidered with filters to take away the bad luck of the world, like a kind of... of shield. Like the tough, rubbery skin of a sea creature, over which water flowed easily, never soaking inwards. Resistant. Unyielding. She soldiered onwards, forcing her way through the pulsing crowds, shuddering slightly whenever someone brushed a little too close, keenly aware of all the eyes on her. The unfamiliar smells, sounds, sights. Just slither through, pack ritual and habit around herself like layers of armour, her clothes filtering out bad luck, the lodge filtering out witchcraft, expectation filtering out her own hesitation.
And just as suddenly as it began...
Free.
Silence reigned around her. The crowd was still nearby, but... she'd broken from the main river, entered to a lesser tributary. A smaller road, winding between more reasonably-sized structures. She was alone - not totally, but compared to just a few minutes ago...
Her boots echoed loudly as she walked, and she kept her head low. Didn't want to meet people's eyes. Tired. Much too tired. Could feel a dull ache beginning in her arm where she'd been carrying her bag for too long, made her feel larger and clumsier than she really was. People steered clear of her, thankfully. The city was... well, it was dense, and almost mottled. The city seemed to prefer to build upwards rather than outwards, maximising what they had rather than just claiming more land in all directions. It was dense, and it emanated. Sometimes she'd walk down long, straight avenues for long, long minutes, uncertain of when she'd have to turn, how to gauge distances, all the little marks of familiarity she'd long-since grown accustomed to. Her mental map of the city was still forming - it only existed as a string of instructions in a letter, nothing more. No idea where things were in reference to one another. But... yes, long straight avenues, flanked by building upon building, and then just as suddenly, she'd turn a corner, and the streets would become older. Curving, winding, passing into smaller, shadowed courtyards where small, packed shops filled the air with steam. A more aromatic haze than the crowd had produced. Older men and women gave her odd looks as she stumbled through, checking her letter every other second, terrified of losing her way.
Little pockets of old city, surrounded by expansive grids lined with huge god-towers, weighed down by slowly rotating sails. And while the central river, the Irizah, had been drained... new rivers had taken its place. Dust. Dust, rising up from the drained bed, nothing to anchor it in place. Flowing through the narrow courtyards in little eddies and currents, propelled by the slightest movement of the breeze. She became a tricoloured individual as she walked, like some sort of living national flag - her head reached into the haze of steam and smoke from drinking shops and cheroots respectively, seeping into her face and her hair, leaving her feeling a steely grey. Her torso was in the open air, and remained untouched. And her lower legs were slowly turned a dull, monotonous brown by the rushing rivers of dust, the ghost of the river-that-had-been.
The Judges were in one of the old pockets, the lingering places where Fidelizh felt its age. She could tell by the curving of the streets, the sagging of the buildings, and the faceless statues. Kings, maybe - they had the crowns for it. The defaced features of kings worn smooth by rain. Wounds turned to scars turned to unblemished surfaces. Age swallowed Tanner whole, and the constant, erratic breezes from the turning windmills above made her feel perpetually off-balance. Clutched her letter so tightly she was afraid of tearing it by accident. Invitation to study. Acceptance of application. Confirmation of her results in the preliminaries, taken in a dull and dusty hall rented out for the occasion. She was meant to be here, she had everything she needed, no mistakes had been made. Kept checking, though. Sometimes she even stopped simply to unclasp her bag, check that she had all her necessities. Did a weird jig every few minutes where she patted all of her pockets - wallet, letters, little watch, mints, tiny phrasebook, documents, documents... and then she'd do it all over again a minute or so later, terrified that something had fluttered away while she was distracted.
She turned...
And almost ran into a wall.
...uh.
Um.
That... wall wasn't meant to be there. She checked the letter, checked the vague directions, tried to piece together where she'd... a small, cold pit formed in her stomach. Oh. She was... was she lost? No, definitely not lost, just had to retrace her steps and she'd be fine. She walked backwards, boots clicking, before turning on her heel and moving forwards as quickly as she dared. But... but one problem was coming up. She'd been walking along with faint confidence, or at least, not the same kind of absolute paranoia. All distances felt longer when she was nervous. All. Had she turned off here? Or... had she turned off here, and she was just imagining that she'd walked further than she really had? The buildings surrounding her were forbiddingly anonymous, the windows dark, the silence choking. Her face became absolutely flat as her nervousness rose. Nope, not this way, and... and she was afraid to make any turnings, because if she did, without any reference to where she meant to be, she'd just be getting lost in the urban labyrinth even more. She was in one of the little mottled stretches of old city, where the streets wound through infinite little courtyards, and faceless kings loomed from little recessed pedestals.
Oh no.
She might very well be lost.
Lost in a foreign city.
More than fear, she felt... angry at herself. Idiot. Should've just been able to navigate the handful of miles to the inner temple, moron. Or, maybe she could've thought about things like trains, or even one of those horse-drawn cabs, the option was available, she had money, but no. Bumpkin, immediately thought of walking because she hadn't been able to afford a proper train before, or anything of that sort. No idea if Fidelizh even really did trains for this sort of distance. Idiot, idiot. Her bag weighed her down as she staggered cautiously in one direction, then another, then another, then another... never committing. Afraid of moving when she didn't know what would come next. For all she knew, she'd run into the bad part of town. For all she knew, she was already in the bad part of town, and this was just an off-hour. The god-towers seemed to leer down at her menacingly, the stoic faces twisting and distorting as the painted windmill sails moving closer and further away, never resolving at a properly comfortable angle. No, she was... the lodge was doing the witchcraft thing, and her gloves were still lucky. Should've brought more lucky objects, though. Glasses, maybe, then her sight would be blessed with luck. Or one of those little fashionable hair-needles that apparently helped bless thoughts with luck.
She stumbled...
And entered another courtyard. One among many. A faceless king, torso smashed up until it seemed like he'd been disembowled, loomed sadly over affairs - high-up enough to resist other acts of vandalism. Smooth grey stones below, and towering houses all around. Fidelizh built these places strangely, seemed to like using far too many tiles on the roofs, and used sharp, sharp blinds for the narrow little windows. Like they didn't want people poking around inside their houses at all, not with their eyes, and based on the thickness of the walls, not with their ears. Everything had to be insulated and sealed. Like the lodges in Jovan, but... not quite, those were just private, these places looked like little fortresses against the outside world. None seemed occupied at the moment, and the etiquette around knocking on random doors was beyond her. Though... if she had no other option... go on. Just ask. Ask a little question. Inconvenience someone very slightly, and learn how to get to her new home. It was very important she get there today, all she had to do was ask a little, little question, bother someone temporarily.
She stepped forwards.
Just bother someone a little bit. Ask a little question they didn't expect to get asked, approach a stranger near their home, loom in their doorway like a solid mass of brutish stupidity, looking all sweaty and lost and slightly unstable, with a very heavy bag, so she might even be a roving transient. Just ask a little question, and hope that there wasn't some... some child in there who'd wake up when she knocked on the door, wailing and driving his parents to madness. Or maybe the person inside was just weird. Maybe she'd knock, the door would open, and Mr. Pocket would be there to talk about more of his dead relatives, and he'd invite her in and then she'd have to deal with being inside a stranger's house with strange smells and strange everything and-
She stepped backwards.
Nope. Not knocking.
...but she was lost. She didn't know how to move on.
Stepped forwards...
And she was going to make someone feel uncomfortable, she'd leave a bad impression, she knew that Fidelizh had loads of people coming in from the devastated lands north of Tulavanta, camping out in the shantytowns, maybe the person on the other side wouldn't even understand her language and maybe they'd just start yelling at her because they thought she was here looking for a handout and maybe she'd be able to explain but there'd be a long, painful moment of confusion and non-comprehension and bad impressions and she was large so she naturally gave bad impressions and-
She stepped back.
Heard slight whispering.
Turned sharply, her bag slapping painfully against her knees as she did so. She hauled it up a little, holding it protectively in front of herself, breathing heavily through her nose and-
Oh.
...that was a drinking-house?
Wait, wait, what did they... right, in Mahar Jovan, they just called them drinking-houses, but... what did they use in Fidelizh? Kaff, that was it. Local kaff, then.
It didn't look like a kaff, though, it looked like just another house, but based on the people looking out through the unshuttered window...
She blushed. Tucked her hair behind her ears, and shuffled a bit - yes, she was just doing some... weird exercises, that was all. The only reason for the step-in-step-out dance she'd been doing, that was it. Hm, actually, kaff, could pop in, ask a question, and... no, they'd seen her acting like a country bumpkin. No, her reputation with them was unsalvageable, might as well leave before they summoned the authorities, maybe the ominous-sounding Erlize, whoever they were, and whatever they were. If she got arrested on her first day in this place...
"You... need help?"
Someone had opened the front door to the kaff - looked like it was one of those places you actually had to make an effort to enter, you couldn't just swan around and drift in, you needed to commit. Couldn't even see a sign above the place - was it just... anyway. A waitress was looking at her strangely, while wearing a bizarrely lurid blue sash around her waist, plus a pair of pince-nez which... almost looked aquamarine. No idea. None. No, wait, maybe she was... Fidelizh had a habit of incarnating their gods into themselves, letting the god ride around on their back to grant boons in exchange for doing certain things which emulated the god in question. Almost like reverse reincarnation - metaphor she'd heard from... anyway, anyway. Time for that later. The waitress was looking at her oddly, and Tanner blinked a few times before replying.
"Oh, I'm very sorry, I think I might be slightly lost."
The waitress hummed.
"Right, where to?"
"Inner temple. Judges. Sorry, it's my first time in the-"
"You want to take that entrance out, then turn left, then..."
She paused.
"...hm. I'm... gosh, this is embarrassing, I've never really needed to go there. Look, step inside, should be someone here who knows more."
Tanner stumped closer.
"Gosh, you're tall."
"...yes. Yes, I am."
"Not mutated, are you?"
"No, no, no, definitely not, never been mutated, miss. Ah, well, there was a skin tag on my wrist, I did a lot of fish gutting, accidentally touched a few, just snipped it all off like I'm meant to, sterilised it, did everything I was meant to do, I'm sorry, that's really the only time I've been, uh, sorry, I-"
The waitress was snorting with laughter.
"Gods, calm down, not going to whip out the flamethrowers. Come on, have a sit down, you massive berk."
Berk?
Local dialect. Goodness. What a strange place this was... 'berk', what an odd word. She winced visibly as the little stairs leading to the front door strained under her weight, creaking like something about to collapse and send her sprawling with the waitress demanding repayment for vandalism, and... she winced again as she ducked to fit through the door, hunching into herself to try and reduce her profile. It was one of those houses with narrow corridors and narrow staircases, the kind she absolutely dominated when she entered them. She had important things to think about and ask about, but right now all she could consider was the chairs. If they were too small and delicate, if they'd strain and shatter, if she'd have room to stand in such a way that she didn't loom... she'd broken one chair in her life, one, and she'd woken up night after night afterwards in a cold sweat. Crumbs, she was thinking about it again, she was already getting goose-flesh up and down her arms.
Thank every god for sleeves.
The kaff was small, but... homely. It was odd, Fidelizh was a city with the largest, most gaudy towers she'd ever seen, a religion which incentivised people to dress up ludicrously in order to become gods, and yet... this kaff was small, cloistered, kept away from the general public. Away from prying eyes, certainly - if those shutters hadn't been opened up to get some fresh air, she'd never have known there even was a kaff. Maybe half a dozen other people, most of them clustered around game boards filled with little odd-shaped pieces. They were, as she'd expected, dressed up like circus clowns from back home - all bright colours and strange arrangements. Most of them looked well-to-do, healthy and hale, but their clothes... there was a man with a solid gold pocket watch, and a suit which bordered on the shabby. She could see the places where it'd almost worn down to nothing, held together by threads. Four men, two women, all giving her wary looks. The waitress slipped into the back, gesturing before she went for Tanner to sit down, take a load off her feet. Chair looked stable enough, though she'd be perching on it like a stool... hm, second thought. She did perch - resting on her feet more than anything, barely using the chair to stabilise herself. Didn't want to put too much weight on the thing.
The kaff was completely silent.
The people kept giving her looks as she settled.
Right. She knew what needed to be done. Knew it like she knew the backs of her hands, gloves or no gloves.
"Rather... muggy weather, isn't it?"
See, you needed to take the initiative with things like this. Once a goodly awkward silence set in, clearing it was like trying to scrape bacon fat out of a narrow drain. Especially with groups. Either she made a good impression as a chatty person, or she made a bad impression as a withdrawn oaf. And she'd already blundered once today. Twice, if she counted almost bribing the official at the office. Thrice, if she counted getting lost. Four times if she counted that business with the doors. Four times... quice? Quarice? The diners looked at one another - she only just now saw what they were actually eating. Combination of black, pungent stuff in little cups, the kind she was good at shattering accidentally, and orange stuff in glasses which looked almost luminescent. Food was just... well, finger food. Scones and whatnot. Gods, she was hungry. One of the ladies coughed.
"Ah. Yes. Muggy. Terribly warm."
One of the men nodded thoughtfully.
"Warm."
The other lady sipped some of the strange orange liquid and hummed.
"Yes, quite warm, indeed."
Another man shook his head sadly.
"Not cold, not cold at all."
A third man grunted.
"Wouldn't say it was cold, no. Warm, warm without a doubt."
Tanner nodded solemnly.
"Quite warm."
The first lady laughed slightly.
"Yes, ra-ther warm, ra-ther warm, not good weather for coats."
The other lady nodded seriously.
"Nor for boots, I'd say."
The final man raised a finger.
"But not quite sandal weather, honestly. I mean, not quite weather for sandals. Solid shoes... but not boots, that's true. But also not sandals."
Tanner was having an amazing time, this was the easiest conversation she'd had all day. She just had to keep nodding and talking about the weather. And not break her chair. And find her way to her new home. The usual. The waitress stepped quietly out of the backrooms, a glass of that strange orange liquid in her hand, a small cheroot clenched between her teeth. She wasn't smoking it, thankfully - just chewing slightly, relishing in the small droplets of thick brown liquid that emerged from the strange, broad leaves. Tanner took the glass, relishing in the coolness of it, the way it perspired slightly in the damp heat of Fidelizh... quickly scanned the room. Still mumbling about the weather, but this time they were comparing it to different years, which seemed like a very good idea - not like they were going to run out of years anytime soon, after all. Small-talk was just a perpetual motion machine for conversation, if you hooked yourself into it you could keep going and going and going forever without actually saying anything, and that suited Tanner just fine. Small-talk was the greatest gift ever given to the chronically nervous. Socially acceptable rambling, really.
And... yes, they were drinking the stuff in her hand. It was for drinking, not... uh, dipping one's fingers in, or pouring into the eye socket, or something equally weird. Not that she'd want to pour it into her eye socket, but once you found out that was expected, it was rather hard to say no.
A sip.
For a second, nothing.
Then her eyes widened.
That one sip felt like a blazing, ice-cold comet plummeting right down her throat, a little chip of razor-sharp burning magnesium slicing right to her core. Her stomach felt like it was on fire, her pores felt like they were swelling and bursting like the calderas of volcanoes mid-eruption. A great exhalation seemed to come out of her lungs, hotter and stronger than any she'd done before, almost making her teeth rattle from the force (or so she imagined), and... it was like being blasted from head to foot, inside and out, with high-quality sandpaper while also being lit on fire.
And just as soon as it began, it stopped.
Her lips felt numb.
But her entire existence felt incomparably... renewed. Like Tanner Magg had been systematically disintegrated and rebuilt, like she'd been subject to some arcane theurgic experiment that you weren't really meant to do on humans.
The world felt a little bit newer, honestly. Had to take it all in again, make sure nothing had exploded.
The others were still talking about the weather, this time in the bitter winter of three years ago. The world hadn't exploded. She stared strangely at the liquid, wondering what on earth it was actually meant to be, and how this was legal for human consumption in large quantities. Her eyes were wide as one of the other ladies in the kaff downed half her glass in a single gulp, simply wriggling slightly rather than performing the more expected motion of spontaneous human combustion. The waitress suddenly caught her attention by speaking louder than usual, the kaff's conversation falling silent.
"Right, who knows the directions to the central temple, the one all the judges live in. Been ages since I've been."
A pause.
And a whole suite of murmuring started up. Embarrassment at inconveniencing a bunch of people at once flooded through Tanner, and she curled up slightly into her chair, as much as she dared, holding her glass like a little stress toy, squeezing tight enough to almost snap it. Almost. But not quite. Not sure if she wanted another sip, but... she tried it, and the explosion in her stomach was slightly lesser this time, but only slightly. Suppressed by the cringing running through her, probably - hard for substances to affect her when she was probably squeezing all her blood vessels shut at once through sheer tension. They mumbled, chattered, muttered, gossiped, seemed to have a hundred different opinions at once and resolved none of them, just moved on to more. It was weird, it was... surely they'd know? The waitress clicked her tongue in agitation, switching the cheroot to the other side of her mouth, and her voice dropped lower.
"Sorry, not a good time to ask them. Most of them would be having an afternoon ziz at this point, they're not really... engaged. And most of us stay clear of that place if we can help it."
One of the women heard this, and raised her glass of eerie orange liquid into something like a salute, or a dramatic gesture.
"You'll know an honourable person when they have no gold under their fingernails, mam told me that, hasn't let me down yet."
Tanner shrank slightly under the attention, nodding and smiling quickly enough to almost send her hair into paroxysms. No idea what she was talking about. Well, Judges of the Golden Door, but... anyway. Anyway. Stop nodding. Keep smiling. Sip at the chemically volatile substance someone had decided was fit for human consumption. The waitress snorted slightly.
"Right, you look foreign, sorry. Citrinitas does that to you."
"Beg your pardon, miss?"
"Bit of a zap, you know? Sorry, should've warned you. Like it?"
She sipped politely, one eye spasming just a little.
"Gods, you're polite. It's like getting a giant block of spiky ice shoved down the cleft of your arse to wake you up from a lovely dreamy sleep, that's what it's like."
Yes, yes, exactly, that was it, it was exactly like this experience which Tanner had never experienced but could clearly visualise. But it was also like drinking a too-hot cup of tea and only realising once it was in the old mouth-hole and needed to complete the rest of its voyage downwards, lest it be spat and sprayed and openly displayed. Arse-ice and throat-spice. Hah.
Oh, gods, she couldn't say any of that out loud. Weakly smiled in a shameful sort of way, and tried to keep doing what she was meant to do.
"...uh. Yes. Miss. I... suppose?"
The waitress snorted again, turning to the backrooms, where another waitress was leaning against the doorframe, eyes half-lidded and bloodshot from the fumes of the kitchen.
"Look at this one, isn't she polite? She's calling me miss and everything. Why're you looking for the judges, then? Oh, actually - want something else? Food?"
Tanner shook her head silently, nervous of committing. A second later, she actually vocalised her refusal, the polite thing to do.
"No, thank you, miss. I'm here to join them, actually. Job, that sort of thing. It's a living. Just, you know, had to go out and earn a crust somehow. Get a profession."
She'd said the same thing in four slightly different ways in the gabbling fashion of the perennially nervous. Idiot. Dolt. The waitress smiled lightly, sharing a quick glance with the other waitress, who vanished into the backrooms from which a plume of steam was perpetually emanating. It felt like all of Fidelizh was defined by vapours of some description - dust, cheroot smoke, kaff steam. The windmills circulated it all around, driving the city into a perpetual whirl of haze. And on a hot day, while they were wrapped up in fairly heavy clothes, this group of people had chosen to stay inside a cramped kaff with heavy shutters, drinking liquid that practically fizzed with energy, little fingers of steam slowly picking their way around the door-frame leading to the kitchen, exploring the heavy air with some interest. The first waitress, still chewing her cheroot, suddenly replied:
"Hm, judging and whatnot, hm? Well, nice for some. Decent living, I'm told. Nice capes, must say, ve-ry nice capes. Didn't know they got foreigners coming in to join them, thought it was a bit of a local game."
Tanner shook her head, feeling the citrinitas popping as she did so.
"No, no, there's judges in Mahar Jovan too, miss. Not so many. But some. Recruit people, send them down here for training, then send us back out again. Bit like a heartbeat, I suppose. This... citrinitas? It's very good, miss, thank you for it."
The waitress blinked. Tanner twitched slightly.
"It's delicious. Never had anything like it before. Thank you."
There, that felt appropriately polite. The waitress smiled lopsidedly, cheroot moving like a conductor's baton as she did so.
"Is everyone in Mahar Jovan so-"
Tall?
"-polite? Sounding about as courteous as the nobles in those radio plays, you know the ones. Ones."
She didn't. But she felt rather flattered, and that made her feel more embarrassed than ever. Crumbs.
"Uh. I... well, my mother raised me to be polite, miss."
There, there, deflect compliments. That settled her a bit.
"Well, should get more of your lot down. Wouldn't be wanting for niceness, I'll say that."
Oh, gods, it was getting worse... she'd already deflected compliments to her mother, what was she going to do now? Well, sipping at the citrinitas probably wouldn't hurt. She looked around for desperate inspiration... alright, Tanner had to revise one opinion. She'd thought it was odd that people on such a hot day would bottle themselves up in a place like this. Now she was realising that they weren't bottled up at all - this was simply how they unwound. It felt like being in one of those moral illustrations of the sins of the opium den or the cocaine lair. People were contentedly sagged in their chairs, drinking what they pleased, talking mindlessly and without any thought. They sounded identical to one another in their meandering murmurs. This was a place for unwinding, not bottling. Why they chose to do it in a place so... secluded was beyond her, didn't look especially fun. Well, the citrinitas was quite fun, the rest didn't. Well, citrinitas and board games. But nothing besides.
"Oh. Thank you. That's... very kind. I'm sure everyone back home would be very flattered to hear that, you're too kind to us. Sorry."
"...tell you what, though, surprised you people manage to get anything done, what with being polite all the time. You've said sorry about two hundred times since you came in. Wait, wait, just remembered - Mahar or Jovan, which one?"
"Both, miss. Mother's from Mahar, father's from Jovan."
"That very usual?"
A part of Tanner bristled, and another part smoothed it down like an agitated cat.
"...not especially, no. The bridges, you see. Lot of time to get over them. Courting someone from your own city is very good for saving time, miss."
"Hah. That's... alright, that's quite funny. Fair enough. Right, quick lesson, north bank of Fidelizh is for intelligent, sophisticated, ludicrously attractive people with brilliant physiques and brains big enough that you might mistake them for small mountains. That also applies to our tits, incidentally, myself being a sad exception. South bank is full of savages, and you should take a machete if you go down there, full colonial-style."
Oh. She... didn't know that, actually. Did all rivers just make humans less reasonable? Or were rivers just convenient points along which to perform the most basic of all human functions, the division of in from out, self from other, one from two? Nah, must be the rivers. Rivers were just nasty things. But Fidelizh had dammed their river, did that mean one day they'd become reasonable and join together in brotherly love?
But she was already asking a more nuanced, reasonable question, before she could probably phrase her outstanding joke. Jokes were lower priority. And a moment later, the timing was gone. Pointless saying it.
"Oh. I see. What do they do on the south bank?"
The waitress leaned forward conspiratorially.
"Well, don't tell a south banker I said this, but..."
She leaned further forward, the strange scent of her unlit cheroot filling Tanner's nostrils. Smelled like something she'd find in a temple, all rich and cloying and overwhelming. The sort of scent you offered up to gods. Which... well, in Fidelizh, wasn't too far from the truth.
"They have silly accents, most of them are seeing their cousin for reasons one shouldn't visit one's cousin in civilised society, and... uh..."
She tilted her head.
"...well, it's more of a general sense, you know? They're wrong-uns. Nowt more to it. You'll get a feeling for it, just check their cheroots, they roll them the wrong way."
Tanner didn't even know the right way, but she nodded nonetheless, noting this information down in her reference-book of arbitrary dislike. The lodge still comprised 90% of the entries on 'this is a group you should dislike and this is why', but, well, it was always good to diversify one's assets, even in small ways, right?
"Also, their sports are weird. They play too much slackball, not enough bladderbat."
Slackball bad, bladderbat good. Alright. More notes.
"...right. Right. I understand. What about the people in the middle?"
"Hm?"
"The... dam. The town down there. Where do they fit, miss?"
She tried to keep her face open and guileless - she was being open and guileless, so she had every reason to appear so. The idea of seeming provocative or nosy by accident, and leaving a bad impression, was just... well, it was easier to make it obvious what she was thinking. Much, much easier. Gods, this was better than Mr. Pocket, she was actually able to think about this stuff, last time she'd just been struggling to remain vaguely civil. The waitress drew back slightly, shrugging vaguely.
"Right. Well, you're... foreign, so I guess you wouldn't know. They're from up north. Came down here during the Great War, we dammed up the river 'cause we needed to, they got to live at the bottom. The golden boys in Parliament keep saying they'll send them back north, and some of them have headed off to work on the colonies, but... anyway, young lady like you, don't go down there. Erlize take care of that place, keep things quiet, and they're... not too fond of people poking around where they don't belong. Polite young lady like you, best to steer clear. Right? Gods, heard they found some lad in there just a week ago, went down to poke around some of their drinking holes, they found him hung up from a bloody meat hook."
Tanner was frozen, citrinitas forgotten in her hand. The waitress patted her feebly on the shoulder.
"Come on, perk up. You'll be fine, just don't head down there. Erlize keep people nice and sequestered."
Again, that word. Erlize. Some sort of... police force? Something along those lines? She sipped slightly at the glass, forcing herself to just act like none of that had remotely alarmed her. She was large, she was pretty good at keeping herself safe, but still. Still. Nothing to make her feel reassured about going outside again like hearing about some horrific, recent crime. Stay out of the riverbed shantytown, then. Got it. She nodded a few times, but the waitress seemed to realise she'd unnerved Tanner. Cracked a small smile, shrugged lightly.
"But, hell, judges are fine. No-one bothers judges, even the trainee ones. Bit like trying to rob a prison, isn't it? Anyway..."
She moved suddenly, poking one of the customers, extracting a few bits of information. Her face fell. The man in question just burbled a long line of speculations and suppositions which never really went anywhere, and the waitress cut him off abruptly.
"Right, they're still a bit useless. So, take that entrance out there, then turn left, and then take the third right. It won't get you there, but it'll put you near a main road. See, what you're going to do, my foreign friend, is look out for anyone wearing an orange scarf with tweed patches. Alright? It's... the fifth today, moon's waxing, so that means people getting ridden by Wheeling-Yellow-Dancer are meant to be helpful to strangers, you won't be bothering them if you ask for help. Most are probably retired or on break anyhow, they won't mind interruptions. One of them will take you along, but ask if you can stick to the main roads - don't wander off with strangers, right? And if he lets his god slip off and starts getting mean or testy, you smack him with your bag and yell for the Erlize, they'll probably be watching anyhow. Right?"
"Uh.
"Orange scarf. Tweed patches. Wheeling-Yellow-Dancer. And hit 'em in the todger if they get frisky, then yell for the Erlize."
She nodded with more force than she meant to - the citrinitas kept popping up and down her throat and stomach, each little explosion releasing a tiny burst of energy. Gosh, she hoped this wasn't alcoholic. Speaking of which... she started reaching for her wallet, making little mumbles of thanks and gratitude and apologies for inconvenience while smiling nervously...
"Gods, no. Not charging you for advice everyone bloody knows already, that's just rank. Anyhow, good luck with that judging business. Come on back if you need a drink."
Tanner dipped her large head in a small bow.
"Thank you, miss. Very much appreciate it, miss. I'll make sure to come back, that citrinitas was lovely. Thanks again for that, it was wonderful. Thanks. Sorry. I'll go, but thank you, miss."
The waitress was chomping hard on her cheroot to restrain her laughter.
"Gods, get on out before you start apologising for using up our air."
Oh gods was the air in here limited? Was she-
She was joking.
Right.
Tanner did what she usually did in such scenarios - smiled as broadly and winningly as possible. See, the bigger the smile, the bigger the impact of it, the more gratitude and happiness it expressed. Her face was naturally flat, bordering on the expressionless, especially when she was at her most emotional. Had to force herself to really smile at things, and, well, smiling was the sort of thing you didn't do by halves.
The waitress blinked, snorted slightly, and accompanied her to the door, leaving behind the six diners with their increasingly meandering conversation, now delving into the different types of paving stone one could find. It felt... was this how people in Fidelizh relaxed? They had to wear their roles, and then they had to overact relaxation? Couldn't unwind normally? Or was this sort of empty, empty conversation the sort of thing which was comforting when the rest of the time you had to conform to the behaviours your god visited upon you?
Was giving up one's control to the ministry of a kaff such a big step that it needed to be kept out of the public eye?
Not for the first time, she wished she had the expertise of that woman with the letter. She'd been startlingly well-versed in this sort of... cultural talk.
Well.
Time to go and find someone with an orange scarf (including tweed patches, because an orange scarf without tweed patches probably meant they were a notorious serial killer who prided himself on hunting down very frightened giants), because that meant they had the right sort of god riding around on their back as dictated by the phases of the moon.
Fidelizh was...
...it was a place, all right.
Chapter Five - Orange Comets Dance Amidst Metal Throats
Chapter Five - Orange Comets Dance Amidst Metal Throats
The guidance of men with orange scarfs led her onwards. The waitress had been right - and Tanner inwardly kicked herself for not asking after her name. A few turns, and she was in the flowing thoroughfares once more, bag thumping against her leg, like a hammer tenderising meat. If she kept walking for long enough, she thought, maybe she'd whack off every excess pound and turn herself into a lean, tightly-wound piece of ambulatory mutton. Not sure why she picked mutton... no, no, sheep always looked pretty content with themselves. And fair enough, they weren't destined to be slaughtered, it was more profitable to keep them around for ages and ages. Sheep had it sorted, in Tanner's philosophically inclined opinion. Almost as sorted as eels, with their nicely defined life-cycles, doggedly determined voyages to random points, and the sudden, unhesitating switch from sustainable living to a suicidal run towards breeding grounds. And like an eel, she dove into the thoroughfare, this living river, and swam desperately against the current. She had a man with an orange scarf in sight. And she hunted him with all the conviction and commitment of someone who was doing the equivalent of jumping head-first into a pool of ice-cold water. Better to get it over with, no matter how shocking it was at first, because doing it slowly would be agonising.
She waded through the mass, avoiding a whole panoply of people and the gods mounted their backs, head cresting above a solid cloud of cheroot smoke and riverbed dust, hair brushing uncomfortably against the tops of hats. Even so often a little glittering pebble of an eye would be visible through the haze, looking upwards, startled... before vanishing once more. She made her undulating way through the crowd, prey in sight...
And she asked, in a voice that wavered between necessarily loud and instinctually quiet.
The man blinked, cheroot hanging dumbly from his lips. Processing the question.
And Tanner got to see something interesting, as she looked into his flickering eyes, uncomfortable with direct contact. Instinctually, he probably wanted to just shrug, mumble, and move on. Do what many people did in this sort of circumstance, in Tanner's experience. Indeed, back home she wouldn't have done this, wouldn't have dreamed of just asking a random person for directions in the middle of a busy street. Too risky, too embarrassing, too... anyway. But she had no choice, and the waitress had reassured her. She was tired, she was fired with that bizarre citrinitas stuff, she had encouragement. And... yes, she could see the man doing what most people would do. The inner, cautious core of a person. He shrank back slightly, hunched into himself, did exactly what anyone living in this part of the world would do in the face of a giant asking him for directions. And then... the scarf took over. The orange scarf with tweed patches, the reins that a god used to ride around on his back. Wheeling-Yellow-Dancer, she thought the waitress had said. It felt like a shudder went through his entire body, the embarrassed wriggle of someone suddenly aware of being watched while doing something less-than-dignified... and his entire demeanour changed. His shoulders relaxed. His eyes brightened. His stance unwound.
"Right, yes, yes, of course, just this way - in one of the old parts of town, all a bit winding and confusing. Tally ho and so on."
And with that, he set off like an overheated locomotive, leaving Tanner to wade as quickly as possible through the crowd in pursuit.
...he looked confident. He looked very confident. Gone was any hint of reservation or confusion, he knew exactly what he was meant to do, the rest of the city would accept this behaviour as acceptable and expected... and that shudder. That wriggle. Like he'd suddenly become aware of the god riding on his back, fingers digging into his shoulders. The eyes of his god suddenly riveted on its worshipper, its personal steed. Enforcing a certain pattern of behaviour, a certain response. She was conflicted, as the man led her boldly through the crowd, down convoluted turnings, phasing from new town to old town in a matter of minutes, before slipping back again just as quickly. His orange scarf flapped behind him like the trail of a shooting star, and his head had the upturned, thrusting quality of the effortlessly confident. Quite the contrast to the shrinking, reserved person who'd flinched from her on instinct. She liked the idea of just... surrendering to approved, expected purpose. Disliked the idea of having to be gregarious, though. Wondered if he was feeling content, under the layer of performance. If he was fine with this sort of thing. Did he choose to wear that scarf today, or was it dictated by some bizarre ritualised calendar? Did he want some parts of the god riding on his back, but not all of it? Was she inconveniencing someone deeply while they forced a happy face and played along?
Did it matter?
Eels lost almost all their survivability once they needed to swim away to mate. Made them hard to keep as pets, really - if they decided that it was time to go back to the sea to breed, they'd do anything to get there. She'd tried to keep an eel in a big bucket of water, once, just in secret... and randomly, she woke up to find her mother screaming bloody murder as the eel undulated doggedly over the carpet towards the front door. And she'd heard of eels bashing their own brains out when they were prevented. Not that she'd eaten eels before, but she'd heard that the weirs where they were caught just... took advantage of that natural flow, exploiting the unstoppable passage of pilgrimage. Like bandits standing beside a holy road with billy clubs in hand. Scientists had tried to keep an eye on captive eels, seeing how long they'd last once they metamorphosed into their final state... barely any time at all. They literally couldn't eat, just burned through what they had and died. They didn't seem to complain about this, and if they didn't do it, the species would die out. They literally served no purpose unless they had this potential within them, and if they lacked the drive, would they ever manage to get back to their spawning grounds, somewhere across the ocean?
The man's scarf slithered behind him, eel-like in the oceanic haze of cheroot smoke and riverbed dust, leading her onwards.
Happy or not, he was still taking her where she needed to go.
His heels clicked as he came to a stop some time later, turning sharply to face her, his face still smiling.
"Well, just down that way. Would there be anything else, miss?"
She blinked.
"Oh, nothing. Nothing. Thank you, it's... very kind of you."
"Not at all."
He tipped his hat courteously, and his expression seemed to soften - he'd done what he was meant to, his duty had ended, and he could return to normal passages of life. She hated the idea of leaving him with a bad impression - scanned his face with not a little intensity, trying to figure out if he liked the role he was wearing, or if it was something forced unwillingly onto him. If he liked losing agency in favour of confidence, or if he wished he could take this silly scarf off and do what he liked. Did he hate her, or was he ambivalent? She saw nothing. The street was silent, cobbled, old. Faceless kings stared down, and the face in front of her was just as inscrutable. A second.
"Thank you. Again."
A quick remembrance.
"My name is Tanner Magg, I'll be here for a while. It's nice to meet you."
The man blinked. Was that a shudder of discomfort going through him? Too much familiarity? She'd gone too far. He tipped his hat again, clicking his heels a second later with a sharp tap which echoed around the hunched, haze-shrouded buildings.
"Yundol. Pleasure."
And with that, he was gone, striding away into the mist. She couldn't see his face as he departed - not sure if the polite smile was still there, or if it was gone. Replaced with a scowl, possibly. She stared as he left... and as the sounds faded away, she finally brought herself to turn and face the last road. It was narrow, straight, without deviation of any kind. And at the end... her heartbeat was pounding in her ears as she walked slowly and carefully down the cobbles, the only other sound being the creaking of a distant windmill. She glanced backwards... and saw the windmills poking through the gaps in buildings. A little army of painted eyes glared at her from between the leering structures, and just as quickly as they appeared, they dissolved, the sails of the painted windmills moving away with dull creaks and groans. Not sure what they were powering. Presumably it was important. She walked away, surrounded on all sides by private, cloistered buildings, marked with tiny signs beside the doors - stationers, copiers, book-binders, booksellers, cape-menders, all the hullabaloo which accompanied the legal profession in Fidelizh. If they were open, they didn't advertise it - the doors were shut, the windows were shuttered, and she heard no conversation. No-one met her as she clumped her heavy way down the street, hunching her shoulders as if the buildings all around were alive, and would take unkindly to someone challenging their height, even vaguely.
Before she knew it, she was there. Her little pilgrimage was over. From barge to office to street to kaff to street to...
Here.
And a great inner temple lay before her. A vast wooden door with stubbornly lingering flakes of gold leaf, where some ambitious Judges had decided to make their name more literal. Judges of the Golden Door. Her new family, her new vocation. One she'd been called to by someone else, sure, but called nonetheless. Just a door - no way of seeing things lying inside the structure, and it wasn't particularly tall. Not remotely as tall as the god-towers littered around the place. A whole life lay behind this door, and it wasn't revealing a single hint of what it might be like. She paused...
Remembered the lodge. Remembered the entrance.
And knocked boldly, imitating her mother's style. The brisk confidence of it, the assertion that, yes, someone is here, and someone is-
Before she could knock more than twice, a little slit opened with a hiss, revealing a pair of glaring brown eyes, the colour of old chestnuts.
"Identify."
"...Tanner Magg, sir. I have a letter of introduction."
Another slit opened, this one with a clunk, and a large, calloused, ink-stained hand shot outwards, gesturing curtly. She complied. The voice hummed a little, the eyes flickered from side to side, reading the plundered letter. A second passed.
The first slit closed - hiss.
The second slit closed - clunk.
And a third slit opened up at a higher level, accompanied by the sound of stairs being ascended. This one opened with a thump and a rattle. The eyes met her head-on from this higher vantage point, narrowing in suspicion.
"Tall, aren't you?"
"I've heard words to that effect, yes."
"Hm. Says here you passed your preliminaries in Mahar Jovan. Intending to study for the full status of judge - is that correct? Sure you're not interested in a minor degree, in something more... generalised?"
She blinked.
"...no? I... no, I'm here for the full course. I want to become a judge."
"Certain?"
"Quite."
"Quite certain, very certain, what? Need to be specific if you're to be a judge."
Tanner's jaw tightened.
"Very."
"Tanner? That's a last name, isn't it?"
"Not in Mahar Jovan."
Tanner was a very normal name, damn his eyes. No, no, that was rude. Just smile and go along with this weird little charade.
"To become a full judge is difficult. Expensive, too. If you run out of money to finance your studies, there'll be no option but to kick you off. Are you suitably... benefited?"
Shouldn't have been. If things went normally, she'd be nowhere close to the right level of funding. Becoming a judge was... pricey. And she wasn't smart enough to earn a scholarship. Put simply, she had to sell herself to them, not the other way around. The lodge, if it pooled all its resources, might've managed to ease her through, but... that was an investment that would never pay itself back, and the lodge didn't tend to splash money on things like that. Putting you up when your home burned to the ground, sure. Putting you in contact with the right people to solve certain problems, definitely. But not an infinite store of money to draw from, not at all. If it was, it'd have run dry a long, long time ago. Under any normal circumstance, she wouldn't have been able to afford a single year at this place.
Things had changed, though. Ever since they'd received that letter from the distant west, from a city she barely knew a thing about.
"It's... arranged. There's funds set aside."
A low, solemn stare. Sizing her up. Trying to sniff out a lie. And a few moments later...
"Understand that once you pass this threshold and enter into the territories of the golden law, there's no deviation or return. Either you succeed, or you fail. But there's to be no retreat and no rebellion."
Right, right, maybe this was just a mystery play, like the lodge did every other week. Re-enacting some heroic or symbolic deed, incarnating it into the world to reproduce its effects in some fashion. Thankfully she'd never been senior enough to participate - just watching them had made her cringe internally. The idea of going onto a stage was bad enough, doing it would be something else entirely. A tiny flash of anger, quickly suppressed. These chestnut-brown eyes weren't going to stop her, but they were delaying her, and she was... she wanted to put her bag down, blast it. No, calm, calm. Restraint at all times. Even when she was feeling particularly fraught. Like right now.
"I understand."
"Your life will be confined to the law from now on. There can be no hesitation. Do you comprehend the nature of the sacrifice you are making? You will never be anything besides a judge, or a failed judge. If you pass this door, you sacrifice normal life and give yourself up to the structures of the law. Is this comprehended?"
"It is."
A long, pregnant silence. Years and years rested on it - the tiny, insignificant isthmus connecting her from one island to another, both of them vast in their own way. One with the all-consuming vastness of familiarity, which filled itself with so many details that it was impossible to quantify them all. The other with all-consuming uncertainty. She'd already gone through the immigration office, but it felt now, more than ever, like she was on the fringes of a foreign country with a foreign landscape, where rivers were dust and the gods strode among men, where thrones were empty and the skulls of leering monsters hung from the walls.
A clunk.
The lowest slit had opened. A hand emerged, bearing a single sweet. A swirl of white and red, like a pinwheel. Right, right, she knew this part.
Delicately, she took it.
Delicately, she chewed it.
Delicately, she nodded in appreciation, mulling the excessively sweet substance around her mouth.
And delicately, she swallowed the paste, conscious of every little muscle twitch.
"Then enter."
Clunk. The hand retreated.
Rattle-thump. The eyes vanished.
Click-whine-click-clunk-screech-scrape-click-click-hiss... lock upon lock upon lock disengaging. A slow withdrawing of pressure from the wood, and a few little flakes of gold leaf fell to the ground, lost amidst the dust in a matter of moments - golden stars in a brown-grey sky. Tanner gripped her bag nervously, aches and pains forgotten, the embarrassment on the barge gone from her mind. The door shuddered...
And slowly, slowly creaked open.
Opening the way to the rest of her life.
***
The towers of Fidelizh rose high above. In Fidelizh, height was a necessary predecessor to importance, in terms of architecture. The Golden Parliament's central building had no fewer than nineteen clock towers, each one challenging the others to be higher, and they rang at exactly the same time every day. The god-towers with their painted sails made the earth sink below them, suppressed by sheer weight. Each year, they sank a little more, barely held up by the sturdy nature of the city's foundation. Houses built attic upon attic upon attic, and the dust-heaps of Fidelizh were crammed with the discarded tiles from a house's umpteenth renovation. Height was difficult. Height was something that strained a building, that demanded work on all fronts, that provided little additional space despite the effort involved. But height was also kingly. And in Fidelizh, every man and every woman could be a god - so why not a king? Why shouldn't every house be a castle, a temple, a fortress? Why not?
The judges had predated the king's removal.
And they had no love for... passing fashions. To the judges, anything younger than a few centuries was a passing fashion. Above that, anything younger than a millennium was a sad indictment of the current era's downward trend.
So they built down.
The man at the gate had led her inwards, taking her bag and staggering away with it as he directed her to a winding staircase. No words, just pointing irritably, while his face turned an unusual shade of red. Tanner had bowed and thanked him and done all the right things, but he'd stumbled away without any sound passing his lips beyond his increasingly laboured breath. The entrance hall was... grey. Grey walls, and nearly a hundred grey pillars, crammed into the entrance space. Grey pillars that were unlike any she'd seen before. Metallic, and whorled, like the bark of trees. Almost organic, but clearly sculpted by human hands. They reached far above her head to disappear into the ceiling, the metal spreading outwards into a series of convoluted branches, gnawing their way into the stone and vanishing entirely. They were... cold, she realised. Deeply cold, and... she paused, just before she left. The pillars hummed. There was a low, low hum in the air, almost feminine, produced by the metal throats of the hundred whorled pillars. She stepped forward, running her hand over one... feeling how cold they were, almost painful despite her gloves. And feeling the hum resonate through her entire body. The whorls resembled no scene, no mural, no words, no moral lessons or important maxims. They were just... metal pillars shaped to look like trees, which hummed, and were unseasonably cold. Could vaguely see the little screws holding it together, each one carefully concealed from prying eyes with inconvenient aberrations in the metal. Tanner desperately wanted to ask the man what these were, what they were meant to do...
A ripple passed through the metal. A motion began and reversed.
She stepped backwards, eyes wide.
...no. No, she was imagining things. Must've been.
Just... impressionable. The organic shape. The humming which sounded almost human. Her own weariness and nervousness.
But it'd almost felt like the iron pillars were... breathing.
Like she was surrounded by a hall of a hundred metal throats, breathing softly and humming demurely in the entranceway to her new life. The man was gone. Swallowed whole, maybe. She took a few more steps back, feeling... feeling like a country bumpkin. Was this something Mahar Jovan had, hidden away from everyone else? She'd been raised on the docks, and Jovan wasn't the richest place in the world, so...
She had no idea why the judges had a hall of metal throats.
And while she was sure she'd find out eventually... right now, ignorance was a comforting, cloying blanket. And she wrapped herself in it gladly.
The staircase echoed around her as she trotted down, relieved of her bag, and relieved by that fact. The stairs were too small, designed for normal-sized people, and she felt like she was always on the verge of falling, tumbling, crashing to a halt at the bottom in a pile of limbs so broken they'd never even manage to peel her off the stone. Have to just rename these the Tanner Stairs - the ones studded with little bits of a clumsy giant. Gods, there she went again. She clattered downwards, dress flapping around her legs, hair bouncing with each step. Winding around and around a central column... and this, at least, was decorated in a nicer manner than the columns in the hall. Grey stone, with a spiralling double helix of blue lacquered tiles embedded at regular intervals. Swirling around and around, surrounded by smooth stairs, and illuminated by a distant glow at the very top. A clouded skylight leading to the outside world. And as she descended, the natural light became weaker and weaker, dimmer and dimmer... until she reached some vital point, and a new form of light began to glow. The tiles on the column were... they were filled with lights. Each one was slightly translucent, and within was an ambiguous glow - not sure if there was some sort of flameless candle burning inside, the sort she'd seen sometimes in the richer houses around Mahar Jovan... not sure if it was something else. She'd heard of glowing liquid before, and candles which burned using things other than wick and wax, and metals which shone when theurgists coaxed them just so.
The light within danced slightly. A little wisp within a blue prison. A twin helix of light that she followed downwards, the blue light somewhat calming, even as the skylight receded further and further above, until it might as well have been a dot, or nothing at all.
Another door. Another passage.
And this time there was someone waiting for her.
A tall man, gaunt and slightly hollow-eyed and hollow-cheeked, stinking of vinegar. He wore a heavy black cape around his shoulders, tied at the front with three small silver chains, and the interior flashed with green silk. Beneath, there was a rather modern grey suit, three pieces, with small pearl buttons. It was all buttoned up, in fact. Buttons up the trousers, buttons up the waistcoat, buttons up the sleeves, buttons up the jacket front, each and every one an immaculate little bead of pearl, the sort you used to scoop up caviar (apparently, according to someone in her lodge. Aunt Fuller, loved talking about high-class matters). She wondered if this sort of thing was fashionable, or worse, standard. Even his well-buffed shoes had a few little studs just around the border of the vamp and the box. His mutton chops descended below even his chin, twin curtains of purest white that framed a narrow, sunken face. He looked up at her, the hunch in his back plainly obvious from this angle.
"Ms. Magg."
She bowed slightly, biting the inside of her cheek nervously. His voice had a drowsy quality to it, deep and husky, a voice which was used to reading aloud for long periods of time. It was a well-muscled voice, and it filled the air with a distinct lack of effort.
"Yes, sir. Tanner Magg. I'm... here to study."
"Study."
He rolled the word around his mouth like he wasn't quite sure if it would take. Almost seemed liable to spit it out.
"Walk, girl."
She walked, forcing her nervous limbs to restrain their pace. He walked deliberately and in a statesmanlike manner. He walked like he was pacing an imaginary theatre, but had been doing it for so long that all the grandiosity had vanished, all the pomp and the circumstance, and now there lingered... well, to put it curtly, all tights and no thighs. But what a pair of tights they were. She felt clumsy next to him, unpractised. Shapeless and unclipped. She gripped her elbows behind her back, locking herself like she was in a straitjacket, eager to be small and neat and prim, however possible. One of her shoes, she was painfully aware, squeaked - the sole had been mended, and poorly. The glue used was squishing faintly, and it sounded like she'd stepped in something vulgar. Each repetition made her wince, and made her grasp her elbows with such force that she felt like she might tear herself apart with a single snap. Whirl asunder into a dizzying pile of limbs, for a split second a perfect triskeles.
Goodness, her thoughts were odd today, weren't they? She blamed the lodge, they planted her with all sorts of weird images that she'd never managed to shake off.
The man spoke, once more filling the air with his casually muscled voice.
"My name is Brother Olgi. If you achieve the rank of judge, you will be permitted to refer to yourself as Sister Tanner. Until such a time, you are to be considered Ms. Magg, or simply Tanner. This is the first law of etiquette. If you fail to practise it, I find it dubious you'll master the further principles of law."
"Yes, sir."
"Brother."
"...yes, brother. Sorry, brother."
"Good. There are other laws of etiquette you will obey as time goes on. Your cape is to be kept well-pressed and clean. Your bed is to be well-made and spotless. While not a law, I recommend your notes take the same form you intend to use in formal writing - we believe in the establishment of solid foundations, and working towards that goal is no trifling matter to be done the night before. Start as you wish to continue."
"Yes, brother. Understood."
She was gripping her elbows with renewed force, memorising everything she could. The corridors were slightly more lively - she could see people working through the cracks in doors, judges illuminated by solitary pools of light, surrounded on all sides by relative darkness. None of them turned to look at her, and with their capes, they seemed almost like enormous human-headed mussels mounted upon their desks. With some effort, she dragged her attention back to... to Brother Olgi. Not Mr. Olgi. Not sir. Nice to know what was expected of her.
"If required, you may leave the inner temple and enter the outer temple to acquire stationery from our affiliated traders. If you wish, you may go further and enter the city without restriction. However, entry to the temple is only permitted before sundown. If you fail to enter before this time, you will be required to seek lodging elsewhere. You will remain in the inner temple for your entire course, the privilege of residing elsewhere may only be sought under exceptional circumstances. Your course will last seven years. During the first, you will lodge in a dormitory with other noviciates. As you age, your lodging will narrow down, and by the time you reach your sixth year, you will have the privilege of your own room. Examinations are to be held at the end of each academic term, with formal scrutinies occurring at the end of each academic year. Furthermore, collections will be held at the beginning of each term. During recesses, you are expected to work at the assignments provided, and in later years you may seek out apprenticeship with senior judges. Is this all understood?"
Seven years. Sleeping with a bunch of other people. Crumbs.
"Yes, brother. I understand. Seven years. Dormitories. Sundown curfew."
"Quite."
His lip suddenly wrinkled, as if he disliked saying what came next.
"Engagement with Fidelizhi superstitions is permitted, but not encouraged. Let whichever god you like ride on your back, but the intercession of any number of deities will not change your duties, your obligations, your responsibilities. In the dormitories, you are required to sleep with your hands above the covers at all times. You may join no political associations of any stripe. You will study the law and its applications. You will ponder the philosophies of the temple. You will not concern yourself with smaller matters. Do you regard the law as a yielding thing, Ms. Magg?"
She was still processing the 'sleeping with her hands over the covers' thing, trying to figure out what it actually meant, so the sudden question almost floored her, and she stumbled slightly.
"...no, si- brother. No, I don't."
"Do you regard it as unyielding?"
Nervousness rose a little. This felt like an interrogation. Her jaw clenched, and two sharp nubs of protruding bone appeared at the fringes of her face, like a pair of savage tusks.
"I... think so? It's... well..."
This was all happening a little faster than she had expected.
"Go on."
Crumbs.
"...I suppose, uh, well-"
"Speak or be silent, refrain from using space-fillers. It isn't behaviour becoming of a judge."
His eyes were watchful, swivelling in their hollow sockets to keep an eye on her as they walked in lockstep down the eerily illuminated corridors of the inner temple. Tanner bit her cheek, focusing. How... did she think of the law, really? Took her time to put an answer together that she had a semblance of confidence in. Not much, but... better than nothing. And she spoke slowly, carefully, pinching herself when she started going 'um' and 'uh' and 'well' and 'I suppose'. Hard to overcome a habit built over the course of a lifetime, but...
"I think the law is unyielding in purpose, but flexible in detail."
"Go on."
"It's... able to be amended to suit a particular situation, but the overall purpose always remains the same. To make sure people don't act in ways that are... bad for other people?"
Brother Olgi hummed briefly, before coughing wetly into his hand, grumbling as he did so.
"Law is for the preservation of the common good, then. The goal of law is protection, then. Preserving life by criminalising murder, protecting property by criminalising theft, securing happiness by criminalising the excessive infliction of misery."
Tanner looked at him cautiously.
"Is that what the judges believe?"
"Hm. You immediately place your beliefs in reference to our own. Good response. I've met too many people with well-paid tutors who think they already know the mysteries of the law. Very well - the judges consider the benefit of the common good to be a facet of the law, yes. But there are others. Many others. Some see law as the great boundary between anarchy and tyranny. Or, perhaps law is simply something that exists as an administrative reality, the moral merits and demerits being basically excluded from deliberation."
He paused, thinking.
"In all of these ideas is some shade of the law. We see imperfect reflections of a divine prototype, and muddle our way onwards as best we can. You will learn more, of course. In generalities and particulars. You will learn the nuances of the law, and of our own doctrines. Do you know why we call ourselves judges, and not lawyers?"
Tanner tilted her head to one side, thinking.
"I don't know."
Brother Olgi snorted slightly, the sound echoing in the hollow corridor.
"Quite. Good. It's because our goal is not the promulgation of the law as a basic structure. We are concerned with... higher things. A perfect law is simple, and requires no argument. Indeed, it brooks no argument. A lawyer takes the law and argues with it, manipulates it, finds the right arguments to draw out a desired conclusion. A lawyer is an instrument of the law, they do not make it. Likewise, a politician is not a judge, because they are not concerned with the law itself, but with the imposition of governance. The law is an instrument of control, but they do not wield the law - they simply impose their own will upon it, like a leaf floating over a still pond. Step onto it, and it crumbles immediately. But at first glance, it appears solid, stable, even seems to conceal the water beneath. Enough leaves, and you might forget there was a pond at all - until you place weight on it. Judges are philosophers of law. We are poets of legalese. A lawyer argues, but we proclaim. The finest judgements deserve a double encore. We see the water of the pool, and we wonder what lies at the very bottom. What hoards of gold might be concealed still. Law is more than jurisprudence, young scholar, it's truth. Buried under layers of human necessity and ambition, not to mention our own limited faculties, but truth nonetheless."
He came to a stop, sounding slightly breathless. Did he give this talk to every new entry? It sounded like it, but the passion which slipped into his voice towards the end... she felt a very slight shiver run up and down her spine. Law as a... divinity, of sorts. She'd been around the Judges of the Golden Door before, seen them working in Mahar Jovan. But they always came across as... well, just judges. Nothing else, nothing priestly. They held court at lower levels of society, providing services without needing recompense, administrating their own laws and the laws of the city in tandem. Bigger things went to the city, but the overwhelming bulk of the dull, slow work of small claims, injunctions, the majority of criminals, the occasional employment tribunal... it was slow, long work, but there was an honesty to it that she liked. When her father had his accident, Mother had managed to get a bit of cash out of the mutant-hunters for dereliction of safety. Didn't demand payment or anything. Tanner had barely been aware of it at the time, but the judges had helped there. They weren't a rich family, and that small payment was probably all that had kept them from starving in the months before they gave in and surrendered to the mercies of the lodge.
She hadn't expected them to be so...
Philosophical? Zealous? Religious? Devout? Not sure what the right word would be, but they were definitely more mystical than she'd anticipated. Wished she had her bag, now. Wanted to hold something, have a proper handle the squeeze on.
"The law is unyielding, Ms. Magg. It is unyielding in all details. It never changes, it never alters, it never wavers. It has immaculate purpose and reason."
A pause.
"Now, once we find this law, all will be well. For now, we make do. Your rooms."
Tanner blinked. Oh. Ah. Yes. They were here. Dark wooden door set into the stone, the vague sound of murmuring beyond it. Brother Olgi smiled faintly at her, his lips thin and pale, his face the same shade as the paper in law book. She tried to meet his gaze, but there was... it was odd, but there was something in those eyes of his. Something intense. Something which fixed her in place and made her want to curl up. Not due to fear, just... she was unsure about a great many things, and she got the feeling that he wasn't. That his mind was absolutely certain, and that he was completely content with the course of his life. She envied that, and... feared it, a tiny bit. Wondered if it was something she wanted to aspire to, or if she was missing something, if she'd poke and find out that he was a deeply unreasonable individual with nothing good in his personality or his habits. Maybe he was a horrific axe-murderer. But if he wasn't, if he was simply certain and devoted...
Then she envied him.
He knew what he was going to be doing tomorrow, in a way she simply didn't. And hadn't, for a very long time indeed.
"Will there be anything else, or may I leave you here?"
She coughed uncomfortably.
"No, brother, nothing. I think. Thank you for taking me here."
He looked her up and down.
"Hm. I hope you'll endure with us. It's not an easy life, but there's virtue to it. I hope to see you on stage, soon enough."
What?
Stage?
What?
What was happening?
Where was he going?
She needed more explanations, she very much needed more explanations. Stages? Why stages? Did judges do things on stages? She was tall enough already, could she maybe not go on a stage if at all possible, she'd still probably be taller than the actors, so-
But he was already gone, striding away solemnly down the corridor, back to wherever he'd emerged. All his pearl buttons winking in the faintly blue lights lining the ceiling. She hesitated, wanted to call out, ask him what he meant. But the opportunity vanished... and she heard something. A strange rattle. A quick glance...
And she saw a grille in the ceiling. A metal grille, like the ones that some people in Mahar Jovan pierced their noses with, to exalt even the basest exhalation with pleasurable luck. And she could... there was a strange ripple, and she felt her hair being moved, air moved out of the grille, warm and flavoured with the scents of the outside. Oh. Ventilation? That was... hm. The trees up above, the pillars which breathed and hummed... ah. She might have figured out what those actually were. And in that case... the warm air felt uncannily like she was being breathed on. Like she'd descended into the belly of the beast, and now she could feel every inhalation and exhalation, every pulse of a colossal, hidden heart, even little contraction of lungs large enough to swallow her whole. And as Brother Olgiz vanished into the twisting maze of corridors, almost intestinal in their convolutions...
She preferred to just go into her dormitory.
She'd had quite enough of strangeness for one day. Beds, though...
Beds you could rely on. Couldn't go wrong with a good bed.
Days had passed. Nearly a week. Yet Tanner woke as she always did. Perhaps always would.
Sore.
Her bed was much too short. Her legs shot off at the end, all the way up to her waist - she was capable of lying down while keeping her feet flat on the ground, and indeed had to. Keeping them suspended in mid-air was painful. Curling up into her bed made the frame rattle slightly, and planted the terror of shattering the thing. The eyes of the other students stopped her from experimenting. She needed to project the image of knowing what she was doing, because if she didn't, then... anyway. She'd committed to sleeping this way, and she wasn't going to stop. There were over a dozen people in the room with her, a long, low barracks filled with small beds. The illumination always began at the same time, went off at the same time. They rose in unison, dressed quietly, moved on. Boys and girls mixed together, monitored by the occasional bored judge assigned to look after them. It was like... she felt like she was a soldier, rising at once, dressing in unison, marching off. She felt like a priest, too, given that they ate in silence with a judge giving a lecture on their current case, illustrating his or her reasoning. She felt like a prisoner, given how the sheer amount of work had kept her confined to the inner temple, to the dark corridors punctuated by the occasional skylight. She'd not even written notes yet, everything had just been... scrambling from lecture to lecture, instructed on the basic functions of the judges, their boundaries, their limits, their structure.
Prisoner, priest, soldier, judge. Onerous professions each and every one. Despite that, she was...
She felt enthusiasm well up in her. They were getting a theoretical lecture, today. First one. A proper lecture on the theory of law, the first proper assignments, the first real entrance into the profession. She moved with more confidence than before. Better at ignoring the occasional look shot her way by another student. Better at dressing without flinching self-consciously at doing it in company, timing the more indecent stages of the process so she could handle it all in a matter of seconds. Better at tying the ribbons which held her cape in place - until she earned her chains, she could tie them with whatever she pleased. So she chose as many colourful ribbons as she could possibly manage. Naturally. She gathered her belongings, splashed water in her face ,tied her hair back with another ribbon, practically bouncing on her heels. She could just... shut her brain down and work, during these ideal mornings, when everything went well. When she could start thinking 'ah, that individual fold of my blouse aligned properly today, what luck!' then she knew she was settling in.
A clang.
Marched off to breakfast.
No fish. Gods, no fish. Fidelizh had fish, but they didn't eat it like people did in Mahar Jovan. No, what Fidelizh did was spice. Spice for days. The other students kept their heads down, chewing morosely and wincing from time to time as they hit a slightly harsher pocket of the stuff. The dining hall was full of nought but the sound of chewing, the sound of cutlery rattling against chipped plates, and the soft, stentorian voice of an older judge discussing the ins and outs of his work in promissory estoppel, the means by which someone could be held to a promise by the power of the law. Tanner listened to some of it, while trying to negotiate a piece of stringy rice that was spiced to the point of inedibility. But most went over her head. She barely understood what estoppel was, and part of her brain still insisted it was actually an exotic type of pebble. The judges didn't... really believe in starting from the ground-up. They set a standard, and students scrambled to reach it. If they failed, they failed. No instructor was full-time, everyone worked as an actual judge, and stapled instructional duties on at the side - this wasn't really training, no, no, no, it was just a temporary condescension to help a lapsed colleague. Nothing more.
They ate in silence.
They listened to a long talk about promissory estoppel.
None of them exchanged more than a few quick glances. Tanner had yet to really get to know them, even a few days in. Too much work, and it... well, it wasn't like people went out of their way to talk with her.
A clang - and their cutlery was set down, their mouths wiped, their hands placed flat. They were novices - and novices were to be treated like cats in need of herding. What had... right, one of the instructors said that when you got yourself a cat, you gelded it to make sure it couldn't produce a horde of offspring at every opportunity. When you got yourself a bird, you clipped its wings to stop it flapping around madly whenever possible. When you got yourself a dog, you trained it, and punished it when necessary.
And when you got yourself a student, you snapped them into shape. Pushed and shoved them, forced upon them every possible layer of discipline, to make it clear what was expected. Each judge was a source of authority, a fierce intelligence wrapped in a cape, a force. A sub-par judge was an insult to the order, a violation of its purpose, a shame upon everyone involved in the defective's creation. Thus, a student must be shaped and snapped, if need be.
Not sure if she agreed.
But, well, she was doing well thus far. Mostly. Did rather want her own room.
When the stress started to mount a little higher than she'd like, she just... well. She wore her special gloves. She retied her special ribbons. She remembered that in Mahar Jovan, a candle was burning for her, and by the devotions of the lodge it protected her from witchcraft. She remembered her duty. And by doing that, she endured. Seven years to go. Felt like she might be able to manage it.
A poetry had drained from her, she felt it with each bite she took. A poetry had left her mind. She remembered wandering Fidelizh's streets when she first arrived, remembered the barge - the briars of childhood memory wrapped around her mind, uncoiling and snapping like pieces of barbed wire. She remembered that, and striding in a city of gods, and drinking borderline illegal liquid in a sealed kaff while a waitress cooed over her politeness, and talking with a long-fingered masked man with black eyes, and almost bribing an immigration officer by accident. She remembered this clearly - it being only a few days ago - and already she could feel a kind of... poetic observation draining from her brain with each and every repetition she made in her new life. Her cape had ceased to be symbolic - it was a cape, it signalled who she was and what she was becoming. The glowing blue lights around the inner temple were little pieces of theurgically altered metal filament glowing inside a block of coloured, thick glass - the blue shade was more restful for the eyes and agitated the brain in pleasingly productive motions. She understood it. She knew it. It formed no part of her soul.
Good. She'd never been to an art gallery, but she'd heard of people wasting hours in them. But someone walking down a road would probably see the potential prototypes for hundreds, if not thousands of paintings. And yet she could walk down a road in a minute or so and think nothing of it. Poetry delayed. Poetic thinking make time pass with agonising slowness. Poetic thinking was the antithesis of endurance.
And right now, she wanted to endure.
The signal had come. And in unison, they marched for their lecture. It was the vulture-and-jackal room, and she didn't know why it was called that - not until she entered. The lecture theatre was large, with tiered seating on all sides, like an operating theatre with the lecturer being the one getting carved apart for the benefit of onlookers. It was a brutally functional room, illuminated by candles due to the short range of the blue lights - it was a room which had been made out of joint with time, technology struggling to catch up with its size. Everything was broad-backed and tough, built to last, built to endure time. Some would say it was a bit out-of-date, the chairs thick and heavy, the tables scarred where pens and quills had stabbed through flimsy paper, the candles perpetually clouded by the residue of centuries of wax, the carpets somehow both luxurious and threadbare all at once, yet perpetually dusty, all the same. The students slithered off to their seats, and Tanner stomped after them, large and ponderous, keeping her head down and her cape under control. Restraint. Always restraint. If she stepped wrong, she'd snap someone. A normal student might lean to the side, nudge someone accidentally, and that would be that. If she was in the same situation, she'd leave a bruise. There was no conversation - the judges thought that students barely a few days into their seven-year course wouldn't know enough to have an intelligent conversation. Until you had something worth saying, you'd say nothing. Couldn't prevaricate during a judgement, and it was good to start as you intended to continue. Brother Olgi said that, and he had a damn fine point.
Anyway. The vulture-and-jackal room. The operating theatre lecture hall. The reason for the name was obvious when she looked up. The ceiling was decorated from side to side, corner to corner. It was an allegorical depiction of... well, something. A woman, with her arms spread wide, monstrously huge, like she was about to swoop down and gather the entire theatre up for some nefarious goal. She was armed and armoured, a bundle of reeds in one hand, a gleaming antique helmet on her head. Her hair, black and tangled, streamed far behind her in long tresses, looking more like a solid war-banner than anything else. A face made of hard lines, with heavy brows and shadowed eyes, her helmet only accentuating it all. Cheekbones sharp enough to cut your finger on. A dramatic curl in her lip which made her seem both callous and arrogant, detached and scornful all at once. Naked down to the waist, her hair trailing downwards to give her a scrap of modesty. A skirt made from animal pelts the colour of jaundice. And around her... well. A jackal and a vulture. A desert-dog and a carrion-bird. The jackal was clawing at her legs, leaving huge, bloody welts, his stomach bloated with hunger and trailing at the frame of the painting. The vulture was perched on her shoulder, head sunken into her neck like some sort of awful burrowing worm, wings splayed wide and meshing with her hair as it tried to steady itself. The woman looked utterly dismissive of the two animals ripping her apart, and the casual disdain of her eyes made Tanner feel...
Just a little uncomfortable.
More uncomfortable, though, was the frame. Bodies. Human bodies, each one immaculately sculpted and perfectly proportioned, nude and beautiful, stretched out languidly... reaching forwards as if to clutch at the jackal and vulture, maybe to pull them away, but... their eyes had a crazed longing to them. As though they were jealous of the woman being devoured.
No idea what it depicted. No idea who. It wasn't some allegory of justice or the law, she remembered her first breakfast, the speaker had said one of the precepts of the judges was that the law was not to be personified, it brought them too close to just being a cult. They weren't a cult, they were just very philosophically-inclined judges. Being mystical didn't mean being mystic. Or something along those lines. At no point did they worship the law, deify the law, personify the law (formally or artistically), or perform sacred rites to honour the law's wonderfulness. Their rites were purely secular, the image of the perfect law was simply a logical extension. Laws are continuously refined and improved, so there must be a state at which the law is perfect and can endure for the rest of time. Not magic, logic. Or something along those lines. She got the feeling that this had been a topic of some controversy a few centuries ago, the justifications being the rubble left behind. If she was going to guess... well, maybe some wag had decided to let a law-god ride around on their back, and someone had taken poorly to the idea. Very poorly.
She didn't know, really. And wasn't inclined to inquire. Not if she could help it. She just wanted to be a legal mechanic, really, not a philosopher, not a theologian, not a cultist, and definitely not a giant woman devoured by starving scavengers while topless.
Even if her hair was excellent. Had to give her credit for that. Looked like a pirate flag crossed with the mane of a wild animal crossed with the delicate curls of a professional muse, the sort that lounged around on chaise longues.
Tanner's attention snapped back to the present, and she nestled into her uncomfortable chair as much as she could - managed to snag a seat near the back. Good. She'd accidentally sat near the front once, and had been squirming in silent agony as she heard people moving around behind her, desperate to actually see past her large frame. Inconveniencing someone else was, honestly, one of her biggest nightmares. The thought was closer to her than the vein in her neck. She legitimately woke up in cold sweats wondering if she'd accidentally insulted someone, inconvenienced them, irritated them, in some way made their day slightly worse. Ideally, she wanted to drift out of people's memories the moment she left their sight, not lingering for a moment in their brains. The idea of someone going 'gosh, you remember that large girl from school? I had to sprint to all my lectures, just to make sure I didn't get stuck sitting behnid her, it would literally ruin my entire day' at some point in the distant future was enough to make her crave the sweet release of the abyss. Enough to make her ask that large lady on the ceiling if she could possible get in on the whole Violent Devouring thing.
Right.
Lecture.
That whole thing.
The reason she was actually here.
The instructing judge arrived as all instructing judges tended to. In disarray, yet with unmistakable dignity. A female judge, this time, whose shoes clicked as she strode across the stage, gradually easing herself out of the conventional hunch that most judges adopted while working. Her eyes were slightly squinted, her face was sun-starved, her lips were thin and perpetually inclined towards severe frowning, and her teeth had the slight stains of protracted cheroot use. By any measure, an unadorned, uninspiring person in a nice cape. By Tanner's measure... all she saw was the confidence she exerted with her every movement. The slow unfurling that happened as she walked, depositing her notes on a small table. When she entered, she was a closed-off wall, a being of interiors, an obscure machine whirring away for her own ends. When she reached her table, she was slowly opening up, her eyes brightening, her attention shifting from her own thoughts to the people around her, her back straightening like a column being raised into place. And when she reached the very middle of the stage, she'd unveiled herself completely. Her cape flowed behind her, bound by chains of purest, untarnished silver. Her face was practically radiant, there was a clever quirk to her lips which suggested she was enjoying herself... it was like she'd opened the floodgates, really. When she was at work, her mind was focused in application, shooting from the tip of her finger to the page, or from the tip of her tongue to her client. And when at a lecture, her mind broadened. It shot from every pore, every glance, the very ends of her hair twitched with it. And the students arrayed before her had the privilege of basking in that radiance.
Tanner loved Sister Halima's talks. Two thus far. And she'd adored them both.
Halima smiled, flashing her cheroot-stained teeth, and they seemed to Tanner to be as glittering and splendid as diamond dentures. Felt like watching an oyster slowly unclasp, folding outwards, to reveal a scintillating pearl.
Tanner's chair creaked as she leant forwards expectantly.
***
"Ladies, gentlemen, there's an important distinction to be found between the principles of law and the principles of legalism, from which the golden law extends. Law is simply the written facets of an institution, a single outcropping of the great bulk of structures and customs which form the State. Law is nothing. What endures, what really endures, is the unwritten spirit which animates the law and gives it meaning, which requires definition and clarification. The unwritten spirit is where virtue lives, and a surfeit of laws emerges from conditions where an idealised legal state is divorced completely from the unwritten spirit. A surfeit of laws is weakness. The more numerous the laws, the more corrupt the state. Without ink, humanity came into being. And ink cannot invent humanity, nor anything derived from humanity. The truest law is the one which is never written down, and is known within the heart of every member of the State."
Sister Halima strode as she spoke, sharp shoes clicking a military staccato on the ground. Her hair was stretched backwards until the grey roots were plainly visible, and her eyes flicked between the students. The hall was dark, silent, utterly focused. Candles flickered, turning the eyes of the students into vacant black pits, shadowed by overhanging brows. Only the centre was properly illuminated, where Sister Halima clicked back and forth, back and forth, playing the parquet flooring like an enormous, tuneless piano. Tanner's fingers twisted - wanted to make notes. But no-one else was. And given the topic, it felt inappropriate. A sudden motion caught her attention - Sister Halima had turned suddenly, and her cape flared behind her, little silver chain flickering like a comet trail.
"The law is an instrument of the legal. Legalism is what we practise, and, yes, we make use of the law in order to achieve it. Written law is nothing more than a necessary evil. Our goal is the sculpting of the spirit, the cultivation of the unwritten and the unwritable. When our order was founded and the first Judges proclaimed, there was little distinction between us and the priests who debated the nature of the soul. Now. The goal of legalism is to cultivate greater peace, to harmonise relations, to eradicate civil strife. When the legalism of a state is perfect, there are no duels, there are no court cases, there are no lengthy suits, there is no corrosion of law by the influence of lesser interests. An action occurs, the unwritten spirit moves, the legalistic mechanism flows, and the action is understood, comprehended, and reacted to, if necessary. Example - a man is murdered in the street. The law commands that a murderer is to be punished as one. Why?"
One of the students raised his hand, and his voice was swallowed by the acoustics, turning even normal speech into a whisper. Nothing but the centre was truly audible, and Sister Halima's voice overwhelmed his a moment later, both in volume and confidence.
"Yes, because naturally, if we murder others willy-nilly then most of us would be dead by now, and the survivors would be perpetually treating each other as a leering threat. But that's only one facet, one. There are others. Anyone?"
Another hand - this time from a slightly frog-faced young woman. Tanner shrank into her seat again, struggling to get comfortable, adjusting her student's cape until it hung comfortably. Her bed was too short, and her back was paying her back for it. Hah. Another barely audible murmur, impossible for Tanner to really understand.
"Yes, there's another facet, if a very cynical one - because use of deadly force ought to be the monopoly of the state, executed with legal boundaries, and allowing the use of force to become democratic would lead us to a savage state of everyone warring against everyone. Brutish anarchy, then. Similar to the first point in result, different in origin. But it only forms one more facet. There's a simpler core to the matter that you're missing."
A pause.
"Anyone?"
Tanner unconsciously clenched her hands into fists, kneading her dress like a nervous cat. Don't pick random people, don't pick random people. If people weren't answering it was because they didn't know, forcing them to embarrass themselves... no, forcing her to embarrass herself was... her heart almost stopped. She'd smiled, her lips bloodless and thin, blending smoothly in her sun-starved face. An agonising second passed...
"Simple. It's morally repugnant to commit murder. Extinguishing the life of another human, innocent and guiltless, offends basic moral notions. Death unnerves most of us, the death of a human more so. It's saddening. Viscerally so. And this reflects the basic principle of the unwritten spirit. A state which moves away from this unwritten spirit has already put itself out of joint with humanity. And when the spirit of a people moves away from this ideal, then sin (a moving-away from the unwritten spirit) has taken root in them, and the law can't really do anything, now can it? As Judges, our role is to take the unwritten spirit, and to align it and the law into an idealised state. There are no private squabbles, no unpunished violations, no settling of matters 'outside of the law'. Legalism is the alignment of ideal unwritten spirit, with ideal written law as its expression."
The frog-faced girl raised her hand again, and this time her voice was more audible.
"But people don't always agree on that, do they? I mean, murder, like, there's... um, some place out east, they do duels to settle their disputes. That's with the unwritten spirit of the people, and the law agrees with them, so... should a judge accept that, even if it goes against what our unwritten spirit is?"
Sister Halima leant against her small desk, her smile broadening.
"You've hit on one key issue. What about when we are distinct from one another? What about when our beliefs are out of joint with the beliefs of another, sincerely held and practised? What if someone from this township - I know the one you speak of, it's called Rohn, one of the colonies of Tuz-Drakkat. Now, what if someone from this township came to Fidelizh and chose to settle matters in the custom of their homeland? Should that be accepted?"
A pause.
"The stance of the Golden Door is no. This should not be accepted. Most major schools of thought would think so, at least. One school would suggest that this is because the unwritten spirit can have a national character, in which case, we must operate in little separated bubbles of experience, where the law adjusts to the nation and likewise. This is practical, certainly, but it runs into problems. If we assert murder is sinful in one context and saintly in another, then we're inherently violating our own unwritten spirit - we're out of joint with ourselves, and can't be considered remotely good judges. How can we judge people when the 'spirit of the law' changes depending on where our train stops? Another school would take this example - murder - and say that after a point you must lay down a firm line, and agree a universal standard, a universal unwritten spirit. Of course, the nature of that spirit is subject to interpretation - another school of thought would suggest that there's already an understanding of this universal spirit. Another school would say that we simply don't understand it yet, but we will at some unspecified point in the future. Another would say it doesn't matter, because... well, in the case of Rohn, we do not practice there. Tuz-Drakkat doesn't employ our order, the most we do in that city's territories is consult, we have no rights to practice. Another would say that misses the point."
Her smile faded slightly.
"But what about taxation? What about property law? What about those things which aren't as clear as murder? It's easy to say that murdering an innocent is a vile act and deserves punishment, and a legal system which doesn't punish such a thing is out of joint with the unwritten spirit and deserves immediate reform... but of all the volumes of precedent in our libraries, there's very few on the murder of innocents, but there's shelves dedicated to minute facets of property ownership. And then there's equity, and... well. What about all of that?"
The frog-faced girl looked slightly alarmed.
"...uh."
"Uh indeed. Anyone? Where would..."
A pause.
Oh no.
"Where would you stand on this issue? Which school would you, instinctually, support?"
A finger rested on Tanner. Her fists clenched harder, kneading her dress' skirt so roughly that she was almost afraid of tearing it. Had to resist the urge to stare at the desk. Look at the lecturer. Chin up. Remember what was expected of her. Remember what was expected, and... and, yes, she had a small ribbon tied around her collar, she had a lucky medium for her voice. Safe.
"...maybe somewhere in the middle?"
Her voice sounded pathetic to her own ears. Sister Halima tilted her head to one side.
"Go on."
"...well, I mean... somewhere between? Murder's one thing, but... property's another, I... think. So, maybe be more demanding sometimes, less demanding other times? More flexible?"
Sister Halima's head tilted to the other side - a pair of shining earrings caught the light. Silver. And she had a slight amount of shadow around her left eye, while a plain iron ring was around one little figure - crumbs, crumbs, she was incarnating one of Fidelizh's thousand gods and culture heroes, crumbs. Was it one of the nice ones? Was it Happy-Pleasant-Lecturer? Or was it something awful, like... uh... Smashy-Student-Face, or Pelts-Students-With-Awful-Questions or the dreaded Expulsion-Enthusiast?
Alright, she'd only been here for a few days, she didn't know what their gods were called.
Yet.
"But where does it end? Compromise upon compromise - at what point is one simply... eroding at one's own commitment to the unwritten spirit? How can we claim our laws have any value if we amend them every other day, at what point are we simply saying 'do what you want, and as long as enough people agree with you, it's fine'. At what point are we making the law into mob rule?"
"...I don't know?"
"Exactly. And you'll feel uncomfortable, going out into the world beyond. Dealing with people with fundamentally different beliefs, and imposing the law onto them. That's the feeling of paradox in your gut, and it's something that experienced judges spend years overcoming. Because if we say there are many unwritten spirits and they can clash freely, then we're giving up our right to judge anyone. We're losing any kind of universal moral aspiration. If we voluntarily abrogate our right to judge someone, then we abrogate our right to judge anyone. If you start to compromise, then you can always compromise further. For our work to be trusted, we must be consistent, and rigorous. The refinement of the law is a process which ends, and this ending must involve it becoming universally recognised."
Tanner suddenly felt the urge to keep going, to have something like the last word - to not appear like an idiot.
"But what if... what if things are unfair? I mean, if... something is unfair, if it goes against the unwritten spirit, but it's perfectly fine by the written law, then... what should a judge actually do?"
"Hm. An example, then - this case was from fifty years ago, and details a physician who built a new consulting room. This was, however, done in such a way that it brought him very close indeed to a pre-existing kitchen, owned by a neighbour. The smells and sounds of the kitchen were a nuisance to the physician in his consulting room. So, he applied for an injunction to be brought against the owner of the kitchen, commanding him to stop. Is that fair?"
Didn't require much thought.
"Not really."
"Yes, or no. We don't get to write 'not really' on our judgements."
"No, then. Sorry."
Halima's ever-present smile broadened.
"Quite. But why?"
"Because... the kitchen came first?"
"Quite. This is unfair, isn't it? The nuisance had been occurring for years without bothering anyone, and now someone had walked face-first into that nuisance. Most people would say that this is unfair. Hands up - who thinks this is unfair?"
A general show of hands.
"Exactly! Unfair. But, now, let's assume that we can say that people can walk face-first into a nuisance and have no right to complain about it. We, as judges, have now laid down precedent that, no, the physician had no case to bring before us. But what happens if, a year from now, you get a case where a blacksmith has a forge running constantly, and has been doing so for a long time. This forge has been around for many years, and over time residential areas have been built up around it. Once, it was in the middle of nowhere, some desolate field, now it's surrounded by people. And they complain about the noise. Following precedent from the case of the physician, we say that they can't complain at all, because we must be consistent. The law should punish kings and commoners alike, tinkers, tailors, soldiers, sailors, the whole caboodle, bricks, guns and glory. So either a bunch of people now get to live in hardship, their nights and days serenaded by the pounding of hammers, scented by pungent smoke, and illuminated by great blasts of furnace-fire... or?"
Tanner leant forwards, her heart beating a little faster. Nervous, but... Halima was talking to her. Engaging with her. This felt like... like being carried on a flowing river - there was no time, no space, simply inevitable progressions between approved forms. This must be what dancers felt like, once they'd perfectly mastered a routine.
"But that's a different situation. That's much worse than a kitchen, and... uh..."
She trailed off slightly, feeling her thoughts whirling ahead faster than her mouth could keep up with, the river's current pulling her under. She was meant to continue, to retort, to rebut, the progression was understood, but... she slipped. Fell. Her words failed in the face of that glittering smile, and she felt the scornful eyes of the devoured woman above glaring down. Her skin prickled, and she held herself so stiffly that she thought she might snap like an overburdened twig. The frog-faced girl raised her hand again, her eyes bulging with eagerness. She had an odd voice, now that she raised it enough to be heard. Slightly nasal, and quite deep, even husky - gave it a ringing, droning quality which made her seem constantly intense, something her bulging eyes only added to.
"And it'd be unfair. The consulting-room wasn't essential to the physician, he got by without it for a while. But a residential area is... well, where you live. Constant nuisance, not just occasional."
Sister Halima leant against her desk a little more, silver earrings tinkling very slightly as she moved.
"And so we start to get into further facets. So, young lady, Miss...?"
"Eygi."
"Ms. Eygi, you've proposed to take into consideration necessity and timing. A constant nuisance is worse than a temporary nuisance, inviting it unnecessarily is worse than inviting it necessarily. Miss...?"
"Magg."
"Ms. Magg, you also proposed severity - the severity of a nuisance. So, necessity, timing, and severity. Now, give me more."
Tanner thought.
"...ease of stopping? I mean, the forge might not be easy to dismantle, but something else might be. Might be worth factoring in."
Eygi nodded eagerly.
"Exactly, exactly, ease of stopping, and... what about commonality? I mean, a random forge in the middle of nowhere is one thing, but what about a forge district, or something else, like... well, tanneries smell terrible, but they build a lot of them close together. If you move closer, you... well, you know what you're getting into, right?"
Sister Halima narrowed her eyes slightly.
"And there we go. You're getting into a thousand contextual issues which could change how you decide, how you think in general. We've reached the place that Ms. Magg was at a minute ago - context and particulars. Taking into account the circumstances of an issue, the surrounding issues. Nothing exists in isolation, yes? But after a point, we become so bogged down in detail that we begin to lose sight of the principle. Judges are not here to decide if something is automatically fair and unfair, we're here to analyse the core principles. To be the pillars which express the deepest notions of the unwritten spirit, things the unwritten spirit isn't even aware of. In the case of the physician, we decided that he could bring an injunction against the kitchen. Context be damned. Because if we started saying that 'if you asked for it, you deserved what you got', as a foundational legal principle, then we corrupt the system. We invite loopholes and exploitations. We muddy the waters. If we add in yet more context and argue that 'you can do whatever you like so long as you justify it well enough', then we corrupt the system. If you don't have absolute principles in law and stand by them, you can't judge. The role of judges is to find these principles, and to defend them absolutely, to find the difficulties of expression. It is not to simply say something is fair or unfair. The ideal lawbook is composed of a handful of core principles, and nothing else. These principles being so self-explanatory and simple that they can be applied easily and by everyone. Written law is the necessary evil for laying down precedent, when the application of the principles is difficult."
A pause. Her hands had somehow relaxed while she was talking and listening. It was odd, but... but everything that was being said, it was striking a chord in her. Fixed principles. Accepted interpretations. A logical dictation of what ought to be done, and why it ought to be done. Felt like the lodge, if the lodge had gone to a university to really punch it up a few notches, and rooted it all in something more... optimistic. The lodge had focused on cultivating luck for its members, repelling misfortune and witchcraft, fighting for itself. This felt... grander. Much grander. Universal law, some hypothetical end-state. Other speakers had hinted at this, but Halima was expressing it clearly. She could see the pattern the judges were laying out for her - no private disputes, because the law's principles were fixed, unyielding, and resolved everything satisfactorily. No discourse about the law, because it was self-evident and easy. No further reform, because it was so completely aligned with humanity, and humanity was completely aligned with it. Felt more like two ideals - the law shaping itself to humans, and humans aspiring to the standard the law set for them. A revolving wheel of immaculate principles.
"Ms. Magg? You seem to have a question."
"Uh. Um. Well. I... I was wondering, I suppose, what... what are those principles, then?"
A slight quiver in the smile, small and subtle. Was it irritation? Amusement? Tanner hung on the response.
"If I knew, we wouldn't be here. In the ideal state, all teaching is unified. Once the system of principles is universally understandable, then everyone will obey without the need for any coercion. For now, though, we have us - priests of the law, devoted to interpreting it properly, establishing good precedents, slowly honing ourselves to the perfect state, the golden law which summarises all principles. Achieving the golden law is a matter of logical jurisprudence, and of moral instruction. The law is morality, and morality is law - and for the golden law, our ideal state, this commonality is expressed at every level."
Sister Halima raised her hands slightly, like she was offering something physical, hefting tradition in her slight, ink-stained hands.
"That is the essence of judgement. Each judgement is a step. A single step towards the golden door. From this doctrine, all other doctrines come. Now, if we're finished, there's a meeting in an hour in the main hall, where we'll discuss..."
***
How had they been reading her mind?
Seriously, how?
Tanner was quite literally buzzing as she left the hall. It was like... like they'd said what she was always thinking, what she'd been relying on for so, so long. Restraint, systems of behaviour, principles to govern oneself by, gods, there was something splendid there. It was... the law as described by Sister Halima seemed to consider everyone to be... well, like her. A big, thuggish, brutish creature who could destroy everything around them in a moment, and had to be restrained through principles. For Tanner, that'd been... been expectations, and embarrassment, and the gaze of the lodge, even the lucky clothing which constrained how she should dress... she could see the appeal of Fidelizh wearing its gods, honestly. The idea of being watched at all times by the god which rode on one's back, having to behave in a certain way in order to keep the god there. She imagined Sister Halima doing that speech, knowing that she had to move a certain way in order to keep her chosen god on her back, and being able to just... surrender to that. Focus on the speech, not on her movements - the god demanded she pace back and forth like so, tilt her head like so, dress like so. Being a judge took care of the rest, gave her quotes, gave her precedence to operate on... restraint upon restraint, and within them she'd clearly flourished.
She had a golden law, it was sculpted to the contours of her mind, and her mind aspired to the template it set. Two forces shaping one another perpetually into something... whole.
Tanner wanted to be like her.
She desperately wanted to be like her. Confident. Assured. Always aware of what she needed to be, what she needed to do, how she needed to act. Confidence, to Tanner, was like being an actor who always knew their next line. Able to breeze through life because, well, they were assured in what their next step was going to be. Not made a mistake coming here. Not at all. If... if she became a judge, finished her course, did everything she was meant to, then she'd... well, she'd have that. That confidence. That assurance. For a second, she could see her life going forwards into senility, every step of the way pleasantly restrained and confident. Each step made with absolute knowledge of the next one. Not like... like back home, really. Father had never known what his job was going to be tomorrow, to say nothing of a week from now. And... and when he'd been injured, the entire family had just snapped. Like that. Being restrained to one route, it... well...
A small hand poking her arm was barely enough to shock her out of her reverie.
It was the frog-faced girl. Ms. Eygi. Tanner blinked owlishly down at her.
"...um."
"Oy-oy. You're tall."
"...yes. Yes I am."
A pause. It would be improper to say 'and you look like a frog'. There, restraint. If she was unrestrained and fancy-free, she'd have insulted this girl to her face. She was basing her behaviours around a principle of restraint, interpreting it to fit specific contexts, for instance, here. Goodness, that lecture had made a little bit of an impression.
"I'm Eygi. Not sure what Halima was getting at with 'Ms. Eygi', I thought we were going on a first-name thing out here. Are you Magg?"
"Tanner."
"...huh. That's a first name?"
"It is for me."
Eygi grinned, revealing a handful of teeth with small chips taken out of them - goodness, did she make a habit of chewing rocks? Again, rude to say that. Rude to think it, honestly. Bad Tanner. Eygi did, admittedly, look quite funny. Not sure if she was playing a part right now, or if she just naturally did her hair that way, in long, coiling ringlets that reminded her of the cables that held up some of the bridges back home. And under her cape she had a dress in the strangest shade of jaundice-yellow. Hoped she was playing a part, then. That'd be a good excuse. Ah, crumbs, ought to say something nice.
"Um. You, uh, were interesting in the lecture. Interesting points. On, um, context. And whatnot."
"Hm? Oh, oh, yeah, you too. You too. Fun, all this legal gubbins. Say, actually, I've got Sprinting-Jade-Goat on my back right now, felt appropriate for today, and feels like a good enough reason to get something good to eat - want to grab a pie or something? Good spot in the outer temple, promise."
A pause. Tanner had literally not set foot outside of the temple for the better part of a week. She was actually quite enjoying the confinement. The idea of emerging back into that chaotic swirl of smoke and dust and wind and anatomical buildings and roaring citrinitas and invisible gods riding in scarfs and hats...
"...uh, I, well..."
Eygi slapped her forehead, sending her many, many ringlets spiralling around one another like contraptions at a fairground.
"Gah, sorry. Are you local? You don't look like you've got a god riding around or..."
"No, no. Mahar Jovan. No gods on me."
But she did have a lodge which was still extending magnificent protections against witchcraft, and her gloves (though slightly torn) were lucky as all get-out.
"Blimey. Nice. Pleasure to meet you, always wanted to visit up there. Lovely domes, saw them in paintings, lovely. Listen, I've got Sprinting-Jade-Goat on my back right now, good for being gregarious and whatnot, but it also means regular meals, ideally pies. Also, well, the dress."
"Oh, I see. I suppose that also explains..."
She gestured vaguely at the ringlets, which looked like they took time to cultivate, and really, who would waste their time on that without a god telling them to? Eygi tilted her head to one side, mouth twisting slightly.
"...what?"
"The... ringlets?"
Eygi blinked in confusion.
Oh crumbs.
Oh crumbs.
She'd stuck her foot in it. She'd insulted her by saying that she'd need to be forced to have her hair looking like that, crumbs, and-
"Oh, fair enough, pretty cutting-edge fashion around here, I think everyone will have them soon enough, but for now I'm being all innovative. No, no, I just like having them this way. So, pie?"
Her stomach rumbled. The breakfast was... well, they fed her, but they used the same portions. Big and little people got the same. Plus, she'd really only scarfed down some of her meal, the spice had been... just a bit too much. So... half of an inadequate meal. And last night had been much the same.
Well...
"...yes, please. If it's not too much trouble. I don't really... know anywhere around here. Promise to pay you back."
"Cracking. Ta-ra."
Eygi hummed happily, and trotted away at high speed like... well, like a sprinting mountain goat. Not sure where the 'jade' part came in, she looked startlingly yellow to Tanner, but what did she know. Tanner strode easily to keep up with her, pulling her cape tight around herself to stop it flapping and smacking other students in the face. Which would just be the peak of embarrassment, and...
Eygi screeched to a sudden stop.
Grinned up guilelessly.
An enormous trunk was sitting in the corridor. Track marks in the stone indicated where it'd been dragged.
"Oh. That's a coincidence. Sorry, this was delivered to me this morning from home, but, well, terrifically busy and I couldn't move it all the way. So, that pie..."
She paused, her grin only widening, showing more slightly chipped teeth, and she childishly slipped from resting on her heels to her tip-toes, then back again.
Tanner blinked.
"...would you like some help with it?"
"Oh, Tanner, you darling, that's lovely of you. You haul it back, I'll go and get you a pie, fair? Promise it'll be a good-un. Not un-good, good-un, great-un even."
"Hm."
Eygi jumped off the ground and pecked her on the cheek - headbutting her slightly in the process. Ow.
"Splendid, you're an absolute champion. Pies are forthcoming, you splendid animal."
What?
And she was gone.
...which animal? Which animal was she? Why was it splendid? Eel? Hoped it was eel.
Hold on.
...did... did Tanner just a make a friend?
Did she just actually make a friend? After finding out the golden path to a lovely, confident, self-assured, restrained future where she satisfied everyone including herself?
Goodness.
...these really were a pair of lucky gloves, weren't they?
Chapter Seven - The Tanner-Eygi Scale of Fleshly Quality
Chapter Seven - The Tanner-Eygi Scale of Fleshly Quality
The bag was fine. Heavy, yes, but... Tanner was good with heavy stuff. She hefted it easily and shambled off to the dormitory, plonking it down just outside - not sure which bed was hers, didn't want to intrude. They didn't have long, really. Surprised she was able to pop out and grab a pie at all, they weren't exactly meant to do that. There was the strange, tense air of rule-breaking around this whole situation. Students at their stage were meant to be strictly regulated, not much time for conversation, even less time for idleness. Event upon event upon event, carving them into proper foundations upon which judges could be built. Tanner had quite liked it. The regulation, the enforcement, the general air of simply being a cog spinning as she was expected. Excelling at this meant being ignored, and that was lovely - excelling being tied up with getting singled out and marked as different was... no, not her thing, not her thing at all. The hallway was eerily barren. For once, she was moving without a crowd around her, and she kept thinking that soon enough she'd step wrong, the sound would echo, and a bunch of howling judges would spill out of the walls to ask her what she was doing and how dare she deviate from the set plan, she should be rushing off to lunch right now, to dine sparsely and efficiently before moving on to the next lecture! She hadn't even thought about going out for lunch, that sounded... expensive, expensive and risky. What if she got lost? What if she had a lovely conversation and lost track of time? What if she came back with her fingers slightly greasy or stained and now she had to deal with that for the rest of the day, marring her work, while nausea churned in her stomach and she felt keenly out of joint with everyone else, and-
"Oy-oy. Pie?"
Eygi had a voice like a bloody foghorn, she did.
She... also had a pie. Apparently. Tanner flinched as a huge mass of pasty and paper was thrust upwards by this strange broken-toothed curly-haired yellow-dressed entity.
"Uh. The bag... I wasn't sure which bed was yours, so I left it outside. I hope that's alright, sorry I didn't ask beforehand. Should've thought of it."
Eygi grinned, her smile barely visible around the edges of the pie now dominating Tanner's vision. Like a pastry with a halo of slightly broken teeth. Goodness, she'd run there and back, she moved fast for a short person.
"Nah, no fuss. I'll show you, come on."
Oh goodness.
Tanner, despite probably being large enough to crush Eygi into a small grapefruit (which she never would, of course), was somehow being dragged around by this actual imp. The bag was retrieved, and she was swiftly hauling it inside, to the eerily silent vision of bed upon bed upon bed with no-one in them. Felt like she was in a hospital after some horrific plague, or in somewhere deserted and abandoned by nature and man, and... urgh, she disliked seeing other people's beds. Eygi's was made, but... still, she could see fringes of undergarments and everything, she wasn't meant to see that, those things were special wedding-day surprises. Not the undergarments themselves, just the sight of them in an unarranged state. You only let someone see how you organised your undergarments after it was too late for them to run away.
"Just there. Pie?"
"Uh. Yes, please. How much was it?"
"Free, innit. Go on, tuck in, I already had one on the way over."
"...you were... running there and back, weren't you?"
"Yeah."
"And you ate the pie on the way back?"
"Yeah."
"How?"
Eygi grinned wider, flecks of pastry visible around her slightly froggish lips.
"With relish, young chum. With relish. And practice. And my mouth. Go on, it's good. They do this thing with blood sausage and everything."
Tanner's eyes were widening. What... manner of creation had been presented to her? Why did blood need to get involved? Wait. Wait.
"Are there eels in this?"
Eygi's smile dimmed very slightly.
"...no? It's... no, it's not an eel pie. I can go back and get an eel pie if you-"
"No, no, no, this is lovely. Thank you for it. Are you sure I can't pay you back? I can, it's not a problem-"
"Eat the pie, for crying out loud."
"...I'll buy you a pie at some point, then. I promise that much."
Eygi was peering up at her much like a scientist with a microscope, but she said nothing. They began to return back to the general thoroughfares of the inner temple, the long, straight corridors illuminated by soft blue light emanating from lacquered tiles. Some of them were from earlier phases of construction, had different designs - one corridor had glowing tiles with little engravings on them, judges poised in the motions of their trade. Reading books, writing judgements with long quills, scratching their chins, arranging their special lenses, examining witnesses... all of them lovingly picked out with the care of someone who'd had ample opportunity to observe these activities, to perform them, and clearly quite enjoyed them. She wondered why this hadn't been applied to other tiles, but... no, probably cheaper. Though she had an image of one eccentric judge carving away at this corridor for as long as he was allowed to, maybe even doing it in secret before the higher-ups did him in for vandalism. Anyway. Pie. Solid thing. About the size of a grapefruit, the same sort of one she could squish Eygi down to the size of if she was so inclined - which she wasn't, and never would be, on account of not being a savage. A sniff - it smelled like a pie. A prod - it felt like a pie, and not an overly greasy one. A nibble. The pastry, at least, tasted good, flaky and slightly chewy. A nibble... then a chomp.
...what on earth was this?
It was meat, she knew that much. But what else? It was pinkish, yes, and there these odd veins of black running through it, which... presumably was the blood sausage. Now, the blood sausage she understood, it was spicy and warming and sat pleasantly in her stomach like a hiker finally returning to a familiar home and a familiar armchair (which was somewhat true in a morbid sort of way), but the meat. Pinkish? Reddish? It was a bit salty, but... was it pork? Beef? Horse? Something elusive and undiscovered? A spark of paranoia - mutant, she was being poisoned, Eygi was a monstrous experimentress who wanted to turn her into an even larger person using contaminated meat, and... no, not that, but it was definitely unlike any meat she'd had before. Eygi grinned.
"Weird, isn't it?"
"What... is it?"
"I have no idea. That place is good, been going for years, they keep saying that it's pork - it's not pork. I've had pork, and that is not pork. It might, in fact, be human."
Tanner's eyes had already widened, now they widened even further. They'd gone from marbles, to conkers, to passable components of an egg-and-spoon race. Who knew what realms evolution could take her to next.
"Oh."
"Oh indeed. And the thing is... I don't mind. If it turned out they were human, I'd mostly be disappointed that the pie shop was about to get closed and burned to the ground. They're good enough for me to not care. Can you fangle my angle, chum?"
Tanner blinked rapidly, her eyes expanding further, reaching their limit and transmitting the expansion to her eyebrows, which climbed up her face like a pair of ambitious caterpillars.
"Oh. I see. I... might? It's rather good."
"And apparently human tastes like pork, so..."
Tanner nibbled at the pie, mostly out of politeness... alright, Eygi had a point. Not about the humans tasting like pork, no idea how she knew that... though her chipped teeth provided ominous (if unlikely) hints. No, it was a pretty damn good pie. Just the right combination of factors, not too greasy, but not too dry, not clinging to the throat and lips, just... doing what it was meant to do. It didn't sit in the stomach like a lead weight, it didn't make her feel slightly funny, it was done before she felt stuffed, and it wasn't repeating on her - the tiny belches that followed any kind of meal were only slightly flavoured with spice, not a hint of rot or decay. Was she defining a good pie by how it wasn't a bad pie? Yes, yes she was, when you thought in terms of catastrophes, good was mostly just defined by their absence. Now, was this pie good enough to justify cannibalism? No. Was it good enough to justify, say, eating some less-favoured animal, like a cat, a dog, or some kind of rodent mashed into paste... well, maybe. Maybe. She'd probably shrug if someone said it was made of horse, and might reconsider getting another one if they said it was made from a clean dog.
This pie was currently hovering around dog-level.
"...that's a good scale to work on."
"Hm?"
Oh, goodness, she wasn't used to talking with people casually. Just mumbled around a piece of pastry mid-train of thought. Dolt. Brute.
"Sorry, sorry, sorry, I meant... well, uh, the scale of... how much you like a piece of meat. Whether or not you'd stop eating it if you found out it was a certain animal. You're at the top of the scale, with humans, or I suppose mutants would be the top of scale, sorry, anyway, and I'm only part of the way there."
"What animal?"
"Dog."
"What kind of dog?"
"...clean? A clean dog is my limit. If it's dirty, I wouldn't keep eating the pie."
Eygi hummed thoughtfully, almost drowned out by the rising sound of people walking and talking in hushed tones - the telltale sounds of students who weren't quite sure about their new colleagues, and weren't going to announce their thoughts to the world. Everything was hushed until proper reconnaissance had been established. She tilted her head from one side to another, like she was shaking her brains up to get them properly functional. Or maybe she was reassembling her brains into new configurations.
"An excellent notion, Tanner. An excellent notion. We'll have to codify this, of course. Establish principles. Scientific ones. Legal ones, even. And it needs a name. The Tanner-Eygi Scale of Flesh Quality? Yes, you get to come first, you came up with it, but I want equal credit. I bought you the pie, right? Probably counts as sponsoring a scientist, or something. Your noble patron, then."
Tanner had...
She'd made a friend.
This was a friendly thing. This was a friend thing that friends did. Came up with stupid systems to gauge the quality of edible flesh. And she'd just had a weird thought about... about brain reassembling. The sauce-bottle theory of cranial arrangements. And... wow, she... her thought-words emerged in an uncontrolled tumble.
"You keep tilting your head from side to side. It's like you're trying to shake your brains like a sauce bottle. Do you think it helps brains if you shake them around? I mean, for babies, obviously not, because they're all squishy and you're not meant to shake them, but do you think adults might need shaking from time to time to make sure they're still functional?"
Eygi stopped walking.
Looked up at Tanner.
"...I'm not letting you pick me up and shake me to try it out, chum."
Tanner froze.
"No, no, no, I didn't... well, we're... coming up with theories?"
Egyi tilted her head to one side, realised what that implied given Tanner's new neurological formulation, and frowned.
"Tanner, it's... yes, I suppose that's a point. Just came out of nowhere, you know? Just let me settle down a bit, process it. Rotate it in my grey cells for a bit."
Tanner had done a social faux pas. And she'd... crumbs, she'd spoken too quickly. Realised how she sounded. Quick. Intense. Odd. And she'd... indicated that she was focusing on her with a degree of intensity that might've been improper and slightly disconcerting, oh, gosh, it'd be like if someone had made a highly personal comment about something she hadn't noticed herself doing - doing something embarrassing for an extended period and not realising it was one of her biggest fears. Eygi was squinting slightly now, with her large, somewhat bulbous eyes. Tanner wondered if she could actually squint all the way, if her eyes were too bulbous, if someone could have eyes that were so bulbous blinking was impossible, or-
No, no, no, see, that was the sort of thing she shouldn't say, and wouldn't.
Dumb ox. Woke up today and chose to be a moron.
"Gods, Tanner, you look like you're about to faint, I didn't mind, just came out of nowhere."
"Sorry, yes. Sorry."
Eygi snorted good-naturedly.
"You're a fruitcake. I've literally known you for less than an hour and you've already proposed a ranking system for flesh grading, then you talked about brain rearrangement, and you also carried my enormous bag to my room."
Two acts of erratic strangeness and one act of monstrous strength. Her track record was the sort possessed by lunatics and axe murderers.
Why were axe murderers so prominent in the imagination? Why axes, why not swords? Was it because axes were almost domestic, but swords weren't, so there was an element of the uncanny? Like getting attacked in your bedroom?
Stop it, Tanner. Don't suddenly talk about axe murderers.
Even if her theories were interesting.
And of course, once she thought that, all she could think about was talking about axe murderers. Feh. Ugh. Damn. And other sounds of that nature. Her opportunity to say something dizzyingly graceful, funny, unrelated to axe murderers and capable of restoring her reputation as a normal person who was restrained in her conversation vanished as they rejoined the flow of people leaving the dining hall, some of them glancing curiously, wondering why the giant hadn't been present. Well, it was because the giant was playing truant. Not really. She didn't even leave the inner temple. But it felt like playing truant, had all the shame and giddy nervousness. So there, and - oh, oh no, she wasn't able to restore her reputation, Eygi was getting lost in the crowd, no, no, no...
Eygi had a bad impression of her.
She didn't know about the years and years Tanner had spent as a very normal and highly restrained person.
In a mad moment, Tanner even wondered if she could ask the lodge to send some sort of... letter of recommendation, a proof of her normality, signed by her local witchcraft-repelling cult. She dismissed the idea quickly as completely insane - it took time to send a letter, time and money, and the risk of annoying the lodge was too great, she didn't want to lose her protection from witchcraft. There was too much at stake right now, she needed witchcraft to bounce off her like a... a... ball, a ball, a soft ball, that was her thought, she hadn't thought of something odd, no she hadn't. Not at all. So... nuts, nuts. The stream was sweeping along, coursing through the corridors towards the next lecture, and her mind was running faster than ever, trying to figure out how to stop Eygi from thinking she was weird and unapproachable, she wasn't, she'd just made a tiny social error and wanted to make up for it. Why couldn't you meet your lifelong friends the day you were born? Then they'd have your full context, and you theirs. If Eygi had known her from childbirth, she'd be aware that Tanner was normal and not weird at all and completely restrained. But all she saw was a tiny sliver of interaction. And now the broken-toothed girl was slipping away with the wrong impression of Tanner. An unrepresentative facet!
Too late.
The moment was gone.
The stream was unending, and Eygi had already been bustled off to another part, while Tanner was just trying not to whack anyone. Her scalp felt uncomfortably warm. Her back was stiff with tension. Her hands were aching to grab something and clutch it, and she was resisting the urge to knead her skirt again.
Crumbs.
***
Lectures passed.
Came and went with smooth ease.
Each hour until she could correct Eygi in some way, make sure she really understood Tanner, and not just the freakish facet Tanner had seen fit to present, passed with agonising slowness. The lectures, admittedly, were interesting. Not the stirring material that Sister Halima had given, but more technical stuff, the basic principles of the law, the areas they were going to address, the basic expectations levelled upon them... she was counting down until dinner. Once dinner hit, she could push through the crowd and make some corrections. It was possible she was over-blowing this, but... but in her head, it felt massive. Eygi had bought her a pie and told her where she slept, that was more than anyone had done in a while. Coming here, out to Fidelizh, there'd been a sense of... resetting. Starting fresh. Yes, there'd been gaining a profession, restraining herself, finding something good to absorb herself in from now until forever... but it'd been nice to imagnie that she could do it fresh. Unburdened. A few days here, and she'd liked sinking into a purpose, not having to think about making enough money, being adherent to a single set of expectations from people who had no prior knowledge of her...
Didn't want to taint things, that was all. She knew how people behaved when they knew she was clumsy enough to snap teacups if she gripped too hard, or that her thoughts whirled too quickly for her to quite hold onto, or that she really, really liked eels... once people developed an impression of her as clumsy, odd, unapproachable, then they just didn't approach her. Back home, she'd been surrounded by that sort of thing. Parents knew that she'd accidentally bruised people when she was growing up, and kept their children away from her. The lodge knew she broke teacups when she was stressed, so they treated her like a child who was always on the verge of destroying valuables. Even when she gutted fish down at the docks, people knew she hated killing eels, they'd seen her playing with live eels like normal people played with puppies or kittens, and immediately had her pegged as a bad egg. Or, at least, a weird egg. Not evil, not malicious, just... well, obviously not all there. She'd left too many bad impressions while she was growing up. Now, she had a chance to start fresh. And thus far she'd done well, left minimal bad impressions on people. Mr. Pocket... she didn't mind that one so much, so long as she never met him again.
But Eygi... Eygi bought her a pie. Possibly made of humans. That wasn't something you got every day.
The lectures twitched by. Still no notes - this was all basic, and they were strangely insistent on no notes until some unspecified point. She didn't even have a pen. Referenced notes, referenced technique, but no pens, and no papers. They just... sat at desks scarred by pens of yore, and Tanner wondered if the pens had all rolled off to die somewhere, and they were simply haunted by their ghosts, their marks on desks, their presence in speech, but the pens had shuffled off to the stationery shop in the sky. Stop it, stop thinking. The moment her mind started rolling, it just didn't stop. She ground her teeth and observed the lecture with aggressive intensity, insistent on understanding every last word. Yes, the arrangement of the judges, the structure of their organisation, the means of referral upwards, the most basic terminology which they would be expected to understand, the core texts for this stage of the course, which would be copied. Law books were expensive, and they weren't going to waste valuable material on basic books that no advanced scholar required. So, they'd be copying them out. The outer temple had copyists who'd provide them with the relevant segments from the exemplar copy, renting them a pecia. These could then be copied in the confines of their rooms, and would slowly form their own handbook, while deepening their knowledge of the text. There would be inspections of their handbooks to ensure a minimum of mistakes. Happily, if of them failed to become full judges, they'd have had immensely useful experience as copyists, ready to serve the outer temple, or simply to act as... well, copyists. Still useful, even with printing presses. Some things were simply easier to do by hand. And no, there was to be no usage of typewriters. Typewriters were useful, but they encouraged laziness, a poor quality of thought, and were ultimately unnecessary. The ideal law was one that could be expressed in a simple, clear axiom. The ideal judgement was as short as possible. Typewriters encouraged laziness, by making writing simple. Copying by hand encouraged brevity of thought, made the weight of a word properly understood.
...and, quite possibly, the sound of hundreds of people typing and typing and typing would turn the entire court into a pack of murderers.
Tanner wasn't sure how she felt about this, but it was nice to think about - helped calm her down. Maybe she was being silly. Maybe she was just being a ludicrous goose. In every metric she was doing well, she was becoming a judge, she had a cape, she was fine. In one solitary metric had she become slightly deficient, and it was easy enough to repair. Calm. Calm. Everything was well. Her teeth slowly unclenched. And all of a sudden, confusion flooded her - the lecturer was taking out a sheet of sample note paper, the sort of style they'd be using, and... it was...
That was unreadable.
That was genuinely unreadable. It was passed aorund the room, but it didn't get any clearer. When it came round to her, she stared for a few seconds, just trying to put it together. The letters were miniscule, to the point that she was surprised any human hand could've executed them. She honestly couldn't read more than a few words without her eyes straining, and that was the easy stuff, the lines around the edges. Towards the middle... she gave it a go, and lost her place almost immediately, slipping from line to line. And it spiralled! The words literally spiralled around the page, looping and looping around in concentric circles until they reached the middle, where a single black square indicated the page was done, nothing more could be written, nothing at all. She knew how to write, of course she did, but... she might be able to fit a few spirals of this onto a page, the idea of packing in anything else was just beyond her. The only concession to readability she could see was that the lines were separated by shading - paler, then darker, on alternating spirals. Meant that the whole page looked like it was striped, like some exotic animal. She passed it onwards, blinking dumbly.
How on Earth was someone meant to write that way? And consistently?
The lesson continued like nothing had happened. Explanations on the services the outer temple could provide, and the limits of their privilege regarding them. What was free, what wasn't, what was subsidised, what was forbidden... alcohol, to her surprise, was allowed, even encouraged... but only with meals. Once they reached a higher level, they were permitted to drink outside of mealtime, but only using judge-approved glasses, which were comically small, barely enough for a snifter of something. Beer was out of the question, then. Shame, her father used to swill grog by the gallon, hugely watered-down beer, and she joined him on the grounds that it was often safer than river water. Tanner's mind was a pendulum oscillating between extremes. Sometimes she was stuck thinking about that page, or whatever the lecturer was talking about, or random reminiscences that kept popping into her mind and fading a moment later, or Eygi, or how she shouldn't be worrying about Eygi. She was wringing her hands underneath the desk, performing every luck-gathering gesture she knew, over and over and over again, planning things out to the tiniest conceivable level. She wondered if her face was growing stiff from not smiling enough - maybe she should practice, loosen her muscles up slightly, then a welcoming, friendly smile would look completely natural and not remotely forced. Hm. Pop into a bathroom, smile in front of a mirror? Or just cover her mouth with her hand and smile here and now? Make sure that she wouldn't pull something when she gave it a go later.
...that was insane. That was an insane idea. Stop it.
Still. Avoid direct eye contact, that alarmed some people. People like Tanner. Give smiling a quick go, but avoid using too many teeth - she was worried that there might be a fleck or two of meat or pastry left between some of the old ivory chompers, and the last thing she wanted was to give the impression of being unsanitary. Hm... well, if that was the case, she ought to leave, wash her hands, they felt unpleasantly tainted at the moment and she liked to have clean hands. Could imagine Eygi grinning, making fun of her for being such a silly goose, and saying 'right, fine, let's shake hands and be done with it'. It might happen. And then Eygi would reach out, Tanner would be compelled to reciprocate, and then Eygi would flinch as she felt grease slipping from Tanner's hand to hers, and the moment would be ruined. And Tanner would presumably then go insane on the spot from sheer stress and would start crying.
All of these events were unlikely.
But none of them were impossible. They were in the realms of physical reality. And that was terrifying enough for Tanner.
The lodge was handling all the supernatural protections, after all. So the realms of non-physical reality were covered. Which left her all the normal things to irreparably screw up.
The lecture rattled onwards, easing its way to a conclusion...
Tanner braced...
And the moment the lecturer closed his mouth for the last time, his information delivered, no questions raised, everything settled, she stood and made for the door with the rest of the students. They were just eager to stretch their legs and move on. She was trying to angle herself correctly to intercept Eygi and have a little chat with her, clarify a few things, make sure that the right impression was left behind. She cultivated luck a little, imagining the ribbons tied around her chest filtering every single breath, imagined little impurities clinging to the bright cloth... stepped out into the hall, ahead of most people. She'd wait here, intercept Eygi, and-
"Ah, splendid. That makes things easier."
She froze.
Sister Halima was here. Smiling at her in an ambiguous sort of way.
Oh crumbs. Crumbs. Authority was paying attention to her. That never meant anything good. And Sister Halima was intimidating up-close. Even if she was shorter than Tanner, she was still... well, professional. Authoritative. Educated. And her cape was lovely.
"Uh. Sister?"
She cringed internally at the sound of her own voice.
"Yes, that's me. Come along, then - won't be long."
She should question this.
She had plans for redeeming herself in the eyes of Eygi. Or, well, appearing more normal by intercepting her outside of a lecture hall and then impressing upon her just how painfully normal Tanner was.
She really should ask why she was needed. What had gone wrong. Was it a money thing? Had all the cash suddenly run out? The woman with the letter had been firm on that topic, she'd said the money would be fine, the arrangements were all made, everything was fine. Was her mother dead? Injured? Ill? Oh, gods, her mother was dead. Her mother was actually dead. And she'd still not managed to reconnect with her, oh gods...
"Yes, Sister."
Halima turned on her heel and marched off, leading a very, very pale Tanner behind her. This was about the pie. She'd violated some important rule and now she was going to get reprimanded. She was heading to a disintegration chamber, like in that one theatrophone play she'd listened to about the grotesque monsters that lived underground. Her face only grew paler. This was the day Tanner Magg died.
Halima stopped.
Smiled.
Pushed a door open.
Gestured for Tanner to enter. Tanner stumped inside, lacing her fingers together nervously, hunching until she slightly resembled a nervous beaver (an impression aided by her tortoiseshell hair). Dark. The door clicked shut behind her. Sister Halima was here with her, and... and there was a soft glow, increasing. The lights turning on. The blue tiles shone from within, and...
"Right, terribly sorry for interrupting you, but I'm sure you'd rather avoid any awkwardness later on."
What?
A table. Halima sat down calmly on one side, a small pile of tools in front of her. Tanner awkwardly sat down on the other side, her feet refusing to settle down flatly, had to remain on tip-toes just in case she had to leap up, and the tension in her legs helped... well, relieve some of the nervous energy buzzing through her.
"We're doing the fittings for quills today, anticipated you might need a bit more time. Never very fun, having one's differences pointed out in front of all of one's peers - so, thought we might as well get it out of the way now, hm?"
She smiled.
Tanner blinked.
Oh.
"Oh, uh, thank you, Sister. Sorry for the inconvenience, I know it can be-"
"Oh, pish-tush. Nonsense. Now, let's have a look at those hands..."
There was an air of effortless detachment about her, like... well, like this really wasn't inconveniencing her at all. Got the feeling that Sister Halima was constantly thinking her way through something, and having to handle this bit of mundane labour wasn't actually stopping her from working. Though... quill fittings? She'd never... well. Anyway. She tried to smile, and her eyes kept flickering between the table (comfortable to look at, but impersonal) and Halima's eyes (uncomfortable, but reflected her genuine gratitude)... settled on her chin and lips, there. Nice balance. Nice lips, too. Sister Halima dragged her hand over the table, beginning to measure it, examine it, wrap little bands around a few of the fingers... Tanner just held as still as possible. Held her breath, too. Didn't want to hit Halima with a big old waft of air scented with possibly-human pie filling.
"So, settling in?"
Sister Halima's voice was mild, light, drifting over the conversation like a seabird flickering from the waves to the air to under the surface and back again. Never committing, equally at home in all three.
"Oh. Uh. Yes, Sister. I think so."
"Good contributions earlier, by the way. Try to keep that up - being able to admit when you're wrong. Good habit to keep while you're studying, hm?"
"Yes, Sister. I'll try."
Halima hummed idly. The measurements continued, and a minute later, things began to escalate - small bands were slowly and firmly fastened around the fingers of her right hand, carefully adjusted to make sure they weren't cutting off circulation, while Halima moved to start measuring her wrist. Tanner's other hand was drumming a nervous pattern over her legs, and she tried to ignore the slight burning that accompanied having someone else touch her skin. She wasn't... good with skin-on-skin contact, and it felt like each touch left a tiny, hot outline on her skin that slowly faded away as the minutes rolled on, already replaced by more patterns. It was more that she could feel Halima's comparitively thin bones and muscles, and... well. Focusing on Eygi helped - had to keep planning out her little redemption. Ought to buy her a pie tomorrow, if she... ha.
"Sorry, do you know if there's a pie shop in the outer temple?"
Halima looked up, blinking a few times.
Oh. It happened again.
"Possibly. I'm not much of a pie person. You'd have to ask someone else."
She'd embarrassed herself. Sounded like a greedy pig. Halima was nice enough to not let the room descend into awkward, strained silence - she talked as she worked.
"Now, this quill is meant to help you with your notes. I imagine you were rather surprised when you saw the standards we tend to expect."
"A little, Sister. Curious how... well, anyone could write that small."
"Quite. Well, we've had our own methods for some time. Part of... well, you understand that we dislike lengthy judgements. If a law is convoluted enough to demand books of interpretation, there's probasbly something wrong with the law, no?"
"...perhaps?"
"Indeed, perhaps. Sometimes true, sometimes false. And when you get to equity... the point is, the perfect law book is a short, simple arrangement of core principles from which flows, in unbroken golden chains, all the miracles of complexity - like I said earlier. It's self-evident, rational, aligned to the unwritten spirit... it barely requires interpretation. Barely requires judges, even - the law is immaculately aligned to behaviour, following it is simple, interpretation is simple, execution is simple. But, well... times change. Once upon a time we could confine things to a handful of texts, now we have to adapt. As times change, we must change with them, and apparently that means writing rather a bit more than we'd otherwise like. Goodness, we used to have to write on parchment and animal hide - the simple expense was enough to make us ration out our words. But these days..."
She shrugged lightly, and Tanner kept smiling, nodding, agreeing.
"Well, these days we have good reason to write more, and all the right means, but it's still... embarrassing, you understand? A little humiliating?"
"...perhaps? I... think I understand, yes. Rather like being... well, naturally healthy for your entire life, and suddenly you fall ill and have to rely on doctors, medicines..."
Halima smiled.
"Quite. Quite. Good comparison, really. As we continue, we must write more predecent, we must adapt, just the rise of population means we have more to handle... you'd think there'd be a cap on how complex things can become, but no. The law is an endless fractal which can become more and more complex, while still remaining confined by the same boundaries. Terrifically frustrating. So... a middle ground. Very small notes. Very thin paper. Shorthand. Keep that in mind, young lady - brevity is the soul of law."
"Yes, Sister. Understood, Sister. Brevity. I'll do my best, Sister."
She nodded rapidly, trying to show just how much she agreed, just how on-board she was with this whole tradition. Well, that explained the why, but...
Well, the how became more apparent. Halima started to extract a few little tools, slowly building a kind of... brace around Tanner's hand and forearm, locked in place around the fingers and wrist. Contoured exactly to her muscles, her bone structure... once the frame was done, she started locking in a few bindings between them, drawing her fingers together like she was holding an invisible pen. And suddenly, the pen became visible - inserted cleanly in, a long, feathered quill, old-fashioned and stained, locking into a series of perfectly designed points.
"...now, it takes time to get used to them, and if the bindings feel too tight, you must contact one of the engineers. Don't want you to lose circulation, can be very unpleasant. Like wearing too-small shoes for too long. Ghastly. Little theurgic device clips to the wrist, powers the motions... it's not about exerting effort yourself, it's about guiding the harness into performing the right strokes. We use a different sort of font here, no curves, all straight lines - and we taper a great deal off. Some judges use shorthand, but for students we're more forgiving. Following?"
"Yes, Sister. Following."
"Good. Now..."
She wrapped a band around Tanner's wrist, clicking it shut with a shiny buckle. Felt almost like she was about to get the thing amputated. More work, and... there. It was odd, trying to move the pen anchored to her fingers. She could barely even feel it, really - like the harness was dissipating the weight, the pressure, all of it. Indeed, when she tried to move, her fingers smoothly shifted a tiny amount, and the motion was reproduced upwards, allowing the pen to move a small, precise distance in a single direction without any deviation. It was slow-going, but she could imagine being able to write small, highly regular letters using this, not sure where the theurgic element came in... ah. A few tiny, tiny cables were gradually attached to the harness, flowing away towards a tiny metallic box. Theurgists kept their arts secret from most people, even if they were basically essential for just about... everything, really. A low hum filled the air, almost reminding her of the hum that came from stagnant pools after hatching season started. The hum of insects whirring away, high-pitched and eerily mechanical. She moved...
And felt nothing. The movement happened, the pen shifted, but... she'd put almost no effort in. None at all.
Goodness.
Mechanical quill. This sort of thing must've... she didn't want to think how much it would cost, she didn't know much about theurgy, but she knew it was expensive. The little metal pieces which allowed the harness to click together were probably some sort of exotic metal, highly purified, and...
Well. Her mind was already buzzing with new ideas, implications. The unfamiliar was oddly freeing - she understood nothing, and she was meant to understand nothing. Her idiocy was expected, anticipated, and completely normal. In a way, that was pleasant. Being an idiot in a room of smart people, being an incompetent surrounded by competence was miserable, and one of her many fears. Being an idiot in company was almost... nice. Like being an oddball in an oddball pit. Not that she was calling Halima an idiot, or Eygi an oddball, but... well, Eygi might qualify as 'moderately peculiar', and she was fairly confident that no other student knew how to use these quills any more than she did.
Anyway.
She should... stop thinking.
"Thank you for setting this up, Sister, it's... very much appreciated, I'm very sorry for taking time out of your day, this was very kind of you, and-"
Halima sat there silently, seeming to be a hundred miles away. Tanner kept going for a little bit, apologising, thanking, smiling, nodding, reassuring her that the harness was fine and she'd report to someone if it was too tight in future and she was certain she'd get used to it soon enough and she really didn't want to take up too much more of her time if at all possible and-
"Hm? Sorry, bit distant, was thinking of something. Quite alright, off you go. No, wait, first, here's how you take it off. Important step. And here's how you put it back on... might want to do that a few times. Don't worry, it's a sturdy little machine, we don't make them to break them. There's quills in the outer temple, just follow all the other students, feels like people need them every other day."
Tanner flushed, nodding quickly.
She felt... calmer. Significantly calmer, really. Settled down quite well.
She'd almost forgotten why she'd left the lecture hall quickly in the first place.
Almost.
Just reminded herself.
She stood quickly enough to almost knock her chair over. One hand lashed around to grab it, haul it back from the brink of catastrophe... could feel the wood straining under her fingers and consciously relaxed them. Not breaking anything. Not broken anything since that barge railing, didn't intend to ruin her clean streak. She had a mission, she was on a mission, she had work to do and not much time to do it in, every moment that slipped by in this place was a minute for Eygi's perception of her to solidify. She had things to do, she had things to do.
Sister Halima looked up at her with faint bemusement written all over her face.
"Thank you, Sister, I won't take any more of your time, very sorry for all of this, thank you again, I'll... be on my way, honoured judge, sorry, Sister, sorry. Thank you for the lecture, too. Very interesting. Looking forward to the next one, definitely. I'll be on my way. Sorry. Thank you."
Oh, gods, shut up, shut up, shut up.
Sister Halima blinked languidly.
"Alright."
A pause.
"You have..."
She gestured vaguely to her lip. Tanner froze. Quickly patted her own face...
A few crumbs of pastry.
Oh gods she'd had pie on her face since before that lecture even started oh gods...
What was that damn lodge doing, this was clearly the work of several witches!
Tanner was doing her fastest shuffle. Oh, she could move very quickly when she wanted to. Hiked her skirt up around her legs and bounded like some sort of unhinged cervidian ungulate. But this was... not the best move. No, not at all. When she bounded, things shook, people took notice, veterans reached for their guns, convinced that the mutants were back and one was heading right for them. And worst of all, most people didn't get out of her way when she did it, then just stared dumbly ahead, some part of their brain figuring out that 'this isn't quite right', a moment before Tanner turned them into something with the consistency of a pie ingredient. There, that was a thought, if she just ran around like a lunatic, she could probably keep that possibly-cannibalistic pie shop open for years and years. They'd have to pay people to eat their pies, just to cope with the vast supply. It was good to get over these thoughts before she found Eygi again. Because she was normal, and Eygi had to be convinced of this. Tanner the People Flattener wasn't a normal thought and shouldn't be relayed in normal company.
...it was possible she was getting too worked up about this. But once she got started with this sort of thing, it was... hard for her to stop, honestly. She kept seeing catastrophes bud, flower, bloom, ripen, explode behind her eyes, kept seeing how awful things could be, rather than how they were. Impressions were like poisonous seeds, once you planted them, they grew, grew, grew, and promptly pollinated outwards until the whole world was full of them. Being large already had connotations, and... look, she'd made mistakes in Mahar Jovan. Made bad impressions before she figured out how unpleasant they could be. And then, years later, people would remind her of some embarrassing phase of her existence, and she'd realise that a younger, stupider Tanner had flung great big burning chains around older, wiser Tanner. And no matter how old and wise she became, she'd still be bound up in the eyes of others. There was one boy she'd accidentally hurt when she was young - wrestling, and she'd slammed him into a wall. Heard a click, a snap, and...
No-one forgot that sort of thing. Every act wounded the world, and no matter how much time passed, those wounds could only ever scab. Never scar.
She just didn't want that to happen again. Because she could already feel poisonous seeds being flung far and wide.
Ergo. The shuffle. No sprinting, just a shuffle in which she moved as quickly as possible without making any excessive noise. Her jaw was clenched like she was lifting weights, though - the shuffle was a delicate dance which she only did when she couldn't be seen, but could still be heard. Fairly common, around the lodge. The moment she detected a judge or a student moving nearby, she amended her pace, strolled quickly but casually, appearing to all the world like the most normal young lady in the great normal kingdom of Normalitania. If you looked up 'average' in a dictionary, you'd see Tanner, mid-stroll, every detail composed to the apex of mundane existence. She was the maximum median, that was her.
Gradually, she made her way to the next item on her schedule, the point which... right, right, looked like people were getting fitted for their mechanical quills - her own was packed away into a neat little case stashed under her arm. There was to be a goggle fitting next - a complex set of lenses that, well, meant that judges didn't go blind from staring at tiny letters all day. It all came across as slightly silly, but... well, she wasn't going to argue. Better to know what she had to do than not, even if 'what she had to do' was very slightly silly. Like the capes - out of fashion for years, but it was better than having to decide every item of her own clothing. She shuffled... and blinked. No sign of Eygi, and she tended to stand out, with her froggish face and half-broken teeth. Still wondered how those had happened, really. No sign, no sign... the room in front of her was full of students getting fitted. Gods, it was good of Halima to take her aside and handle it privately, the idea of getting fitted while surrounded by people who barely needed a few adjustments to be ready to leave was... well, it was nicer to do it privately, silently, without inconveniencing anyone. Eygi had probably been processed and left. But where? She could just... ask?
She hovered awkwardly, and started examining her cape for dust.
Just... wait for someone to leave, then follow them. That was easier. Sidle away from the door, so no-one could see her. Had to wait in ambush.
Examined her cape. Then her ribbons. Tied and retied her ribbons, then tied and retied her shoelaces, then adopted an expression of infinite contemplation, as if she was struggling to think her way through an immense problem, then she started running her tongue over her teeth over and over to catch any last hints of pie she might've missed, little lukewarm morsels of matter that-
Oh thank every god that existed, someone was leaving.
She hummed idly as she fell into step beside the student leaving, to all the world appearing like someone who'd just happened along by complete accident. The student barely noticed her, at least, until Tanner spoke softly.
"Where are people heading next? Sorry, just-"
The student squeaked like a trodden-on toy, almost jumping out of his skin as a very large individual loomed down at him. How rude. He coughed a few times, smoothing his hair down - stank of pomade, like he was applying it improperly, using too much for fear of using too little. Looked like he was liable to turn into a fireball if he brushed against a candle, really. He coughed again, pursing slightly fish-like lips.
"Ah, well, I... ah, well, I think we've... got some time? Goggle fittings are later, so-"
Time off. That meant she was going to do something somewhere else.
"Heading anywhere?"
She disliked being so inquisitive, but... she was being polite, wasn't she? Still being polite.
"...not really? Just... going to head back to the dormitory, thought-"
Bonzer. That was it, she was heading back to unpack the bag Tanner had hauled in, that was the rational option. She trotted quickly along after exchanging a few pleasantries, moving from casual-yet-quick stroll to the Shuffle once she passed out of sight. Dormitory, dormitory... right, that was the one, goodness she was glad she'd been able to see where Eygi slept, even if it also meant seeing her... undergarments. Shuddered at the thought. She poked her large head inside, and immediately felt her innards shrink from sheer shame. There were a few people in here, sitting on beds, talking idly, and they glanced around curiously. This wasn't her room. Already they were likely wondering who she was, why she was here, all the usual questions one posed to a sudden intruder. She gulped.
"...sorry to bother you, I don't suppose you know where... Eygi is?"
The room's inhabitants - three girls - looked at one another, and one of them laughed slightly. Another ripple of shame constricting the liver. Goodness, they were well put-together, their socks matched the fashionable little ribbons they wore around their collars, their sleeves had little glittering buttons up and down the seam, and they had earrings. Goodness gracious. One of them tilted her head to one side, humming.
"...who's Eygi?"
Crumbs.
"Sorry, I'll-"
"No, no, no, describe her."
One of the other girls leaned forwards, smile bright, eyes eager. Oh, crumbs, she was earnest. Maybe?
"Short?"
Immediate laughter. Of course, everyone was short to her. The slithering shame moved to wrap around her heart, squeezing until it hurt.
"Well, uh..."
She paused, swallowing. Hard to make an accurate description without being insulting, hard to be polite without being infuriatingly vague.
"...I'll, well, I'll just go, see if-"
The earnest one stood up sharply.
"No, of course not, happy to help."
The way the other two were laughing slightly made her think that this was all one cruel practical joke. Couldn't they just be resolutely unhelpful, she could work with that. A handful of stammered platitudes, and she was stumbling away into the corridor, face the colour of the setting sun, cold sweat trickling down the back of her neck. Each breath felt strangely forced, like her throat had swollen shut. The earnest one poked her head out of the door behind her, calling down the hallway.
"Well, good luck finding her, anyway! Sorry I couldn't help more!"
Tanner shot her a strained smile as peals of laughter came from the room.
Just... leave. Go outside. Find the outer temple, she was probably hanging around there, she was clearly more comfortable with dashing outside. It took time, but... she found her way up the winding staircases, through the halls of breathing pillars, into the stuffy air beyond. The first fresh air she'd had in days, and she had no time to appreciate it. The world beyond was grey, the clouds bearing down above like a cavern's roof, the air smelling very slightly... for lack of a better word, constipated. Like there needed to be some rain, but the clouds didn't quite feel up to it. They were those sort of clouds which didn't even have texture, it was just a flat plane of colour that erased everything else and granted the world a sense of infinite smallness. As embarrassment slowly unwound itself from around her throat, and she focused on cultivating luck, on the simple enjoyment she'd felt while hearing about the role of the judges, on all her usual comforting thoughts... well, a conclusion came to her. She was aimless. No real idea where Eygi was, or where anything was, or... well. She hovered uncomfortably at the main entrance, unsure of what she was meant to do. Not going to head back immediately, but not... gosh, she didn't even have money on her, it was all down with her clothes and things, so... she stumbled along, lost in her own thoughts, just trying to kill time before she could go inside again without losing face.
Typical, really. Typical. She drew her cape around her shoulders and walked slowly, ambling along-
"Oy-oy!"
She stiffened.
Her head swivelled like some sort of startled bird.
Eygi!
Eygi was here!
Sitting in a small kaff, poking her froggish head out of the window and grinning crookedly, waving her arm about like she was imitating an untethered sail during a storm. Tanner trotted over immediately, creaking her face into a smile that felt a tad bit unpractised. Should've limbered up beforehand.
"Oh. Ah. Hello, Eygi. Good to see you."
She rocked back and forth on her heels.
"Bit muggy today, isn't it?"
Eygi blinked.
"Yeah, muggy. Definitely muggy. Listen, Tanner, you want something to drink? My brother and I are having a little sippy-sippy in here, just cooling down. See you got your quill done, very nice. Want to join?"
"Oh. I... really don't have any money on me, or-"
"Nah, I'll just add it to your tab. Come on, there's these nice little ham things in here, no idea what they are but they're addictive. Want to see here they sit on the old T-E Scale."
The wh- oh, the Tanner-Eygi Scale. Oh, goodness, she'd remembered! And she was treating Tanner like... well, like she wasn't a total freak! Right, clamp down on the weird thoughts, nod gratefully, say all the right things, poke her way inside, sit down delicately... ah, yes, her brother was here. Oh, how unfortunately, he also looked like a frog, and this extended to his odd combination of an oversized torso and long, thin legs. His bulging eyes flickered over to her blearily, and he raised a near-luminous glass of citrinitas in way of greeting.
"Ah, cheers. Eygi was just talking about you. I'm Algi, nice to meet you."
First - what was with all the people with names ending with 'gi'? There was Olgi from when she'd arrived, then Eygi, now Algi. Second - she'd been talked about. Someone had talked about her. And based on how Eygi was smiling winningly, there was... had she been saying nice things? Had Tanner left a good impression? For once? Oh, fantastic, fantastic, her life was blissful and full of ease, existence was a boundless plain of wonderments, she was happiest young lady in Normalitania, she was. She practically buzzed in her seat, and- no, wait, could be negative, could be slightly mocking, always be slightly pessimistic and you'll never be disappointed, that was her motto. Well, one of her mottos. Eygi grinned.
"Yeah, I was just telling him about that astoundingly excellent scale the two of us came up with."
Still borderline, could be mocking, could be earnest. Those laughing girls in the dormitory had scrambled Tanner a little.
"Ah. I... see."
Did she just bring up 'sorry about being odd'? No, no, that would sound very odd indeed, couldn't be doing that. Maybe... ah, yes, that was an idea.
"So, how's the... quill? I had mine fitted just a little bit ago."
Ha! Normal conversation. Absolutely demolishing this conversation. Demolishing with her normality.
"Hm? Oh, yes, yes, that little thing. Tell you what, not looking forwards to the goggles though, could definitely do with living without that sort of thing. Still, must bear up, nowt else to do about it. Algi, thoughts?"
Algi blinked.
"...well, I... the goggles look nice, though? Intricate, I mean?"
Eygi promptly poked him directly in his unusually large nose, provoking an outraged flinch.
"Moron. Putting fashion ahead of function, whether or not they look nice is completely outside the purview of this conversation, and I call for your remarks to be struck from the record, accompanied by a summary kick to the jaw. Tanner?"
"I don't want to kick anyone."
"Fine, I'll do the kicking, but you strike all mention of my brother's profound mental deficiency from the record."
"I'm not writing anything."
A pause.
"Should I be?"
Algi glared at his sister.
"You're not being funny. This entire routine is profoundly unfunny. Should be ashamed of yourself."
Eygi scowled.
"Silence from you, or I'll tell mother that you're a spiteful toad who licks people's chairs once they've left them, to satisfy your perverse urges. I'll tell father, too, and he'll disown you, leave you to wander the streets as a dissolute wastrel. And then I'll kick you in the jaw."
Tanner blinked, horrified. He wouldn't do such a thing with seats, would he? That was vile, and... oh, she was making another joke. Tanner was slowly getting the feeling that Eygi wasn't a pillar of normality. Algi grunted, sipping at his citrinitas with the air of someone who'd seen all this before, and had long-since stopped caring... Tanner unconsciously licked her lips. That stuff looked good. She remembered the way it seemed to blast all of her pores clean at once, and... hm. Hm. Well, it'd be polite to let Eygi order for her. Making presumptions would just make her seem rude. Eygi traced her eyes, and promptly called over to the nearest waitress. The kaff was a small place, seemed to be reserved for judges, though there was one outsider sitting in a corner, buried in a heavy coat, sipping at something from a metal cup - only a little crest of foam indicating what mysteries might lie inside. Gosh, Eygi was... confident, just summoning a waitress, ordering citrinitas, sending her away with a polite smile, going to a kaff in the middle of the day like some sort of poet... Tanner mumbled about how she'd pay Eygi back, she was very thankful, she was completely apologetic for not bringing her wallet....
"Tanner, Tanner, if you keep apologising for everything..."
"Sorry."
"Tanner. Please."
A pause.
"...how did you wander out here, Tanner? Just out of interest?"
Eygi tilted her head to one side, grinning with her slightly broken teeth - still no idea about why she'd broken so many of her teeth, and always halfway, never the full thing. No open gums to be seen, just chips and shards cut out by some random force. Tanner froze.
"Oh. You know. Just... wandering around. Wanted some fresh air."
Algi hummed.
"...come to think of it, don't think I've seen you leave the temple before. No offence, but you're quite noticeable."
She shrank a little into her cape.
"Well. Might as well... learn? Wanted to see the stationers."
Eygi leaned over the table, waggling her eyebrows.
"Were you looking for me, Tanner? Did you want to hang out?"
"Um."
"Did you want to hang out with the most revered Eygi of Yorone? And her slightly less impressive brother?"
"Oy."
"Shut up."
Tanner was, somehow, more frozen. Oh dear. The citrinitas was deposited in front of her with a light click, and she hesitantly reached for it. Eygi of Yorone? Was that a place she should know? Was that... Eygi narrowed her eyes, and Tanner slowly took a little sip from her citrinitas, and-
Well. That was a rush.
And in the rush, she spoke quickly.
"Uh. Well. I hoped to run into you. I wasn't looking specifically, but I asked at your dormitory to see if you'd headed back there, just wandering how you were getting on, still meant to pay you back for that pie and whatnot, but I did want to have a look around the statiioners, get some fresh air, just been so absorbed with studying and everything that I didn't really think about leaving the temple until today, and... well, there it is, that's really the whole matter of things, you know how it is, sorry."
A pause.
"...what's Yorone?"
Eygi glanced at the drink in her increasingly tense hand.
"Hold on, Tanner, you're a foreigner, right?"
Tanner nodded several times in rapid succession, before going in for another sip.
"Maybe... you shouldn't drink that."
"Why? I've had it before. It was lovely. This is lovely, too, to clarify."
"That's citrinitas."
"I know, I know, I know."
"That's refined coca wine. You... know that?"
Tanner blinked.
"Beg pardon?"
Eygi waved her hand airily.
"I'll allow it this once, but... you shouldn't drink that until you're... well, ready."
"Why?"
"It has cocaine in it. It's... well, it's the sort of thing that used to be medicine, but then it turned out it was really, really good. So... maybe steady on? Probably for the best that you're so big, not sure if it'd be..."
Tanner was a junkie.
Tanner was a woeful street urchin. Tanner was an addict! Oh, she was already on her way to the slums, already on her way to the slums, going to be running around biting the heads off babies soon enough, raiding pharmacies to satisfy her addictions, she'd look like she was fifty by the time she was twenty and she'd have grey hair and yellow eyes and a black tongue and she'd be a rabid cannibal frothing at the mouth with glowing spittle and she'd fail her exams and everything and... and Algi was snorting with laughter.
"Don't let her get you worked up, it's fine. Just slow down with it."
"Urh."
"And Yorone's just a place outside of the city, pretty big colony, that's it. So, don't let my sister be a cheapskate, she can afford it. Me too, really. Also, good afternoon. Not sure if we actually exchanged greetings yet."
Belatedly, Tanner realised they had, but she'd forgotten to respond. Intolerable rudeness. The ritualised expectations of etiquette helped suppress her panic at becoming a slavering alcoholic-cum-drug addict with but a single sip of this... devilish wine.
"Oh, ah, yes, I'm sorry, meant to say hello - nice to meet you. Tanner Magg, sorry again."
"Algi of Yorone. I suppose we're in the same year, then. How did my odious sibling clutch onto you?"
"I helped her move a bag. She gave me a pie."
"Oh, splendid, she understands trade. That's an improvement."
Eygi scowled, showing a sharply-angled decline of the lips usually found in some species of hopeless fish. Not like an eel, they tended to smile very slightly, contented with their lot in life and their overwhelming purpose. Tanner cautiously shoved the glass away from herself, keeping it close enough to seem polite - she'd had this bought for her, after all - but far away enough to avoid temptation. Anyway. The two siblings seemed to oscillate between polite conversation and childish bickering at the drop of a hat, and there was... it was odd, but sitting in a small, slightly grimy kaff with a pair of bickering siblings was somehow doing something for Tanner. It was odd, indisputably odd, irrevocably odd, but... she'd never done this before. Never popped out for a quick spot of luncheon. She ate in the main hall, she slept in her dormitory, she learned in the approved locations, and that was it. No real desire to go beyond, mostly because she knew how she'd do it - she'd plan everything out, she'd have a little scouting mission to wherever she intended to go, she'd have the entire scheme sketched days in advance, with all timings absolutely certain. She'd make a big deal out of it, is the point. She'd plan so much that... well, it'd just be easier to not do it at all, really. The consequences of failure would be unpleasant, after all, and they'd dominate her mind from start to finish. Maybe she'd come back late, maybe she'd just become out-of-sync with the rest of her year, maybe she'd develop horrific food poisoning, maybe she'd get lost, maybe she'd come back as a sweaty mess that no-one wanted to go near, maybe, maybe, maybe.
In the end, it was easier to do nothing at all.
These two clearly had no such inhibitions. Tanner had just... wandered out to find Eygi, and now she was having luncheon. Eygi had just seen a window of time, and thought 'oh, splendid, this seems to be a good time for lunch', and it'd worked out. Tanner was convinced that some people just had an internal sixth sense which allowed them to do things successfully, timing things properly, snagging people while they had nothing else going on, nabbing a table without any trouble, that sort of thing.
She glanced suddenly. Something was moving. Not one of the waitresses. She'd noticed a man in the corner of the kaff when she entered, sitting hunched over his drink. Heavy coat, metal cup with foam cresting the edge. Silent. Now he was moving... or more accurately, he was being moved. A gentleman in a tweed suit had a firm hand on his shoulder, and a kindly smile on his face. His sleeves stood out to her - clean, and the cuffs had little gleaming pieces of metal instead of the normal horn buttons. Little golden squares, the size of a thumbnail, engraved with the image of a human palm. The gentleman hauled the other fellow to his feet, patting him like an old friend, leading him firmly out of the kaff while his kindly smile remained immaculately intact. The waitresses said nothing. Tanner stared at the little display, noting that there wasn't really any violence going on, she didn't see the coat-clad man fighting back, he just advanced outwards with an expression of irritated resignation. Not sure what she was seeing, not sure what it meant, but-
"Tanner?"
Oh, right. Reality. Eygi was looking at her from over a glass of citrinitas she was drinking with uncanny swiftness. Didn't seem to have noticed the little display in the corner, facing away from it, and Algi didn't seem to have noticed either. Eygi powered on regardless, demanding Tanner's attention, and the incident slipped a little from her mind.
"Just wondering, little thing really, but Algi and I were chatting about... well, the plays they'll want us to do, see, we thought it might make sense for us to just form a nice little collective, that way things will be slightly easier. Better than working with flat-out strangers, really, you know?"
Tanner froze. The incident vanished from her mind, obliterated by something much more immediately pressing. Plays? Hold on, hold on, Olgi, the judge who'd met her when she arrived, he'd said something about the stage, he'd said that he hoped to see her on stage, soon enough. Wondered what he'd meant, but there'd never been a good time to ask, and she'd assumed he meant the stage that the lecturers used, oh, goodness, had she missed something? Was there a part of the curriculum she didn't know about? Had everyone else known about this?
"...oh, I... don't really know, I mean, I don't know about any plays. Is that... something we can do outside of the curriculum?"
Algi blinked slowly.
"No, it's... fairly mandatory."
"It is?"
"Fairly. I mean, I think they make exceptions if you're mute, or profoundly and repeatedly sickly, or dead. But otherwise, fairly mandatory."
"Oh."
Oh crumbs. Crumbs. Crumbs. And other, much stronger words. Eygi smiled sympathetically.
"Well, it's part of... well, you know how it is, silly traditions and whatnot. Before we go into court, we eat ceremonial sweets, we wear capes, we write in that exceedingly silly fashion, and we do plays. Part of the whole... being able to slip easily from role to role, you know? I mean, if we truly and totally believed in all the people we represented, then we'd be stark raving schizophrenics. My uncle was a judge, loved talking about that stuff, he said it used to be one of the basic things you just had to learn, no matter where you went. You could be a judge, a theurgist, a scholar, a doctor, whatever, you still had to take courses in poetry and drama. Just had to. Used to do music, too, but that was canned years back, generations ago. Judges still do drama, not sure about theurgists, scholars canned the lot just before the Great War."
Tanner was sweating.
"Oh. I see."
She didn't. Why was this a thing? Was this a Fidelizh thing? Had to be, she'd heard of nothing like this in Mahar Jovan, nothing at all... but then again, theatre in general wasn't as popular, maybe Fidelizh was different? Wait, wait, wait, it made sense, Fidelizh was a city where people wore gods on their backs, and summoned them by wearing costumes and behaving a certain way, being in a theatre was... was a way of life to them. Yes, exactly, that made sense. No, wait, it didn't, it was insane, why should judges have to take classes in drama? More accurately, why should she have to? She hated the idea of going on stage, reciting lines, doing all that business, hated it, hated it, hated it. And that was just the concept, she'd never actually done it, hadn't even really participated in the lodge's mystery plays, and those were basically just prayers, you didn't get people commenting on your diction and your poise.
"I see."
Algi binked again.
"Yes, you said."
"Ah. Yes. So I did. I see."
She didn't, she was actually about to rupture her entire spinal column from sheer stress. Maybe if she did that, she'd be exempted. Eygi blinked a few times, leaning forwards.
"Gods, Tanner, you look like you're about to burst something, are you alright?"
Tanner hesitated. What would... what was the normal response here? Was she meant to just nod and act airy? Or would that make her seem like an absolute lunatic? And... well...
"No, not really. Not... much of a stage person."
Algi shrugged.
"It's fine, nor are we. I mean, I wanted to be an actor for a while, but you wouldn't believe how badly they're paid. I actually want to live in conditions which aren't completely squalid, you know? And we're not performing for the public, just for other judges. Just like performing to your mates, really."
Oh, that made everything better. She was just performing in front of her colleagues, the same colleagues she'd have for the rest of her life. That was so much better.
Gosh, this citrinitas was bringing out the sass in her. Not sure if she liked that.
Eygi tilted her head from side to side, shaking up the old grey cells, making sure they weren't stagnating.
"Gosh, you are nervous. Well, my dearest darling, even profoundly skilled individuals such as ourselves sometimes experience nerves as well, we possess nerves like everyone else, our nerves are simply sheathed with copious competence and confidence, to a state of considerable corpulence. Don't worry, it's just scenes, nothing to be worried about, nothing at all. Auntie Eygi will gladly take care of you in all respects. How does that sound?"
Tanner blinked.
"Uh."
Algi shrugged, his bulging eyes half-lidded with lazy ease.
"What my moronic twin is trying to say is that misery is better in company. We've been doing stage stuff since we were young, mother always wanted us to sing for guests at house parties. Happy to help out."
Eygi's grin broadened, and she leant forwards further, patting Tanner's hand repeatedly.
"And what my moronic twin is trying to say is that, my rather large friend, you just stick with us and all will be totally well. 'tis the burden of the exuberant to bask the internally-inclined with the rays of our wondrous extroversion. In short, bask away, my dear girl, bask away. How does that sound, pet?"
Tanner blinked. Several times.
"...that sounds rather nice."
"Splendid! Then all's settled, huzzah and hurrah and whatnot."
Algi shot Tanner a look which was somewhere between consolation and exasperation. The sort of look which was comforting, and... well, it was nice to know there was someone normal around here. Honestly, Tanner was getting the very slight idea that Eygi wasn't quite as normal as she first seemed. But she was a very functional and charismatic kind of odd, which almost felt... well, better. Some people earned the right to be eccentric, and Eygi seemed to earn it by being a welcoming, chatty, endearing supplier of pies and coca-wine. At which point, the two siblings started to chat about the lectures, the whole hullabaloo of introductions and integrations, the terrifying painting in the jackal-and-vulture room, the excessive spiciness of the food, and... wait.
Tanner froze.
"...do you find the food spicy, too?"
Algi shuddered.
"Oh, gods, yes. I don't know the cooks, but I think they had their taste buds shot off in the war. Only explanation."
"I thought... well, I thought all food here was spicy."
Eygi snorted.
"Was that pie spicy?"
"...no, not really."
"We're not lunatics. There's just one very inconveniently-placed culinary lunatic in Fidelizh, and we had the misfortune of encountering him or her."
Oh. Oh gods. She was...
Tanner felt, for a moment, like some sort of exotic industrial engine. Covered all over with plates of sturdy reinforcement, keeping the heat inside, funnelling everything into productive directions. The little luck-rites helped smooth out the world's ugliness, the lodge burdened her with expectations and shielded her from supernatural harm, the judges gave her purpose and a strictly defined life-course, and... well, restraint was important for Tanner. Deeply important. If she wasn't restrained right now, she'd have broken her glass, snapped her chair, bumped into people, acted intolerably rude and presuming, and would've probably made everyone deeply uncomfortable when the talk of drama made her start to loudly and violently panic. But...
She sipped her citrinitas.
"It is too spicy. It's ridiculous, I was raised in Mahar Jovan, we eat nothing but piles of fish there, fish stew, fish cake, fish pie, fish steak, fish on a stick, fish combined with different grains, fish fried, fish in every combination. I can't do spice. I just can't. I can barely finish a meal, and I need to eat, I get cramps if I don't eat enough. Maybe they're trying to make us adjust to spice, like they're going to send us out to a city where they drown everything in spice? Or maybe it's to make us thin? Maybe it's just to make us able to adapt to stress, like, if we can go to court and act reasonably while our tongues are slowly melting, we can do anything. Or maybe it's a conformity challenge, like they want one of us to stand up and yell 'this is too spicy', and then it'll all be settled, but someone has to speak out?"
She took a small breath. Algi was staring at her. Eygi was grinning.
Had she gone too far?
Was this not an appropriate circumstance for complaining?
She shrank back into her chair, and-
"Fish cake? What on Earth is fish cake? That sounds ghastly."
"Oh, no, it's quite nice. Not much spice."
"Well, that changes everything, spice is all that matters, nothing else remains under consideration. Actually, wait, you got here by boat, yes? How was that? We came by train, very quick, very fun, never actually been anywhere by boat."
"Oh, it was fine. Spoke to someone in a mask, though. He kept talking about all his dead relatives."
Algi leant forwards.
"You've met people like that? I've met people like that. Not the mask, just the dead relatives. You never know what you're meant to do, do you? Do you say 'sorry for your loss', or do you just nod along, but then you feel like you're not contributing. Bringing up dead relatives at the start of a conversation should be a crime. Well, except during a funeral. Honestly, there's an estate near ours, the lady of the house keeps remarrying, and talks and talks and talks about all her dead husbands. And she doesn't end the evening with them, she starts it, and continues through. It's the most painful experience I've ever had. Socially, I mean."
Tanner's face was utterly serious.
"I know exactly what you're talking about, Algi. It was awful. He just kept going and going and going, and all his relatives seemed to die horrifically of some terrible disease or wild animal or revenge plot. I was just standing near a railing, and he just approached me, said some overtures of pleasant small-talk, and then began talking about the aunt who died from... spontaneous combustion, or some such thing."
Eygi snorted.
"That's amazing. That sounds amazing. Wish I could've met him."
"You don't. You really don't."
"But I love people who can't do reasonable conversations! Then you get to throw out all the usual rules and talk like an absolute barbarian, swear up a storm, all that business. Lovely-jubbly, can't recommend it enough. If I'd met him, I'd just have started making up dead relatives of my own, tried to outdo him. Like... if he said his aunt died from spontaneous combustion, I'd say that my aunt was torn apart by a herd of mutant horses she'd been raising in an attempt to cheat at the next steeplechase. He'd say his brother died of a fever which made him turn purple and projectile vomit blood from all his pores, I'd say that my brother went on an enormous expedition to the ocean, where he became host to a monstrous snake-creature from the depths which tried to use him as a vector to infect everyone else in the household, so we had to impale him on a chandelier after he ate two servants."
Tanner smiled, very slightly.
"That's an excellent idea."
"Of course it is, I came up with it."
Algi groaned.
"Don't... encourage her, please, she's insufferable enough as it is."
Eygi leaned closer, patting Tanner's hand again.
"Don't listen to him, encourage me more, I relish in it. Now, this seems like a good chance for luncheon, in my eyes. We've got a little time... hm, yes, I think some tea cakes will go nicely, maybe some of that nice anchovy paste they make around here... yes, that'll be wonderful. Algi?"
"Fine."
Tanner hunched in her seat slightly, uncomfortable with having other people pay for her food, but... well...
This was the first time she'd been able to complain about Mr. Pocket, or the excessively spiced food of the judge's canteen. This was the first time she'd loosened her restraints, just slightly, and had done it without any shame - she was surrounded by similarly unrestrained people. For a moment, she felt... well... when she took a breath, she found her lungs filling more than they usually did, felt her entire body relaxing into the chair in a way she'd almost forgotten she was capable of. She loosened her cape slightly and relaxed while Algi ordered for the three of them. She was a stuffy person, she knew she was stuffy and restrained, largely because she had to be, but... there was something about being around people who did all she did, but effortlessly. Eygi and Algi were both totally competent as humans, they didn't panic about timing, they always remembered their wallets, they seemed to have a confident handle on the world. And in their presence, she felt comfortable complaining, she felt comfortable loosening a few of her normal limits.
Just a few. But it was enough catharsis to relax her.
The panic of knowing she had to do drama faded away. The panic of Eygi thinking she was an irredeemable freak not to be associated with faded with it. For a second, she could see the future stretching ahead of her in an immaculate golden braid of cause and effect. Could see herself being a judge for the rest of her life, restraining herself with all the tightness of a wasp in a spider's nest, but... she could also see little islands of this studded amidst it. No braid was perfect, every braid had points of tightness and relaxation, strength and weakness, little gaps between the strands. This felt...
This felt nice.
Tanner Magg, in the course of a single day, had made two friends, eaten a pie, found out that she had a small taste for coca-wine, and discovered an outlet. Possibly the first one she'd ever found. She realised, with a start, that her hands weren't curled. Usually they were, usually she curled them up and clutched at her skirt nervously, needing to release tension somehow, but... in this case, she didn't seem to find it necessary.
And in the corner of the room, just at the edge of her vision, she saw one of the waitresses walk over to a recently vacated table, lips pursed to the point of almost vanishing. And with calm, practised motions, she bent down and removed the half-full cup which had sat in front of the long-coated stranger. A swipe from a cloth, a movement of the chair... and the table was just as it'd been before the man had come in, presumably. A moment later, and a new customer stumbled in, a judge eager for refreshment, and the table was immediately strewn with loose papers, a new cup, and the chair was filled with a cape-clad individual burying himself in work without a moment's hesitation, clicking the lenses of his goggles downwards, arranging the magnification until he could read the atomic-scale chickenscratch which covered his bundles of paper. A moment, and it was hard to imagine anyone had been there before him at all.
And Tanner, immersed in her new friendship, barely noticed.
Tanner's memories were faded. Dulled. Life only really returned on a night filled with the scent of vinegar.
Funny, how life tended to arrange itself into process and interruption. Moment to moment, she could say she was alive, that she was cognisant, self-aware, rational, alert. Moment to moment, she lived. And yet, barely a few hours later, she'd look back and she'd see nothing more than vague outlines, motions without substance. The gaps in a pea-soup mist where someone had moved, but with no sight of the person themselves. A day, and the mists would close back in, and even that imprint would be gone, leaving only whatever softening footprints had been left behind, marking out the basest facet of presence. Sometimes, when she looked back at her life over the last two years as a judge, she found that all she could really state, confidently, was that she hadn't spontaneously manifested today. That was it. She saw the marks of her existence, saw the footprints, the gaps in the fog, all of it, which suggested something had moved, something had existed... but the memory was just a grey tangle of unaligned threads.
If the memories of Mahar Jovan were a metal briar tangled around her skull, latched deep into her grey matter... then many, many of her memories of Fidelizh were a soft, woollen mass that slid away as soon as it formed.
Maybe it was a matter of proportions. Assuming that the memories from... say, ages zero through four/five were basically complete write-offs, that meant she had ten years of basically complete memories when she left Fidelizh at fifteen. Ten years, three thousand, six hundred and fifty days. Each day worth 0.00027% of her remembered lifespan. Rounded up, 0.0003%. Now, she was seventeen, bordering on eighteen. Thirteen years of basically complete memories. Four thousand, seven hundred and forty five days. Each day worth 0.00021% of her total remembered lifespan. From 0.0003 to 0.0002, that meant her life was now, on average, worth 33% less. Each day became less and less meaningful as time went on. Each birthday became less significant. By the time she was forty, each day would be worth 0.00007% of her life. A number so tiny it wasn't even worth thinking about. Each division of time became just a tiny drop in a swollen pool. To a man parched in a desert, a single drop of water was everything. To a man drowning in an ocean, a single drop of water was nothing at all. She could feel the waters rising all around her. Her days had already lost 1/3 of their value. How long until it went even lower? How long until years were meshed in the same grey haze?
She didn't have thoughts like this very often. Not often at all. She liked being a dead, grey thing. She liked existing on the golden braid of past, present and future. She enjoyed being a purposeful drone with everything spread before her. Expectations fulfilled, mother satisfied, father presumably proud, lodge contented, world contributed to. A homeostatic value. Sounded strange, but she did enjoy it, quite a bit. The world was full of chaos and peculiarity, mutants lived beyond the city, underground rivers pulsed with contamination, mutant-hunters sang low, rumbling songs as their boats churned up the waters of the river Irizah, a Great War had almost wiped out humanity on the continent... but she was doing her job. Eyes slid over her and didn't linger. Her life cycle was proceeding - from egg, to leptocephalus larvae, to glass eel, to yellow eel, to silver eel. Mustn't shirk.
But sometimes... sometimes she had a little flare of something.
A little twitch of thought. When she had her life operating on a pleasant programme of regulated actions and approved behaviours, any interruption tended to add up. She disliked how her bed was always too small. How her hand ached from too long using the automatic quill. How her eyes had adopted a permanent squint from continual use of her many lenses. How some of the books in the libraries were printed in such a way that the words flowed into each other a bit too much, just adding a hint of inconvenience. How legal logic sometimes seemed to twist into itself and express meaningless concepts in the most convoluted fashion. How spicy the damn food was. Little things, really. Easily ignored in isolation.
But in the grey haze of comfortable routine, even tiny things built up and up and up. After purging so much from her life, so much that irritated her or worried her, reducing down to the familiar and desirable...
Well.
Well.
Thus, Eygi.
***
"Oh, oy-oy, Tanner. Nice weather, isn't it?"
It was tolerable. Tanner stumped into the kaff, a different one this time, took a bit of time to wander out to it. Eygi and Algi were there, as per usual, and a little circle of other people she knew vaguely, if not necessarily well, or even by name. Already she could feel routine peeling away. She'd never come out here, normally. Just wound up hearing from someone that Eygi was popping out for a bite to eat - she was a noblewoman, she liked eating at different places all the time, sampling new delicacies, really... pushing the boat out. A glass of citrinitas was summoned, and Tanner sipped... the explosion of chemical wonderment made her face sting and her eyes water, but it fired her with energy, really... well, really got her spine unclenching. The circle of unfamiliars were used to seeing her around, but weren't used to talking with her, and that naturally cultivated a certain breed of winding, particularly the tight variety. A single sip, and a part of that went away. She did what she always did - she sat, and she waited. Said her pleasantries, and just... enjoyed being an element of a conversation, watching for the right moment... at first, things were centred around bigger ideas. Concepts. Algi was talking in his drawling, slightly disinterested way about some new developments in the theatre, how some experimental sorts were trying to use some of the methods from the north, learned from the people living in the seething shantytown in the riverbed. The northerners said it was an absurd parody of their home, the locals thought it was unforgivably odd, and not in an especially fun way, while the Erlize was increasingly nervous about the whole affair. Tanner drifted on the surface of the speech, not quite... well, she had nothing to contribute. She didn't know enough, and wasn't confident in blustering her way through. If she didn't know anything, she might as well keep her mouth shut and let others dive in.
Slowly, but surely, the conversation turned.
And she leaned forwards.
Eygi was chattering about Brother Olgi, one of the more senior judges in the inner temple. Chattering about his habit of losing himself in convoluted metaphors, reiterating everything he was saying in slightly different combinations just to make sure everyone understood exactly what he meant, by which point almost everyone just wanted him to move on, and-
"Yes. Yes. That's exactly what he does, and he just keeps going and going... you know, I wish, I really wish he'd stop assigning reading from the Hallug collection, all the books there are cramped, and it always feels unsatisfying to use them - you know? And he just assigns huge chunks from them, huge chunks, and the pecias take ages to copy..."
Eygi was nodding rapidly.
"Yes, yes, yes, precisely correct, precisely, I loathe the Hallug collection, it feels like the books were exclusively written by the most obtuse people - they don't use the most complex words, but it feels like they turn normal, short words into completely incomprehensible scrawls, it's maddening."
The others were starting to butt in. Yes, the Hallug collection was loathsome. Yes, the pecias that Brother Olgi assigned were much, much too long. Yes, there was at least one chair in the studium which squeaked constantly, and no, none of them knew which one, but it was slowly driving them all insane. These weren't major issues, of course. The pecia were workable. The Hallug collection was interesting, if you waded through some of the obtuse prose. The squeaky chair was easily remedied by stuffing a little wax into one's ears, which Tanner did anyway to help her concentrate. Algi snorted at their complaints, joining in from time to time... she never quite knew where to place him. On the surface, he seemed grounded and reasonable, but sometimes he'd just... ramble about things, conceptual things that she knew almost nothing about, and she got the feeling that there was more going on with Eygi's quiet brother than she knew. But for the time being, she had no mind for it. Eygi was chattering, the others were joining in, Tanner was indulging in acts of complaint that she'd never dream of in any other circumstance. A tiny, permitted break from the usual slithering purpose of her life, the unrelentingly constant path from here to an appropriately oversized hole in the ground.
A moment of catharsis. A little flash of indelible memory amidst the grey haze.
Tanner didn't remember the overwhelming majority of her days. But she always remembered when she got to go out with Eygi, to eat, drink, and complain. To release some steam.
Always remembered days like this. Each and every one of them.
***
It was funny, really. For two years, she achieved it. The eternal golden braid. The state where she knew all that was expected from her, all that was required, and she knew precisely how to satisfy all that was demanded. When you clipped the rest of your life away, like dead-heading a pile of roses, you could do... just about anything. Some little deep-rooted part of the brain that understood what it was to be single-minded, to walk after prey in the undergrowth for hours on end, to eat with the morose determination of someone with work to do tomorrow, to speak with the solemn rhythm of someone with nothing else to say beyond the necessities. Tanner sometimes thought other people were like this, too - they had long, long periods of just... operating. Sliding through life with all the graceful inevitability of insects moving through predetermined stages in their life cycle. It was peaceful, very peaceful. But if it wasn't punctuated by periods of catharsis, it would've been maddening. If it wasn't for the little trips to local kaffs, to little interesting restaurants and garden parties, to places where Eygi and Algi were at home, and gladly complained about all manner of little things... if it wasn't for that, she'd have gone mad. Not that the work was maddening, though! Not at all!
And not that she was for a second doubtful of her vocation.
Just... well, she was young. Growing. Time in her life when she had a surfeit of energy, needed to express it somehow. Surely, once she was full-grown, she'd leave such childish ideas behind, and settle down to work solidly for the rest of her life. Surely. Everyone else seemed to manage it, after all. She learned, she studied, she educated herself and was educated in turn. Judges learned a huge amount, only specialising once they had some years of experience under their belt. The purpose was to be the sole authority, the pillar of completion to whom others looked. Every human was defined by incompleteness, by a lack of knowledge in some areas - judges took the law, and learned everything they possibly could. They aspired to heights of completion that no-one else possibly could, and achieved the philosophical ideal of the judiciary. They were well-spoken, intensely well-read, knowledgeable of the law to the point of absurdity, infused with every little rite you could possibly imagine. Humanity was incomplete - the judges saw this as a temporary flaw, rather than an inherent feature. Tanner lost herself in tradition and rite, in purpose and law. Her eyes ached, her forehead was perpetually sore from the weight of her lenses, her arms had long-since forgotten what it was to be lazy, and her fingers... her fingers were black with ink, evening after evening after evening.
That was the reason for the vinegar, you see. And the reason why one of her strongest memories was so strongly scented by it.
Vinegar helped with the ink. Helped dissolve it. Night after night, she'd stand by the mantelpiece and dip her fingers into a little pot of the stuff, slowly washing herself clean before bed. A giant in a nightdress, hair falling in a curtain around her face, surrounded by the crack of firewood and the low splash of vinegar. This was where she talked with the others, murmured of the day's events with polite detachment, watched as more and more dropped out, leaving the dormitory increasingly empty. Eygi sometimes talked with her here, but it was in kaffs that they really unwound, talked about absolute nonsense, speculated in an insulting manner, just... became idiots, for ignorance was bliss, and sometimes Tanner needed bliss. She came to crave the sight of that strange, broken-toothed girl with the frog-like eyes, poking into her room with affected disinterest and scuttling over to the fireplace like a cockroach, ready to call Tanner 'her lovely pet', before regaling her with little pieces of gossipy information. Tanner sometimes felt like she was missing out on a whole world beyond her sight, a panoply of spiteful romances and passionate rivalries, little tits and tats, hithers and thithers, the manifold unfolding of human interaction. In any other circumstance, she'd stand aside. Through Eygi, she had a window. The tiniest peep at what the rest of the humans were getting up to.
If Tanner relished her time in the dull dusty dark of study, routine, ritual and purpose... then Eygi was the tiny chink in the curtains which let in the noonday sun. She shared guilelessly and shamelessly, chattering away with all the ease of a creature bred to chatter and nothing besides, flickering around the room like a moth as she did so, all air and light and sound and motion. A window into a broader world of people. Eygi... well... Tanner clung to her, a little bit. Followed her from place to place, made sure to keep an eye on her, sat next to her during lunchtime, waved at the beginning of lectures, did all she could to stay connected. Tanner knew that if you didn't cling to someone, they had a tendency to slip away. Needed regular renewal, friendship did. And... honestly, Tanner lost herself in routine, and revived herself whenever Eygi swung around, eager to accompany her on trips to kaffs, to little walks, to anything. Liked to think they were a regular old duo, really, Eygi and herself. Small, broken-toothed girl and very large giant. And Algi, sometimes.
But times pass. Times change. Times come, and times go.
And sooner or later, so did Eygi.
***
"Hm?"
Eygi looked up from her work as Tanner practically manifested in front of her, looming like an antique colossus. Colossa? Colossa. Right, that was a good, normal thought. The proper conjugation of colossus when the colossus in question so happened to have a pair of chesticles. Oh, gods, what did she just think, words were hazardous things best kept out of her reach, they ought to stow her with the sheep where she could baa and bleat mindlessly for the rest of time and-
"...yes?"
Right. Reality. Existence. Cogito ergo Tanner.
"Sorry, just... wondering if you were heading off to get something to eat?"
Eygi looked up at her strangely. There was something odd in her eyes, and for a moment Tanner felt the tiniest twitch of unease. No smile, no welcoming boisterousness, no airy acceptance... sure, it was the first time Tanner had done this sort of thing, asking her if she wanted to grab something from a local kaff. In her defence, Eygi had been remaining fairly rooted in place for a while now, and... Tanner really wanted to have a chat. Just a small one. Eygi was her first friend in this place, Tanner lived for the little lunches and drinks they had together, the times when she felt like she could really just... unwind. She'd been tense practically her whole life, and the moments when she sat down and basked in Eygi's ambient glow were practically unprecedented. Whenever she had niggling doubts about her work, or felt the irritation mount higher and higher... there was always Eygi, waiting at the end of the line. A second passed...
And Eygi's expression shifted, the smile emerged, the eyes brightened, her entire face seemed to transform as she flashed her slightly broken teeth to Tanner. Like watching someone put on a harlequin's mask. Immediately, she looked younger, happier, brighter. The Eygi that Tanner knew best.
"Well, darling, I'd love to, really, I would, but I'm absolutely swamped at the moment. Completely mashed, really. Love to, though. Love to. So... maybe later? Another day? Just a bit busy. Terribly sorry. But definitely some other time."
Tanner nodded quickly, even as her heart sank.
"Right. Sorry for bothering you. Definitely next time, though. Just..."
She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
"Well, if you pop out, just, well, let me know. Happy to... tag along."
She could feel her face warming up from embarrassment. Eygi nodded a few times, her face very slightly stiff, and then she was back at her work, scribbling away with the rapid click-click-click of an automatic quill. Looking straight down at her paper. Tanner hovered awkwardly for a second longer before walking away, back to her own work... well, what was left of it. It was funny, how Eygi always managed to just breeze off and find people to cluster around her as she headed for a bite to eat, while Tanner had to nervously plan out a little trip, think of what she wanted, think of how to get there, think of the risks, and then she'd find out that she was apparently misaligned by the great cosmic timepiece that everyone else operated by, and found that no-one else was free when she was. And asking them for their schedules ahead of time felt like a monstrously awkward thing to do. How did you interrogate someone on where they'd be at every minute of every day?
Eygi was a little centre of gravity around which the universe rotated. She conversed easily and airily, moved where she pleased and others followed her with all the inevitability of matter vanishing down a plughole.
Best to... well, best to just follow her lead. Tanner had never actually had lunch with her alone before, oddly enough. Accompanied her alongside others, yes, but never on her own. Well, that as a given with Eygi. Always had people following her, even if it was just her brother.
Best to let Eygi move first. Tanner would gladly move in her wake. More convenient for both parties.
More convenient indeed.
***
"...oh."
Algi looked up.
"Hm? Oh, right, yes, Eygi said she wouldn't be along here today, had something else to deal with. Sorry about that."
The kaff was almost deserted, it was just Algi and Tanner, with the waitresses hovering quietly in their backrooms. Felt like every kaff had the same basic arrangement to it - a small, intimate area where tables clustered and the windows were almost always shuttered, and backrooms kept completely hidden from any customer. Algi had a listless look to him, his feet were stretched out in front of him over the floor, and his cape was draped dandy-like over the back of his chair, fluttering slightly in the draft like a half-hearted flag. Tanner had come here to see Eygi. Didn't know she'd... well, it was a little annoying that Eygi hadn't even told her that she wouldn't be along today, but surely there was a good reason. Tanner's place wasn't to question why Eygi did what she did, Tanner's place was to follow her around and provide good conversation. The rhythm of their relationship had always been set by the shorter girl, and Tanner gladly followed along, uncertain of what rhythm she'd be setting otherwise, afraid of setting the wrong one, terrified of driving Eygi away in the process.
"Ah. I... see."
"...well, you can sit down, if you like. Might as well."
"Right, right, right. Of course."
She sat down carefully, looking uncertainly at Algi as he blinked with all the languorous detachment of a sunbathing cat.
"You look disappointed."
Tanner flinched.
"I'm not. Just surprised."
Algi shrugged.
"Eh, be disappointed, it's a fair response. Eygi's always been popular, very good at attracting people, I just tend to cling like a limpet."
Tanned blinked, before coughing uncomfortably and signalling one of the waitresses - just a glass of citrinitas. She didn't drink it regularly, and had never felt tempted to buy bottles of the stuff, but she liked the little rush of energy it gave her during these... well, social engagements. Never comfortable with them, not totally, and even with Eygi present it was nice to have a little burning chemical reaction happening in her stomach, encouraging her to think faster, talk sooner, engage with the rhythm of conversation without so much damn nervousness.
"Did she say..."
"Heading off to meet with a friend in the city, someone she's known for a while. Didn't say when she'd be back. Again, if you want to leave, there's nothing-"
"No, no, no, it's fine. I'm fine. So..."
She drummed her fingers over her legs, exerting some of the nervous energy she'd hoped to be releasing during this little lunch.
"...weather's nice?"
"Tolerable. Tolerable."
He smiled faintly.
"You're a foreigner, I remember you mentioning that at some point. Mind if I ask something?"
Tanner nodded quickly, even as her brain murmured irritably to the contrary.
"What do you think of the kaff? I understand Mahar Jovan never quite took off with the concept."
"...that's right, we didn't. More... well, we prefer pubs in Mahar, and in Jovan you usually just drink with your lodge. Or go across the river."
Algi rested his hands over his stomach thoughtfully.
"Interesting. Interesting. I've been having theories on that topic, see. I mean, theories on habits of public dining. Judging really doesn't suit me, you understand. Nor does the law. I thought it might, father thought it might, but... anyway, I can't see myself sticking it out for the whole thing. Flirting with other studies, though, and I got to thinking... you know, there's this one philosopher, interesting fellow, he thought that pubic dining was possibly the biggest display of non-civility you could muster. I mean, when you think about it, people effectively surrender their autonomy when they enter a place like this, we cease to engage with the creation of our own environments, we surrender it completely. We effectively shirk our own responsibilities in search of comfort. And this is what I find interesting - you said you have pubs in Mahar Jovan, are those... particularly boisterous?"
Tanner blinked.
"A bit?"
She was already a bit lost. Not on totally even footing. Positively unmoored. Algi paused for a few painful moments, clearly expecting her to say something else, but... well... Tanner shrugged.
"I mean, they're not very quiet. People go there to get drunk."
Algi stared at her for a moment longer before continuing.
"Right, yes, of course, drunkenness. Point is, there's something excessively public about that, you just don't get the same thing here in Fidelizh. Boisterousness means performance, and we're performing constantly, what with the gods riding around on our backs and all that superstitious gubbins. Even us judges, what with our capes and our silly little rules, we're always performing. So you come here, and what do you find?"
He gestured vaguely. Tanner blinked again. Blinked a few more times, too. She wasn't stupid, she just... this wasn't her field, and when Eygi was around she usually just deferred to her guidance on these matters. Now, ask her about the law, and she might have some thoughts, but she'd come here with her brain ready for a bit of a shut-down. Catharsis was, by necessity, not a very intelligent thing. It was meant to be stupid and silly, but... well, none of these thought were doing her any good. She struggled to think. Algi's smile dimmed slightly.
"Shutters. A hidden backroom. Distinct lack of decorations. Most of the time we don't even have signs - a kaff is a home without the burden of homeliness, it's the public sphere but without all the little elements that make the public sphere stressful. Pubs, lodges, they likely make sense when you want to socialise in order to relax, but here... Fidelizh is such a stressful little place that our equivalent is just a backstage. Somewhere to hide between scenes, let the costume slip, have a wheeze on a cigarette, a glug of water... no more acting. No more pretending. A nice sacred area where we can finally give into ourselves. Permitted to be authentic. Interesting thought, hm?"
Tanner nodded.
"Oh. Yes. That's... well, that is very interesting. I suppose... well, I've never seen a waitress with a god on her back."
"Yes, yes, exactly. Nothing of the sort, because they're signalling 'it's alright to calm down, relax, shuck off expectations'. I imagine this is what Mahar Jovan does in its whorehouses, but for us, odd creatures that we are, it has to be a spot like this."
Tanner blushed slightly at the mention of that particular profession. Sipped her citrinitas, and struggled to... it wasn't that she was failing to have observations, it was trying to filter them to the most salient points. In talking about authenticity and the removal of expectations, Algi had basically just imposed a whole new set, of being philosophical. She felt like she was being examined, and... wait, wait, maybe there was something in that, something good she could bring up, and-"
"Wonder if it's different because you have kings. I mean, sometimes I think we kicked out our king, and had to make a show of not needing him, not needing anything of the sort, and the Golden Parliament was really just pretending for a while. Pretending until we all played along. We're all just acting our way through history, hoping that sooner or later we'll really, really believe it. Kaffs are secluded because we're ashamed of them, we're like... you know, we're like those mutant-hunters who have to get told not to paint naked women on the side of their boats, because it's obscene, and it brings shame to a profession the Parliament says is the finest thing this side of the Tulavanta. They lionise them, paint them as knights in shining armour, defenders of our land, and then what? We have to force them to obey the performance, because if they start acting contrary to it, then why don't we all? It's a combination between social control and state-enforced schizophrenia, in my mind. The state suffering from imposter syndrome, and insisting we all get infected with it too, just to keep them company."
...and the conversation had moved on. This was the problem, she had thoughts, but they moved in variable directions, took time to reach her lips, by the time she'd narrowed it all down, the conversation had already moved on. Probably why she liked hanging out with Eygi, she tended to dominate the conversation, brought enough people to fill out the silences she left behind, generally breezed through everything with the light ease of a professional hostess. Algi, though, expected things from a conversation, and she just... well, if she nodded her head and hummed approvingly, she sounded like an idiot playing along. Which she wasn't. And if she tried to contribute at the right times, her thoughts were half-made and never went anywhere.
"How's your hand? Last time, you were, uh, complaining about the automatic quills, and-"
"Oh, fine."
Silence reigned with an iron fist.
Tanner tapped her glass.
Algi looked at her strangely.
"Gods, it's like seeing someone with a missing arm, still adjusting to the weight. You really miss my sister, don't you?"
"No, no, no,. Just thinking."
"Hm. Well, you've definitely got the air of a lost puppy. Sorry about... anyway. Don't worry, you're not the first one of her friends I've made uncomfortable."
"I'm not uncomfortable."
"Sure."
He smiled dully.
"There's no shame in it, of course. But... well. My sister always does it. Goes somewhere new, attracts a whole array of people to follow her around, is effortlessly lovely and charming despite also being deeply peculiar... trust me, she's a giant pot of honey, and around her the bees doth cluster."
Now Tanner was feeling uncomfortable. She didn't like the idea of Eygi being... that way. Made it seem like her friendship with Tanner was less meaningful. For Tanner, it was meaningful. First real friend she'd had in years, first person to treat her nicely and take her out for countless little meals, first person to really open up a window into the world where everyone else lived. Someone she could see herself spending the rest of her life with, as a valued colleague. Even if Eygi wasn't... the brightest, according to her test scores, Tanner was still eager to stick around her. Eygi had come to mean catharsis, comfort, sociability. If Tanner was a social cripple, then Eygi was her loyal crutch. Hard to imagine being without her.
"Well, never mind me."
He smiled strangely. Something in it she didn't quite relish seeing.
"So, lodges..."
Tanner sipped heavily from her citrinitas, and began to knead her dress under the table.
She never forgot her visits to the kaff.
And despite her best efforts, she wouldn't forget this one, either.
***
"Ah, Tanner, oy-oy. I... thought I ought to pop by. Let you know, and all that."
Tanner glanced up from her little vinegar-filled dipping pot, the firelight dancing in her sombre eyes. She hummed, inquisitively, even as happiness pulsed upwards from her stomach. Wonderful to see her, as usual, wonderful to feel like someone was going out of their way to find her. Dinner, then? Late lunch? Drinking? Some sort of celebration? It'd been months since that awful lunch with Algi, and she was eager to erase the memory with as any Eygi visits as possible. Already managed it, even if his words about her... being some sort of honey pot for the bees kept swimming around her brain with unnerving endurance. Come to think of it... Eygi looked different. Very different. Her cape was gone, and her dress was more elaborate. Her hands were covered in soft buckskin gloves. And her teeth... her teeth were capped. Little pieces of ivory, replacing the broken parts, forming this... strange, decorative maw. Had her teeth broken accidentally, and she'd taken advantage? Or was this some strange fashion in the colony she called home?
Regardless, Tanner was eager to hear what she had to say.
"I'm off."
Tanner blinked.
"Off? Is it a restaurant, or-"
"Off. Off I pop. Away I go. Onwards I slither, slide, and amble, thus and therefore, I depart."
Her smile seemed forced. It never seemed that way before. Tanner was frozen, the happiness in her stomach slowly descending, cooling, hardening. From a burning orb to a solid sphere.
"Going? Where?"
"Back home, you silly goose."
"...it's not a holiday, though? Is... did something happen?"
"...oh, Tanner, my beloved tapeworm, I thought you understood. You must know that not everyone stays here the full course?"
Tanner left her pot on the mantelpiece, advancing slowly, hands clasped in front of her stomach. She leant forwards slightly, eyes bright.
"Did you fail something? I could probably help, you know I-"
Eygi grinned.
"Not at all, not at all! Didn't fail anything, not in the slightest. But... well..."
She paused, sitting down on a vacant bed.
"I'm nobility, you understand. Rather on the wealthier side. Algi, bless him, he's... not exactly fit for running things. Father's convinced he's an odious creep who'll be marching off to do something silly with himself sooner or later. He'd have just sent him here, done a few years of study then marched back home with discipline in his mind and law in his brain, all the things a budding administrator needs to get started, but... well... he didn't quite trust him. Flighty fellow. Needs me, and all that. Little bit of insurance in case the sibling flies the coop."
Tanner was frozen. Her voice was small.
"What?"
Eygi sighed, twisting her fingers with unusual energy.
"It's... well... over here, nobles send their sons to the judges for a few years of slapping around and education, then they drop out and come back home to run the estate. Algi ought to have done it, but... well, father didn't trust him quite enough. So I headed off with him. And now I'm heading back. Father wants me to learn how to manage things off at the colony, make sure I know the ropes. Algi, too. He likes backups, father."
Tanner almost wanted to splutter in surprise, but she found her lips were too frozen.
"...you never said."
"Oh?"
Eygi tilted her head to one side, smiling strangely.
"Didn't I?"
"No. No, you didn't. I'd have remembered."
"I... suppose you would've, yes... well... goodness, are you sure? Why wouldn't... anyway, anyway. I'm heading to stay at a friend's tonight, shipping off tomorrow by train. Now, you take care, you giant lug, won't y-"
Tanner moved abruptly forwards, her eyes wide.
"You never said. Why didn't you say?"
Eygi flinched backwards, shuffling slightly over the bed.
"Well, just never came up."
"You're leaving tonight, and you just didn't... tell me?"
"...well, it must've slipped the mind. We'll stay in touch by letter, naturally, I was popping by to give you my address - I'm sure we'll bump into each other again, of course! But, ah..."
Tanner was utterly paralysed. Eygi was her friend. Why wouldn't... oh. Oh. She could see it. Painful to bring up. Tanner could see herself doing such a thing herself, making that sort of an error. Just... not bringing a thing up until it was late. Eygi was such a little mover and shaker, she was always associating with all sorts of people, moving in all sorts of circles, proper little noblewoman - doubtless the painful idea of bringing up her departure had been so unpleasant that she'd just... neglected it. Put it out of her mind over and over and over until... now. Sitting in front of her, dressed in the loveliest sky-blue dress, with her teeth properly capped and everything. Only at the last moment could she build up the courage for it. It made sense, really. They'd been to a thousand little outings together, having lunch, breakfast, brunch, all sorts of little snacks, random trips to parties where Eygi swanned around with effortless ease, her brother sullenly trailing behind her. It took effort to cut a tie like that, great effort, and Tanner could easily see how the challenge would've been too umch for her. It'd be too much for Tanner, honestly. Poor thing. Tanner forced a smile onto her face, relaxing her posture very slightly.
"I understand."
Eygi stiffened, her face twitching very slightly.
"You do?"
"Yes, yes. I'm... sorry for being a bother about it. It's awful to see you going, but..."
She hesitated.
"...would you mind? I just... well, it's from back home, we have... a little thing we do for people going away on long journeys."
Eygi blinked.
"Ah."
Her face remained flat
.
"I see."
"May I?"
Eygi shrugged airily, though her eyes remained fixed on Tanner, and her mouth remained a thin line.
"Oh, go on. Might as well."
Tanner reached out, placing a hand on both of her shoulders. Felt small, and they shivered slightly under her large, strong fingers. Eygi was... delicate, compared to her. Odd, thinking about how much emphasis she placed on her. Might well say that Eygi was her closest friend, her only friend, didn't really know anyone except through Eygi. Never connected to anyone like she'd connected to Eygi. First friend she'd had in Fidelizh... first friend she'd had in years. Back in Mahar Jovan, just years and years of being alone, hard-working, eremitic... years of being with the lodge, who observed her constantly and dictated her behaviour with stern arbitrariness, all to make sure she cultivated luck for them, and not for anyone else... and then Fidelizh came along, and Eygi had breezed into her life to just illuminate it. Bought her food (which no-one else did), took her out (which no-one else had), chatted with easily familiarity...
Going. Going away. Not her fault, not her fault at all. Tanner didn't blame her one bit, almost pitied her.
She murmured words of the lodge. Words of luck cultivation, of defence against witchcraft, all in an old, archaic language she only knew a few incantations from. Witchcraft was especially dangerous out in the wilds - she cursed the witches, invoked godly defences against their work, wished the cooling of their malice and the softening of their eyes, blessed Eygi with the little protections of the lodge. Not a full member, but that shouldn't matter - Eygi deserved this sort of thing. She'd lit up Tanner's silly little life, and... she deserved it. When she came to a stop, minutes later, her face had broaded into a sad smile. Eygi blinked a few times. Patted her hand gently, nodding once or twice.
"Ah. Splendid. Terribly good of you."
Tanner hesitated...
Then wrapped her up in a hug.
Eygi was stiff as a board, and patted her a few times on the back.
"Oh. Ah. Well, goodness, that's terribly nice of you. Terribly nice, my large friend, terribly nice."
Tanner squeezed her as tightly as she felt reasonable and safe, feeling how thin her bones were, how brittle she was, how easily Tanner could squash her into a small ball... released her, feeling dampness in her eyes. Eygi blinked. Brushed hair from her face .Stood up sharply, brushing her dress down with short, curt motions.
"...no, no, so I didn't. Terribly sorry... hm, I don't suppose... well, silly thing that I am, I left some paper back in my case, and... ah, I see, you have some paper with you. Well, that's wonderful. Now, my address is... this, so right it down... ah, you have a quill, too, that's very good of you..."
Strange. She'd come to deliver her address, but she'd forgotten ink and paper? No, no, Eygi was just forgetful. Well, forgetful sometimes. Tanner took down the address, correcting Eygi once or twice - silly duck that she was, she missed a few numbers from the postal code, needed reminding. Tanner intended on checking, afterwards, if she'd gotten it completely right. Poor thing was probably frazzled.
"Would you like me to carry-"
"No, no, no, all handled, all handled."
Oh.
Shame. Tanner thought she could... well, for old time's sake, carrying her bag around. She'd done a lot of carrying her bags around, really, Eygi had always appreciated her for it, gave her small treats whenever she did so. Like rewarding a loyal dog. But now... Eygi just clicked her heels again, flashed a winning (and eerily completed) smile, and gave a jaunty wave.
"Well, ta-ra, big lady. Lovely knowing you!"
Tanner stared, eyes brightening.
"It was... it was lovely studying with you, Eygi. Really, very lovely. I'm very sorry to see you go."
"Very sorry to be leaving!"
She started walking towards the door, a little faster than usual.
"Stay in touch?"
Eygi called back over her shoulder.
"Oh, yes, yes, stay in touch, of course, of course, very much so. Have a pleasant course, Tanner, won't you?"
"Yes, definitely, definitely will. I can walk you to the exit, you know, and maybe we could-"
"No, no, not necessary in the slightest, need to, ah, pop by some other things first, a few other people I have to say goodbye to. Well..."
She paused at the door, and bounced on her heels slightly.
"Uh, well, goodbye, Tanner! Thanks for all the help with the bags and, uh, whatnot. Oh, incidentally, you can have my bed. I think you said yours was always too small, well, just grab mine and haul it over - slap it next to yours, or in front of it, or however the arrangement works out. Little, well, ah, parting gift? Should be more comfortable, I suppose?"
She was stammering more than she usually did. Tanner clasped her hands together tightly, invoking luck as strongly as she could, the firelight casting her face halfway into shadow.
"Goodbye, Eygi. I'll..."
She was already leaving.
Tanner was alone.
She stared at the little scrap of address in her hands. A tiny scrap of paper. Last point of contact with the first and only friend she'd made in Fidelizh. An abrupt ending to over a year of friendship. They'd been in plays together, Eygi had helped her become more confident, Eygi had been her primary point of contact with the rest of the students, she'd...
She was gone.
And Tanner lingered, her fingers stinking of vinegar, her hair almost luminous in the firelight. Her eyes slid over in the vague direction of Eygi's bed. Two years. Two years of being with the judges, and... well, Eygi had just been a fixture. Gone. She walked slowly over, the room uncanny with its emptiness. The bed was freshly made, and she tried to sit down on it. Felt wrong, felt not-her. She shifted uneasily, feeling her skin crawl. Gosh, just... gosh. And Algi was off too, presumably? Both of them, and... well... without them, she didn't... did she know anyone? She'd never really initiated the whole... dining thing, that was always for them to execute and for her to follow along with, so... well... what was she meant to do now? She felt a strange empty place open up in her stomach. First real friend since home. Sort of... assumed that Tanner and Eygi would be a fixture of the judges from now until forever. Just thought...
Not sure what she thought.
Two years.
Just like that. And in all the years to come, Tanner would never forget this one memory, of resting her large head in vinegar-scented hands, feeling Eygi's bed creak beneath her, unused to her weight. Feeling each breath and each blink, each sluggish thump of her heart. Too shocked to cry.
I hope you've made it back home safely. The address you gave me wasn't quite right, but I managed to find out the proper one from the college office - sorry about that, I understand you must've been rushing. How's the countryside? I imagine the weather is significantly better than it is here - we've got that awful warm rain, the sort that makes everything smell of dust and earthworms. I hope things are better where you are, hopefully some of your good weather heads our way soon! Unless you have poor weather, then I hope it passes you by as quickly as possible.
How's Algi? Tell him I send my best, won't you?
Things are a bit odd around here since you left. Everything feels a bit emptier than usual, I'm realising just how many people have... well, left since the course started. Very quiet. I barely have to wait in line for my pecia these days, not like the first week I was here, not like that at all. The material we're covering now is frightfully interesting, right now I'm doing an introductory paper on equity law. Not sure if I'll pursue it as a specialism, though. Right now I think I might just focus on, well, common practice. Not so sure if I have an academic future ahead of me, but I can definitely see myself doing more mundane business, settling disputes, grumbling about wills, slapping purse-snatchers (metaphorically). Could be interesting! Hopefully.
Thank you for the bed, incidentally. It's lovely to actually be able to stretch out properly, really makes a difference with my sleep. It was very kind of you to let me have it, and I promise I'm taking good care of it. How's the estate? I remember you saying your father was training you to manage it, hope that's going well for you, I can imagine it's terrifically strange to shift from this dusty old place to, well, more aristocratic work. I actually find it quite hard to imagine it, I've been checking the popular fiction that's around at the moment for tips on what you might be getting up to - so you ought to let me know if I'm about to consume a lot of rot, otherwise I'll probably believe all sorts of loony things!
People are asking after you in some of the kaffs, they seem quite heartbroken to have lost you. I do hope you swing by for a visit one of these days, I'm sure you'll have all sorts of stories to tell. I doubt I'll be able to reciprocate, unless you want a long talk on equity law or eels, but I'd love to hear what you're up to, regardless!
Best wishes,
Tanner Magg
***
Dear Tanner,
Oh, you absolutely scrumptious ragamuffin, you barely let me settle down before sending me a letter! As for my business, I can tell you that right now all I've done is unpack and clean the dust out of my old room. Weather is utterly tolerable. Terribly sorry for not getting in touch sooner, absolutely bowled over by settling back into my old chambers. And yes, naturally, I'll come back to Fidelizh at some point, if only to manage some business of some variety. Father's hoping for me to start touring around a few of our little farmers, to inspect dairy churns and the other things I'll likely spend the rest of my life doing.
Algi is currently breathing and warm to the touch. Beyond this, I can say nothing else, least of all of the thoughts going on in his head. I'm sure there's some in there, but there's no outward sign of it. Dreadfully inconvenient.
Hope you're having a good old time in that dusty tomb, try not to strain your eyes too much, sunlight's a delirious wonder, but it becomes an absolute curse if you spend all your time indoors staring at books.
Plenty of love,
Eygi
***
Dear Eygi,
Lovely to hear from you! I was a bit worried by the silence, thought you might've had a train crash or something. Things are basically the same over here. I'm largely sticking indoors, I'm afraid. Too much work to be done. I do miss our chats, and I definitely miss your recommendations for places to eat - back to relying on the dining hall, really. I hope there's good fortune with the dairy churning business, sounds like something out of one of those ghastly pastoral fantasies that were popular a year ago, you remember? All those other students, doing their plays, rolling around the stage moping about how awful the city was and how lovely cows and sheep and stiles were? Speaking of which, actually, I don't suppose you have any other recommendations for plays? They're slowing the pace down a bit, letting people opt out more as we get more senior, but I still have to handle at least one. I'm terribly afraid one of the others will ask me to do something large and verbose, or worse, completely humiliating. I keep thinking one of them might ask me to try and play some sort of enormous pantomime donkey or something, and I'll splutter a bit, ramble helplessly, and before I know it I'll never live it down. I really can't pass things off as 'just a bit of fun', I don't have the lightness for it, people know that it affects me, and I know they'll always be thinking about it. I still remember that first play the three of us did, the one you and Algi ran, and how I just sat in that all-night kaff after the performance and just stayed there all night (appropriately enough(, I was just terrified of going back to my dormitory and facing people after going up there in a wretched little costume and-
Anyhow. I'm very sorry for rambling. Not many chances to ramble nowadays, what with you gone and all. Do you have any recommendations for plays, though? Anything with a bunch of small parts, just so I know what to suggest when that awful time rolls round again? Of course, if any of this is remotely inconvenient, I don't mind at all, I'm just curious, you tend to know a lot more than I do about these things.
They're murmuring about pupillage now, the instructing judges are looking to see if there's anyone they want to take under their wing within the next year or so. Terrifying to think of, well, actually doing proper work. I know I said I wanted to do more common practice, the basic drudgery, that sort of thing, but there's a gulf between saying that and actually doing it, you know? Also, I can't believe I never found out beforehand - what's your birthday? Asking for a friend!
Glad to hear Algi's alive. I understand he's flitting between things at the moment, last I heard he was talking about social theories and so on, is he considered becoming a scholar? That'd be an interesting choice! I'm not sure if I should hope that he settles down to manage the estate, or if I should hope he moves on to find something else, leaving the whole kit, caboodle, guns and glory to you! I've been reading Balyol Strides Forth, that new serial, and maybe that's been shaping my impressions, but I'm convinced that everything out in the colonies is aristocrats feuding over inheritances, going to lavish cotillions, organising mutant hunts, and lots of running around the hills in swoopy dresses while wailing to the mountain-like clouds. I assume you're only doing some of that, I'd love to hear how close my delusions are to reality, though! Certainly, I can imagine you could pull off the swoopy dresses this book keeps talking about, you've got the figure for it, not to mention the confidence, but I find it hard to imagine you declaring 'lo, though his origins be so humble, the lowest station cannot taint the highest of characters, and how I long to press my rubious lips against his sturdy cheek, how I long for the maximum masculine!'
Well, I assume. I remember how you were on stage, I think you could pull that sort of thing off if you tried. Maybe as a comedy?
Hope the weather's going well, it's ghastly out here, all sorts of rain. I can hear it pattering above me, those awful breathing pillars in the entrance hall keep coughing and spluttering when the water gets inside, I think the filters are broken. Feels like the entire court is coming down with a cough, and I can feel my own lungs itching in sympathy. Do you think that might be a thing? Sympathetic illness, some sort of medical hysteria where people contract illnesses just to make actual sufferers feel a little better? Might call it 'hysterical empathy' or something along those lines. I sometimes feel that might be a thing - I'm sure you've seen some of the girls around here who read those serials, and when one of them starts weeping, it's like all the others just join in spontaneously? And then everyone's crying, and it's just a big soggy mess? I mean, surely all their emotions can't overflow at once, but maybe they decide out of awkward kindness to just give the original weeper a bit of consolation? And if it happens with weeping, why not with actual diseases?
I wonder if soldiers spontaneously catch gangrene to keep their comrades company?
I'm sorry, I'm being silly. But I do miss our little chats, I enjoyed being, well, rather ridiculous together! Let me know if you're coming down at some point, won't you? Or just pop in to call, I'd be happy to treat you to something!
Yours affectionately,
Tanner Magg
***
Tanner,
Very, very sorry again, completely swamped with work, didn't mean to delay for so long. Lovely to hear from you, naturally, weather's perfectly fine at the moment, hope things are going well for you back in the city. Interesting ideas, must say, always find them entertaining to read through. Algi is still alive, still cognisant, but he's not thinking of becoming a scholar at the moment - he's not remotely bookish enough, and I honestly think he'd rather be an idler the rest of his life. You know the sort, happy to lounge around and read bits and bobs, but without actually committing to anything. Deliriously fun, but terribly consumptive of the old family treasury. Someone has to make sure the golden well remains full, and that increasingly looks to be my appointed task. Not such a bad one, though. Lovely to hear from you, of course, lovely to hear that you're still pursuing the whole judging business.
In terms of plays, I'd recommend looking for anything by Gulyai of the Tableland, he's decent enough, has lots of side characters who say a little, and he's good for legal humour. If someone suggests Camima of Goldcreek, ignore them immediately and curse their mothers for good measure. Camima is fine, but she absolutely adores having a suite of side-characters who have all the charm and sophistication of buboes. She appears to assume that all country-dwelling people are ignorant boors who eat their own cousins and have accents thicker than treacle. If you wind up doing one of her plays with others, and don't want to be a main character, you'll be a shambling bumpkin. So, Gulyai good, Camima crap. Simple axiom, really. Interesting to hear about that serial, been ages since I've read any. I'll try my best to avoid wandering around with an excessively flowy dress, I'd just catch my death in the weather we've got right now.
Not sure when I'm heading back into the city, but if I can, I'll pop by and say hello.
Talk soon,
Eygi
***
Dear Eygi,
Oh, lovely to hear back from you! Sorry that things are so busy, I completely understand. Things are busy here as well, hard to find time to step aside to write a letter. The play went... tolerably, they wound up choosing something by Camima of Goldcreek, picked it out before you were able to get back to me, but it's fine, I was able to get a role as a smaller character who isn't a complete caricature, I mostly just stood around with a goblet and waited for all the characters to die off humorously. I didn't get most of the jokes, and I don't think the audience did either, but at least the weight of the comedy wasn't resting on my shoulders. Just a goblet, and that was fairly light, all things considered. Still, I'll keep Gulyai in mind for next time, though I'm really not sure how many opportunities are left, feels like a lot of things are slowing down as we buckle into the more professional stuff. I think we've slowly shed most of the people who were only going to stick around for a few years to get a bit of basic training, so the people left are all committed to being judges - which means less drama, less hoo-ha, more plain and simple law. Which I distinctly prefer. It's funny, but just having competing commitments makes life so much more stressful, made everything harder to do overall. Just having to square competing schedules, balancing what's important against what's less important, and it always seems like the latter occupies more of your brain than it really ought to. Rationally, I know that drama doesn't contribute to anything I'll be doing later, beyond some public speaking practice, but irrationally, drama has the potential to be more humiliating, more painful, more... uncomfortable. Nice to feel like I'm shedding it, though. Since you left, I've found I don't enjoy it whatsoever, even the little bits of fun I had from time to time seem to be gone.
Sorry, don't mean to be morose. Still, glad to hear you're well, glad that Algi is alive, glad that the estate hasn't burned to the ground quite yet. The weather here is actually quite nice, they barely need to use the illuminated tiles now, the skylights take care of most of it. Quite nice, hearing birdsong while I'm studying. Do you remember last summer, back when you were still studying here, and you ended up going to what felt like a hundred garden parties? I always felt ridiculous going, what with my cape and all, always felt too warm, too stuffy. You, though, I mean, you were fantastic during them, I can't imagine how lavish the garden parties out in the colonies must be, all the space you have to work with and all that. I remember just standing around sweating my skin off, drinking citrinitas, while you were in the biggest sun-hat I've ever seen, looking absolutely comfortable. I was jealous, but at the same time, I was deeply stubborn about it all - I remember you pointing that out. Once I'd committed to wearing a cape, I wasn't going to take it off, that would just seem weak. Probably weaker to keep it on out of shame, though. Don't suppose you have any recommendations for good summer dress shops? Or wherever you got that hat from? I don't have time to go exploring, and I don't like shopping alone, so I'd very much appreciate any little tips you might have!
Funnily, I've heard that the lady judges do much the same as you did at that garden party, or rather, a mixture of the two of us. The gentlemen have to wear those big dark suits all the time, with the cape over the top, and apparently they just sweat themselves to death. But I've seen Sister Halima walking around with this lovely sundress once the weather picks up, she just slings her cape over the top. Not sure if I could pull that off, I imagine I'd receive far too many venomous glares from all the people currently transforming into baked potatoes. I wonder if someone's considered weaving herbs into our capes - I mean, I've had that meal where you wrap up a piece of meat with paper filled with herbs, then bake it, and that's just delicious. Do you remember the name? Anyway, I was thinking that might be an option for us during the summer months. Just put some thyme and sage into our cloaks, then the heat bakes us a bit, and we all smell absolutely wonderful as a consequence. Might make cannibalism a bit appealing, but I think that's an acceptable risk. Sorry for rambling, this is the sort of thing I don't really get to talk about these days, most people look at me oddly and stop talking. Need to get the thoughts out somehow, though!
Oh, incidentally, before I forget myself - you forgot to mention when your birthday was! Asking for a friend who might want to send a present your way, if at all possible. Either way, once you come back to Fidelizh for a bit, I'll happily treat you to a proper slap-up dinner. And you must tell me more about your estate, I'm still struggling to imagine it - the serials keep talking about huge libraries and rambling corridors and wings in all directions, but as you said, I'm not sure how much bearing those serials have on reality. I mean, they were incorrect about the flowy dresses, and I'm not sure if anyone in their right mind has ever said 'the maximum masculine', but here we are. Please, I'm eager to lose my ignorance!
Pupillage business is continuing, though I've still got no idea as to who wants to take me on. Hope it's one of the nicer judges, the kind that actually get you to do things rather than just haul around their laundry and whatnot. Incidentally, I don't suppose you have any thoughts on the stuff going on in the riverbed settlement? I heard there was something going on, people keep talking about it, but I'm honestly a little afraid of asking - I know very little, and it feels like everyone took an introductory course I accidentally missed out on. I thought you might know something, seems like the sort of thing that would be a popular topic of discussion. Either way, I hope you're doing well, and I hope you continue to do well. And let me know about your birthday! And when you're heading back to Fidelizh, love to see you again! Plus, I need to thank you properly for the bed, honestly, it's done things for my back I didn't think were possible, thank you again for letting me have it. Love to buy you a proper dinner as a proper thank-you!
Yours,
Tanner
***
Dear Eygi,
I'm very sorry to write twice in quick succession, I understand how annoying it must be, but I really needed to ask - has something happened with Algi? These men came by this morning to ask me about him, has he gotten into trouble? I think they were with the Erlize - they had the same tweed suits, the same odd-shaped cufflinks, all that business. Anyway, I was just finishing up m breakfast when these two men, one tall, one short, came up to me in the corridor and quietly led me off, said that they had to ask a few questions. They took me out of the court itself, and no-one seemed to stop them, so I assumed it was fine for me to leave - took me out of the inner court and the outer court, took me to this squat little building, just underneath one of the god-towers. It was uncanny, neither of them had a god on their back, not at all, I remember checking the star-charts in the newspaper that morning, and there was nothing about any demands for tweed or cufflinks, nothing at all. I assume that it's a uniform, but... well, it's honestly one of the first times in the last few years that I've seen a non-judge without a god on their back. No idea what behaviours were being dictated to them, as a consequence. I think I understand why people in the city are so afraid, they feel like voids, like unnatural absences in the world. Stuck out like sore thumbs under the god-towers - I mean, they're surrounded by colour and strangeness, and then there's two plain, unremarkable men in identical tweed suits with these glittering, ornate cufflinks, and the entire world just parted around them, crowds shifted, people kept their eyes away, it was all deeply surreal. Like going into an otherworld of some kind. It honestly felt like being buried alive, I was panicking like you wouldn't believe. Each step was just another shovelful of dirt on the surface of my coffin, and the more we walked, the more people just seemed to recede away. Could be standing right at my side and they'd seem distant.
I wonder if that's how ghosts see the world?
No, sorry, sorry, I'm very nervous and that makes me ramble, I haven't been able to talk about this at all, I'm very sorry. I'll get to the point.
Anyway, they took me into this building, squat, unremarkable. It seemed to just be narrow corridors full of wind, and heavy metal doors. I ddin't know much about the Erlize, I still don't, I just know that I'm meant to do what they say when they ask. Anyway, they opened up one of the metal doors - like something out of a bank vault, or an oven. Shoved me into a room with nothing but a little wooden table and a little wooden stool which creaked when I sat on it, I was terrified of snapping the thing. Then they started asking me questions. Neither of them sat down. Their eyes looked like flat silver coins, sometimes I even forgot they were human, thought they'd been mutated until they lost some crucial part of themselves. My father used to talk about people like that from the Great War, said the asylums were full of people like that, mutated just a little bit. They'd stand in their cells, never sleeping, never blinking, just staring at whoever came to see them. Nothing human left behind their eyes. It's why he stopped working for them, really, even when money was tight. Not the screaming inmates, just the silent ones, the staring ones. The Erlize kept reminding me of those stories, and I just kept sweating, the stool was uncomfortable, the table creaked constantly, there always seemed to be a file of some description, and they were just...
Anyway, the Erlize started asking me about your brother. They knew I'd been in contact with him while he was in the school, they knew I was corresponding with you, and they thought I might know more. They started small, just asking about Algi's appearance, habits, conversation topics. What we liked talking about (not much), how often we met (not very), and how close we were (not particularly). Asked a bit about you, but not much, and I didn't say anything embarrassing, I promise. Then they got more intense. They said he was involved with some kind of organisation, something about restoring the monarchy to Fidelizh, bringing a king back from Mahar Jovan. They showed me little journal articles he'd been writing, things about how the Golden Parliament was possessed by usury and corruption, how they just existed to stamp us down, how they were a bunch of hollow-souled monsters who understood nothing but continuing their control, using crisis after crisis as an excuse to exert more control over us, including through the Erlize. All this talk about bringing virtue back to governance - sorry, he spelled it Virtue, with a capital V - and restoring dignity to Fidelizh. It was strange to read, I'm sure Algi's just drifting to another of his odd ideas, you know what he's like. I didn't say much, I'd never read about it, I only dimly remember him talking about how... kaffs were signs of how fake and surface-level the world was, the specifics elude me. The Erlize just kept asking little questions, kept asking about tiny details - when I mentioned his kaff theory, they asked what he'd been eating and drinking, what his suit was like, was he wearing a cape, they always seemed to be insinuating things, but I never knew what.
Eygi, I'm very sorry to write to you again, I don't want to rush you at all with things, I know you like to reply at your own pace, but I really need to know if everything's alright. Did the Erlize come for you too? Is something wrong? Is Algi alright? Are you alright, and is there absolutely anything I can do to help? There's not a holiday for a while, but I think I might be able to sort out a small break for personal reasons, I've not taken any before, but it might work. Maybe I can take a train out?
Please do let me know, Eygi. I had no idea anything was happening - why didn't you tell me? I understand if it was too sensitive to talk about, I really do, but I would've liked to have some warning about getting questioned. But, again, I understand if it was too sensitive, I really do understand, and I don't hold it against you at all. I just want some clarification, if you can possibly provide it. At least let me know that you're alright. I'm worried.
Tanner
***
Dear Tanner,
I received both of your letters, I apologise for any delay. I also apologise for any inconvenience you might've had with the Erlize, I know they can be a little rough. Yes, to clear things up, Algi's decided to be a bloody little neo-monarchist who wants to bring the king back after a good few centuries of absence, he went on a little holiday to Mahar Jovan, wound up finding himself a tart to gnaw on (pardon my vulgarity), and promptly became addicted to the place. I don't know what your home has in terms of women, but clearly they're capable of radicalising the most idle of creatures. Honestly, I could blame just about anyone - father, mother, the colony, the estate, that girl he was sweet for a while back, Fidelizh, the gods, the damn movement of the stars, I could blame anything and everything ,but right now I'm happy to blame him. Don't you worry about him, he's sitting around with other down-at-heel princelings. Under no circumstances should you decide to write to him and give him lodging with your family, you're the sort of person to do that, and you mustn't. The Erlize get very tetchy about that sort of thing, and they've more than enough on their plates right now with the riverbed business.
Listen, Tanner, with all due politeness - do not bring up my brother again. Not unless he decides to renounce his silly little ideas and come home. Until he decides to do that, he's not in line for the estate, father refuses to speak his name. Bringing back the king, of all the lunatic notions he had to adopt. Apologies for not informing you about the possibility of getting questioned, the Erlize might come back and ask you a little more, that's why it's important your family doesn't interact with him at all. You'll gain nothing, and lose much. At minimum, deportation back home, the cessation of your education, all that ugly business. Apologies for not informing you. It was sensitive, family business. You know that I don't discuss family business as a rule, yes? Anyhow, Algi aside.
Good to hear from you. Weather's tolerable. I'm very busy, it's doubtful that I'll be able to come to Fidelizh any time soon. Don't bother coming out here, I don't want to interrupt your work, and I dare say I'd be a shoddy hostess at present. Good to hear the plays worked out well. Happy about the bed. Afraid I must dash, there's a hundred accounts to manage and a crumbling house to keep going. If you wanted to know how estates function - they don't, they're maintained in a state of continuous decline, and the best we can do is extend the process until we have to call in the fire squads to burn it all to the ground, once contamination seeps into the walls. Must be off. Incidentally, you really wrote a smoke bomb with that last letter - absolutely full of bits of ash and crumbs, my father was downright alarmed when I opened it over breakfast. Not like you to be so sloppy. Must be off. Talk soon.
Best wishes,
Eygi of Yorone
***
Dear Mother,
I know this is sooner than usual, and my monthly letter might be slightly delayed as a consequence. Apologies for that. I hope you're well, and that the lodge is conducting affairs properly. Speaking of the lodge, could I possibly ask if you could might inform them I'm in need of some additional protections? It's superstitious, but I like to know they have a few candles burning for me, especially now. Mother, if a young man by the name of Algi of Yorone (frog-like face, my age, tends to sprawl in his chair, well-dressed last I saw), speaking with a Fidelizhi accent, perhaps with a female companion, likely associated with monarchy restorationists, approaches the house and indicates familiarity with the name of Magg, please turn him away. He's not a friend, and is considered a dangerous radical by the Golden Parliament. He used to be in my year at the inner temple, but left just over a year ago. It's imperative you don't let him in.
I-
Tanner stopped. Slowly peeled one of the lenses from her face. The goggles around her head were heavy, and her neck twinged slightly, eager to hunch and bear the weight in the most cringing manner possible. A leather circlet, with a series of tiny metallic strands branching away, like a metal spider was nesting in her hair. At the end of each rigid strand was a lens, wide and gleaming. She only had the largest lenses down, just out of habit - the smaller ones were for refining things further, for seeing the tiniest of sub-footnotes. At this point she barely took them off, she liked having something to fiddle with, something to clean, something to maintain. Something to do with her hands beyond clenching. A rattle in the corridor startled her, and she turned sharply, staring into the gloom. Nothing. Not men in tweed suits coming to find her again. With a creak of protesting wood and leather, she shifted in her chair, biting her lip almost hard enough to draw blood.
Glared at the paper in front of her. The creamy sheet of letter-stock, better than the whisper-thin stuff, thin as cigarette paper, that she wrote her notes on. She was alone. The dormitory closed in around her, as it always did - she'd been moved. Smaller rooms, less judges, newer years getting the long, barracks-style place. The others were out, which was the only reason she dared to write. This was... she didn't dislike Algi, she'd never disliked him, just preferred his sister significantly. But he'd never been a negative point in their collective meetings, never someone she regretted to be acquainted to. Well. Not until now. This was a rank move for her, telling her mother to shoo him away, but... but her mind immediately flirted with catastrophic visions. She saw him arriving. She saw her mother letting him in for tea, as was dictated by etiquette. She saw Algi, a dangerous radical, meeting her mother, and... and her father, meeting her father. Seeing him sitting by a fireplace in his blanket, pale from lack of sunlight, eyes staring ahead, a thick hat to cover up the dent in his skull where his thoughts had once sat.
She imagined three possibilities. First, her mother being interrogated. This was bad enough. Her mother was... alright, Tanner hadn't spoken to her much. Still something awkward between them. Things that neither had apologised for, and had long-since missed the chance to do so. Still remembered a few weeks after the accident, when... no, no. Not thinking about it. But even the shadow of the memory made her jaw clench painfully. Her mother was still half-decent. Being interrogated would shame her before the lodge. It would ruin her health, she was nervous, always nervous. Tanner could endure things, she hadn't cried after the questioning, she'd kept working, she'd honestly just sat down and finished up her notes for the night. She had her mechanisms for coping. Her mother didn't. Not in the same way. Second, Tanner being deported back home. Unacceptable. The idea of... of failing was terrifying to her. The idea of falling short of expectations. Wasting the money lavished on her. Failing the lodge. Shamed before them. Shamed before everyone. Sitting at home, alone, stained with the refuse of dock work, wiping the spit from her father's slack lip, helping spoon food to him, her fingernails still clogged with tiny bones from little fish...
No. No. She had to finish. Expectation demanded it. And she wouldn't fail because of Algi.
And the third possibility was the worst of all. The least likely, but she kept imagining it. Algi doing something stupid. Asking to use the hosue for clandestine meetings. Asking to see the lodge to have a chat, he didn't know the taboos, he didn't know the rites, and if he was forceful enough, mother would let it happen. Algi trying to get back in contact with Tanner. Algi blackmailing Tanner to put up inflammatory posters. Algi ruining Tanner's life.
A younger Tanner would've been paralysed by these thoughts. Paralysed by catastrophe on one side, and churning guilt on the other. Paralysed, and useless.
Tanner had grown up, though. Grown yet larger in terms of size. Grown stronger and smarter. She'd learned to endure things. Had her coping mechanisms. She was a little boiling engine of progress, girdled with bands of expectation, tradition, necessity. And tiny outlets in the form of her letters to Eygi.
And this little engine moved.
Regardless. The Erlize were spying on her letters. Tanner didn't smoke. And Eygi had mentioned her letter being full of ash and crumbs. The Erlize had opened them up, read the letter, approved of the contents. Not even sure how much of it had arrived, and how much had just been cut away with a razor blade. Needed to make a display that she wasn't tied up with Algi, not at all.
In the end, there wasn't a choice. She felt guilty. But she knew that if she stumbled here, she'd have wasted almost three years of her life. 17% of her life, according to a mental calculation. Almost a fifth.
No choice.
I apologise for the suddenness of this letter, but I do hope you're well. I hope Father is well. I apologise for any stress this might cause. Algi isn't a violent individual, but he's very misguided, and I wouldn't want to visit any trouble on you. I'm afraid I won't be able to come home for a while - we're moving into pupillage soon, and I have a massive pile of work to do.
Yours,
Tanner
And even now, after three years of letters, and fifteen years of life, she cringed at the formality in her writing.
With a thump, the letter was sealed.
And the tightening bands of expectation, ritual, purpose...
The perpetual golden braid wound tighter and tighter around her, like one of her ribbons holding her omnipresent cape in place.
Had to do this. No reason not to.
***
Dear Eygi,
I apologise again for the rapid correspondence. I hope you're well, and that the weather is tolerable enough. No further problems with the authorities, and I'm terribly sorry if this letter is ash-stained! I'm sorry to hear about the estate. I imagine you're not in a very good mood at present, I do hope you feel better soon. What helps when I feel a bit on the rough side is having a nice long chat with a friend, or when that fails, or if there's no friends immediately available, sometimes I like taking long, long walks. Long walks in empty streets where I can talk to myself a bit. It sounds peculiar, but just speaking to myself can help, I feel like I just exhale all my lesser and greater problems into the world. Rather like a dog growling, I suppose, getting all its tension out with a few rumbles. It's a silly idea, but it can help. I've been doing some very long walks lately, helps me out. I'd love to talk more, though, there's really no substitute to sitting down with a good friend and having a long, long talk. I'm sure you're in a similar boat - really, the moment you get back to Fidelizh, I want to be there at the station to say hello. Should be easy enough to spot me! Just let me know when you're coming back, I assume you are, at some point, even just for business - all the serials have stories about noble ladies nipping to the city and back again, keeping up social engagements, maintaining chambers in elegant hotels... sounds rather up your street!
Pupillage went through, by the way. I'm a pupil under Sister Halima - you remember her, she's the lecturer who gave us that great little talk back at the start, the one the two of us met during. Thought you might like to know. She specifically requested me, too! So, I thought I ought to extend some thanks to you - it was the two of us that spoke during that lecture, so you get half of the credit! I'm sure if you were still here, she'd have asked for two pupils. Sometimes I feel as though I only have half a brain when I'm on my own, you really filled out the rest. Together, I think we make quite an impressive individual! Alone, well, I can do my best.
I miss you dearly, I don't hold the Algi business against you at all, I really wish to talk with you more, it's never been the same since you left. I truly miss you, would ask little more than to be in your company again and
Sorry, mistake above, must be tired - usually I'm more careful with my spelling! Anyhow, I do hope you're well, that the estate is in rude health, so on and so forth. I'm considering buying some of those suits which have all the buttons up the sleeves and trousers, it's fashionable for the senior judges right now, and I like the look of them. Grown on me. You remember how Brother Olgi always had those suits, black with little pearl buttons up the sleeves, the trousers, everything? Made him look like a walking constellation in the right light. Seems to have been a bit ahead of the curve in terms of fashion, might be worth keeping an eye on him in future!
I'm sorry for bothering you. I do hope you're well. We must talk soon - and you have to let me know if you're coming back. You really must! And let me know about your birthday, you keep forgetting!
Been a while! Terribly sorry about that. Goodness, several months already - I know you must be terrifically busy, but I thought you might like to know what I've been up to - obviously, I'd love to know what you're up to as well!
Been awfully busy, really. So, my pupillage's been going on for a while now. It's... interesting. Judge Halima is a wonderful teacher, slightly scatterbrained, but she's got the kind of intellect I can only aspire to develop. I study with her for about half the day, the other half is for the same sort of studying the two of us did back in the day, more generalised, more academic. The pupillage is really where we get practical experience, start to develop our ability to use the law in the field. Halima says that a judge who can't come up with a judgement to a case, with supporting arguments and proper application of principles, within a matter of days is more or less allowing injustice to run free. Have to remember laws on the spot, know exactly what to consult, who to ask, all that business. Honestly, I'm surprised we don't have clerks or assistants, all that Sister Halima has is little old me, and I'm more of a student than a helper. Then again, I think some of the judges outsource some of these jobs to the people in the outer temple, not sure if it's exactly formalised, but it feels necessary. I get the feeling that we're all working like steam engines just to stay on top of the work, feels like Sister Halima is dashing everywhere at once some days, and I just have to try and keep up.
Interesting, though. I mostly just hold her cape, fetch her tea, listen to her ramble about obscure points relating to her current cases, but I'm being coached in how to put together proper briefs for her. Quite fun stuff, really, just handling her papers and whatnot. I get to see all the little scribbles she makes on random points, little things to follow up on, little timings she has to pay attention to... I honestly don't know how she makes time to sleep, let alone eat, drink, and so on. Right now we're handling a fairly small case, just a little exercise of estoppel law. No names, naturally, but one person promised the other person a fee for his accounting services, the other person then failed to get him the... creative interpretations of his accounts that he wanted, the interpretations that would let him pay less tax, and refused to pay up. Naturally, the contract is all fudged and halfway verbal, not like he could say 'I want you to make me exempt from tax' in a written document. The accountant wants his pay regardless, so we're having to dive into the whole thing, and both of them are trying to seem like innocent little songbirds who have no notion of criminality whatsoever. Should be interesting, but apparently Sister Halima deals with issues like this every other week. She'll put together her judgement, submit it to the city office, and that'll be that. I doubt the loser will try and appeal, but that's about the limit of it - I doubt there'll even be much of a fight over equity, I think both parites are treating this like a cocked pistol. 'Pay up/sod off or I'll invoke the judges again, I will'.
All very fun. I honestly wonder why you left, there's more than enough fun here, even for someone with enlightened tastes! In all honesty, I'm very much enjoying it all, just handling the arguments in my head, helping put together the right passages, arranging the brief properly... usually she gets her briefs done by a little fellow in the inner temple, but she thinks I should be able to put them together for her in about a month or so. And that's just the case I'm helping her with, she's dipping into a whole raft of others - an unjust eviction, some unlawful dismissal, another case of estoppel involving a wheelchair...
It feels useful, doing all of this. Very useful. I mean, once we settle something, it's settled - done, completed, finished. No appeals, no complaints, nothing. We share a customary sweet with both parties, we chew it, compliment it as we're meant to, and that's it. Deal's done. It's rather like being a lawyer, a conventional judge, a police officer, and a priest all at once, it feels like we're blending all the roles together in a slightly mad fashion. I mean, I'm from Mahar Jovan, the judges aren't quite as big over there... well, for now. Feels like a fair few people in our year are getting sent off to other cities, setting up new outposts, trying to embed ourselves all over the continent. It's odd, it feels like proselytisation, but we're... just judges. We're just convincing people to have faith in our abilities, our impartiality, our authority. I suppose that's why Fidelizh started the whole thing - this city has gods riding around on people's backs, and judges do quite a few similar things. I mean, ritualised costumes and behaviours, coupled with this kind of... self-worship, the god isn't just a distant force, it only has value when it incarnates through a human.
Sorry, my brain's been whirring lately, and I thought it was a good thought. I'm sure someone else has had it, but I really don't have time to read anything but my textbooks. Staying up late at the moment just to finish the assigned pecia, at this point I think I've written a small library of notes just for myself.
Anyway. I hope you're doing well, as always. I'm sure you are, of course. Ever since that... business a few months ago, I've been a bit worried, you've seemed slightly down. Have you given those walks a go? They've always done me a power of good. Do they have enough kaffs out there, in the colonies? I keep imagining rustic villages with one little tavern filled with moustachioed men swilling beer, but I think that might just be my inexperience talking. I'm sure things are more developed... goodness, I can hardly imagine the sorts of parties you must be getting up to in your hall! I dearly hope the weather is favourable. It's starting to rain over here, the heat is fading and the moisture's coming. The streets are stained yellow by the dust, and the rain washes it all down to the riverbed. The pollen is so thick, too - thick enough for me to drag a finger through. I'm considering asking Judge Halima for advice on clothes, I'm definitely missing your eye for this sort of thing. Do they get citrinitas out in the colonies? Just had a sudden thought, I mean, it's spicy stuff, very potent. Do you find citrinitas to be unbearable in the countryside? I mean, just thinking logically, coca wine excites the senses and makes time shrink down to the tiniest increments, is that awful when there's not much to do? I wouldn't know, I've been busy ever since I arrived here three years ago, I intend to be busy four years from now, and likely to be busy for the rest of my life. Maybe you ought to mount an experiment?
Anyway.
I'm sorry to bother you, as per usual. But I like talking about my thoughts with you, my day, my life in general. I don't really talk with the others, never managed to get myself over that initial barrier, and now I'm here. Funny how that works out. You miss some vital early stage, and it's impossible to go back and retry it. I mean, I'm not hopeless. You helped me with that. But I still find myself happier with solitude than company, most of the time. I feel an ache, sometimes, down in my stomach. This pressure behind my eyes, too. Makes me want to move and talk with people. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, my skin prickles and tightens, and I know every part of me wants to move and speak. Then I try, I talk, and... slowly the prickle fades, and I feel how thick and clumsy my tongue is, and how dull my voice can become, and I hear it echoing around the corridors... and I stump back inside, sit down, and get back to work.
Maybe that's how my life is going to be, then. Pressure and catharsis, over and over and over again. Like the contraction of an invisible heart. Is that sustainable? And does it just stop me from getting over that hurdle? When I first met you, I was in a hair-prickling mood... was that just luck? If I'd not had that itch, I wouldn't have followed you to that kaff, never spoken... anyway. Sorry, I like rambling in these letters, I apologise if I sound too conversational. Anyway. Maybe I've just been unlucky, and my urge for catharsis never comes at the right time. I'm having an urge for catharsis now, felt the need to write a letter. I wonder what would happen if the urge comes, and then... nothing? Nothing meets it?
I hope you're well.
Yours,
Tanner
***
Years could pass that way. Years did. Years of writing letters to Eygi, hoping they'd be seen and understood. She was more open than she was in any other circumstance, talked about her thoughts, her loves, her fears. Offered up unflinchingly to the eager, hungry void of a blank sheet of paper. Pour ink down the throat and watch as it vanished, swallowed up and replaced by more blank sheets, more blank space, even if only between the lines. There were episodes, naturally. Lots of episodes. There was the case she handled in the sweltering, stinking shantytown on the riverbed, one that Sister Halima had let her take precedence on, only providing advice and supervision. Still remembered the stink of that place, that endless, endless stink... greasy food, stagnant water, hot dust that had once been riverine mud, buildings crammed next to one another, sometimes rising up several stories in creaking, shivering pagodas. In the dry months, it was a yellow, pollen and dust-filled hell, hot and baking, no relief from the heat, no relief from anything. People lay sprawled in their porches then, staring out with sallow eyes at the city beyond. And in the wet months, like when she came, the rains filled up countless tiny canals within the shantytown, bursting the banks and trickling through the streets. She had to borrow riding boots to avoid ruining everything she wore, and she pinned her cape upwards until it was multiple feet above the mud.
The northerners were here. All of them. The myriad orphans of the Great War. Most of them had no states left, just dead kingdoms and contaminated fields. Every year they tried to shunt more away, give them ways back north, over the Tulavanta River and into the cold. But it was never enough. Only so many could go. And mutants were still up there, a chittering ocean of monsters that flowed in and out of various areas, going wherever there was contamination to feed upon. Another layer of natural disaster, set alongside storms, earthquakes, floods... all those three, and the mutants. The remains of the Great War's armies, sometimes the human veterans too, corroded by the conflict and turned into wheezing wrecks. The cities were empty, and their inhabitants either died, fled south, or became part of the mutant ocean. These lot were the survivors of state upon state. Often hated each other, and were a perpetual problem for the city. Banish them to the colonies, and accept them as permanent residents? No, just let them sit here, and wait for the chance to send them home. Most of them wanted their homes back, if only they were available.
She'd judged a case there involving a property dispute. Nothing more. On one side, an aristocrat from the old country, on the other, a commoner from a different kingdom who had no time for foreign titles. Encroachment, really. Judges showed up to mediate between the groups, but internal affairs within the groups were reluctantly surrendered. Tanner had just read the law, said the words, done the rites... eaten a sweet with the two contesting parties, settled it on behalf of the aristocrat. He'd arrived first, established a dwelling first, intended to dwell there for a further length of time than the young upstart, and acted in a way that benefited the broader community by serving as a kind of... father-figure to the lost and wayward. Pompous ass, but he had the right to hold his territory against encroachment. Tanner's first semi-proper case, and she'd handled it just as she was meant to. Wrote the judgement out fully, gave copies to both parties, had it read for the benefit of any observers, and then ate the ceremonial sweet to put to bed any lingering feelings. The judgement was for the logical side of the argument, the sweet for the irrational. Sister Halima had taken her out to lunch as a treat afterwards.
She'd written a full account to Eygi. And time rolled on. She had more jobs to do. More roles. By the time she reached the dawn of her seventh year, she wasn't really a student - just a judge waiting for the right permissions to come through. A judge in all but name, a judge who just needed a little scrap of experience and examination before she launched off. And she proceeded into this year with silence all around her. She couldn't say she knew her colleagues very well, but she didn't feel the need to. She had her outlets and her purpose. Her purpose kept her going, and the outlets released the pressure when it built up too much, and she found the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. The wriggles of discontent as she moved through a life cycle that was well-planned out, and well-executed in most details.
Eygi was that outlet. The long, rambling letters she wrote to her were an outlet. Some people went out to drink. Some people had mental breakdowns. And she wrote letters to an old friend. It was convenient, really. Happened on her own schedule, at her own time. If she wanted to write a letter, she wrote a letter. Simple as. Other people had to make time for others, had to arrange their lives in a certain way, had to be inconvenienced in a hundred respects. Not Tanner. She just worked, worked, worked, and when she needed, to, sent missives to Eygi, little dispatches from the front lines. The engine was working. The golden braid was functional. Her life cycle was established and perfect. An animal couldn't move through life with her level of dogged determination, her lack of reflection, her commitment. Years could flash by and she barely noticed them.
And in years, Eygi had never come to visit. Not once.
Anyway.
On the dawn of her seventh year, Tanner was awoken by a tapping on her chamber door. And a soft voice speaking. For a moment, she was frozen... then she recognised the voice.
"Tanner, time for you to be moving. We've a rite to perform, you and I."
Sister Halima.
Tanner bounded from bed, hissing as her bare feet made contact with the ice-cold stone flagstones. She responded like a dog being summoned - sleep forgotten, purpose asserting itself. Unusual, though, being summoned so early. She dressed rapidly, slipping into the outfit she'd bought years ago, bought and promptly duplicated. Never bought anything else, really. Never needed to. Grey blouse with a high, high collar, little pearl buttons up the middle, up the back, up the sleeves and around the cuffs, as was the fashion. Black skirt, little pearl buttons around the waist, up the seam, around the hem, as was the fashion. Dark cape with green interior, plenty of ribbons to seal it around her neck. Little soft-soled shoes which whispered over the ground. And delicate satin gloves. To invite luck - much like the collar. She hesitated as she combed her tortoiseshell hair fiercely away from her face. Right. Right.
A tiny clap. A snap of the fingers. She leant down over the candle she had burning whenever possible, then inhaled, resisting the urge to cough. A murmur, even as the smoke coiled in her throat like a fat snake. A murmur of ritualised, secret words, forbidden to outsiders.
The lodge had let her do this once she turned twenty. To light her own candle. A tiny derivation of the greater candle burning in the lodge. Banishing witchcraft, banishing misfortune, surrounding her in a comforting haze of tradition that allowed everything to slide away. Like water from the skin of an eel. She was already withdrawing a match to relight the candle, as was meant to happen... right, matches, matches, just underneath the papers she kept in this drawer. Page upon page of scribbled text stared back at her, and she ignored all them, grabbing the matches and getting to work. No mind for the texts once she'd written them, had her catharsis.
Her voice was soft, a little scratchy from the smoke.
"Will I need my lenses? Or my quill?"
Halima's voice was lilting and playful, barely audible through her door.
"Not unless you're blind as a bat."
"...right. Right."
She stumped over to the door, clasping her hands in front of herself... no, no, she needed something. Just for luck. A tiny pair of pince-nez, clasped firmly over her nose. Not meant to help her see, her eyesight wasn't that bad, but she liked to... it was luck. As taught in Mahar. The little glasses filtered what she saw, and made it luckier. Just a tiny bit. Filtering out the bad. She liked to think it was like... dipping her head into water without shutting her eyes. The sort of fuzzy, golden glow around everything which resulted... well, it was close to what the glasses did, in the confines of her large, mad head.
Years and years in this place. And she hadn't changed. Just endured. The world was something to be endured, and she'd become quite the expert in this field.
Her door creaked.
"Good morning, Sister. Is something wrong?"
Halima blinked, smiling faintly.
"Oh. Goodness. It is morning, technically. Doesn't feel like it. Well, come along. We've something to do."
Tanner had questions, but suppressed them. An air of ritual hung over tonight, and it demanded obedience. A judge would obey, at least, so she did. Loyally kept pace with Halima, ignoring the urge in her legs to move faster - restraint, always restraint. Halima said nothing as they walked. Lost in her own thoughts, as she was wont to do. Even now, she seemed to tower over Tanner. Clever, confident, effective, content with her life... a respected judge, part of the legal engine. A well-oiled, well-functioning part. She didn't ask for Tanner's friendship or adoration, she didn't ask for anything but competence. And Tanner... well, if Eygi was her outlet, then she dearly wanted Halima to be her future. Tanner's shoes were utterly silent in the corridors, while Halima's shoes clicked sharply on the stones. They walked through the blue light which emanated from the walls, ignored every darkened door on all sides.
They went deep.
Deeper than Tanner had been before. To parts of the inner temple where the walls were less shiny, more... roughened. Like they'd been hewn from living rock and left as such, not tiled decoratively.
Suddenly, Halima spoke, her voice echoing strangely around the uneven stone.
"What is the first and most prominent right of humanity?"
Tanner bowed her head slightly.
"The right to be punished, sister."
"Explain."
"Because... upon the right to be punished rests the right to everything else. If you can't be punished, then you can't be responsible, not really. And if you can't be responsible, you can't be free and functional. If you can't be punished, you can't be taught, and nothing can be enforced. Without punishment, there's no law. From the right to be punished comes everything else."
Halima's smile was light, barely visible in the dim glow.
"Well recited. You've been practising?"
A small flush.
"Arts of memory. I've been trying my best."
"Ah, good, good. Never good to be lazy, in my mind - keep the habit up, not good to depend on books for everything. It's funny, though, isn't it? That conception?"
Tanner was silent. Didn't know how to answer, and not sure if she should. A little shiver ran through her, a feeling of uncertainty. Suppressed quickly. Halima stopped suddenly in front of a heavy metal door, iron and warped. Carved with the image of an empty throne, the same symbol as the city of Fidelizh, the same symbol on her coins, the same symbol in the headquarters of the Erlize. Halima spoke softly, reverently.
"The throne is the seal of the lonely monarch. Always. The queen of the wastelands who walked away from her kingdom and left it to manage itself, believing independence was the only way to live. The Golden Parliament took the symbol after we did. We had it for a very, very long time. They simply pinched the notion. Can you guess why we liked it, for such a long time?"
The... oh. The lonely monarch. Heard rumours of her, but... well, it was one of those concepts that was so basic to everyone that, if she was referenced, she was referenced like everyone knew who she already was. And Tanner had always been too awkward to ask. Never found a time to research something everyone already knew about, and after the first few years... well. Mahar Jovan didn't revere her, anyway. And Eygi was forgetful, she often forgot many of Tanner's questions in her letters, forgot to answer them, anyway. She wracked her brains, large as they were...
"...because the law isn't a king. Or a queen. It's a concept, shapeless and vague, that we pin into place. It's an empty throne that no-one is meant to sit in. It's a throne that we have to keep reminding ourselves is a throne, and not just another chair, and definitely not something to be sat in."
"Excellent. Perceptive. Yes, we liked the concept for that reason. The Golden Parliament just liked the idea of a symbol of a departed monarch - and this was more convenient than trying to carve a severed head on a spike. Less fit for parody, anyway."
Halima reached forward, pushing gently on the door... it swung freely on well-oiled hinges, and Tanner noticed that the floor was devoid of dust. Someone came here, and regularly... but this part of the temple was hidden, secluded, not meant for normal access. Again, the heady scent of ritual, almost overpowering... the door swung, and beyond lay a tiny, tiny room. Just a tiny passage, a tiny room, and in the centre of the room, a hole. A dark hole with no visible bottom. Above it was a metal pole mounted into the stone, almost looking like it'd grown from the rock. A horizontal pole over a black hole, in a room too tiny for any normal work. Barely large enough for a human. The air of ritual became more sinister, all of a sudden. Tanner stepped slightly back, rubbing her hands together, squinting until all she could see was what the pince-nez filtered. Remembered the smoke in her lungs. She smelled something old and rotten in the air. Something she didn't want to infect her. Halima's face was grim.
"The right to be punished. The judges, once, were a priesthood. We ruled as priest-judges over Fidelizh and the colonies, oh, hundreds upon hundreds upon hundreds of years ago. We were here, and we made divine law. The law was a shapeless, faceless, nameless god, it was something only a judge could incarnate. What we decreed was perfect. We weren't just separate - we were the state, the kingdom, all of it. The king listened to us, the queen obeyed us, we ruled. And in those days, we had the right to execute. To punish. If the most primordial human right is the right to be punished, then the most primordial human authority is the authority to punish. This is where we hung people. They'd walk in, and either jump into the hole or hang themselves. Most chose to hang themselves, then we'd cut the rope and let them fall into the dark. There's a hollow place there, no-one's sure of how deep it goes. Some say it goes to the underground rivers - the remnant of some ancient spring."
Tanner was frozen in spot, staring at the looming hole in the ground. Black and all-consuming. The rock around it slightly jagged, like it was ringed by teeth. The head a colossal lamprey, with a throat that descended deep, deep, deep into the earth... she wondered how many bodies lay beyond it. For a second, she thought she could smell them. Pile upon pile upon pile of bones, rising high, high, high... the world had underground rivers, why not underground mountains? Did things live there? She imagined bloated, pale rats, eyes hollow and smooth, gnawing at marrow. She imagined mutants gliding under a black, subterranean sky, starless and bleak, swooping to pluck at the bones. She imagined humans, mutant humans, clicking and slithering over the mountains, wearing armour of bones, with weapons of bones. Her mind whirred, and she felt... not her purpose slipping, that never happened, she just felt the urge to write down her thoughts, the urge for catharsis. Eygi would want to hear about this. If she was allowed to talk, obviously. Her voice was pitifully small compared to that leering mouth in the world. It overwhelmed her with silence, and she thought even a bellow wouldn't conquer it.
"What happened?"
"Change. One king had a few new ideas. He strode into our temple, no god riding on his back - the king was a kind of god, how could a god ride a god? He strode in, and challenged us to defy him. In the end... our authority was based on faith. And he no longer had faith in us. Rights were changed around. Many little changes, some larger ones, all sorts of alterations... eventually, the king had the sole right to authorise death, and more things besides. Taxation was to the state, and his accountants would manage it. And other laws changed, too. Little ones. But ours couldn't."
Halima turned on her heel, pushing that vast, awful door closed with a thump. Taking away the darkness, locking it up like a shameful secret. Tanner followed loyally, sticking to her heels. Many passages down here, didn't want to get lost. If she had a choice, she'd turn around and leave - but she subordinated herself, let Halima lead. Story of her life - subordination, because if she had a choice, she'd do nothing and die solitary and solemn and stupid. Plus, stinking of fish. Subordination to purpose helped. And Halima, right now, was the strongest representation of that purpose.
"So... conflicts emerged. It's been pointed out, of course. You remember your first lecture here, all those years ago? Art of memory, should be fine for you."
"I remember."
It was where she'd met Eygi and Halima. Of course she remembered. Halima smiled very faintly.
"Good, good. Very good. In that lecture, some girl-"
"Eygi of Yorone. That was... well, that was her name. Sorry, Sister, didn't meant to interrupt."
Halima's eyes twinkled.
"...Eygi of Yorone, goodness, you do have a good memory. Well, this girl, Eygi, asked about a case where the law of a city states that duelling is a permitted activity. Our law does not agree, and we cannot change our law for every city, not if we want to have any kind of consistency, and thus authority. Sooner or later, you have to take a stand on something, fixate on truth, refuse to give way. Refuse, refuse, refuse. No matter what. A human death is a human death, if we include excuse after excuse we dilute the value of human life, we continually withdraw punishment and thus withdraw authority. Every unpunished death is a loss. Terrible shame. In that lecture... I think I talked about that, about how some lines have to be kept, some borders maintained. The usual. And trust me, there are other examples. For the sake of the order, we keep quiet. We don't cause a fuss, not unless we know we can win. Taxation is the province of the state, if they want to write loopholes, they write loopholes, have fun. We let their accountants deal with the majority of it. War is the province of the state, we don't poke around charging every soldier with murder."
Tanner blinked.
"...well, we do keep logs."
"Yes, yes, quite. Describe, if you'll be so kind. I want your view."
A small cough.
"Well, we... can't charge the state with waging war, and we can't come up with a proper legal framework for when a war is justified and not. So we write books. Long, long books of each and every excessive act of a war, every bit of damage, the number of casualties, the fallout... if we can, we chart the law from beginning to end. We estimate every civilian who died, and every bullet expended. Everything we can."
"And why?"
"Because then we know who was wronged the most."
"Why?"
"Because..."
She trailed off. This wasn't her area - this was what they called warfare equity, it was an arcane branch of the law, mostly practised by a handful of very intense judges who spent most of their time inspecting ammunition reports in windowless rooms. Not her field, and it was so specialised that you had to go out of your way to pursue it. She hadn't. It meant poking around battlefields, it meant examining the bodies of the dead, it meant confronting some very ugly business indeed, and doing it without much reward. The states involved disliked any notion of them being culpable during a war, or that their opponent deserved something in the aftermath... in a bitter, difficult war, no-one liked being told that in the grand tally, they'd lost less. They'd destroyed more. Because they weren't trophy cabinets - the reports which they created were grim, huge, leather-bound and thick. They were judgements. Just... judgements which could never be executed on, statements of injustice that would remain un-rectified. Halima hummed.
"Because, Tanner?"
"I don't know, sister. I'm sorry. I didn't-"
"No, no, no, we don't advertise it, not exactly the most glamorous feature of our order. But nonetheless an essential one."
She paused. A huge set of doors loomed before her. Metal, well-oiled, the same image of an empty throne.
"We do not budge. We do not forgive."
She leaned closer to Tanner, her eyes glittering like opals. Tanner locked up, unused to the proximity with Halima.
"And we do not forget."
She pushed... and the doors swung wide.
Within was a corridor. A long, dark corridor, illuminated by solemn blue light, barely able to banish the shadows. The corridor seemed to have no end. And at regular intervals, there were urns. Huge, grey, metal urns, the size of a child. Plain cylinders, adorned only with carved vines and flowers, until they seemed almost like vases. But vases weren't meant of grey metal. Vases weren't hidden in a place like this. Vases didn't have enormous stoppers held on with a mountain of gleaming red wax, dusted clean, as if they were precious objects and not something held in the dark, next to the hanging-hole. A deep place in the earth, like they were ashamed of it and wanted it far, far away... or beneath everything, the foundation of foundations, the point on which everything was suspended. Which was it? Exile? Foundation?
Her thoughts whirred, a gyre that widened and widened and widened, straining at the edges. Felt the urge for catharsis, to scribble all of this down in a letter, then review it, survey it, and shove it in a drawer before writing a more polite one, with fewer digressions. Eygi responded to letters when they were brief and to the point, easy to read, easy to answer. But Tanner was never going to give up her letter-writing, not when it was her only outlet for stress, for her thoughts, for the things she couldn't express in polite company. And so her drawer filled with unsent letters, and she drafted time after time before she dared send anything Eygi's way.
Letters that grew shorter and shorter with each year.
Tanner's mouth was dry, and she licked her lips a little. She felt like she was being resurrected, dragged out of the grave and stood up on her stiff legs. Revived after a long, long sleep, a sleep devoid of dreams. The sharpness of the world was blistering. But her gloves soothed it, the smoke in her lungs soothed it, the glasses tinted it pleasingly, and her cape settled around her shoulders like an anchor. And even her voice, which wanted to be quiet and demure and potentially non-existent, spoke with a confidence she didn't feel.
"Sister?"
"We remember. We always remember. Every conflict."
Her hand reached out to trace over one of the urns, caressing it like an old friend. It was the closest to the door, and gleamed with distinct newness. Did they forge these in the outer temple? Had she inhaled the smoke of a forge-fire from time to time as she wandered the streets?
"This one has one of my cases. From some time ago. Quite some time ago. One of my first, even. A man of the Golden Parliament committed a crime. He struck a working girl with a cane, smashed her into the mud, then strode onwards. The girl came to us, as was right and proper. And we came to him, as was right and proper. He claimed that she had been propositioning him, and as such, was attempting to corrode the moral authority of a member of the Golden Parliament - quite an offence. He added slander to the mix, for slandering his good character, and obstructing the passage of a Parliamentarian, likewise serious. Of all these crimes... we only recognise slander. And we dismissed this quickly. Leaving a case of a man who smashed a girl's cheekbone on the metal cap of his cane, made her face swell up like a rotten fruit."
Her speech quickened.
"I submitted my judgement. He was liable for damages, obviously. He'd assaulted a girl, and there was no easement in place, there was no context, there was nothing. I asked that he pay compensation to the girl, as this was deemed to be more restorative - a jaunt to a jail would do nothing, but this would ease matters. It was a properly justified judgement... but I knew it would never go through. The Parliament's rules supersede ours. They simply declined to prosecute, and my judgement was... just so much paper. No sweets were eaten. No grudge dispersed. I still remember how my little fireplace had green and blue flames when I threw the sweets inside, when that man rejected his right to be punished. They almost become animals, or children at that point - when they shirk from punishment, choose comforting fictions rather than unrelenting reality."
Tanner stared. Halima's voice became slightly lower, almost growling, and her fists were clenched. This was the most passionate she'd seen her. Ever. Halima was a being of veils, she uncloaked herself a layer at a time - when she walked, she was shrouded completely, lost in thought. When she talked of the law, she unfurled a little, her confidence exploded outwards like the rays of the sun. And now... now she took off a layer Tanner didn't even know existed. And beneath was something angry and smouldering. Something bright as the sun, and just as enduring, just as fierce. Something which burned. It felt like she was seeing... it was almost embarrassing, but it was like seeing her nude. Nothing hidden, nothing concealed. It was like seeing her father's friend, Clarant, weeping like a child when he'd dragged her father home after the accident. Unmade down to the most primordial level. Clarant wept. And Halima snarled.
"Do we simply forgive it? Accept our place?"
Tanner was silent. Unsure of how to respond. Unnecessary. Halima answered for her.
"No. We don't. This is a lesson we teach every judge, once they reach their seventh year. We do not forget, and we do not forgive. We wrote his name down in a great ledger, noted the money he owed the girl, and the interest to be paid due to his lack of payment. He died two years ago, natural causes... by that time, the sum he owed was vast. His children cannot become judges. His name is blackened in our records. When we helped record the census, we had him noted as a recalcitrant. He didn't mind, of course. His children had better fates than the judiciary, and he had no need of our services. If he had, he'd have needed to pay. When he died, we added his name to a sacrificial ledger and burned it. All the crimes we failed to punish, that we recorded, judged, and failed at the last moment to satisfy. We burn it in secret. We write our failed judgement ledger in secret. And we keep this place down here, to remind us of how limited our work still is."
Tanner nodded quietly. Halima took a deep breath, steadying herself.
"This is... part of your initiation. You're more or less a full-fledged judge, and a fine one. We look forward to having you as a colleague. But this is one of the things you must learn, before you start practising. There's other rites, some nice dinners you can go to when you finish this year and can be sent off to practise properly, there's all that. But this is first. This is the foundation. We don't forgive. We don't forget. Now..."
She reached out, and slowly ran a small knife around the rim of the urn, popping off the wax and unsealing the innards. Grey ash. Piles of it, stinking of rotten eggs, flowing out slightly in a stream of lighter-than-air particulates. How many failed cases lived in there? How many unpunished crimes? And when would it be emptied - when the judges were in charge again? When the golden law was perfected? When the world was harmonious and would remain harmonious? Or would these urns sit here, forever? Below them was a cavern of bones. Here was a hallway of ash. And above was a labyrinth of paper. From primordial punishment, to smouldering grudge, to detached function. Halima dipped a single finger inside, and beckoned for Tanner to lower her head. The giant hesitated.
"Do you accept this?"
"Accept...?"
"Accept that we don't forgive or forget. Accept that many crimes simply go unpunished, and each one is a wound to us. Accept that, and yet continue to judge regardless? To hope for the day when our law is so self-evidently perfect and easy to understand that it will emanate through the world, like a note humming from tuning fork to tuning fork, perpetuating itself forever? Do you accept to continue searching for this perfect law, and to struggle through the imperfect until we reach that point?"
Tanner nodded quickly, lowering her head to Halima's level. No doubt. Purposeful struggle. Pointless and eternal. She didn't have faith in the golden law, not really. But she envied those who did. She loved the idea of having that kind of faith. And she'd found that faith was a habit - one that you wore yourself into. And once you were finished, once the hard work of carving the soul was done, then... the rest of the world would proceed forever. Tanner thought that her mind was a chaotic thing, her body was a chaotic, enormous thing which needed restraint. And sooner or later, that restraint would set in, and she'd not even regard them as restraints - just her natural, divine-inflicted limits, as constant and enduring as the sun. An exoskeleton, really. As natural as her bones. Halima offered her these restraints, and gave them freely.
Why on earth wouldn't she accept them?
"I do. I accept."
"Forever?"
"Forever."
The ashen finger reached out... and painted two long stripes on her cheeks, descending from her eyes. Like two ashen tears coursing down her face. Weeping at the incomplete work. At the imperfect law. And all the while, Tanner's eyes remained completely dry. But she had the appearance of weeping, she had the role of weeping. And that was enough.
"Then allow me to have the privilege of calling you Sister Tanner."
Tanner hesitated...
And smiled.
"You may, Sister Halima."
And with that...
Tanner Magg of Mahar Jovan, born to a dockworker, freakish since birth...
Allowed the long, coiling braid of the golden law to settle around her shoulders. Soft as velvet. Vital as a jugular.
Enduring as the bones of the earth.
AN: Alrighty, that's the end of the introductory arc, will post the next arc when it's finished - already partially done. I mean, this is chapter 11, and I'm currently working on chapter 16 and 17 today. See you when the next thing is done!
Golden routines seized hold of Tanner once more, and she sank into the ritualised life of a judge. A year passed, and she thought nothing of it. She wrote letters when she needed to, but she found that she needed to less and less. She had her books, her cape, her little room where she kept her clothes and boots, her automatic quill that clicked for hours upon hours every day, her satin gloves for cultivating luck, her gleaming lenses that she cleaned daily, right before going to bed. She grew used to the sound of her name in the mouths of others, and grew used to being called Sister. Sister Tanner. The year came and ended, she graduated from being a probationary judge to an actual judge, there were rites aplenty, and she barely remembered a single one. What did any of them matter? She had work to do in the morning. Sometimes, she found herself sitting alone in her room, illuminated by the soft blue light of the walls, resting in a chair she'd picked out years and years ago... a heavy one, broad-backed, not easily lifted, capable of seating her frame with comfort. She felt her feet sinking into the thick carpet she'd managed to pinch from another judge on their way to retirement. She poured a little glass of citrinitas, the half-luminous liquid casting oleaginous shadows over the room, like the droplets of shimmering fat on the surface of a stew. She luxuriated in the blue light, leant back, drank slightly...
And she could see her hair turning grey, her skin wrinkling, her back stooping, her flesh growing more and more pale as she starved it of sunlight...
Didn't mind. Not at all. She wasn't unhappy with how things had turned out - she had her purpose and her outlets. She was an engine which functioned as it should - a trapped wasp that was pleasingly restrained, all the better to admire it... but it could fly from the web, just from time to time. Stretch its wings. Keep limber. She moved through her life cycle in the way she was meant to, and she felt animal satisfaction at that fact... but even so, there was a time and a place for a cathartic wriggle. She indulged in hobbies, too. Read long books, took long walks, slept regularly, rose at the right hour, slowly refined and perfected her routines until even a few seconds difference was noticeable. She was at the point where she could legitimately notice when putting on her stockings was taking too long, the slightest difference in her routines was noticeable, such was their regularity. Increasingly, she found herself wearing her little golden pince-nez, even had a temptation to attach a small chain, like she saw some of the older ladies doing - and this was a philosophical debate that raged in her head for months. Legitimately, months of internal debate before she decided not to buy a little chain.
This was Tanner's life.
And when she went out to work with people, when she received her briefs... she realised that it wasn't such a bad life. Damn good one, in fact. She was fortunate - her luck-cultivation worked, the lodge continued to burn a flame for her to keep her insulated from witchcraft, and she even began to indulge in the habits of the Fidelizhi. Just subtle ones, but... she consulted the newspaper for the movements of stars, and sometimes wore a little hint of a god. Just a little. An earring, or a necklace, or a little ribbon tied around her wrist, or something else equally subtle. When done at the right time, in the right way, she could almost feel a weight settling on her broad, powerful back, a god murmuring little directions into her ear. Rite and repetition consumed her life with hungry abandon. And she welcomed it.
Another year passed. She reached the age of twenty three - arrived at the inner temple at fifteen, spent seven years studying, and now she was a full-fledged judge. Twenty three years old. 8400 days. Each day was worth 0.0001% of her life - and as such, most of them were irrelevant, most of them were easy to forget, and slid from her mind practically before she settled into bed, a little cap on her head to protect from the cold, her fingers lightly scented with vinegar where she'd been clearing ink from them.
Honestly couldn't say what had happened on the day the brief came.
She honestly, with absolute conviction, with absolute certainty, could not say what had happened before the brief arrived. She must've had breakfast - but she didn't remember what it was, and couldn't pick the memories of today's breakfast apart from the litany of other, identical breakfasts she'd had over the years. She must've risen, but all she vaguely remembered was a little satisfaction at having her favourite pair of thick wool stockings available. Always liked these ones, they were her newest pair, and she was terrifically fond of the way they just... stayed, didn't slip down, and felt pleasingly airy. That was it. The sole memorable point of the day up to that point. She'd mumbled greetings to other judges, but she always did that. She'd checked the newspapers in the judges' reading room, but she always did that. She'd hummed over the star signs, wondering if there was an appropriate god that ought to ride on her back today... but she always did that. And like on many days, she decided it was worth being fully human - the stars weren't favouring any of the gods she liked, and anyhow, it wasn't healthy to have a god riding around on you all the time, gave you a permanent hunchback. Not an unusual decision for her to make. She settled into an easy armchair near the fire, noting by the clock on the wall that she'd arrived a good half an hour before she needed to do anything, as had been planned out beforehand, as she'd been doing for nearly two full years. She had her time, her chair, a newspaper, and a tiny cup of tea from the communal samovar, something donated from a distant city of some description, and lavishly ornate.
She was an eel in a favourable stretch of water - nothing could worry her, nothing could concern her.
Gradually, others drifted in. Judges, her colleagues, her peers. Not her friends, though. Not because she disliked them, just because... well, she didn't know them. Didn't feel the urge to. She had her systems and her inclinations, and adding new, chaotic points didn't quite factor into the harmony she'd slowly cultivated. One day, she'd die and be mourned by this lot, and they'd scratch their heads and wonder who she'd been, what she'd done, but would generally agree that she was a decent judge who'd done all a judge could be expected to do, and that was an honour in and of itself. History was made of people like her, history rested on people like her, not the fruitcakes she read about in the illustrated news. Just... people who sat down, did their jobs, and didn't bother anyone. People for whom their most distinguishing characteristic was their shoe size. She was proud to be among the ranks of the Shoe-Distinguished. The Footwear Ziggurat. The Well-Heeled Hierarchy.
Anyhow.
She murmured greetings to them, and buried her nose in the news, forgetting the articles a second after she'd read them. Sometimes she even forgot the article midway through reading them, but soldiered on regardless. On one occasion she forgot what a sentence was about before she reached its end, and reread it about six times before moving on, and forgetting the whole thing immediately. Something something riverbed shantytown. Something something the committee for communal commutations and commitments has issued a new report on committee communing. Something something vicious murder, very scandalous, not up her alley at all - another judge had that one, Gulyai, he liked that sort of thing. And so on and so forth. She sipped her tea...
The clock struck...
The briefs came through. Tanner lifted her eyes warily from the newspaper. In her effortless routines, there was one point of stress. The briefs. Every day, the outer temple's scriveners sent in the limited briefs they'd prepared on behalf of the judges - people came to the scriveners, the scriveners made the briefs, and the judges pored over the ones they felt like working on. Most judges managed almost half a dozen briefs at once, some managed more, managing less was only acceptable for the very elderly. Tanner was still working through about four, she'd wrapped up the judgement for one just yesterday. Still had to sort out the billing, though. Almost wished she could get herself a pupil, not for the teaching, just for the billing. Someone had to chase up the clients who were capable of paying, make sure they weren't skimping out. She had ink to purchase, blast it. Ink, and clothes, and all manner of silly things. And the temple had to pay the cleaners. The usual mumbles came through - people wondering why the scriveners had let this brief through, when it was clearly beneath them. People humming over the more prestigious ones. She heard a brief, tense argument break out between two of her colleagues over a nice little case of indecent assault. Pair of Inchers - judges that measured their success based on how many inches they received in the illustrated news. Indecent assault of a well-heeled lady earned plenty of inches. The more fame a judge acquired, the more likely they were to get special requests, mediation duties, the well-paid stuff that bought good claret, with good meals to accompany it. Not Tanner's method at all - in her mind, the only time she wanted to appear in the newspaper was when she became a judge (as per tradition, not per preference) and when she died. Nothing more.
A gloomy younger judge sloped off with a tattered little brief describing a dangerous and careless - dull work, but it had to be done. An elegant woman in a fine black cape strode off proudly from the table of briefs, perusing a nice thick wad of paper talking all about some unsightly divorce proceedings she expected to have some fun with, her half-moon spectacles glinting, her hair pulled into a severe tower. A ludicrously dandy man with a silk pocket square depicting pheasants in flight hummed curiously as he checked over a little dispute over employment. And a man with a face like a sallow corpse stooped over to a pair of little metal urns at the side of the room, depositing a handful of stone counters into them. White and black. Right. Not everything the scriveners received was good meat - some was settled quickly and easily at the door, some was dismissed entirely due to nothing being violated, and some... some was simply beyond the judges.
There were things they couldn't prosecute, not under the laws of the city. Cases which proceeded lawfully and were dismissed by Parliament were written up, the grudge-ledgers filled properly, and the papers were then burned and added to the catacombs beneath. Cases which ended at the door with satisfying satisfaction were deposited in white counters - the law had worked, the law was simple, the law required no appeal. A win. And laws which were dismissed out of hand as beyond the remit of the judges were deposited as black counters. Absolute failures. Reminders of limitation. Usually it was tax business, or complaints against the Erlize, or issues which happened in the no man's land beyond the city walls, where judges held little sway.
She returned to her news. She didn't need a brief right now, she'd look them over after the fatty cuts had been taken by the others. She preferred the leaner stuff - she didn't go out enough to warrant the cash the fatty cuts provided, disliked the prestige they accumulated, and despised fighting with others over them. If they wanted them, they wanted them. She was content to let the jackals snap away at the briefs. It was likely that this would've been the end of her memory - she'd have slipped into a news-reading reverie where she learned nothing (by design), and would've come to when the briefs were ready for her, and then it'd just be a normal day of work. Could already feel the little metal rings of the automatic quill tightening around her fingers, locking them into the approved positions.
It should've been that way. All the days preceding it made it seem so.
And then...
"Sister Tanner?"
Ah. Brother Rumdol. She blinked up at him, the chair making her shorter than someone else for once. He was a tall, refined man, the sort of person who agreed with her on the point that being well-dressed and well-composed was a sign of respect for one's clients. Gold pocket-watch, three-piece black suit, interesting moustache, cape with a velvet collar and dark hair that was flicked-up around the ears, almost like a pair of horns. His height made him seem imposing, his dress made him seem elegant, his accessories made him seem a little dandy-like... but his face, with high cheekbones and absurd moustache, shiny eyes and flicked-up horns of hair, almost theatrical eyebrows... he was something between the archetype of the elegant judge, and a comic actor. Somewhere between the judge and the clown. She knew his face was practically elastic when it wanted to be, stretching into smiles and frowns which always felt exaggerated. The moustache might've been an attempt to rectify that - use hair to sew the face into a more regal appearance.
It hadn't worked. He just looked like a clown with a moustache.
"Hm? Something happening?"
"Little bit. Don't suppose you nabbed one of those briefs?"
"No, not yet."
"Good, good. Alright, come along. Big fellows want to talk with you."
...what?
Why on earth would the senior judges want to speak with her? She hadn't even seen them since her proper graduation, they were busy. Always busy. She blinked a few times, slowly folding her newspaper over and over until it was a proper size... no, clamp down on the nervousness. This was a minor interruption to the routine. She was summoned, so she'd go. She rose from her chair, feeling it sigh in relief behind her, and clumped after Brother Rumdol as they began to undulate through the great tiled labyrinth of the inner temple. They moved through the areas where the judges worked, to the areas where the students were trained, and further beyond still, to places which actually went aboveground. The court of Lords of Appeal - the people to whom all judgements were symbolically submitted, the highest judges, chosen by seniority, by application, by sheer force of will. It wasn't a position of much official authority - they acted like normal judges, but instead of squabbling for briefs, they surveyed all the most important, and let one or two drop like crumbs for the lessers to feed on greedily. But when the time came for decisions of a large nature, most people deferred to them. They didn't rise to their position - they seeped to it. Their progress to authority was matter of passive oozing, and by the time they were finished, they seemed to have exerted no effort to arrive there, yet it was impossible to imagine them anywhere else. There would always be Lords of Appeal. There would never not be Lords of Appeal. And if one vanished, another would congeal out of thin air, meandering sluggishly out of the walls and into a comfortable chair. And everyone would accept this.
Because who would you rather trust? Someone who oozed naturally into power by passive process, or some ambitious striver with good hair who fought, kicked, and brutalised their way to the top?
Tanner didn't really think about it very often. Just... something that existed. Nowt more to it than that.
Rumdol said nothing as they walked, his soles were whisper-quiet on the floors, and his dark cloak helped him blend into the shadows - sometimes, it was easy for Tanner to forget that he was there at all, and that she was just being pulled along by an inevitable, invisible string. A leash attached to a loyal hound. She banished speculation - no idea what they wanted, but she knew she'd done nothing wrong. She did good work, there was... oh. Oh. Would they drag her up to the Lords of Appeal to tell her if her mother or father had died? Had something happened to Eygi? Had something happened with the Erlize, something to do with that Algi business? Oh, gods, gods, Algi had found her mother and was currently trying to get her to pressure Tanner into putting up obscene posters, gods... catastrophe whirled into her mind like an old friend, settling around all her sparking neurons and snuffing out the comforting flame of routine. She started clasping her hands over and over, inviting luck. Dragged pince-nez out of her pocket and mounted them over her nose. Cursed herself for not inviting a god onto her back. Reminded herself of being a judge, all the work she'd done. Ran her tongue over her teeth a few times, imagining she could taste the sweets she'd handed out, the ritual candy that ended a grudge and settled a case. Flexed her fingers a few times, feeling the strained muscles where she'd worked a little too hard...
Routine and catastrophe warred in her mind. And her face became stiff, refusing to emote. As it always did when she was frightened.
A door presented itself.
"Go on, then."
She nodded jerkily. Rumdol shot her a sympathetic look.
"If it helps, I like to imagine that they've got bad toenails. Those shoes they wear, no way they have good toenails. Probably all yellow, maybe ingrown. Not clean, not attractive, not comfortable. So just imagine that you have better foot health than them."
She blinked.
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Well, try not to do it too much. Old men's toenails aren't healthy to have on the brain. Still!"
He slapped her cheerfully on the back.
"Good luck!"
Tanner didn't budge. She was much too sturdy for budging. A small smile for Rumdol, and she watched him slither away into the dark, the velvet collar of his special cape looking like the skin of some exotic animal. Like watching a mole burrow away into his... burrow. Hm. She knocked cautiously... a loud, hoarse summons brought her inside. The room was small, cosy, excellent arranged. It had an appearance of effortless luxury, the sort that nervous worriers like herself aspired to, and the oozing Lords of Appeal managed to achieve automatically. They emanated it like an animal emanated musk. A crackling fire in a black fireplace, and a handful of weeping candles scattered here and there. Books so old that the titles had long-since worn away and all that remained was anonymous leather, mottled and whorled. A crystal decanter of wine glittered in the firelight. The ceiling was painted with coiling ivy, black and purple and darkest green. There were papers here and there, but most were secluded in thick wooden boxes. If something could be locked, it usually was, and the walls hung heavy with ancient keys. All about was the vague scent of spice, something warm, cloying, strangely dusky. Made her think of setting suns and rippling fields - the eventide exhalations of some forms of greenery.
Ivy ceiling, slate-coloured keys, anonymous tomes, incense-scents... there was something mythical about this place.
And in this curiously mythical palace, sat its king. Or rather, one of many, but they were invisible, he was here, and he would do.
A furtive man was sat in a chair large enough to swallow him whole, swaddled like an infant in a cape that was a gunmetal grey, soaked by dust, by smoke, by age. The shade of a moth, and the man's glasses were focused on the fire, turned to opaque circles of white. A moth, hypnotised by the fire, but far too comfortable to pursue it. He was bald as a baby, his eyebrows were thin as weevils, and his chin was covered in a loose cloud of beard, so loose and so curly that it seemed more like a cloud. Like his breath was freezing around him, ready to be harvested by the lessers who would doubtless cluster around this great double-barrel of the law, this apex of practice, to whom judgements were rendered, from whom briefs were dispensed. He was small enough to be picked up with no effort, and it was hard to imagine him walking anywhere - he was a man destined for the sedan chair. But he towered over her, and she bowed her head respectfully when he turned in her direction, his mouth tightening in an intelligent fashion, his eyes glinting with steely will. His hands slowly emerged from the swaddling cape, and clasped in front of himself. A bright gold ring hung from one finger, and it seemed a miracle that his slim hands could manage to hold it aloft without snapping. He was the sort of man, in Tanner's mind, that exemplified one of the stranger beliefs of the judges.
That the ideal judge was an illiterate baby. Because the golden law would be so simple that even a child would understand it and its significance, and so simple that you wouldn't need to consult it - the principles would unfold like scientific axioms, one after the other after the other. The ideal judge was an illiterate baby, because when an illiterate baby could become a judge, then the law was flawless. He seemed to emulate the baby element, even in his old age, though she doubted he was illiterate. Still, nice to know the old dream wasn't forgotten. She supposed.
"Ah. Sister Tanner. You may sit. Wine?"
His voice was fast and clear, each 't' enunciated precisely. A creature of softness producing a voice sharper than a razor. Tanner shook her head silently as she sat in a chair opposite, feeling the warm red leather give way around her. It was a good chair for dwelling. There were chairs for sitting, there were chairs for lounging, and there were chairs for dwelling - this was of the third species, the kind of chair you lived in and never left. Maybe the chairs regrew the Lords of Appeal when they died off - grew them like fruit on a tree. She twisted her hands over one another, inviting luck. Looked through the pince-nez, and saw her superior, someone who was of a like mind to her, who had devoted his life to the work she devoted herself to with equal zeal. She saw the world in the luckiest way... and she almost believed it.
"Doubtless, you're curious. Why you've been summoned here. I apologise for taking time out of your day, I'm sure your work is pressing upon you."
"Nothing urgent, my lord."
"Good. I'm glad. I hate to deprive people of their labour, it offends me on a personal and professional level. I was offended by such things when I was your age. I will not prolong my offence, of course. Are you... aware of the condition in the north, sister?"
A slow blink.
"I'm... aware by osmosis."
"Clarify?"
"I'm aware passively. I hear things, I read things, but I can't say I've studied it. I won't profess to total ignorance, but I won't pretend at confidence."
"Ah. I see. Though... hm, I see you have the illustrated news with you, just under your arm?"
Did she? Oh, goodness, she'd forgotten to leave it behind in the news room, oh, goodness, she hated the idea of having inconvenienced someone, and... no, focus. She unfurled the paper, unfolded, spread forth at the lord's direction over a nearby table. She moved delicately, terrified of shattering something valuable - the decanter glimmered mockingly, mocking her with its weight, its delicacy, its value. The rubious liquid within seemed to her to be as volatile as some explosive fluid. A single crack, and she'd waste valuable wine, and stain something irreparably. The lord pored over the newspaper, turning the pages with a single outstretched finger.
"...ah, here we are. I recall it from earlier. You see?"
He gestured. An article on the movements in and out of the shantytown - she'd read this article, by which she meant she'd flicked her eyes over it out of habit, without taking in a damn word. She read it again, quickly. The shantytown - which lacked any official name, because naming it made it real, not just a temporary stain on the city's aesthetics - was always being altered. They talked about demolishing parts of the slums and rebuilding them in some glitteringly new form. They talked about moving people out by force, throwing them into the wilderness and hoping for the best. They talked about moving people into the city itself. They talked about regulating them, about the divisions between the shantytown communities. All sorts of talk. Inevitably, though, they needed to go. The Parliament couldn't allow it, the city was growing hostile towards it, and the inhabitants had never desired to be here for long. They wanted to go back, back to the north, the moment the routes were open, their funds were in place, their homes were habitable. But the push of reclaiming land was slow, arduous. And building civilisation up again was harder still. Sometimes shipments of people went back north, rushing along the river with hungry eagerness, but it was never many. Never enough. These were the dredged survivors of a dozen kingdoms, and of those dozen, none were fully habitable again, six hadn't been reclaimed at all, four were heavily contaminated and midway through cleanup, and two, two, were maybe eligible for resettlement. But on a tiny scale. Farmland was contaminated, mutants were rife, the air itself was poison in many places.
Unpleasant reading. Half of Tanner's briefs seemed to come from the shantytown, people eager for mediation. Rarely had the money to pay her, so it was all pro bono stuff. Unpopular with the judges who wanted to actually build up a retirement fund one of these days. Not Tanner, she intended to die in this place.
Anyway.
The lord was talking.
And it was her duty to listen.
"They're considering getting back to Rekida, you know. They say the routes are more reliable. The mutants pushed back. All manner of business has started up - there's been a small settlement there for some time, but there's rumours of it expanding, and quite soon."
"...I see, my lord. Interesting times."
"Quite. And opportune times. Let me come right to the crux of the issue, I won't keep you longer than necessary. The settlement near Rekida is owned by Fidelizh. Fidelizhi companies fund it, Fidelizhi soldiers guard it, and even the Rekidan citizens returning home do so from Fidelizh, with Fidelizh's blessing, having lived in our riverbed for some time. In all respects, this city has a great interest in the settlement, and in the reoccupation of the destroyed city."
His eyes glinted.
"And there's not a single judge."
Tanner felt a cold hand clasp around her spine.
"Ah."
"Quite. Quite. At present, the settlement is small, and is... like a barnacle, clinging to the outer wall of the old city of Rekida. The individuals inside go into the city to scout, to clear, to slowly reclaim it, block by block, street by street, room by room if at all possible. Once enough is cleared, they intend to bring more Rekidans in from Fidelizh, coming back home to reoccupy the buildings. Once the process has begun, we anticipate it to accelerate rapidly. Rekidans clear the streets, allowing for more Rekidans to come and settle, who in turn clear more streets. Not a single judge monitors conditions there, at present. Authority is ad hoc, clumsy, to my understanding. The company which funds the settlement and provded much of the up-front investment has a charter from the Golden Parliament to enforce the law, but their authority is bound up with time. Once the expansion begins, their capacities will quickly be outstripped."
Tanner hummed uncomfortably.
"We... don't exactly have an outpost there, my lord. I mean, the Judges of the Golden Door have never stretched that far north. I've not even read about us doing mediation work up there, I thought they had their own system north of the Tulavanta."
"Quite. Quite. Quite."
He hummed to himself, rolling his shoulders underneath his cape. Seemed to be debating whether to make this trilogy into a quartet, and a second later, he resolved the question.
"Quite. We do not. Historically, and speaking in terms of direct legal authority to judge, sentence, fine and so on, we are confined to Fidelizh, where we were founded, and Mahar Jovan - but with outposts and influence spreading across multiple cities. Even if we do not have the immediate right to judge, we have the right to mediate, to advise, to lecture, and even to judge some smaller cases. The north has traditionally been resistant to this, a woeful state that might be blamed on a whole suite of factors. But at present, the north is unoccupied. The Golden Parliament wishes to have a colonial interest in the reoccupation. The north lacks leaders, it lacks cities, it lacks much. We have, before us, a rare and potent example of virgin soil where we may build unopposed. Our influence in the riverbed settlement has grown, our role and our authority is increasingly respected even by these foreigners - we stand at a highly unusual crossroads. The opinion of the Lords of Appeal is that we are not to remain on our present path, nor are we to remain paralysed."
He leant forwards.
"As such, we're interested in dispatching judges from Fidelizh and the surrounding cities to the north, to adjudicate in these... unsettled lands. Bring law to the lawless. Of all the activities a judge may perform, I do believe this to be one of the more... blessed, if I may be pardoned in utilising the word."
Tanner's brain was whirring away, thinking, thinking, thinking... wait! Objection! Not that she wanted to oppose the Lords of Appeal on every point, that would be petty and silly, but... but going north? She liked it here. She liked her room, her routines, all of it. She was a cog in a machine, she was necessary for it to function, but her loss wouldn't destroy things. She wasn't a vital load-bearing wall, she was just one column among hundreds. Maybe, yes, at some stage she'd get reassigned to another city, she anticipated that, many judges did little tours of that kind, but... the north? That was the sort of mission you gave to heroes. The sort of thing where individual success or failure meant collective success or failure. The sort of thing where her entire reputation and career would be on the line over a few split-second decisions. And it sounded cold. There'd be no citrinitas, no big beds, nothing. As a person, she didn't want to go. As a judge, she had to think of better reasons to object. Ergo...
"It's... an honour to be considered for this position, and I hesitate to object, my lord, but I'm afraid that I'm... well, I've been a fully accredited judge for a single year. There are colleagues with decades more experience, who are more familiar with these matters, and-"
The lord waved his hand idly, looking very grand and imperial for a moment, the weight of his authority shutting her up swiftly.
"And you have an excellent record. Your judgements, those I've perused, have been first-rate. No meaningful complaints have been lodged, which is unusual for a novice judge. Beyond that, we don't expect you to manage this alone, nor is the mission to rest on your shoulders completely, nor is the mission some vital act of absolute importance where failure is death."
She sagged. Alright. Getting better.
"The notion is not that you will immediately be responsible for an entire settlement of people - the notion is that you will assess and prepare. We intend to, as you say, send a cadre of more experienced judges who are better-able to deal with the unique challenges of the frigid north - I speak in terms of climate and people, if you'll pardon my vulgarity. Your role, along with the half-dozen judges we're sending from our outposts elsewhere, is to examine the settlement and lay the foundations for future work. We lack basic information, and we imagine the company lacks basic information as well - how many people are there, how many are working, what complaints are the most common, how the company deals with dissent, how much people are paid, how people are expected to live, what sort of work is performed throughout the year. That's all we wish for. Basic information, the sort that we rely on extensively here in Fidelizh. We refuse to barge in with blindfolds over our eyes, stepping on a hundred toes in the first week and promptly tainting any kind of impression of our authority. Your role is to survey. Furthermore, to give us an impression of the local authorities, the local power struggles, the matters which matter. And, if at all possible, to prepare suitable facilities for our next few teams. We do not expect the mission to rest on you, and you alone. Others judges will accompany you, and the company has promised full cooperation."
His words were soft and meandering, his speech gentle... she felt herself sink into it. Just a little. He spoke with absolute confidence, and she could almost feel herself believing it. Her mind was still warring between catastrophe and calm. On the former side... this was unexpected. She expected years and years of quiet, solid work in front of her, nothing like this, nothing dramatic. She wanted to be far away from dramatics if at all possible, and being moved around like a chess piece made her feel sick to her stomach. Not that she minded being ordered around, she just didn't like being ordered around unexpectedly. Put her in a uniform and she'd march, march, march, but break into her room and shout orders while she was in bed, and she'd feel the urge to run away near-overpowering. Uncertainty. That was it. And... the north. The north. That frigid wasteland, that place where the Great War had started, still contaminated, still poisoned, still dead. People didn't go there, people left there. On one side of the Tulavanta was life and light, on the other was long stretches of darkness and cold and death until you reached the mountains, which were somehow worse. The north was barren, even before the Great War. Now, it was a blasted heath which was allergic to healthy life.
She knew nothing about it. And into that nothing, she could find only negatives.
But on the other hand...
It was an order. Could she refuse? Was it rude to ask if she could refuse? Maybe she could, maybe she could legitimately just shake her head, be firm on the topic, and go back to work. Maybe. Maybe word would spread. Maybe people would look at her like she was an idiot, a coward, a slow-moving lug who couldn't pour piss out of a boot if there were instructions on the heel. Maybe she'd feel it crawling in her gut for the rest of her life, this guilt, this feeling that she'd been asked to jump, and she'd remained fixed in place like a moron, too dull to even ask 'how high'. Maybe she'd always be the person who turned down a perfectly reasonable job. Maybe she'd be... it was the judicial equivalent of being emasculated, castrated, humiliated in a visceral and enduring fashion. She'd be ruined. Her reputation would die. She'd live with the shame for the rest of her life. Everyone had that thought, what would they do when a moment of crisis came, when something was expected of them, something hard... and she'd have her answer. She'd run away like a coward and leave it to better people.
Unreasonable?
Maybe.
Didn't matter.
Maybe someone else would be more... considering. Maybe someone else would take a long walk, have a bit of tea, get on with other work... defer the decision until there was a nice big brood. That was it, a brood. Walk into the mist and hunch over a railing, stare into the flickering lights of the shantytown for a few hours, mull over the possibility, keep everyone guessing... like people did in the newspaper serials she sometimes read. Maybe she could tour the shantytown, even, have a drink, a meaningful conversation with someone she'd helped in the past, who encourages her to go north and keep helping people, remind her of where the most satisfaction in her work came from. Or give her some sort of horror story of the settlement, convince her to go north out of guilt and righteous zeal. Someone else might do that. Someone who was more inclined to brooding and considering and deferring, someone with a tad bit more confidence.
Not Tanner.
Tanner had received her orders. She was expected to fulfil them. If she didn't, then she was no judge. And if she wasn't a judge, she was no-one and nothing. She had no life outside of this place. Didn't want one. Didn't need one. Hers was not to question why. Hers was to endure. Hers was to continue. Remembered the chaos of her first week or so in the temple, the strangeness of Algi's radicalism, the terror of the Erlize, the loss of Eygi... she endured all of that. Endured by indulging in her role and her rites, in all the little mechanisms which alleviated the tension of inexorable purpose.
This was no different. Someone else could brood, if they liked. She knew what her conclusions would be.
"Of course, my lord. I apologise for questioning you, I didn't mean to be insubordinate. Thank you for clarifying."
The lord smiled bloodlessly.
"Is that so?"
"Yes, my lord. Happy to go. Thank you for choosing me, it's a great honour."
"Wonderful. Excellent. We'll make the initial arrangements, then - I admire your decisiveness."
She glowed, became practically luminous in the half-light.
"It'll take time, of course. Business to be arranged. We'll see if we can find passage with the mutant-hunters, they tend to ply the north more than most..."
She paused. The same people who'd crippled her father for good, wiped out his thoughts with a single accident. The judges had punished them for that. Made them pay up.
"...and we'll see if you can go up the river... hm, well, you have lodging in Mahar Jovan, don't you? Stay there briefly, perhaps... yes, that might be easiest, should make arrangements of time a little smoother to arrange."
Mahar Jovan. Where her mother and father were. Where her lodge was. Mother, who she'd been distant from for years. The lodge, whcih still held a kind of power over her, a kind of power that she dreaded from time to time. An anchor that crushed just as easily as it restrained. And Algi. Algi might still be there. The mad half-friend who'd become a lunatic and had almost ruined her life by association.
Her hands were starting to knead the button-decorated pleats of her long skirt.
Her toes were curling inside her shoes.
"But, anyhow. Are you sure you don't want any wine?"
I do hope you're doing well. Now, this is a first draft, I don't intend to send this to you, so pardon my curtness, pardon my lack of concern for your own conditions and the weather around your estate, pardon in general my lack of courtesy. But... time. I wish to rant about time. I wish to make very strong points about time which ought not to be recorded in a court of law. There's no easy way of putting it - time is a bitch. I hate time. Time has stolen my money and kicked me down the stairs. Time is an ugly child who keeps throwing stones at my head. Time is a serial philanderer who insists on seeding the world with more bastards in its image. Time probably doesn't take its hat off while indoors, and smells if mildew and sweat. Time doesn't bathe. The point is, Eygi, or at least the version of Eygi which I'm writing to given that I'll never send this letter at any point in my life, I don't have many fond thoughts regarding time at present, because time is passing too quickly for my liking. For once, in the last few years, I haven't been able to lose myself in routines, none of them - don't get me wrong, Eygi, I'm trying. Boy oh boy, am I trying.
See, what I try to do is lose myself in work - I settle down, I examine relevant case law, drag out relevant precedents... it's been a while, but believe it or not, I'm still using pecia, just like when we were studying together. It's only become... it's sad to admit, and this isn't going in the final letter, but the trips to the scriveners have become one of my few interactions with others. I find the proper references in the library, head out to the scrivener, make awkward small-talk while they prepare the relevant pecia... sometimes I copy it out when I need it for later, sometimes I just reference. Anyway, anyway, I'll be doing that, working in my room or in the libraries or just wherever I can find a table, I sip tea, I eat little things I buy while going to and from the scriveners... I have every reason to be relaxed, the work is fine, nothing unusual, and usually it'd be working just fine, but now I have time sitting behind me like a little scrote so-and-so, poking me in the back of the head with an ice-pick.
Always just forcing me to return to the fact that I'm not going to be here for long. None of this is going to last. First time I've had to confront that in... years. Years and years. Even when you left, there was no warning, so I didn't have time to dread it. Now, I do. I'm going to ship off soon, very soon indeed. Just four briefs left. Should be three by the end of today. I either get them done in two weeks, or I hand them to someone else. Have to pack, get supplies, everything I need... thick coats and boots, definitely. At least there's not really anyone to say goodbye to - not with you in the countryside. I'll send a proper goodbye letter before I go, but I intend to stay in touch! Need to share things with someone, after all. Already imagining the cold mornings...
I'm wondering what to do with the unsent letters. Now, this is something I'm not going to include in the final draft of this letter, but it's weighing on me, and I feel like putting it down somewhere. Not like I talk about these letters with the others. Point is, I... don't like sending you small novellas, I like to keep things nice and short, to-the-point, easy to read. And I understand it takes you time to write replies, I don't mind it one little bit. So what happens is I write you a letter, I send the letter, and while you're getting round to replying, I write more letters which I stuff into a drawer and keep under lock and key. Then, once your letter comes, I start dissecting all these old letters for anything I still want to mention to you, any turns of phrase I liked using, any encounters that are still significant with the passage of time. It's nice, honestly, I enjoy this sort of thing. Helps put things in perspective, stops me rambling. Like I'm doing now. See, aren't I nice, I'm definitely cutting this part out of the final letter! I'm sparing you the worst excesses of my rambling.
Which is good, because I have too many thoughts to count right now.
Anyway, probably just going to burn them, but I'm thinking of taking the unsent letters with me. Binding them up, wrapping them in brown paper, just slipping them in with the rest of my notes. Is that odd? Or is that perfectly reasonable? Anyway, I'll... consider doing it. Wish I could ask your advice, you've got a wonderful sense of perspective. Or does writing to you just place my own life in perspective? Unsure. Will consider once time has passed and I'm less stressed. Anyway, we ought to stay in touch. We need to stay in touch, actually. I'll see if I can arrange things once I get further north, I'm sure there are means of conveying letters - it's a Fidelizhi colony, surely there's something. Goodness, I've even heard that they're starting to roll out these... telegram things for intramural communications, they're managing to get over some of the issues with contamination eroding the cables. If I must, I'll use them, but... well, I like letters. I like rambling. And I dislike going STOP all the time like some sort of broken theatrophone. Speaking of which, have you been listening to the Annals of Tenk? I adore that show, I'm sure you can get it out in the countryside too - slightly racy, but very fun to have playing in the evening while I work. If you listen to it, let me know, I have numerous thoughts on Princess Yallerilli, you know, Tenk's main love interest. I think I might know where her character's going, but none of the other judges really listen to Annals of Tenk, more's the pity. Anyhow, anyhow, I'll stop rambling - I'm sure telegrams will do, if they're the only option.
I do hope things are going well for you. I know you must have a great deal going on, what with administration and accounting and debating with your freeholders. I remember reading that your town was getting a garrison stationed there permanently - is everything well? Well, if it's an unfortunate event, I commiserate with you. If it's a sign of greater prosperity coming to your town, then I'm sure it was entirely because of your work in particular, and I heartily congratulate you. Delete as appropriate. I suppose we won't be meeting in-person for a while, then, but I do hope we manage to bump into one another at some point in the future. I'm heading by Mahar Jovan, incidentally, as part of the journey north. If there's any errands you'd like me to run, I'll be happy to.
Now, this is also getting cut out of the final letter - honestly, this is just an excuse for me to ramble, I don't really have anyone else I can talk to about this, not for very long. I suppose someone else might just write a diary, but I like to address someone. Just imagining talking to you is enough to help settle me down. Again, this is being cut out, I won't embarrass you by being unnecessarily mushy. I'm heading to Rekida, or a settlement clinging to the outside, and... my research isn't very happy. It's cold, and it's ruined. The Complete Annals of the Great War, the one by Pothbar, well, he describes the sacking of Rekida in volume four. I thought about using it as a reference document before flicking to more specialised accounts, but... I don't really think I want to now. In fact, I think I'd rather not have read it at all. It was sacked fairly early on, back when the mutants were really getting going, rolling over the landscape like a tidal wave. This was really before their advance was broken, so there was no reinforcement coming from any humans, and the mutants were more or less unending. Pothbar just has page after page of survivors talking about... mutants slaughtering their own, then using the bodies to contaminate the rivers, the reservoirs, everything. Some sort of titanic creature vomited crude oil over the fields, drowned them, then burned them up. Firestorm that lasted days and days - can you imagine mutants using fire? Seems ridiculous, but... well, all the survivors agreed that it happened. Agreed that the mutants would contaminate humans, shove these parasites into their skulls, send them into the city to contaminate wells, burn storehouses. The sky was full of leathery bat-things, swarms of locust creatures, the rivers were choked with mutant bodies, your own neighbours weren't necessarily human... they lost whole districts when sleeper agents exploded in a shower of contaminated spores, and even the cemeteries were cannibalised for more parts.
Then they just... cracked the walls of the city open like the shell of an egg, flooded inside, killed anyone who hadn't left. Used their matter to create more mutants and march further south. Air was so choked with contamination by the end that even gas mask filters weren't working, nobles traded gold and diamonds just for a handful of them, though. Finding it hard to sleep since reading about that. Just... mounds of skeletons. I'm terrified of going there and finding piles of bodies in the streets, it must be cold enough to preserve them... the unknown is frightening me deeply. The unknown just has a thousand possibilities, no, infinite possibilities. I think of soemthing awful, and the unknown just broadens to swallow it, it can contamin everything I feed it, and there's always room for more. Infinity of possibilities, mathematically speaking, means an infinity of catastrophes. And... I can't stop thinking about it all. Starvation, hypothermia, murder, theft, ruin, destruction, madness, mutation...
The thing is, that book on Rekida, it's not really about Rekida. There's nothing about what the city was like beforehand. It's obscure enough that there's no other books on the topic of it, it's just... the first time it entered the imagination, it was because it was getting sacked. I know literally nothing about its culture, its gods, its rulers... I'm heading there, and if it wasn't for the fact that it's a Fidelizhi colony, I'd be terrified of just not knowing the language. Wish I could do more research on it, maybe order some books from elsewhere, but... no time for that, no time for anything to arrive. It's frustrating. And it means that I can't imagine it as a city, as a place people live in. I can just imagine a wasteland and a ruin. The first thing I learned about their fields was that they were soaked in oil and burned. First thing I know about the walls is when they were cracked open. First thing I know about the rivers is when they were poisoned. Hard to imagine anything functional living out there. Hard to imagine me living out there. Or anyone else.
You know anything about hypothermia? I started reading a little, we have a fairly good medical library, just so we known what our medical consultants are rambling about... anyway, anyway. I started reading, reasonably enough, but I just had to stop. Wound up just staring at this one case I had dragged out from the scriveners, seventy-seven years ago, here in Fidelizh. Bad winter. Awful, honestly. But not awfulenough for someone to die of hypothermia, though. Not really. So people came to the judges when a little body was found curled up and dead on a lonely street corner. They'd investigated. And found no killer. No killer they could punish. All they found was evidence of cold. The man had walked out into the cold, drunk out of his mind... the alcohol had pushed the heat from the body, confused the brain, then the cold made it worse. He became dizzy. Insensible. One reluctant witness described him ripping his jacket off and throwing it away, even as he shivered like mad. He could've survived. He removed his jacket, convinced he was fine, he was warm, too warm. Then he fell into a small canal. No ice to slip on - he seemed to have just peacefully stepped into the water, then climbed back out again, sopping wet, before walking a little distance away to die. He was driven mad by cold, alcohol made it worse, and he just...
The cold could drive me mad. Creep into my head. I could wrap up warm and snug, could do everything correctly, and the cold could still just wipe me away. Maybe they'll find me, naked and alone, freezing in the wasteland. Preserved in the snow for the next spring thaw to uncover.
This is what I keep dreaming about. Work helps. Planning doesn't. But I don't have enough of the former, and the latter is just too necessary to ignore. And I'm seeing my mother again. My mother. And my father. And my lodge. I need to write her a letter, we should get dinner, but... anyway. Anyway. I'm buying coats, boots, gloves, long johns, all sorts of warm stuff. My normal clothes should do nicely for the most part, I'm not exactly going around doing manual labour, should still be in a nice, warm office. Do you think they'll have one of those quaint iron stoves for me to use? I've always wanted to have one, can't quite say why, but I love this image of a solid black pillar in my room, just emanating heat, perpetually boiling water for tea... it's petty, but I'm clinging to it. Better than thinking about the cold, or the food, or the people, or the work, or the mutants, or the bodies. Gods, this letter is useless, I need to revise it so very much before I'll dare send it off. I'm sorry for rambling. Having to sell off my stuff. Put up notices in the news room, selling it all off to the highest bidder. I need to run off soon, have currency to pick up - they use Fidelizhi thrones up at the settlement, but on the way up... anyway, I'll need to grab some two-headed kings for back home in Mahar Jovan, maybe some promissory notes for anywhere along the route, should work out. Terrified of being penniless before I get up there. Anyway, we should keep in touch, you should tell me more about your estate! What sort of animals do you keep up there, you've never mentioned, and I keep forgetting to ask. Anyway, I need to run off, currency, immigration office. Need to submit a giant pile of forms to them, should be fun. Currency, immigration office, boots, coat, cleaning room, ooh, buying a bottle of citrinitas too, might need something to revive me out in the wilderness!
Eygi, I'm doing everything I'm meant to, but I still feel paralytically nervous. I mean, my body is moving, part of my brain is functional and rational and reasonable and completely capable of doing this job, but... I don't know, the other part of my brain, the part where my actual soul lives, that part is just completely terrified. Absolutely, resolutely, indisputably terrified. I keep thinking I won't come back, and I keep wondering how many people would actually miss me if I didn't. I mean, there's you, my mother... that's about it. My lodge would be disappointed, my father hasn't had a thought in his head for years, and that's it. Even my colleagues... I don't know them well, and that's been fine for a long time, but now it's just terrifying me.
Gods, I'm afraid. I can't tell anyone, won't tell anyone, but I'm afraid.
We ought to stay in touch.
Yours, now and for as long as you'll have me,
Tanner
***
She blinked. And found herself on a dock. She had her bag. Her papers. Her currency. Everything. Nothing remained for her to handle.
Been operating for the last few weeks on muscle memory. Felt like a clockwork soldier, clicking along, step by inevitable step, constant and unyielding... and slowly, painfully coming to a stop, the internal mechanisms winding down. And here she was. Clockwork judge, locked mid-step, desperate to be wound back up again. Wondering where her key had gone, and only capable of imagining the keys on the wall of the lord's room, the room with the ivy ceiling and the anonymous books, that little grey-swaddled ancient infant, his eyes gleaming like the flat disks of the moon.
And she imagined him winding up judges, putting a key from the walls in their spines and twisting. One by one by one. Sending them off, running on the tension he instilled, click-click-click... until they ran out, looked around, and wondered how they'd gotten here, what they were doing, if they could get back home someday, where home was meant to be anyway...
She thought of the expectations.
Tightened her grip.
Could feel the key twisting again, ratcheting up the tension, the conviction, the demand to move.
And here she went. Clockwork judge.
Click-click-click-click-click.
***
The mutant-hunters were moored at the edge of the great dam, the sudden explosion of water which lay precipitously over the shantytown. A few snaps, a few collapses, and the entire shantytown might be wiped from the face of the earth. For now, it held. Tanner stood at the dock, which still had a sheen of newness to it, the original docks long-since rendered useless. The paint smelled fresh and metallic, the ropes had a springy lightness to them which spoke of youth. Tanner stepped uncertainly on the boards - they were young, and that meant untested. Even if, logically, she knew they were fine, properly constructed, she had this instinctive nervousness towards the excessively novel. Novel meant untested, untested meant dangerous and unreliable. Ergo, herself going north. Ergo, her nervousness at going to a fresh, raw settlement. The sapling might be the foundation of the greatest oak in the world, but that didn't mean she wanted to sit on it, or build her house out of it, or do anything but steer clear and let it move along.
Clamped down on her rambling. Tightened her gloved grip on her bag - a big leather thing, waterproofed to hell and back. Somewhere between a bag and a trunk, really. Took a while buying it, yet she couldn't remember actually doing it - might as well have materialised in her hands one random evening. So much had been done on muscle memory, and now she was aware. Weeks from that fateful meeting. Weeks she barely remembered. Yet... no going back.
It was a hideous boat. Hideous. She'd seen them before, but from a long way away. Felt like a young girl again, gutting fish with her father on the docks, listening the rumbling song of the hunters aboard. Then, it'd been a distant shadow, cloaked with clouds of oily, greasy smoke from their clanking engines, sustained by crimson-robed theurgists. Now, it was a looming, monolithic reality. And what a reality it was. The stink hit her first, the reek of both contamination and its cleansing. Contamination fizzed in the nose, it popped like champagne, it had a nauseating sweetness and sourness which combined together unpleasantly. Felt like... well, like the little confectioner that made the ceremonial sweets for the judges (and she had an ample supply in her bag, wrapped carefully), but if the confectioner had died in one of his vats during the middle of summer, and the reek of sugar, rot, heat, and spice was mixing together. And then, the chemical stench of cleanser, something universal and caustic. Made her head swim, just this first proper whiff. No idea how the hunters managed it. And beyond the smell was the boat itself - a hulk. An ugly lump of matter that had no reason to float, but it somehow did. Less a ship, more a loose mass of metal and wood and bone. They bound it with mutant bone, inhumanly vast and powerful. Mutant bones, strung with metal, containing a burning heart into which they fed the choicest part of every mutant. Brutal spikes hung from the side, ready to hang their kills. The more they killed, the more the stink fo contamination rose, the more mutants came to feast on the decay, the more kills for the crew. Three great pillars of metal rose from the deck, curling and spiralling, like the horns of a titanic goat, belching smoke. Everything was notched and whorled, little tallies of kills, little scrimshaw engravings on the great structuring bones. The bones rose above the rim of the deck, curling above - it was a cage. A huge ribcage sealing the boat inside, with its burning heart and its horn-column-vents.
Most alarmingly, there was an artillery piece mounted in the middle of the deck. Huge and well-worn, carved all around until it resembled a titanic dragon, complete with whiskers of cartilage and ornamented insectile wings made from stretched mutant-hide.
The mutant-hunters were stopping here for a resupply. More weapons, more fuel. Fidelizh had some of the finest caravans in the world, some of the finest and best-supplied merchants around. The hunters could pick up fuel for their flamethrowers, sharpened harpoons, specially treated food which was resistant to contamination, treatments for the mutation that might set into themselves, special gear for protection and offence. Everything. There were engines in the hold which needed to be repaired, parts which needed purchasing. The sails, used in case of emergency, had to be mended and replaced. Long patrols were the norm, and they had to supply themselves for long periods of potentially being stranded. People bustled to and fro, surrounding Tanner and flowing on either side of her, unwilling to come too close. She could tell the new recruits from the old hands by their skin. The novices were cherry-cheeked and fresh. The veterans, though... they were mottled. Skin like the skin of toads, wart-ridden and scarred, all tinted an unhealthy shade of blue-grey-green. Little patches of the stuff, blooming like leprosy. Mutation had stained them - just the skin, at least. But it spoke of growing corruption. In front of her were humans and animals both - the animals clawing their way out, inch by bloody inch, until only they remained. And until that happened, the hunters would sling harpoons over their shoulders, mount guns on their vessels, and sail up the river to find anything that stank of mutation.
The captain was no different.
A woman, maybe ten years older than her, with a face half-ruined by the mottling. Plenty of women did mutant-hunting these days - simple reason, the men had already run off to the Great War, the women had been left behind. The first mutant-hunters had been old Great War veterans who refused to stop fighting, knew their time was short and wanted to make the most of it. Then they'd died. Gone mad. Whatever. Leaving the female veterans, possessed by the same urge but insulated from the worst of the Great War's chaos, to pick up the slack.
Tanner stood nervously before the captain. The captain worked away busily, snarling orders to the others with professional rapidity and unprofessional savagery. A tattered oiled coat was slung around her shoulders, but she hadn't stuck her arms through the sleeves, leaving the bare, scarred limbs to furl angrily in front of her chest. One of her eyes had ruptured pupils - she was mutated. How many years before she changed? How much of this aggression was natural, how much was induced?
A filthy cheroot was stuffed in her mouth, and she growled around it.
"Here to haul cargo? I don't need more hands."
Tanner smiled nervously (as was expected), and handed over a little chit of paper, explaining her situation as she did so.
"...damn, never mentioned the size. That's all your bringing?"
"Yes, captain."
"Good. Get on board, stay out of the way. You've got a cabin, as agreed. Trip shouldn't take more than a few days to Mahar Jovan, we're picking up most of our food there, then we're off up the Tulavanta. Then up a tributary for a while, no guarantees on time, depends on the mutants. Good?"
She nodded rapidly.
"Oh, very good, completely fine. Sorry."
"The fuck are you apologising for?"
"...I don't know. Sorry."
"Gods. Go on, get aboard, girl. We're leaving within the day."
She grinned over. Her teeth were uncannily sharp - her biology adapting to the chief food of mutants. That is to say, other mutants. Soon, her tongue would harden and refine itself for drinking contamination from pools, becoming more of a proboscis. Her eyes would shatter forever. And then she'd need to be burned to death or sent into exile. Tanner trotted past her hurriedly, bag thumping against her legs, reminding her of when she'd first arrived in Fidelizh. The boat was worse up-close. So many stains... so much weathering. The boat wasn't a vessel, really, it was a floating fortress. It was a fortress that could run away when the going got bad, and could run further in once a further tareget presented itself. She saw scars in the metal, intimidatingly large - mutants, had to be. Mutants had attacked, and gouged scratches inches deep into the solid steel. And... she moved away from the thoroughfare of sailors, moving for one of the railings, trying to lean against it...
Flinched.
The railing was decorated.
Jaws. The metal was ornamented by the plundered jaws of mutants, some of them uncannily human-like, with incisors, molars, all the usual. Embedded above the top railing, forming rings which... no, not decorations, reinforcements. She could imagine people resting their guns in the nook created by specially selected jawbones, could see the places where gunpowder had stained the teeth slate-grey. And partway along the railing... a harpoon. A huge, pneumatic harpoon, ready to spring out and impale a mutant. The barbs were vicious and hooked, designed to haemorrhage, to be impossible to remove. And like everything, the launching mechanism was decorated with mutant bones, this time fingers, looped around and around in a double helix.
A mechanism like this had crippled her father.
She could see why. The tight coils. The way the metal already seemed to strain. It was always designed to erupt with force, all that had happened on that awful day was a... misapplication. The wrong outlet of the same force. If it'd been correct, it would've been caving in the skull of a mutant, or a mutant-hunter resigned to a death of some description, be it slow and painful or fast and glorious. This would be fast and humiliating. It had been fast and humiliating. She reached out slowly, tracing her hand over the surface, feeling the cold metal, the low hum of mechanisms in static harmony... a little touch of the harpoon, and the barbs were sharp enough to draw blood on the slightest contact.
They'd shoot this at a mutant, hook in, rip as much blood as they could out. The mutant might fight back, it might run, but the ship would accompany it. And the more contamination it shed, the more it weakened, lost the power to regenerate and recover, lost everything. And more mutants were drawn in to rip it apart. She imagined a mutant shambling pathetically in front of the ship, like a hunting hound, or a canary in a mine. Sacrificial lamb. Others drawn in to gnaw at its ragged sides, while it loped weakly to an inevitable end. And all the while the mutant-hunters would laugh and laugh and laugh.
If that mechanism had been an inch to one side, her father would be fine.
Another inch, and he'd have died on the spot.
Another inch, and he'd have been left with a smashed face, so demolished that they wouldn't be able to spoon food down his throat.
This harpoon, or one very much like it, more than anything, had probably sent her here. More even that the woman with the letter. A harpoon snapped, and her relationship with her mother strained enough for her to be sent off at the first opportunity, sent packing to a substitute parent. Mother had always been awkward after father had been injured, clearly wasn't ready to be a single parent. Collected substitutes like stamps. There'd been the judges. And there'd been the lodge. And there'd been the woman with the letter. All of them assigned some sort of responsibility to make up for the loss of her father. The lodge had tried, the judges had managed it for good. The woman had simply been a route to the latter.
Judges as a substitute father. No wonder she'd been so eager to obey the lord in his grey cape, in his room of ivy and keys.
Her thoughts were human. Her thoughts were human. She had a clarity in her, a clarity that frightened her. Routine had snapped, so her mind was whirling in a widening gyre, reaching random conclusions and conjectures, observations that would never otherwise occur. The judges as father figures, the significance of the harpoon in her mind and her life... her imagination was beginning to click, piece by piece. Clockwork judge - shove a key in her back, turn it round and around, fill her with tension and send her off with automated motions. But her imagination didn't need a key. It was just a gyre that widened and widened with each turn. It wasn't wound up, it was unleashed.
A twitch of nervousness.
She wanted to write to Eygi. Needed to write to Eygi. And as the sailors began to hum a low hunting song, the new recruits unsteadily joining in after a minute, she leant against the toothsome railing and withdrew her notebook. Already beginning to scribble.
Dear Eygi,
I lean on teeth and I smell champagne. I think I'm heading into some sort of hell.
I hope the weather is good where you are, I'm sure it's better than over here, but I suppose I'll be begging for any humidity soon enough!
Do you ever think the modern human is like a clockwork toy?
Write soon!
Tanner
Hm.
Definitely needed a second draft. Didn't want to frighten her.
Dear Eygi...
***
"Haul! Haul that bloody mortar, I want that thing mounted, damn your eyes!"
The captain was a snarling dog, nipping at the heels of her crew as they shunted yet another ghastly weapon of war. Tanner was still on the deck, watching carefully, noting down something every so often. Not that she was truly interested, she was more... well, getting into the habit. Observation was her job in the Rekida settlement, observation and notation. Plus, housekeeping. What had Brother Olgi said when she started up at the inner temple? Best to start how you intend to go on. Had it been Olgi, or had it been in one of her first lectures? Blast, memory already going. Bad sign. Either way, habit could never be formed too soon. She noted how the ship operated, the ranking, the invisible signs. Her eyes had to be sharp for injustice and shameful behaviour in the settlement, sharp to the sort of thing the judges had to start working on. She was helping to plan an offensive, and it was her duty to do some damn good reconnaissance.
The mutant-hunters were odd. Very clear divisions between them, probably based around squadrons from the Great War. The women were the last of the veterans, only one or two men among their ranks. The female battalions had only really been raised once the going was truly miserable, once they were drafting children into the factories just to keep the ammunition coming - meaning, the male veterans were usually older, and had succumbed to mutation or retirement. The women here... it was interesting, she could tell the older veterans from the younger ones simply by their necklaces. The older veterans had necklaces with a single ring on them. The younger ones had nothing, or necklaces with miscellaneous knick-knacks. And this marked a division. Then, there were veterans and recruits - another division. She could already see little hazings happening. The older veterans were lounging around, leaning on railings and guns, barking orders and insults at the lower orders. The younger veterans, the ringless, were more lean and hungry, still aware of how many years they had left - their skin was less mottled, their frames less mutated. They snarled at the recruits, barking and bellowing, ensuring they worked at the maximum. The recruits...
Well, some still had spirit in them. There was a raw, chaotic savagery to the boat which unnerved her, so different to the calm, civilised environment of the inner temple. This wasn't part of an army, this wasn't a regular navy, it was just a chaotic bundle of doom-driven warriors who wanted to die doing what they loved... no, what they lived for. One of the younger veterans growled at her, and Tanner took a step back, getting out of the way of another gun being hauled along. This veteran was... she was wounded. Half her face, and a good chunk of her upper torso, were swathed in thick bandages and dressings, oozing with antiseptic. Two of the fingers on her left hand were completely fused into a single claw, tipped with a nail the colour of jade. A tower of greasy black hair was tied up with a bolt of red cloth, looked like some sort of antenna. Her single remaining eye boiled with resentment... and curiosity.
"Big fucker. Big fucker."
She leaned closer, her breath slightly fetid. Tanner shrank back, despite the woman being maybe half her size. There was a gun at her hip, and Tanner's eyes kept drifting towards it. The woman laughed hoarsely, something dancing in her eye... then poked her solidly in the stomach with her green-tipped claw, and Tanner almost leapt over the side out of sheer alarm.
"Bit of muscle, enough muscle. Good, not one of those fat giants. You know, we meet mutants like you. Big fuckers, real big, usually means they've eaten someone, or injected contamination right into their skulls, something like that. Tell you what..."
She reached over the railing, patting something.
"Check it."
A skull. A skull embedded into the metal. Almost human... almost. But not quite. Too large, for one. Too many teeth, eye sockets too large, skull fractured where the brain had tried to spill out. Little divots where stingers and pincers might've been mounted. The eye sockets had sagged with contamination, the eyes maybe expanding, or dying away and being replaced with something marginally more useful. Whatever it was, it made the giant skull look like it was weeping, sad eyes and grinning mouth, each tooth long and sharp, ready to tear.
"Best not stick around when we get drunk, big lady. Better not. Might get ideas, think that you're one of the enemy. Know what we do with them? We hook them up. We bleed them into the land. We draw the other mutants in, gun them down, over and over and over, pile the bodies higher. Sometimes we choke the river so thick that we can only move with barge poles, we make rivers look like ground beef. And then we burn it. All of it. We take whales, render them for oil, burn the oil to kill the mutants. And once it's all burned away, we move on. Listen, big lady, maybe you stick with the crew, haul guns for us, give us ammo crates. Let us show you the fires. When mutants burn, they burn rainbow-like. Like an oil slick stretching to the horizon. Stinks like you wouldn't believe, but you keep wanting to smell it, smell your work..."
She licked her lips, relishing in how Tanner shivered.
"I've seen things, big lady. Things you wouldn't believe."
Another poke in the stomach.
"You shed your fat quick out here, the contamination doesn't like fat, too useless, too much space wasted. Your heart will boil hot enough that you don't need fat to warm you, your stomach will hunger for things other than food, things you can't put into fat, your teeth with lengthen and sharpen, and you'll be all lean... then you can start growing muscle..."
The captain seemed to materialise from nowhere, cracking the veteran over the back of the neck with a crooked handspike. The veteran hissed like an animal, whirling angrily. The captain glared. Looking her right in the eyes. And a second later, the veteran slunk away, one final look at Tanner. A look Tanner didn't like. The chaos of the boat's set-up continued onwards, but the captain had an aura of calm around her, even with her half-feral eyes... Tanner smiled nervously.
"I apologise, I'll get below deck, and-"
"Oh, shush. Listen, one of my girls starts getting nasty, you look them right in the eyes."
Tanner blinked.
"...and?"
"That's it. The older ones are afraid of direct eye contact, makes their brains go zap. Like getting a bucket of cold water thrown over their heads. Look 'em in the eyes, and if they don't back off, whack 'em with something, understand? Something heavy."
"Understood, captain."
"Respectful bird, aren't you?"
Tanner shrugged.
"I'm a guest, it's... really all I can do."
"Could shift ammo crates for us."
Another blink. The captain grinned.
"Not joking. If you want to, you can shift crates for us. Wouldn't mind, would quite like it. Convenient. You're big enough. Go below, you're the cabin... right, down those stairs, second on the left. Open for you, key's on the cot, have fun. Go below, get that smart crap off, then start hauling things. You're large enough."
The grin widened, and her teeth were unpleasantly sharp and malformed, like her mouth had tried to grow different sets at different times - never settling on a single design.
"You're a guest. Happy for you to sit around and eat our food, but I'd mightily appreciate it if you pitched in. The girls like people more when they lift things, and you look good at it. Proper work mule, you. Go on, crack on, give us a bit of the old hee-haw, eh?"
A hoarse laugh, a firm slap on the shoulder. Tanner coughed slightly, shifting uneasily...
"May I ask a question, actually?"
A blink of surprise.
"You may. You have a mouth. You have a tongue. Presumably you have an arsehole too, so you can talk out of it if you please."
Goodness, such vulgarity in this place. Tanner shifted a little, moving further from the harpoon. It unnerved her and fascinated her, she didn't want to get too close, but she didn't want to move too far away. It was like having a gun in her hands, or a knife, or something strong and useful. A desire to keep it nearby at all times, even if it repulsed just as quickly, repulsed with its certainty and completeness and significance. That harpoon could kill her in a second.
"Are things... I mean, are things safe? Some of the senior veterans, they're... very mutated, is there anything I need to worry about, or-"
The captain grunted irritably, all humour suddenly gone.
"What, think we're going to eat you alive?"
Tanner froze.
"...no, no, no, not that at all, I-"
"You think we're a bunch of animals, need to lock your door at night, sleep with a big old gun by your head?"
Her tone was becoming slightly more aggressive, and with someone who stank very slightly of blood, oil, and contamination...
Crumbs.
She always did this. Put her foot in her mouth. Asked something unfortunate. Happened the moment she wasn't asking ritualised, formalised questions, like she did during her cross-examinations. Her curiosity was always taking her to unpleasant places, always. Even now, even now, she was wondering about other embarrassing things, to do with hygiene and whatnot. She'd ruined any sort of rapport, and-
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean any offence, I'll just-"
The captain sighed, lounging back against the nearest hard surface, her teeth grinding in a way that suggested she wanted to smoke something, chew something, do something to exert the energy bubbling in her half-mutated, sun-shrivelled, salt-preserved frame.
"Listen, you think the city would let us get this close if we were about to go feral?"
Tanner spoke without thinking, nervousness propelling her to answer.
"Well, we're not really in the city, we're just-"
"Shut up. Listen, you can get bodily mutated a whole bunch, it's brain mutation you need to worry about. And my girls are fine, mostly. We take the right pills, we get examined every other week. And you're not going with us into a war-zone, you're just with us for a while, staying civilised. I know what it looks like when someone's about to snap - my girls aren't there, not yet. Seen it enough."
"...oh."
"Don't believe me?"
Well, she was half-mutated herself, so surely she'd be slightly blinkered on some points, and-
"Listen here, you think idiots last long?"
"Uh."
"Not on this boat, they don't. They die quick. And they're long-dead, trust me. The folk left are the folk with the right fucking gumption to stay alive. Right smarts, right spine. When you see someone on the brink of going insane, you'll know it. Now how's about you settle down, calm your tits, stop spluttering like a pig mid-rut, and get to work. Or get out of our way. Understood, lass?"
"Understood, captain. Completely understood, captain. Sorry, again. I didn't mean any offence. I really didn't. I apologise for any offence I caused. I truly, truly apologise."
Her words were running over each other like a horde of stampeding buffalo.
"You're really sorry?"
"Yes, captain, very much so, captain. Sorry."
The captain reached up quickly, patting her gently on the cheek.
"Then get to hauling something."
Tanner's next apology was frozen on her lips as the captain stalked over the bone-ornamented deck. A hellish figure, tall and powerful, gnarled with mutation and with the grim, fascinating aura of the doom-driven. A question was boiling in her stomach, but the moment had long-since gone, and she'd squandered all her goodwill already. But... she needed to ask, even so. Before the voyage ended. Just wanted to ask about dates. When the captain had last been in Mahar Jovan. Who it was who might've been captain of the vessel that injured her father. She glanced around, seeing the veterans stirring to life as the ship approached completion. The golden rings around their necks glinting in the dim sun, swinging from mottled necks. And then... she could hear the engines stirring. Warming up. Ready to go. A low thump-thump, and some of the veterans started stamping, the deck immobile no matter what they did. Stamping in time with the thump-thump of the ship's chaotic heart. And little tongues of steam began to ooze through the deck's slats, easing upwards...
While the great grey smoke-pillars started to belch enormous clouds, each one thick, black, oily, stinking.
Tanner shivered.
Started to head below. Intended to help. But these buttons wouldn't stand up to hard labour. All around were crates - crates of food, crates of fuel, and crates of guns, ammunition. The guns were monstrously huge, just like the harpoons. Pistols designed for dragoons, not sailors, carrying long rifle charges in their six cylinders. The veterans had already claimed a couple, and rested them lazily on their trousers, stroking them gently with mottled fingers, fingernails closer to insect chitin than anything else. The guns were terrible, not in terms of quality, just in terms of purpose and power: the rifles had bores larger than her thumb, each one with a brutal bayonet designed to hook, to immobilise prey before another hunter could rip them apart. Even their guns had harpoons. They seemed to want to immobilise and bleed their prey as much as kill them - to hurt them, in some fashion. To take away the only thing mutants truly loved and needed. Tear it away, and only then, only then, rip their skulls apart with a solid shot. Tanner intended to go below, but... she had to try. Reached down, placing her bag softly on the deck... and tried to pick up a crate of ammunition, half-pound conical balls ready to snap into the firearms, ready to drive through inch upon inch upon inch of putrid mutant flesh. These guns had won the Great War, the guns and the flame. She hooked her fingers underneath, wedging a little...
Then hauled.
The ammunition crate sprung from the ground. Tanner's breath caught in her throat. She felt her muscles moving, felt things waking up that had been asleep for a long time. Felt the entire organic engine aligning, her heartbeat in time with the thump-thump of the engine below, the colossal mechanical heart of this corpse-ship. One of the veterans whistled appreciatively as she hefted the crate, barely feeling a thing.
She couldn't... really remember the last time she'd actually used her muscles. Lost restraint and exerted her frame, didn't crush it down under a cape and hunch over a book. Her mind was whirling strangely, she couldn't help but imagine hauling larger things, challenging herself a little. There was a slight burn in her arms she hadn't felt for a long time, and it reeked of satisfaction. She could feel the parts of the organic engine turning... and could feel them tempting. Go on. Challenge a bit. Get stronger. Get bigger. Shed every lingering ounce of fat and become a walking statue. Chisel herself. She could pick up that Lord of Appeal with a single finger, even now...
All very silly notions. And she ignored them immediately. Tanner Magg was no... strong-woman, fit to haul ammunition and nowt besides, she was a judge, and a fine judge, fine enough to be sent to the very depths of the wilderness! And only the best judges were sent to the depths of the wilderness, to a dead city and a carbuncular settlement, surrounded on all sides by contamination and ruin. Only the best judges got positions like that.
Another whistle of appreciation. She shot the veteran in question a shy smile, and the veteran responded with a hoarse cackle, revealing snaggleteeth and a tongue the colour of a leech, with little barbs to boot. The deck shook under her feet as she moved.
Her voice was low and quiet, comical with her size and strength.
"May I... possibly ask where this crate ought to go? Sorry, I should've asked beforehand. Terribly sorry if I'm getting in the way."
And now the veteran was laughing harder than ever.
Well. There went the euphoria. Replaced by mild embarrassment. Hm...
Might as well try to pick up a second one. Not that she was particularly fascinated with being a burly brawler, but... well, once one got started, it was tempting to see how far it could go. Even the claw-fingered woman with the half-bandaged face was looking interested. Seven years of training. One year of judging.
And this was the first time she'd really shown off her strength.
Still processing how it felt, honestly.
But she could say, without a doubt, that it didn't feel unpleasant.
I apologise for writing so soon, but the vessel is proving... interesting. We're churning our way up the river with alarming speed, the engine simply dismisses the current of the river, goes against it with no show of effort. Inexorable - the thing feels inexorable. Sometimes it feels less like sitting on a boat, and more like being a message on a telegram wire, or a pre-recorded play on a theatrophone. The crew certainly adds to the impression, like they might as well sit back and relax, the boat will take them where they need to go, no rushing necessary. Not that they're lazy, of course. There's always work to be done. The rank and file of the crew are always moving, checking, rechecking, dismantling, reassembling, scrubbing, shovelling, watching, preparing... something always needs repairing or cleaning, really. They scrub the deck until it shines in the morning light, always spraying it with stuff that helps contamination slide off instead of taking root. Once they get into forbidden waters, I think they'll start spraying it with more repellent, just to make things harder for mutants. Not much work on the engine, surprisingly enough - I think the theurgists are taking care of it, by and large. I barely see them around, but the engine never stops thumping, the smoke never stops billowing, the entire vessel never really stops moving. Sometimes, when I'm sleeping, I can feel the heat oozing up through the boards, filling my room up like an oven. No idea how the theurgists deal with it, but I'm thankful for the speed.
Anyhow, part of the crew is always working and working, but another part is... almost idle. The warriors, I mean. The frontline hunters, the ones who're actually going to be firing into the horde. Veterans, all of them. Great War, or some of the skirmishes afterwards. Until the hunting starts, they've not really got much to do, so they just sprawl like enormous wildcats on crates and railings, guns dangling between their legs, immaculately oiled and cared for. The guns, I mean. Not the legs. The ship feels slightly overfull, honestly. I mean, you see people working, you see people lounging around, you feel the engine thumping away, and it's like... well, like there's just too many people, and too little work. I suppose that's accurate for now... and honestly, I think the boat won't be so full once they make for home. I mean, how many are going to die up in the north? I suppose having a large number of people helps, when you're losing people left and right to mutants, contamination, madness...
Eerie, being on a ship like this, where they expect to take so many casualties. I suppose that's the point, though. The casualties, I mean, not the eeriness. Can't imagine the mutants would be particularly unnerved, at least, not sure if they can be unnerved... anyway. Anyway. I get the feeling that some of these people expect to die, and they're on this voyage because it's a better death than slow madness and mutation. I mean, they've already got contamination sleeping in their blood, gnawing quietly at their heart and mind. Already dead, just looking to die productively, where their madness won't hurt too many people. It's easy to feel sad for them, but it's easier to feel slightly alarmed. The older veterans definitely put me ill at ease, there's a long, drawn-out silence to them, a rangy quality in their limbs, a glittering quality in their eyes, a capacity for great stillness and great tension. They're always either holding their guns, or have them ready to hold at a moment's notice. I honestly don't think I've ever seen them relax, drinking's forbidden while they're on the river, they only drink during shore leave. So there's no real... outlet, I suppose.
The younger veterans, though, they're different. More agitated - seems inversely proportional to their age. Younger they are, angrier they get. The old girls, they just lounge around watchfully, stare off into the distance, monitor people with these cold, flat eyes of theirs... they barely move their heads, but I know they're watching me. The younger ones... they can be just as mutated, but they act so much more irritable. Always striding around, glaring at anything that moves, chatting in low, angry voices. The older veterans watch me, but the younger ones actually try and talk. Can't count the number of times they've just asked me to pick up large objects, or to stand still so they can measure themselves against me. I'm still trying to figure out why some of them have golden rings on necklaces, I mean, most of the older ones seem to have them, but it's not exclusive - some of the younger ones are in the same boat (pardon the pun). Not as many, but still. Not sure if it's a sign of prestige or something else, and I'm nervous of asking. The captain says they're harmless, but I'm... really not sure.
I'm deeply nervous of talking to my mother again. It's been years and years since I've met her properly, just polite letters since I was fifteen. I understand she's well, living properly, and my father is alive, but... well... alright, this is getting taken out of the proper letter. But I can't talk about this with anyone else, and writing things down usually helps. So, imaginary Eygi, please excuse my frankness. My mother isn't a bad person. I like her. A lot. But she's... do you ever get that feeling of being unwelcome somewhere? Just viscerally unwelcome, no matter what you do, and it's always twitching in the back of your brain that someone else would be happier if you weren't around? When I was younger, I ate more - just had to, I'm large, people like me eat a lot. I was picky, too, I still don't eat eels. I always needed new clothes and shoes as I grew up. If I made a mistake, it was a big mistake, I couldn't do things by halves - I could shatter a chair by accident, and when I was still growing up, it was easy to have accidents. I didn't have many friends, or... any, really, so I was either working or I was at home. Taking long walks helped, but... it meant we were always near each other. I had nothing else to do, and my mother was always too busy or too tired to go out and have a social life. Meaning, she was stuck in the same house as the person who was taking her money, eating her food, making her life that little bit harder. And once you realise that you're inconveniencing someone just by existing, it... changes you. And I'd try and help, I really would, but there'd be things I couldn't do. My father couldn't work, and needed constant care. I could do a little work, but I was big, clumsy, and expensive. Two parasites clinging to one healthy person.
I still think... maybe if I wasn't around, mother wouldn't have needed to go to the lodge for help. The money from the judges was fine, but it just vanished too quickly. I mean, imagine if she... if my father had died during his accident, and I had never been born, then my mother would just have a big packet of money and nothing but herself to worry about. A harpoon being an inch to the side would've eased things for her, and me slipping and falling into the river on a cold night would've made life ludicrously simple.
It's the sort of thing you can't stop thinking about, once it roots in your brain. Just poisons the rest of your life. Leaves you keenly aware of your own shortcomings, and... anyway. It's been eight years since we've spoken. That's always going to be awkward. Then you add this to the mix, and...
I'm nervous. That's all. I'm sure it'll be fine, but... nervous.
And there are other things I haven't mentioned, but... no, moving on. Don't want to mope, I'll just make myself miserable.
It's fun lifting things. I leave my smart clothes down in my cabin, then I just head up and... lift stuff. There's always crates that need moving, and it's nice to have a large person around to reach high places, lift people up, shift things that might take a small team to do... gods, it's been years since I've sweated out of exertion rather than stress. I just... feel my muscles moving, straining, I hear my joints popping, I feel thin trails of sweat go down my forehead even on cold days, I just... it's nice to feel useful. I get the same feeling when I give out a judgement, but there's something wonderfully visceral about this. I used to gut fish back in Mahar Jovan, this is similar, but... more varied, more irregular. I just let my mind whir, and it doesn't matter, because I'm not using my mind for anything. And then at the end of the day, I put my smart clothes back on, button them all up, and I can feel this ache lingering in my fingers, I find it easier to relax, the clothes just rasp over my skin, which feels more sensitive, more alert. Everything just feels more real. I wonder if that's because of blood? I mean, I work, the blood goes to the surface of my skin, maybe that makes me feel more. I wonder if there's been a study of this - your blood sinks inwards naturally, being idle helps it accumulate around the brain, thus inflaming thought and paranoia and whatnot, but then when you exercise, it flows away from the brain and towards the skin, heightening presence and perception at the expense of thought?
Hm, no, then again, when you stand on your head for too long, the blood rushes upwards and you suddenly become rather silly. Though, come to think of it, that might prove my point - too much blood near the brain prompts silliness and dizziness. Drain it away like pus from a wound, and you become more serious, more grounded. Maybe they should immobilise philosophers using enormous plaster casts, just to really get their brains inflamed with nonsense, while judges ought to do something more physical. I mean, we do plays, by why not wrestling, or weight-lifting, or just very long runs? I hear that running for leisure is becoming more popular in some circles, maybe they have a point. Goodness, and here's me, with my long walks to help me focus and relax - I think the conclusion I'm coming to, Eygi dearest, is that the ideal state of a judge is an immaculately muscled superbeing with a brain the size of a city and muscles girdled with veins. The ideal judge is a vascular judge.
...I should do more exercise, clearly I've become silly in the time it took to write this letter. Then again, I think I might've found it easier to respect that Lord of Appeal if he hadn't been the size of a child. Hard to respect someone you know you could take apart like a soft-boiled egg, you know? No, no, not quite 'hard to respect', more... well, it does make it easier to disagree with them. Yourself excluded, of course. I'm just rambling, ignore everything I say, most of this is destined for the fireplace anyway. I'm thinking like a brute - this is exactly the sort of thing I generally dislike doing, I'm already cringing with guilt and shame. I'm a judge, judges don't think like brutes who judge things by the size of the ammunition crates they can haul. Ignore me.
Yours,
Tanner
***
Tanner found the boat to be a pleasant place when dusk fell. When the sun touched the river and turned it a shimmering shade of red, the tiniest waves now flecked with shards of purest gold. The low thump of the engine had faded into the background now, even after only two days on the boat. Funny - she'd devoured time for years and years, swallowed days like they were lighter than air, crunched down week upon week, inhaled years like they were never going to stop. Now... now she found herself forced to mull over each bite, to sip, rather than glug, to sample, rather than gorge. Two days, and it felt like two weeks, two months. By all mathematical reckonings, her days should be worth less and less as time went on, and right now, a day should be almost nothing. Yet... well, instead of referring each day to the span of her life, she was anchoring time into smaller progressions. Either way. It meant that she stared out on the waves with little thought for anything else, keenly aware of each second that flowed by, aware that she couldn't spend an hour here without getting restless, whereas back home she could easily waste an hour doing the same basic activity over and over and over. Human thought had crawled back into her sleepy brain. And she wasn't sure if she liked it. Her mind was a widening gyre that spun wilder and wilder with each passing hour, inviting newer, stranger thoughts, bringing her to conclusions she abandoned a moment later as her attention wavered. Well, once she had a routine again, she'd be fine. Once she had a routine. Not a second before.
She glanced idly into the water...
Saw a familiar bottle drifting by, algae-stained and bobbing gently.
She knew that brand. Knew the logo. The twin faces of Mahar Jovan's kings to show that royal approval had been granted, and the image of a kestrel with wings flared underneath. She knew that stuff, father loved drinking it when she was much younger. It thumped lightly against the side of the boat, slipping away a moment later, but... a shudder had already run through her. The smell of beer had already filled her nose, the sensation of sitting quietly on the dock gutting fish with her father, the feeling of familial warmth that was only truly noticeable once the wasteland of adulthood had crept in, and any hint of warmth was remarkable. Her mind flickered over the sensations of childhood. The sensation of mindlessness, not stupidity, just... lack of thoughts-that-coiled. Thoughts which ran in straight lines and were softened by lack of experience - every thought inevitably bumped into memories as it ran, collided and struck off little chain reactions, until a single thought could awaken a thousand other things in turn. In childhood, there was less to bump into, fewer obstacles for the train of thought to plough through. That beer bottle... home was close. Home was coming. Whether she liked it or not. As a child, she'd see the bottle and think nothing of it. Now...
When she'd left Mahar Jovan seven years ago, she'd compared it to having a briar slowly unpicked from her brain. Little briars of memory slowly teased out, snapping back to coil around the central mass, a sluggish, rusting thing on the horizon, a second moon that slithered around itself perpetually, thorns glinting in the light of the setting sun. She'd embarked from it, and entered into a world of softer impressions, fewer reference points, blankness. And now... now she could feel the briars slowly coiling around her once again. Embedding into her thoughts. That bottle should mean nothing. Instead it meant remembering her father. The accident. Dinners with him, gutting fish with him, talking idly about nothing at all, walking by the side of the river while he hummed under his breath... memories upon memories, chain reactions sparking off new reactions in turn, a single thorn of the briar turning to a branch turning to a larger branch, turning to the rusting bulb of the whole plant, the inexorable core of the Tanner-that-had-been.
Her breathing had intensified.
And a moment later, she withdrew from the tooth-laden railing, walking with as much stately dignity as she could to the comforting darkness of the space below the decks. Evening was drawing in. The night crew were ready to work away, but most were bunking down. Silence surrounded her, and she relished in it. Idiot. Shouldn't be so affected by a single damn beer bottle. She knew there'd be more like it, soon enough. Little pieces of trash in the river, labels she recognised, smells she found familiar, and then she'd start to see the docks of Mahar Jovan approaching, the domes of the west and the lodges of the east, the gargoyles with their hands running with blessed water, the creaking of a thousand bridges, all of it. She'd thought... well, she thought she'd moved on from things. That the lovely little labyrinth in Fidelizh was her home now.
But home had a sharpness to it that nothing could truly replace. Felt like... if humans were insects, which shed their carapaces time after time, leaving behind solid remnants of earlier life-stages, then home felt like it was full of them. A mound of shed selves, a little cairn commemorating her existence. She could see the shades of her younger self in the water. Could see all the things she had once been, and knew that nothing could ever remove them. The labyrinth might be where she lived and died, but Mahar Jovan was where her carapace-cairn had been built, and never would it be moved, and never would it fade until she was still and cold in her oversized coffin.
A blink.
She'd... lost herself in thought a little. She was deeper in the ship than she'd been before, much deeper. This was close to the engine - the heat was rising, the thump-thump of the great engine-heart was almost deafening. The doors were no longer wooden, they were metal, heavy metal, with large wheels to seal them shut. A low, warning glow emanated from beneath these doors, like they were eyelids covering glowing eyes, currently at rest, but always at risk of waking. She hesitated. Never been here. Not sure if she should be here. Would definitely be easier to go back up, find her cabin, sit down and write something. Scribble her thoughts in a letter for Eygi... a part of her was utterly paranoid that she'd die in the north, then her letters would be found, and her well-meaning discoverer would go 'oh, well, ought to deliver these!' and then Eygi would be deeply disturbed for the rest of her life by how Tanner Magg was less of a person, and more of a collection of arbitrarily jittering thoughts shoved inside some sort of supine protoplasmic invertebrate jelly that sometimes chose to act like a human. So, maybe worth holding back on the letters, or at least removing the names, and-
"What are you doing down here?"
Tanner squeaked, jumped, and the floor underneath rumbled alarmingly once she slammed back down. The voice swore slightly, and she heard some much smaller feet retreating. One of the hunters? One of the crew? Some sort of mad stowaway cannibal with sharp teeth and... no, couldn't even see the voice's teeth. Just a mask. Oh, crumbs. Mr. Pocket. He was back. Seven years - how many relatives had died in that time, how many were terminally ill? Oh, crumbs, oh... no, his mask had been whiter, more delicate. And this mask was grey. Heavy. Looked metallic. Thick black glass covered the square-shaped eye holes, and the mouth was little more than a set of holes through which breath could wheeze in and out. Like something both ceremonial and practical, not sure where one ended and the other began - just enough ornamentation to be ceremonial, just enough simplicity to be useful. Then her eyes drifted downwards, and she saw his red tunic, and...
Right.
She smiled uncomfortably.
"Sorry, didn't mean to... interrupt anything, uh-"
Was the correct term 'master theurgist'? Or 'mister theurgist'? Or 'sir theurgist'? Or should she just ask for his name, or... people didn't talk to theurgists much, just wasn't necessary, they kept to themselves and did things their own way. Even had independence from the judges, did all their justice internally. The theurgist looked at her oddly, then shrugged. His hands were stained up to the elbows with oil, and what she could see of his dark hair was utterly streaked with sweat and grime. He must've been down here all day.
"Not interrupting. But people don't tend to come down here. What do you want?"
"Nothing, nothing. Just wandering."
"Hm."
He examined her quietly.
"I recognise you. You're a judge, yes? I saw your cape when you arrived."
"I'm working. No names during work. Interferes with things. Theurgist will do."
"Yes, Master Theurgist."
"...where did master come from?"
His voice lightened slightly, and she could detect a trace of an accent she couldn't quite recognise.
"Uh."
"Master Theurgist, sounds like something out of a serial. Well, very flattered, but still. Theurgist will do. Or just don't name me. I mean, I'm not going to start calling you by your first name, not even in my thoughts. Easy enough to avoid naming people, I do it all the time, then I forget their names and suddenly it's unpleasant to ask. Anyway, must be getting on. Work. Want to see the engine, judge?"
He flowed from speech to question with the rapid ease of someone not entirely... well-socialised. She could tell, heard it in her own voice fairly often - a desire to just get a question out of the way, not giving it a proper preamble. Uncomfortable with asking for anything. She nodded quietly, following him through one of the metal doors. He was a short man, squirrelly, but his arms had a sturdy burliness to them which betrayed how intensive his work must be - made him look slightly ape-like, heavy arms and heavy fists dangling down to his knees, while his body was thinner, his legs downright skinny. He hauled the door open with ease, the metal protesting slightly... a blast of heat exploded outwards, and Tanner was suddenly regretting wearing her smart clothes.
The engine was... it was something, all right.
Theurgists were an odd bunch, and she'd never really... understood them. They flickered around the periphery, maintaining machinery, oiling the right gears, building the right stuff. Factories used them, trains used them, boats used them, the military loved them, and even in her own home... well, the blue lights in the labyrinth were theurgic, the breathing pillars were theurgic, her automatic quill had a theurgic battery that kept it moving, meant she had to use very little effort while writing. So much of of her life touched theurgy, but it'd never... been clear. Just something which existed. And now... well, now she got to see one of its most potent emanations.
The engine was a roaring mass of metal, a dodecahedron the size of her whole body, bristling with eerie structures that reminded her faintly of human spines made out of metal. The spines compressed and relaxed perpetually, wheezing like tobacco-stained lungs as they did so. The heat was tremendous, emanating outwards from the dull mass in the middle, metal consistently grey despite the intense heat it produced. Little openings revealed themselves randomly across its surfaces, grilles opening to expel blasts of heat. Long pipes thumped and pulsed, conveying water to be boiled in the infernal atmosphere of the engine. These pipes extended all around it, flowing up the walls, the ceiling, the floor, everything - like standing in the middle of some colossal root system, with a burning bulb right in the centre, fuelled and sustained by the rushing of water. The theurgist ignored her immediately, crouching down to attend to some of the pipes, running his hands over the surface... she had no idea what he was doing, but she watched curiously regardless, as he massaged the pulsing metal, stroked it slightly, examined the joints... he removed a tiny metal rod from his belt, almost shaped like a pen, and began to slowly trace out little patterns, ones that held no significance to her whatsoever.
The engine pulsed like a heart. Water was brought up, the engine evaporated it, and blasts of steam erupted to sustain the boat's movement. There was something distinctively organic about it all - the regular pulses of heat and steam, the quasi-vascular pipelines delivering water to the core, the spinal columns which wheezed and hissed as they did something to the interior. There was light, but it emanated only from long, hair-like filaments that slithered uncannily over the core, burning bright enough to make her eyes ache. Power that made them glow, made them move, made them spark when they brushed against one another. And the vents... the little mouths that opened on the core, smooth metal suddenly parting as hidden mechanisms activated, there was... she could, for a moment, see the interior. She saw light. Red, furious light, sparking with little flecks of blue. The roar of the engine transmitted itself through her bones, and she... well, she felt small. Not a usual experience for her. The theurgist spoke suddenly, voice muffled by his mask, barely audible with the low roar of the engine.
"Impressive, hm?"
"Quite. Quite. Very impressive."
And slightly terrifying.
"Fun, thinking about it. You're sleeping on top of this lovely thing - probably didn't even think of that until now!"
His laugh was light, but Tanner couldn't quite see the humour. Before her was a great sum of things she didn't understand. Theurgy was a cavernous unknown - she'd hear of factories, sometimes she even poked her head inside for a case, and she'd see mechanisms, she'd see machines, she'd see workers, and every step would seem simple and self-evident, but then... then theurgy would happen. Follow the simplicity backwards, follow the machines to their source, and there was just a leering, closely-guarded unknown, filled with red-robed men and women who kept to themselves, swapped secrets with only their own, and didn't take kindly to intruders. She just accepted this - everyone did. But confronted with this... thing. This pulsing, heart-like engine, with its strange lights and sparking hairs, with the sluggish rush of water into its core... white heat, waves of it, and a smell, a strange smell, somewhere between chemicals and oil.
"It's... fascinating. How, I'm sorry, how exactly does it...?"
"Does it work? Can't tell you, obviously. Just think of it like a nice happy miracle. Water and fuel go in, the engine destroys the latter to boil the former, the steam turns the wheels. Let's just leave it at that."
But there was more to it. What was going on inside that core? Why did it smell so peculiar? Why did she feel her skin crawling when she looked at it? What was the light dancing on the inside - fuel didn't burn red and blue, coals didn't, oil didn't. A clunk sounded from one part of the room, and she turned to see a huge pill-like structure being swallowed up by the pipes. Plugged in and extracted - she could see more around the room, too, little hidden bulbs covered up by the pipes they fed. Whale oil, yellow and glistening, being fed into the great machine. One hungry gulp at a time - she could see how the machine powered itself, how the fuel powered the heat which powered the devouring of oil which powered the swallowing of water. The harpoons might well be powered by the same thing, and she'd seen lamps up on the deck, little mechanisms reliant on this engine functioning. All powered by the same exchange of matter. Everything interlocking perfectly, rationalised towards perfect efficiency. She could even... yes, she could see how some of the water wasn't evaporated, it was just warmed, and sent back out in a rippling pulse through the pipes, warming the ship. She'd bathed in water warmed by this thing, she'd eaten food boiled by its exhalations. She was standing inside a giant body, and this was its furious heart. Her eyes flickered uncomfortably back to the theurgist, who was standing up from his work. The heat made her face feel flayed, like she was losing every little layer of the fine, invisible hair which covered the skin, one strand at a time.
"Like it?"
"...it's certainly interesting. And hot."
"Well, enjoy it while it lasts. I'm heading off, couple of cities down the line. Have to cool the engine so it'll last while your lot heads north. I'm not going with you, too risky."
"You're leaving it unattended?"
"More or less."
Her eyes were wide.
"Is that safe?"
His grin was audible.
"None of this is safe. Nothing is. This thing could rupture and this whole vessel would go up in flames. Those pipes could split and water would flood the hold. The whale oil could detonate. Lots of ways of people to die to this. Engines are always dying, they're always winding down to the point where they just... pop. Right now, it's running hot, and I'm keeping an eye on it. When I'm gone, it'll run slower, cooler. Dying in slow motion."
Tanner stared at him.
"Ah."
"Wonderful, hm? Interesting? Everything we build is just a house of cards. Instability weaponised. Theurgists, we just build bigger houses of cards than your lot, and we can hold them together for longer. But they all come crashing down. Sooner or later, all these things burn out."
His fingers twitched, and she couldn't help but imagine him reaching out to stroke the core, this hellish thing in the middle of its nest, groaning and pulsing and wheezing, an abstract sculpture that might as well contain anything inside its many-sided surface.
"I... see. Interesting."
"Everything does it. You should see the experimental things we build. Hot as sin. Glowing white. I've seen heat so intense things just burn, no need for sparks, the heat just chars. Seen a tree carbonise from the inside out, looked like it was made of stone by the end. Hey, if you're heading north... you might get to see one of the titans we killed. Give it a look for me, won't you? Loved seeing that last time I went up there, don't think I'll manage this time. Give it a gander - and remember that sort of thing is sleeping under your bed."
His grin was almost visible behind the mask, a glinting of white teeth behind a metal grille.
Tanner gulped. She was deeply regretting coming below decks.
"I see. I see."
"I mean, you don't. If you did, you wouldn't look as scared, you'd probably be more excited. But, well, just a judge. No offence."
"None... taken. I think."
He hummed lightly, cocking his head to one side.
"How many laws do you have?"
"What?"
"How many laws? I see these big books you people have. How many laws?"
"...thousands, must be. We try and condense them, but... well, laws are one thing, but there's precedent, and revisions, and there's the squaring of city law with our law, and..."
"Each law makes more laws, right? You make a law, but then it gets applied, and the precedent forms more laws..."
Tanner shrugged.
"Not so much 'new laws', as... accepted interpretations of existing ones."
"Sounds like a new law to me."
"I suppose it might."
"Not so different, then. I've got my lovely engine, getting hotter and hotter and faster and faster until pop, and you've got your laws, breeding over and over and over until... what, your libraries fall down? It becomes impossible to do anything?"
"Unlikely."
"Still. Instability's the way of things. This lot know that, the hunters, I mean. Just rush forward, faster and faster, then boom. Running fast and hot. That's the way to do it. Now, my parents, they're farmers, they did the same thing a generation ago, they'll keep doing it generations from now, all stable and homeostatic and nice... doesn't matter, though. You know humans walk by falling and catching themselves? Read that, once. We walk by destabilising and then restabilising just as quickly. You look nervous of the engine - don't be. It's more human than most."
She was getting the distinct feeling that this theurgist didn't talk to enough people. Even Tanner was... it was odd, but she felt a budding irritation towards him. She understood how he was thinking, understood how thoughts could whirl and find new associations, but she'd learned to restrain herself. Seeing someone else fail was almost annoying - not sure why. Maybe it just reminded her of what she could be if she had significantly fewer social graces, or maybe it just... well, she knew she wasn't much, she was a giant, clumsy lug of a creature who had odd thoughts. And if she could manage to become civilised, why couldn't this overexcited newt manage it too?
She was being too judgemental.
...then again, she was a judge. Sort of her whole set-up, really.
"I see. Interesting."
A pause.
"I... think it's rather too hot for me in here."
"No, that's just me."
She shot him a faintly disgusted look, and the black glass covering his eyes somehow twinkled roguishly.
"Sorry. Couldn't help it."
He could've. He really could've.
"I'll be heading off. Thank you for... showing me this device. And thank you for maintaining it. Think I should get some fresh air, though."
Even annoyed, she tried to be courteous. The theurgist shrugged.
"Right-o, right-o. I'll just stay down here with my unstable core lubricated by dead whales. Again, you see that titan - can't miss it, really - you pay attention, it's very fun, very warm, too. Oh, by the way... whereabouts are you going to? Heard you were going north, not sure how far."
Tanner shifted uneasily.
"Rekida. Settlement on the fringes."
"...those freaks? Well, good luck."
She wanted to leave. But curiosity was blooming in her mind like some sort of exotic fungus.
"What's so... peculiar about them?"
"Just freaks. Odd. Ma used to come from round there, moved away yonks ago, before the Great War, back when she was a girl. Cold, dark, miserable, and all the people there decided that it'd be really fun to spend a thousand years stomping each other's faces into the ground to stay warm. Miserable little place, apparently. Poor and hungry, and somehow proud of both of those things. Well, good luck. I'm sure the Great War improved it, cleared out most of the freaks, anyway. You know a bunch of them just stayed there? So many other cities, evacuated, but Rekida just decided 'nope, we're staying put, and dying en masse. And we'll be keeping our women and children with us, just out of pride.' Like I said, weirdos. But, anyway, best of luck. Nice to meet you, Tanner Magg."
He was right, it was uncomfortable to use someone's first name in conversation, made her feel like he'd just stroked her face or done something equally invasive. No, no, it was like becoming suddenly aware that someone had been stroking her bread. Nothing else, just stroking her bread while she wasn't looking. That was how it felt. Like sitting in someone else's bathwater. She paid her respects and left as quickly as propriety could allow, bowing slightly as she went, the theurgist already ignoring her. The intestinal-vascular-root system of the core pulsed and twitched, water flowing at impossible rates through the piping, mechanisms clicking and shivering and wheezing, the hellish roars of the core serenading her until she forced the metal door shut with a clunk, and she relished in the silence, the coolness, the dark. The red light continued to spill from underneath the door-frame, but now... now it was sealed. The eye had closed, the giant was asleep, and its heart was being maintained by this strange little ape-man with his grey mask and flashing grin. No wonder he was odd. Hours upon hours in there with that thing... she couldn't imagine it. Well, couldn't imagine doing it while remaining ordinary.
Her mind was twitching with two feelings. Irritation and pride.
Irritation. Plain old irritation. Disliked his rambling and his forwardness. Reminded her of Eygi, but with distinctly less charm. She felt less like a conversation partner, and more like a stuffed doll he'd seen fit to converse with. She'd been restrained, though, and a certain amount of pride came with that. No insults, no yelling, nothing. And she knew how strong she was, now. The ammo crates had made that abundantly clear - she was powerful. All the years of doing nothing but writing hadn't disguised the fact that she was a naturally powerful person, but to this little theurgist, she might as well have been a delicate, shrinking violet, all high airs and refined manners. A glittering wasp surrounded by sticky fronds of cobweb, bound in place and easier to admire.
After all, weren't ferocious predators more beautiful when painted? When immobilised by pigment? When drained of vitality and left just as images?
A second later, in the stairwell, sweat twinkling in her hair... she reached into a pocket and grabbed her little pair of golden pince-nez, mounting them on her nose with slight relish. It was odd, but... but she was feeling a bit glum, and having something to invite luck, it... well, she could see how that odd little man was necessary for the boat, how that engine had done very well thus far and wasn't likely to explode, how she'd slept with it beneath her bed for two days now without any trouble... the glasses were almost a kind of mental mnemonic, they helped remind her of the right patterns that her thoughts should take. Optimistic, not pessimistic. Contented, not cynical. More willing to see the best in the world, once filtered through golden spectacles. She'd had a good day, overall. Perfectly standard. No reason to become excessively irritated with anything. Mahar Jovan was coming, and she had every reason to enjoy herself a little, have some good food, enjoy herself before she went off to the north and promptly had to live on... whatever they lived on up there. And, ultimately, it was interesting to learn a little of Rekida. Optimism wasn't a natural trait, it was a habit, something practised over and over until it became natural, even effortless. She found it much easier to slip into the habit of optimism when she... well, when she had her little glasses, her gloves, her rituals, her routines. The world was meant to be rosier when she filtered out the bad luck, and so it was. Expectations weighing on reality, plain and simple.
She wanted to lift something. Wanted to go out into the cool night air and haul things. Be useful to someone or something.
Because right now, she didn't particularly want to go to sleep, not with the low thump-thump of the engine, reminding her of twisting pipes, roaring grilles, yellow whale fat swallowed by a hungry, hungry machine.
Wanted to haul something. And if she couldn't find something that needed hauling, she'd have to improvise.
...even as a part of her wondered how she'd started to enjoy manual labour so quickly. How easy it was to fall into the old habits of her childhood, where she thought herself destined to be a sturdy dockworker. Habits she'd tried to break while being a judge.
Some people didn't change. Herself included.
Manual labour ought to take her mind off that statement. She didn't particularly enjoy it.
Chapter Fifteen - Shaded from Vineyard Clouds by a Smiling Swan
Chapter Fifteen - Shaded from Vineyard Clouds by a Smiling Swan
Mahar Jovan rolled nearer.
Tanner wanted to write a letter to Eygi. Just to express some of the jitters going on inside her. But part of her wouldn't dare, thought that she'd be wasting all of her good ideas, her good thoughts. Wasting her conversation on the page - should be bottling it all up, like the engine down below. Ready to explode outwards in a tightly-funnelled pipeline, rotating the proverbial wheel of conversation. Go in with her head bursting with thoughts, and that should make things easier. Just open her mouth, let the thoughts flow, and before she knew it she'd be on her way north. And... gods, Algi. Algi was around. She wasn't sure what Fidelizhi gods were in style at the moment, according to the movement of the stars... the default roster, then. The Middle House, the gods that were always fashionable and fortuitous, albeit not quite as much as the Mobile Houses. Right, so... she rummaged in her bag, picking out the little signatures. Right now, she could probably manage to incarnate... no, she wanted to incarnate the Coral-Spinal-Judge, but she lacked the bowler hat. But she could incarnate... yes, she could invite Juniper-Valley-Dancer, that would work. Just had to... yep, had to slip a coin into both of her socks (uncomfortable, but she was used to it), lace her boots just so with laces the colour of sunset (specially purchased), then take a coin and let it dance between her fingers, flicking from one to the other to the other.
Dropped it a few times. But, she made up for the loss by practising the exhalations of the Juniper-Valley-Dancer - deep inhalation through the nose, hold for two seconds, then two sharp exhalations through the nose, followed by nose, two seconds, then mouth, three seconds. Not expected to keep that up forever, but it helped soothe the bad luck of getting part of the role wrong. She liked Juniper-Valley-Dancer, it didn't have as many costume requirements - no wonder Fidelizh had never really expanded beyond its little heartland, they had to bring a damn wardrobe wherever they went just to stay lucky. No wonder it'd taken so long to set up a proper colony somewhere, technology had only now gotten to the point where lots of people could reliably ship their whole damn dressing room to the middle of nowhere. She wasn't especially superstitious, didn't really believe in these things, or couldn't say that she did with any confidence, but... but anyway. Anyway. The ritual helped, the repetition helped, the way it focused her mind and kept her grounded. Right, she had her gloves, for cultivating luck. She had her glasses, to see the world in shades of gold. She had her god, riding on her back, hands digging into her shoulders... a solid weight, anchoring her to the ground, watching her perpetually. Reminding her of what was expected. And her cape... her fingers itched over it. Would it be crass to wear it? Would it be excessive? It'd make her feel better, make her feel qualified...
She elected not to. Just grab her ribbons, then use the numerous pearl buttons on her blouse as anchors, create a little multicoloured cobweb across her chest, just like when she was younger. Her clothes fit better, her mind was girdled with knowledge, her back was weighed down with a god, and... she still wanted to wear bright ribbons. Never grown out of that.
Never.
Some people couldn't quite change their stripes.
The hunters were lazing around - this wasn't a proper stop, there wasn't any eagerness for shore leave. What they wanted was to soldier on, move north, find the rushing vastness of the Tulavanta and head for war. Tanner had a day. Just a day to meet her mother, have some dinner, and then she had to be back on the boat before noon. That schedule was a lifeline - it gave her an out. A way of ducking out of things and heading off for the hills. If she scuttled onto this boat and hid in her cabin, no-one from her childhood could find her. Anyway. The plan was simple. Head into the city, meet her mother at the house, say hello to father, then head off for dinner. Sleep on the boat, be off shortly afterwards. She wasn't going out of her way to minimise contact, it was just... well, she'd get nervous if she was too far away from the boat, it wasn't bound to her, it'd sail whether or not she was around. That was her excuse. And she didn't... if she stayed for too long, the lodge would expect her to pay respects, to participate in a mystery play, and she didn't...
She didn't want to participate in one of those. Some of the most frightening memories of her early life were bound up in those plays. She was thankful for the lodge taking care of her, thankful for their money, thankful for how they protected her from witchcraft, but she... had spent eight years away from them, she could spend another eight. Or eighty. Eight hundred.
"Landing in under an hour."
Tanner squeaked slightly as a voice came from behind her. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. But... no, no, her room was tidy, her cot was made, and her bag was properly secured - her undergarments were completely disguised from sight, and that meant the world was still a sane, kind place. The captain grinned strangely at her, something akin to pity dancing in her eyes.
"Home?"
"Used to be."
"Parents?"
"Mother."
"Looking forward to it?"
"I'm... unsure. Happy to see her again. But it's been a while. A long while. Awkward, you understand."
The captain shrugged lightly, her heavy river-coat shuffling along with her, heavy and large enough to almost swallow her whole in the dark fabric.
"Well, cabin's open for you if you want it, no curfew. Family's tricky."
"...it is. It really is."
"Best of luck. Hear we might be picking up someone else, incidentally - you'll have some good conversation."
Tanner blinked.
"Really?"
The captain snorted.
"Don't act so surprised, lass, sometimes people like travelling with us. We go off the beaten track, places no-one else goes to regularly. Boat coming out of Fidelizh let me know this morning, said there was someone waiting on the docks, wanted passage north, willing to pay well. All I needed to know, really. We'll take them as far as they can go, then they're on their own. Might have a neighbour, hm?"
Tanner hummed idly. It was odd, but having a conversation partner, someone to really chat with... her arms still ached from where she'd been lugging things for the crew, and she'd come to rather enjoy it, just a little. Conversation tended to preclude lugging things around all day, and for once, she found herself somewhat disliking the notion. Liked the honesty of manual labour, liked the way her brain could just swim around in itself. Shade of the life she was, by all rights, meant to have led. If the accident hadn't happened, if that woman with the letter hadn't come by with money to go and study. Thankful for her new life, obviously. But this was like... taking a holiday in her own past. Luxuriating in a could-have-been without necessarily committing for a long period. The boat rumbled onwards, the captain departing to make the last few arrangements - they were just stopping to pick up some supplies, things that were cheaper in Mahar Jovan than in Fidelizh, mostly food and drink. Plus, a passenger, apparently. Tanner, after a while, poked her head above deck...
Home.
The domes of Mahar. The lodges of Jovan. The tapestry of bridgeworks in the middle, uniting the two. She hadn't expected to come back here, had rather given up on the concept a few years into her studies. But now... it all came rushing back. The smell, the sounds, the feeling. The boat passed under one of the bridges, and Tanner instinctively stepped to one side. A gargoyle was mounted up there, huge and ornate, claws clutching the side of the bridge so it could hang pendulously over new arrivals. Carved out of marble, stained slightly green by the passage of time, but with crystalline eyes that still flashed with light. Water trickled down from a spigot in its forehead, mounted like a third eye, spilling over its spread second pair of hands and pouring freely over all new entrants. Blessing them with luck. If she remembered correctly, the second pair of hands had palms gilded with gold, to really bless the water. The stream thwacked onto the deck, and a few crew members ducked back, hissing. Tanner had already predicted it - she'd seen it falling often enough, anyone from Mahar knew how to spot gargoyles, how to avoid the streams if you didn't feel like getting blessed that way. She had her glasses and her gloves - she needed nothing else.
The sound of voices came from the bank nearest - could hear her own accent reflected back at her, the first time in years. No more of the lilts of the Fidelizhi dialect. She glimpsed clothes - dull and sober, not dreary, just... restrained. There were no gods riding on backs here. She pulled her coat around herself, shivering. The thump-thump of the engine, that hellish heart of the bone-laden ship, slowly began to wind down... the smoke from the stacks declined... the steam that oozed through the boards came to a stop. The heat faded. She almost wanted it all to come back, wanted to hell to that little theurgist that he should plug in another barrel of oil, ask for more coal, just don't let it stop. Keep it going, push onwards, let her send a desperate letter later that day to her mother, explaining that the ship had to power on due to unforeseen circumstances... but the thump-thump became ever-more sluggish, like the heart was becoming more diseased, necrotic, slowing down, down, down...
Halt.
The docks were here.
Her home. The stink of fish was palpable, and she found herself wrinkling her nose for a moment, unused to it after so long. All around her were shades of home, of her old life. There was the dock where her father had taught her to gut a fish, and had killed a mutant in front of her. There was the spot where she mended nets if the fish gutting wasn't paying well. There was the... goodness, the spot where she knew there used to be a huge bucket of eels, and there was still a ring on the ground where the bucket had stained the stone permanently. There was the route she walked on her way to work, when she could get away from school. There was the schoolhouse, narrow, dark and mean, a factory fed with ignorance and which expelled education in standardised packets. And across the way... the darkness of Jovan, the clustering buildings, and somewhere inside, her lodge. She shivered. The captain gave her a sympathetic look as the gangplank extended slowly, hauled by a handful of hunters. The engine was cold. The city was here. She had a time limit, and it'd begun to tick down. She paused. Took a deep breath.
And set off into her carapace-cairn, and immersed herself once more in the mounds formed by her old selves.
***
The day was drizzly, and unseasonably warm. The worst sort of weather. She felt her clothes growing heavy with moisture, and felt her body warm up considerably, almost to the point of sweating - no, horses sweated, ladies simply glowed. Wish her sweat glands would get the message. Even so, she... soldiered on, golden glasses gleaming. Saw all sorts of faces she vaguely knew, even if she'd never learned their names or their occupations, maybe had never exchanged a single word. Every face had shades of something familiar, and that was enough, after years and years in a foreign city. Strange, to see... say, the whalebone corsets again. Not popular in Fidelizh. In Fidelizh, anyone with a whalebone corset stood out to her, she pegged them immediately as a potential countryman, but... here, she was bombarded with it. She was someone coming out of the desert to be summarily dumped in the ocean, overwhelmed by the omens she'd come to cherish in isolation, now flooding inwards unceasingly. People wore high collars embroidered with little quantities of gold, she even saw priests with jewels stitched into their throats, their voices reduced to low, rasping whispers as a consequence. She saw coins with the kings of the city depicted on either side. Things had changed, obviously. There were trains, now, rattling, ugly things that sped along in a haze of steam and smoke. The streets felt a little more worn, and some shops had vanished, while others had sprung up to replace them. Eight years - she was a stranger and a resident all at once, familiar with something, alien to another.
It didn't take long.
Home. Felt smaller than it should... felt neater than it had. As if, during her time away, her mother had sharpened up all the edges, cleaned out things which she didn't know could be cleaned. It felt like a brand new place, honestly. Was this just... what parents did once the brood scuttled away to make something of themselves? Did they just occupy themselves by tidying everything over and over and over again? Tanner hesitated before the door, trying to keep her breathing as quiet as possible - her lungs were like bellows, if she panted, it was very audible, and she didn't want her mother to know she was here yet. Better wipe her feet, mother always hated dirty shoes... she wiped, wiped a little more, decided to do a bit more just for good measure. Checked her shoes, her gloves, her glasses... paused, and tried to steady herself. She had a fine film of perspiration over her forehead, the sort of thing usually reserved for assorted amphibians. Get that under control... gods, she could imagine how pale she was, she looked like a newt, why couldn't today be a day of good colouration? Her hair was frizzy from the drizzle, damn, damn... she paused, and tensed her stomach slightly, watching carefully as it slimmed a little. Practised squaring her shoulders. Remember the stance she had as a judge, the confident one... should have her cape on. Really should. No point delaying. A huge fist raised... and she gave a single, faint rap on the wood, feeling it shake a little.
"Oh, Tanner, how are you, Tanner!"
The door flung open.
Gods, her mother had been waiting on the other side, probably heard her breathing and wiping her feet and... her mother looked older. More grey hairs. So much smaller. Didn't lunge for a hug, just smiled kindly and beckoned for her to enter. Tanner hesitantly returned the smile. The two stood in an awkward silence for a moment. Did she... go for a hug, or... her mother seemed to realise this at the same time, Tanner could see her jaw clenching as awkwardness grabbed the base of her spine with furious force. Slowly, she drew her into a hug. Patted her wide back a few times. Paused. Drew back with a cough.
"Ah, won't you come in?"
Tanner nodded slightly.
"Yes, mother."
She entered. The house felt smaller. Much smaller. New chairs, too. Mother was standing around like some sort of bird, tense and twitching, flickering from one stance to another while remaining basically still. There was a second of awful silence. Tanner just... what was she meant to say? Her conversational plans were gone, fled from her mind a moment after the door opened. Should she... right, right.
"How... are things? You didn't mention in your last letter, and-"
"Oh, well, fine. Just fine. Perfectly fine."
A second.
"There's not much that happens around here, really, you know, just the usual. Oh, the nice lady from upstairs sends her best, she's out visiting her grandchildren at present, but... sends her best, sends her best. How are you, though, how's... the judging? You mentioned some... briefs?"
Tanner struggled to speak.
"Oh. Well. Yes. Briefs. I've wrapped them all up by now, mostly just... small things. Heading further north tomorrow."
"Goodness, north. That sounds... audacious. Certain you'll be alright?"
"I'll certainly try."
There was silence. Slowly, they eased through a few more pleasantries, and Tanner was led to a small table, where tea things were laid out. Mother was... goodness, she'd... tried something. She was dressed in a prim green dress, well-made, fairly fashionable, but it was pinned up so tightly that she was forced to move like a shopfront mannequin, everything stiff and articulated. She had a pair of exquisite gloves that looked completely impractical, her face was slightly reddened by how tight her collar was, and the tea things... possibly borrowed, they were far too nice, and decorated with far too many flowers and woodland animals. Her mother moved like a stick insect, and Tanner moved like a... giant surrounded by delicate furniture and even-more-delicate china. Tanner smiled uncomfortably.
"You look well."
"Ah, and you... also look well, Tanner."
"So, I suppose we're... both well."
"Yes, that seems to be the case. Good, I think."
"You're well, and... I'm well. So, well, all's well."
She smiled weakly. Her mother smiled back, somehow even more weakly. Her mother coughed slightly behind her hand, before glancing at the immaculate glove and wincing slightly.
"Tea? Coffee?"
"Oh, whichever is most convenient, I don't mind, really, either works for me."
Her mother coughed again, her face reddened by the tightness of her embroidered collar. Had she borrowed it from someone? Maybe from the lodge?
"Coffee?"
"Well, yes, please, I wouldn't mind some coffee. Thank you, mother."
She'd rather wanted tea, but she desperately wanted to avoid a situation of awkwardness - for all she knew, her mother only had coffee, and had offered both out of politness, or the tea was ancient and vile, dragged out of a cabinet just for today after years languishing in the dark, or the.. anyway, anyway. Coffee was simple, and a small cup was poured out for her, the trickling of liquid deafeningly loud in the quiet of the home. Tanner glanced around uncomfortably. Where was father? Where... anyway. Anyway. Coffee. This presented a challenge. Her mother spoke softly.
"When did you arrive?"
"Oh. Uh. This morning. I think? Yes, it was, well, it was this morning. Just a few hours ago, so I suppose that makes it... morning."
"Ah. Wonderful. Good trip?"
Did she talk about the metal heart and the mutated hunters?
"Yes."
No, no she wouldn't, no nice way of talking about it. Her mother coughed again, like she'd contracted some form of illness since Tanner had entered. The coffee was interesting. Not in terms of quality, that was basically irrelevant, she'd have drunk it anyway. It was... challenging. Her fingers had to be just so around the cup to avoid cracking it, she had to lift it just so in order to avoid spilling it, and each sip... oh, gods, it was nauseatingly loud. Each sip, a little slurp, a parting of her lips, a grotesque movement of the tongue, and then the unpleasant gulp of it travelling down her throat... silence was awful for eating, it was terrifically easy to just feel every last unpleasant biological process, and her finger was aching from holding the cup in a deeply awkward fashion, and she placed it down again and winced at the rattle of china on china.
They'd already talked via letter.
They already knew what each other was up to.
Yet here they were.
"...is that business with that young man settled? I never heard-"
Oh, crumbs.
"Yes, settled. That's all fine. Nothing more to worry about. Sorry for making a thing of it."
"...it was very many years ago. I assumed that it was, ah, resolved, I just... well, I didn't know the specifics."
"No specifics, honestly, none at all. It was a silly thing, but I panicked at the time - Fidelizh doesn't like foreigners consorting with radicals. Anyway. Sorry. The coffee is lovely."
She reached out for a small cake, picking it up between two fingers... and gave it a quick nibble. Crumbs. No, that wasn't an exclamation, that was a statement of reality, crumbs. So many crumbs. Crumbs everywhere. Structural integrity compromised. The cake was dissolving. It would rain down on her and make a mess and her mother wouldn't even be able to crouch down with the excessively starched stuff she was wearing and just eat it eat it all eat it now gobble it up.
And now she felt like a greedy hog.
It shouldn't be this hard to talk to her mother.
They slipped into awkward phases of conversation. Sharing little things about their lives, about their work... mother was just working as a housekeeper, helping to keep an eye on some merchant houses while they were out of town. Enough money to live on, and without Tanner... well, she didn't say that, but without Tanner it was easier. The larder needed less food, everything was just simpler. Tanner kept glancing around, trying to locate her father... maybe he was in bed? Hard to bring up, really, once the conversation started, even if she desperately wanted to know. Tanner talked about her cases, but... she wasn't one of the judges who was in love with the sound of her own voice, and she was keenly aware when someone had lost interest in whatever she was talking about. Her mother didn't follow the legal business, already knew the rest from Tanner's letters, and that left them with... very, very little to speak of. People had died, people had been born... they'd lost touch. Piece by piece, they'd lost touch, lost that vital rapport. Chewing became a relief - if she was chewing, she didn't need to talk. And her mother was much the same.
She realised, as she'd realised some time ago, that her mother was very similar to her in one respect.
Neither were very good with people. And when alone with one another, they were just...
Anyway.
Her mother was a housekeeper. Tanner was a judge. She didn't feel arrogant, but she felt distant. If she mentioned her routines, she immediately thought about how decadent it all was. This house... none of the rooms were larger than her single room back in the labyrinth. How could she talk about automatic quills and glowing walls when... when her mother was living her with her paralytic father, tending to the houses of merchants? Wished she could talk properly. And her mother was clearly the same. Dressing well, laying out tea, tidying the house to point of sterility, speaking politely... it was all aligning together into something which felt painfully unnatural. Tanner didn't do this sort of social engagement - she wrote to Eygi, but that was something which allowed for drafts. She spoke with her colleagues, but that was polite, reserved, within certain, ritualised boundaries of etiquette and small-talk. She spoke with her clients, but that was purely professional, could be done automatically. Her mother suddenly sighed.
"I suppose things must seem dreadfully... dull around here. I mean, last year was identical to this year, this year will be identical to next year."
Tanner's eyes widened.
"No, not at all, I..."
She trailed off. It wasn't dull. But it was alien.
"I know. I'm glad you're doing well for yourself. I'm proud, and the lodge is proud."
Tanner immediately stiffened. Her mother noticed.
"...well, they did help us. Before that woman came with the letter, there wasn't much-"
"I know."
"And they've been very good since you left, they keep a candle for you, and-"
"I know. I don't... need it justified, I'm aware."
"And I understand things were deeply uncomfortable when you-"
"Mother."
Her mother twitched.
"I'm sorry. I... don't want you to despise me for bringing you there, though. I know it was uncomfortable. I truly don't want to... leave a rift between us."
Tanner's jaw clenched. Her coffee was set down. She wasn't going to talk about this. Out of the question. The lodge had helped them. The lodge did keep a candle for her. And for that she was thankful. But she didn't... it was one thing to say that to herself, it was another thing to have her mother talking about it. The mystery plays had been miserable. The rites. She still remembered... gods, it'd been a few months after her father's accident, and she'd been standing in nothing but a white shift in front of the lodge's leadership. Swearing her loyalty to them, being examined for hours and hours, poked and prodded and having oaths teased out of her word by painful word. Hands. Smoke. Voices going from whispers to yells as they performed the rites. Surrounded on all sides by staring eyes. Searching hands. Alone. Looking over to see her mother staring down at the ground, ashamed and unwilling to meet her eyes. Her skin began to prickle at the memory, she felt something like humiliation undulate up her spine like clambering kudzu, and-
"Where's father?"
"...he's upstairs."
"He shouldn't be in bed, shouldn't he? I mean, the... I remember the physicians saying that he should sit down, it's better for his circulation."
"I know, I know, but I thought..."
Thought that it would be a more civilised bit of tea if there wasn't a paralysed man sitting in the corner. House was too small for it. Tanner rose quietly, brushing down her skirt, and allowed her mother to lead her upstairs. The two were silent as they climbed up the rickety ladder, but Tanner could feel her mother twisting her fingers around one another, over and over and over. The bedroom was smaller than she remembered, the bed seemed more meagre... her father was there. Sitting propped up with a pile of pillows, breathing softly through his nose. A heavy hat covered his head, covered... covered his injury. For a second, she almost... no. No, not even for a second did she think that he was well. His eyes were too blank. He was too thin. Much too thin. His face was covered in a sparse, scraggly beard. Sometimes he blinked, but it was purely automatic. Sometimes a finger would twitch, but... it always did that. She approached quietly, wanting to sit down on the bed, lean closer to him, just make him aware that she was here, but... didn't want to risk straining the bed, it was old, possibly delicate. Been eight years since she tried to sit on it. And it was only being used to sustain an invalid - could see that her mother slept in a separate bed. Didn't blame her. She reached out, taking his hand, feeling how it instinctually curled around hers.
Squeezed.
It didn't squeeze back.
It shouldn't be difficult to talk to him. She talked to Eygi, and frequently received no response to certain points. Maybe she got a letter, but it wouldn't address anything. But... she kept looking at his lips. Dry, slightly scaly, sealed together by the lack of moisture. He hadn't opened them for a bit - only opened them when he was being fed. Her mother was twisting her hands over and over, cultivating luck... Tanner could feel a god riding on her back, massaging the shoulder. Giving her luck, giving her certain behaviours. A little spark of confidence, and... acceptance. Juniper-Valley-Dancer wasn't meant to make her more charismatic, this god just... took her in, knew her, and would be there to squeeze her shoulders when she left. Not a demanding god. Didn't give much, didn't expect much. That was what she'd needed this morning. Just a little invisible presence to be at her side. The house felt strange. Small. The bed looked delicate. Her father was just as he'd always been. Her mother started talking, mumbling about how he was doing well, the doctors were popping by every once in a while. He was better than they expected him to be, he'd lived a healthy life and that gave him a nice, long, healthy coma. She spoke softly, her mother falling silent behind her.
"I've made a friend. I think. They're sending me north, to take care of a settlement. I expect to meet with a few other people. A few months ago, there was an exhibition in Fidelizh - menagerie, a whole mound of captured or stuffed animals. Exotic, a lot of them. They even had a few of those enormous fleas from the east, the ones the size of a small dog. Awful. And there was a gigantic stuffed eel, it was so big they couldn't put it in a case, they just unwound it and hung it from wires overhead. It was taller than I was - much taller. Probably double, no, two and a half times taller than I was. Green and yellow and grey. Had a jaw that extended out from the face, it could propel it outwards a good few inches. Four eyes, two on each side of its head. Said it came from the south. You would've liked to look at it, I think."
She squeezed his hand again.
It didn't squeeze back, but she felt one finger twitching.
That was enough.
She stood quietly, turning to her mother. She wanted to go. Just... go back to the ship. Leave behind another frozen carapace of her past, let it stay here, part of the carapace-cairn. Something to shed and abandon. Not because she was... arrogant, or thought she was better, just... she'd done what she was meant to. Satisfied all the expectations presented before her, mostly. Did what she was meant to. Did what she was ordered. Done what a daughter should - found a vocation, lost herself in it, found routines, found something like happiness. When the time came she'd send more of her money home to keep her mother provided for, keep her father comfortable. Her palms itched under her gloves, and she felt the urge to remove them, to scratch fiercely... resisted. Let the god on her back soothe her thoughts. She had obligations to fulfil. If she abandoned one, she abandoned all of them - and that was something she didn't intend to ever do.
"I'm sorry. Let's... have some tea, I'm terribly thirsty. Have some time before I need to head for the ship."
Her mother smiled slightly. There was a wall between them, and Tanner knew it would never come down. But it was nice to peep over it and say hello. Time had built it, time and guilt and the lodge. Those awful months when they were still getting used to her father's condition, when both of them were making mistakes, when her mother cried herself to sleep at night and Tanner retreated into a little ball, untouchable and immobile. One in need of someone else, the other curling up like a hedgehog, both developing their own... problems. Either way. They retreated, and tried to enjoy themselves over a little tea. To exchange pleasantries. To act like... maybe not mother and daughter, but something close enough.
Close enough.
***
That evening, Tanner left her childhood home with a sense of low warmth in her chest. Her mother saw her off at the door, offering to walk her back... maybe not, the rain was intensifying, and Tanner didn't want to risk her mother's health. Still. She had an umbrella, now. A little, fine umbrella, with an elegant handle carved in the shape of a swan's head. It'd belonged to her grandfather, who died before she was born, and for as long as she'd lived had been a strange kind of relic, sealed away next to the door. Too sturdy and masculine for her mother to use in polite society, and too expensive and fine for her father to use before the accident. It'd slept there, and... now it was hers. Given over without any ceremony, pushed into her hands with no option for declining it. The look in her mother's eyes said this was a peace offering... expression of guilt, maybe. Embarrassment. Aware that the only reason Tanner wasn't still here, gutting fish for a living, hauling crates as a matter of necessity rather than preference, was that woman with the letter. Her mother had sent her to the lodge, and it'd wound up not sending her to anywhere good - only random chance had done that. Only the woman with the letter. Even now, that sting lingered - that the sacrifice hadn't been truly necessary, that Tanner had gone through initiation when she didn't need to.
The umbrella was appreciated regardless. A gift. Maybe. Tanner left behind a packet of banknotes under a teapot in the house, when her mother wasn't looking. Mother had never wanted her to send cash back home, and for seven of the last eight years, Tanner hadn't been making any cash. Now, though... she had a little bit. Saved up from her commissions, the little cream she was allowed to skim from her clients, when they could pay for it. Wouldn't need it in the north, not in the same way. And her mother would never accept it openly. Not dignified. There was too much between them, and Tanner wasn't going to try and unpick it... but it was right and proper to give over a little money. Decent thing to do.
Gave her father a small kiss on the forehead, squeezing his hand as tightly as she dared.
And that had been all. The visit had swallowed up her mind in the days leading to Mahar Jovan, but now that it was over..
She felt just how small it had all been.
She walked steadily through the gloaming streets, black umbrella braced over her head, soaking up the drops with noble aplomb. The swan's head glared austerely at her, comically inverted and seemed faintly confused by the entire process - frown twisted into something of a smile, quite out of keeping with how a swan ought to look. Anyway. There wasn't much else to tell of the tea the two of them had shared. It was pleasant. They spoke quietly and with frequent interruptions and silences, points where their thoughts and words trailed off. For hours afterwards, Tanner settled into a squashy couch and read from a little book while her mother knitted. That was all. They weren't going to melt into each other's arms, but this was better for both of them - quiet familiarity. Even brought father down, propped him up in his chair, fed him before dinner. She felt... warm. Very slightly warm. Ready to set off for the far north. She turned... her mother was still in the doorway, staring out with a half-smile on her face, hands behind her back. Stiff and prim and proper. Distant. Tanner smiled politely back. And that was all.
A click. The door closed.
Darkness.
The street was rain-slicked. Not long to the ship, her mother's house was near the docks, after all. Her mind was clicking with strange thoughts... wondering about medical care for her father, about sending more money home, about the future. Dim thoughts of returning home to a funeral - grim thoughts could occur to her from time to time, and when they did, they didn't leave easily. Anyway. She had work to do. She looked around, and as much as she didn't want to remain in Mahar Jovan, she still... well, she didn't find it quite as strange and frightening as it'd been when she came in. Remembered playing in that playground over there, a construction pit which had never been filled in. Remembered eating fish stew in there, from a perpetually-boiling pot. Remembered much. She strolled lazily, her shoes clicking, and the little coin in her shoe rubbing against her foot irritatingly. Not enough to remove, not enough to shuck off the god on her back. The stars above were concealed behind a great field of clouds the colour of mud and bruises, and the lamplighters had done their work during dinner, leaving a little string of twinkling lights heading out to the docks. Funny - in parts of Fidelizh, they had theurgists to keep the lamps going, flickering on when the time was right. But here, there were little anchors in the side of the posts, where lamplighters could clamber up with proper illuminators. She wondered... well, she had that experience which most returnees have, where they wonder how their home ranks. Was her home powerful? Respected? Did it have significance in the great game of politics? Or was it a backwater, confined to a long, shambolic march to nowhere? Were they admired, or were they the subject of jokes?
She didn't know. Didn't honestly care. Mahar Jovan was a place she was content to leave behind, with its memories, its little hints of her old life. The cairn of carapaces. But it was... not hellish. Not remotely hellish. The boat came closer, lights glowing dimly on the surface. She had her hand in her coat pocket, and kept her eyes on the ground, just like she'd done when she was younger, unwilling to meet the eyes of others. Unwilling to confront people. Accustomed to... that was it. That was why she didn't want to come back here, not even to retire. The lodge held a spell over her, and she knew what she'd been taught - always being watched by them, at some point or another. Mahar Jovan reminded her of being observed, of being controlled, of being... being a clumsy brute still figuring herself out. Fidelizh knew her as slightly clumsy. Mahar Jovan knew her as potentially dangerous.
Anyhow. Anyhow.
She hummed thoughtfully...
And came to a stop.
Someone was on the dock. Slumped against a lamppost, snoring gently. Seemed to have just collapsed there a moment ago. Tanner looked around. No-one was nearby. The dock was deserted at this time.
She crouched slightly.
A woman. Old enough to be her mother... no, very slightly younger. But her nose was the bright red of a seasoned alcoholic, and her cheeks were flushed. She looked tall, even slumped on the ground. Tall, graceful, and somehow rebelling against it all by reddening her nose and cheeks with liquor, tousling her hair into a bird's nest, wearing a dress that seemed rather avant-garde. She was utterly passed out, and at one side was a heavy leather suitcase, while on the other was... a container for milk bottles. The sort that she saw delivered outside certain houses in the morning, wooden, with a handle, and slots for six bottles. But she'd evidently decided that milk was passé, and had filled it with wine bottles, one of which was half-empty. Tanner looked around. Unwilling to leave a passed-out drunk woman sleep, abandoned, on a dock in the middle of the night. Unsure of what to do.
A snort.
The woman came to.
Blinked up at her with half-lidded eyes.
"You're tall."
Tanner's lip thinned in annoyance.
"...hold on, you're... are you on that... boat? The bone-laden one."
She vaguely pointed at the mutant-hunter's vessel, gangplank still extended.
"Yes, miss. I am."
"Oh, splendid, you can help me clamber up."
Tanner blinked.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I'll allow it this once. I came here, they said there was a giant on board, I went away to get my bags and some wine, got a little carried away... finest of the decade, this stuff, finest of the decade. And suddenly that gangplank looked a bit too narrow and rickety for me, so I thought I'd have a little sleep, sober up, then head for it. You see my logic?"
Tanner was silent.
"You see my logic, you gallant gargantua. What a clever creature. Now, help me up."
Her voice had a piercing, aristocratic quality to it - it drawled, it seemed incapable of moving beyond a drawl. Tanner was silent. Her chest was still warm from her tea with her mother, the quiet reading, the little dinner... she was in a good mood. And even if she wasn't, politeness made certain demands. She helped haul the woman up, wine bottles clinking and clunking heavily. Without saying a word, she started to haul the strange woman to the gangplank.
"Terribly good of you. I can tell virtuous people by smell, that's what woke me up. Some people have smelling salts, I have virtuous young women."
Tanner's eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. Her mood was too good for this. Rather hard, balancing the woman on one side, feeling wine bottles and suitcase thwacking against her side, while she tied to keep her umbrella out of harm's way... had to furl it, and that meant her hair was immediately laced with ice-cold raindrops, creeping down the back of her neck with malicious speed. If she wasn't so utterly powerful, this might actually be completely miserable. As it was, it was annoying.
"Where are you heading, young lady?"
Her voice shot into Tanner's ear with vicious force - and her breath stank of exquisite wine.
"North."
"Wonderful, me too. Surrealist conference in a rambling hotel, barely finished picking the mutants out of the walls, darling thought, isn't it? Deliriously wonderful. Now, as a reward, I must provide you with wine, as is required. Please, ascend, ascend, your wine awaits... hm, your name?"
"Judge Tanner Magg."
"Judge! How fantastic."
Politeness pressed on her like a solid weight.
"May I ask your name, miss?"
The woman gurgled drunkenly as Tanner staggered up the rickety gangplank.
"Marana. Eldest daughter of the last governor of Krodaw. Lovely to make your acquaintance, Judge Tanner."
She leant closer, wine-scented breath fanning over her in a nauseating haze.
"Charmed."
Chapter Sixteen - Pickled Surrealists and Tadpole Royalists
Chapter Sixteen - Pickled Surrealists and Tadpole Royalists
Tanner's voice was a hoarse mumble, strangled a little by awkwardness and the general whiplash of going from a strained day with her mother, to... whatever this was. The woman was light, her bag was less so, and Tanner honestly wasn't sure how much of the woman's body weight was made up of alcohol. Her nose looked like some sort of strange growth, not so much a natural structure as... something which doctors hummed and hawed over with furrowed eyebrows. This was a growth of Furrow-Eyebrow Physician levels - several ranks above Bored-Physician, and admittedly, several ranks below Frightened-Physician. Anyway. Tanner grumbled at the woman, who was shambling beside her like some sort of water balloon filled up with (apparently) very good wine.
"You're breaking the law."
"Hrmph?"
The woman appeared to have lost the capacity for speech.
"The law. Golden Door. You're breaking it. Public intoxication and potentially obstructing the flow of business along the docks."
"'is nighttime, very large woman. It hardly counts."
Swollen eyelids slowly cracked open, revealing hazy, bloodshot eyes that reminded her faintly of overfilled grapes. Goodness, she had been indulging - there was an air of profound disarray about her, and her breath stank to high heaven. The front of her blouse was stained a thick, unpleasant red where she'd dribbled wine over herself, and... no, her face had actually fallen into her own chest, she'd burped up a little wine, and as a consequence, there was a bizarre abstract shadow of her own face on her blouse. Two versions of this woman, Marana, staring at her at once. And somehow the abstract, melting, shifting wine-outline was more pleasant to look at. Tanner's jaw clenched.
"It counts."
Marana suddenly twitched... and her voice rose, becoming significantly more impressive, almost commanding.
"How dare you, young woman. The Judges of the Golden Door? In Fidelizh? Tonight? At this moment in time? In this cosmic position? At this stage in the planet's convoluted rotation? Right in front of my wine? Nonsense. I won't hear any more of this, not without my lawy-"
She slumped, and heaved up a ruby-red comet of wine down into the water, where it landed with a nauseatingly thick splash. Tanner stared at the woman, old enough to be her mother, bent double and vomiting unsteadily, hiccuping and snorting like some sort of feral hog, and... right. Judge. Had a duty to do in situations like this. She had a point - it wasn't a big deal. Public intoxication that didn't involve harming anyone was a minor, minor offence. At worst, small fine, and being hauled off to sleep things off. It wasn't a crime because drunkenness was offensive to the judges, it was a minor offence because it could lead to worse crimes. It aggravated matters. And Marana, lying alone on a dark dock... no, no judge could see that as anything but a recipe for trouble. She'd had to handle one case like this, once. Couple of months ago. Had to acquaint herself with the law on alcohol, and the general tone of it was exasperation, not judgement. It was a minor offence, which allowed the judges to haul drunks in for a quick nap somewhere safe. Less a matter of punishment, more a matter of prevention. And right now, she was preventing Marana from falling into the river.
Hauled her up by the back of her coat, practically carrying her the rest of the way, along with her bag and her wine.
"Come on."
"Flurgh?"
Goodness, didn't know someone could sound outraged and indignant while choking on a mouthful of wine-vomit. Tanner frowned... carried her the rest of the way, before setting the bag down, helping Marana lean over the side, and slapping her firmly on the back to dislodge some of the matter. Didn't actually seem to be much matter in her, honestly, mostly just wine. How dismally unhealthy. Marana gurgled slightly... and Tanner hauled her up again, brushing her shoulders off for good measure. Could drag her indoors, just set her down in a cabin, but... no, no, official Golden Door policy was to monitor extreme drunks, make sure they didn't choke on their own vomit. Nuts. Night was too cold to let her lie on the deck, so...
Now, in most circumstances, being required to surrender her cabin to some middle-aged drunk would annoy her. Reasonably so, really. But... Tanner was a judge. Judges didn't get annoyed at this sort of thing, they just did it, it was required of them, expected. By doing it, she did what she was meant to. She satisfied her vocation, and... yeah, just hauling her towards the entrance to the lower decks was enough to get her cycles rotating all over again, her routines were whirring. Her face flattened, and she could feel her judgely instincts kicking in. Professionalism sank over her mind like a shroud, no, like a very large warm towel. She was covering herself in a warm towel and dragging a middle-aged souse to the nearest cot - any judge would do the same, they'd just need to make more trips, on account of the bags and the wine. For Tanner?
Eh. Marana weighed less than an ammunition crate, and Tanner was practically carrying those for fun.
Her progress was interrupted by someone cackling.
Ah.
Right.
Sailors. Well, more accurately, hunters. One of the older veterans was leaning against a railing, and... ah. It was the half-bandaged one, with the fused fingers on one hand. The one who'd decided to make her feel slightly uncomfortable back in Fidelizh, and had been thwacked rather solidly with a handspike for her trouble. Not by Tanner, of course, she was much too nice for that. Much too nice. And nervous. And professional. Speaking of being professional - the hunter wasn't. She was laughing her proverbial arse off, snorting messily as she did so.
"Nice haul, big lady. Nice haul."
Her voice suddenly dropped, and... oh, she was doing an impression of Tenk the Ravager from the Annals of Tenk. Surprised they even got theatrophones out here. Either way, she snorted like an ape, grunting like a gorilla, frowning like a particularly morose fish.
"Ug, big lady take old lady below, ravage till sun rise, ug."
Tanner looked at her flatly. The hunter's grin widened, straining her bandages.
"Ug, big lady stop in city, come for women, come for gold, come for wine. Big lady come, lock up daughters, lock up wives, hide and hope she no find you. Ug."
Tanner sighed. As Tanner, she was flustered and grumpy. As a judge, she was professionally detached. Spent eight bloody years honing this.
"She's a passenger. Just had a little too much to drink."
Marana gurgled.
"No, didn't..."
Tanner shushed her.
"She did. I'm taking her below-"
"To ravage every orifice, ug."
Tanner's brows furrowed. Not dignifying that.
"To make sure she doesn't choke on her own vomit. If you see the captain, could you tell her she's arrived? Sorry for the trouble, hope you have a good night, miss."
She wished she had a hat to tip. As it was, she nodded professionally and clumped away unsteadily, the weight of the bag, the wine, and the wine-filled-bag-of-a-woman making her slightly... well, she wasn't finding her heavy, just finding her awkward. Didn't like carrying people, they were much too squishy, and might possibly vomit on her soon enough. Plus, Tenk? She liked the theatrophone play, but she wasn't the biggest fan of Tenk, he was a simplistic character, she much preferred Princess Yallerilli, she was significantly more nuanced. But, uh, she didn't imagine the hunter was particularly concerned with Tanner's opinions of popular theatrophone productions. Shame, Tanner liked the Annals of Tenk, there was something irresistibly fun about the adventures of a burly barbarian, where all the gore was simulated by someone punching a bag of chicken livers in front of the microphone. Very visceral. Deeply unpopular amongst the elderly. Highly popular amongst the young. She glanced down at the middle-aged souse in her arms - wondered if she was a fan. Wondered if it would be fun to try and get a theatrophone into her cabin, then to play that one episode in the gore-pits of Sleetch over and over while the ship tossed and turned and-
No, no, that wasn't very professional. Just ignore her dribbling. And her breath. Focus on the necessities, the expectations. Hell, if she... right, the golden glasses reminded her, as did her gloves. Cultivate luck by filtering out bad luck - look on the bright side of things, in short. Maybe she was a chronic alcoholic who'd suffered some enormous unpleasantness in the past and drank as a consequence. There, a spark of pity ignited in her, even as Marana gurgled slightly.
"You're... the best, lovely person, truly lovely, you must apply to my club for recompense at some point."
Tanner hummed.
"I mean, I thought you judges were just a bunch of authoritarian lunatics who liked hitting people, but you're alright, you're somewhat decent. Can I have some more wine?"
"No. You need water and food."
"...that sounds nice."
"I'm aware."
Marana gurgled again, settling into Tanner's shoulder like an overgrown baby. A baby old enough to be her mother. Tanner was not ready for doing this immediately after having an awkward day with her actual mother, the widening gyre of her mind was spinning in odd directions. Urgh.
Anyway. Easy enough to get her below, easy enough to lay her down in the narrow cot, easy enough to settle herself in a chair and try to get to sleep, one eye open to make sure the lady was doing well. Easy enough, all of it. Uncomfortable in the chair, and the cabin was only designed for one normal-sized person, but... anyway. Anyway. Marana sprawled like some boneless sea-thing all over the coat, limbs somehow managing to spill over every side at once, she looked like a gigantic flesh-compass, each limb pointing to a cardinal point. A trail of eerily red drool spilled from her lips, pooling on the mattress. She was... odd, now that Tanner examined her. A perplexing blend of elegant and debauched. She had long, clever fingers, was clearly fairly tall, and her hair, while wild, wasn't frayed or thinning. Even her face had high, aristocratic cheekbones, a long nose tapering to a sharp point, and eyes which, when not bloodshot, might've been appealingly bright. There was something about her which made Tanner feel like she was seeing someone who had been someone - hadn't started from nothing and ended with nothing.
Who had she been?
Why was she... like this?
And why did she want to go north? A surrealist conference? No idea what that was, but it sounded dangerous. Either way. Tanner sat back, settling for a long night. She was very drunk, and based on her vomit, hadn't eaten much to soak up the booze. Fallen asleep before she could be forced to drink something wholesome, and Tanner wanted to stay awake to make sure nothing happened. During the last eight years, one of the things she'd been taught was the art of memory, the art of memorising huge quantities of jurisprudence and supplying it at a moment's notice. And she relaxed into the strict, orderly memories, painting them into the world around her. Legally speaking, she'd accepted responsibility for the woman, and thus and therefore had a duty to make sure she remained in good health, and didn't succumb to any harm as a consequence of Tanner's dereliction of the duty she'd voluntarily taken upon herself. By accepting the burden of responsibility, then she'd accepted the right to be punished for failing to properly match that duty. And as such, she'd remain awake until the morning came.
Because that was what judges did.
...wished she'd brought a book.
***
Tanner hesitated.
And poured a little more citrinitas.
This stuff had gotten her through her written and verbal examinations, and it'd get her through this morning. Marana was still snoring on Tanner's cot, but had clearly stabilised a little, enough for Tanner to feel comfortable leaving her to sleep off the rest of her hangover. Meaning, now Tanner could deal with the fact that she'd not really slept. At all. Well, not deliberately. There was about half an hour which she couldn't quite remember, but that might've just been from the sleep deprivation. At one point she just started pinching the skin around her wrist to stay awake. And now, now, she got to have some citrinitas. This was her reward. This was her reward for being a good judge who did everything a judge was meant to do. Yep. Her vocational compensation - some coca wine. And boy did it work, she felt a shiver ripple up and down her spine, muscles tensing like she was trying to squeeze the whole damn column like an accordion. Her teeth itched. Her eyes watered. She coughed slightly... and all was well. Energy twitched through her.
And that was all.
The day looked to be a good one - bright, clear, not too much wind. The engine was grumbling irregularly beneath her, the theurgist working to tune it down, soothe the beast until it was willing to rumble rather than roar. Slower pace for the vessel, but it wouldn't need remotely as much maintenance. She still remembered the heat from that thing, the heat and the eerily organic pulsing... didn't like the idea of sleeping above it, didn't like the idea of being around it at all. But, well, wouldn't have it for long. The route would be winding north, up the Irizah, towards the Tulavanta. There, they'd push relentlessly through the water until they found a nameless tributary which could go further north. The Tulavanta wasn't really one river - it was a central series of arteries surrounded by a great collection of smaller, temporary streams, some wide and flat, some narrow and deep. The arteries were downright impassable during the spring thaw, not unless you went through one of the few crossing points which changed every year. The land sagged around the Tulavanta, worn down, down, down until there was practically a canyon in the earth, an unsteady, muddy canyon which was perpetually shifting from one side to the other. Turned the region into a kind of swampy no man's land, too unstable for people to settle reliably, too chaotic to cross consistently except at the right time of year, too damn damp to really want to remain around.
She'd heard some sort of story about it, once... something important, something about why it was the way it was, why there was this great watery channel carving through the world. Wouldn't occur to her... she tried, of course. The arts of memory were complex - there were means of painting memories into the world, the stars, different smells and sounds. Little associations that could trigger more elaborate digressions. But she'd evidently forgotten to file this little spot of mythology.
Irritating.
Anyway.
They were going to set off later today. Tanner could probably swing back to her mother's house, but... goodbyes had been said. And helping Marana out had reminded her what she'd chosen to do with her life... honestly, she was just eager to get back to work. Lose herself in routines. Wasn't even angry about staying up all night, it was just the sort of thing she had to do. She stared solemnly down at the dock, looking at her home as a stranger, at domes which had become exotic over the last eight years, at the whole assemblage. She-
Hold on.
Someone was on the dock.
She moved closer, peering closer... then removed her pince-nez. It was just glass, she didn't really need glasses, and right now...
Her eyes widened.
She moved quickly, the gangplank bending and flexing like a disciplinary switch mid-strike, and for a second she felt terrified of falling over... adrenaline made her move faster as a consequence, practically bouncing from the last foot or so, the wood throwing her to the dock as best it could...
Tanner walked, then trotted, then ran for the small figure on the dock, carrying some sort of package under his arms.
"Oh, hello, how's-"
Tanner's enormous hand slammed down on Algi's shoulder, yanking him bodily away from the boat. He was too shocked to say anything, just allowed himself to be dragged, feet skidding over the ground so quickly they might've sent up sparks. His large, bulging eyes blinked rapidly, he clutched the package to his chest like a lifeline, and Tanner's face was flat - which meant she was furious or terrified. Or both. Or neither. Inscrutable giantess, hauling a neo-monarchist frog-man. Angling for a pile of crates, tall enough to conceal them both, stinking of tobacco. She swung Algi, setting him down like a small, irascible animal that needed firm handling. Tanner loomed over him, a monolith pressed into service as a woman. Algi looked up in mild surprise.
"Ah. Hello, Tanner. Goodness, must've been a good few years. How are y-"
"What you doing here, Algi."
She leant closer.
"I can't be associating with you. You're a rogue element. You're dangerous. Why did you come here?"
Her hands flickered forwards, grabbing the lapels of his suit. Fury started to bubble in her, and she had to force herself not to yell.
"Have you found my mother?"
Algi paled.
"What?"
"My mother. If you've decided to... to go for her, if you've come close, I swear I'll throw-"
She was going to snap him. She was tempted to do it, even now, all the stress of the Rekida situation, all the nervousness, all the terror of being interrogated by the Erlize all those years ago, she felt it well up inside her stronger than ever. She could feel how delicate he was, compared to her. How she could just pull and she'd feel something pop or snap or twist in a way that couldn't be untwisted. Another part of her was horrified at this impulse. Horrified at... at the way she could picture it. Algi spluttered.
"Tanner, gods, calm down, I'm just delivering something, gods, let me go, this suit is expensive, why-"
Tanner reluctantly let him go, realising belatedly that she'd actually lifted him a few inches off the ground, and he landed with a thump and a grunt. Come on, calm down, psychopath. Stop beings such a brute, stop being an ogress. Let the toad go, don't hurt him, be civilised. Be civilised. Restrained, that was it, restrained. Algi brushed himself down with slight irritation budding on his pale face, blooming in little red spots at the centre of his cheeks - like raspberries scattered over a bowl of porridge. Tanner glared. Algi's eyes shifted from nervousness to defiance.
"Now, listen here, that was a terribly rude thing to do, and... actually, if you're not meant to associate with me, why did you drag me behind a pile of crates like I'm some dirty little secret?"
Tanner froze.
Crumbs.
"Never mind that. What are you doing here? Is this a neo-monarchist thing? No, wait, don't tell me if it is, I don't want to know anything, I'm going to forget this encounter happened the moment I get back on the boat, and you will say nothing about this to anyone, anyone at all, I can't afford you running around trying to radicalise people, oh, gods..."
"May I speak?"
"Why did you run off, Algi? I mean, it's one thing to leave the judges, but it's another thing to be a neo-monarchist. I was interviewed by the Erlize because of you, I was interrogated, I could've been deported back home, you could've ruined my entire career, you... you..."
Algi blinked.
"Goodness. You've taken a class in sass since last we met. Are you going to swear at me?"
"No! No, I won't. I won't swear at you, I won't, but... but it's the sort of thing you'd deserve, you oik. Your sister was furious when you left, really furious, it was awful to read about. And I was interrogated! By the-"
"Erlize, you said. I know. Sorry about that."
"Sorry?! You're sorry? I was almost deported, you complete gibbon!"
Her voice was a rasp, a strangled yell, decorum slipping into her behaviour even now. She took a few deep breaths, calming herself down. Algi had... she'd... he stood at an intersection of annoyances. He'd hurt Eygi by running away from home to go and shack up with some tart in Fidelizh, apparently. Then, he'd almost destroyed Tanner's vocation by almost getting her deported. He'd put her on some sort of permanent record. He'd possibly put her mother at risk, him just stopping in for a bit of tea might be grounds to ruin everything. He'd done this all with idle ease, like it was nothing. And she'd never confronted him over it. Years and years, and she was still keenly aware that some lunatic in Mahar Jovan could make her life much more complicated, destroy all her carefully cultivated routines. Thus far, he'd been quiet. And now she had the little toad in her hands, and she...
...wait.
"Why are you here?"
"Delivering a package. I said. Now, are you going to be reasonable, or-"
He trailed off.
"Sorry. Didn't mean that. How are you, by the way? Been yonks."
Tanner sniffed, primly.
"I'm a judge, now. Properly qualified. I'm heading north to supervise a colony."
Algi smiled mildly.
"Oh, that's wonderful, very good for you. I like the blouse, by the way, reminds me of something old Olgi used. You remember him?"
"Of course I remember him, I work with him, I'm more surprised that you remember him."
Algi snorted.
"Oh, don't be a stick-in-the-mud. Listen, my brains are settled down from you shaking them around, I think you came from... that boat over there, do you know if there's a woman called Marana on board?"
Tanner had a sudden, ominous, slightly repulsive thought. Algi had come to Mahar Jovan chasing after some random woman. Marana was a woman. Random, too. The two had a proven connection. But with the age difference... she stepped back, nose wrinkling with instinctive disgust, and-
"Oh, gods, you don't... no, no, she's the sister of someone I'm with at the moment. Lady who brought me up here. Marana just left behind some of her stuff at the family estate, completely drunk out of her mind when she left, and her sister wanted me to run this stuff down at dawn. She's old enough to be my mother, Tanner, why on earth would-"
"Shush. Shush. Not relevant. Well, I can deliver them. And you, get out of here, I don't want to see you, and I don't want to be seen with you, not at all. You're radical."
Algi smiled guilelessly.
"I am a bit, aren't I?"
"Oh, shush."
A moment of silence.
"Don't you regret leaving your sister, I mean-"
"What, Eygi? Sure, I feel a little guilty about leaving her to manage the estate, miserable work, but she's fine with it. We correspond, just has to go through a few censors. Look, the Erlize probably thought I was actually going to do something out here, instead of sticking around sleeping with a very attractive and intelligent young woman while attending the occasional drinking party where we talk politics."
Tanner said nothing, but her eyes narrowed. Suspicious. Deeply suspicious. She backed off slightly, extending her hands for the package - huge, wrapped in brown paper and string, felt delicate. No wonder Marana had left this stuff behind, probably realised that in her drunken state she'd utterly destroy something delicate. Well, anything that wasn't wine - couldn't imagine her attention wavering from those bottles long enough to destroy or lose them. Algi rocked back and forth on his heels, tilting his head to one side. Gods, he looked painfully like Eygi. Reminded Tanner of how long it'd been since she'd met her closest friend. She didn't want to get close to him, though. No questions, no corruption, nothing. She didn't dislike neo-monarchists as a rule, she didn't honestly know enough to dislike them, but she disliked how associating with them meant she was a person of interest to the police in Fidelizh. That, alone, was reason to dislike the neo-monarchists like Algi. She'd expected to see some sort of... of bomb-throwing lunatic, not Algi, well-heeled, a little older, his suit well-tailored and his shoes polished, while apparently associating with... with a 'very attractive and intelligent young woman'. Gosh, vulgar. Gentlemen didn't kiss and tell - mother had told her that when she was young, and the serials she listened to confirmed it. Only barbarians kissed and told, and that meant Algi was in the barbarian civilizational clade.
Feh.
Feh.
"I'll be off. Good day, Algi."
Algi grinned slightly.
"Gods, you're uptight. Look, we're behind some crates, the Erlize don't monitor things around here, just-"
"You don't know that."
"Well, maybe, maybe, but I've not noticed any."
"That's the point, they're secretive."
"Or you're just not very perceptive. So, how're things? Heading north, then? Having fun up there?"
"Shush."
"Look, I'm not going to corrupt you or anything, I'm slightly interested in what you've been up to. You think I remember everyone who I knew years and years ago?"
Tanner hesitated, shifting from foot to foot. She should go. She should definitely go.
"Why did you... come here?"
"Lady."
"I mean, why-"
"Why did I start wanting the king back?"
"Yes, that. Why? It shook your sister, it got me interrogated, I just... want to know why you chose to do something so unfathomably stupid as to chase some lady up here, and then to become some sort of frothing radical. I thought you were going to try and go for my mother, I had to write her a letter to warn her against letting you inside."
"Rude."
"Necessary. You're a toad, Algi of Yorone, you're a toad. I've been bottling that up for years, and..."
She paused.
"I'm sorry, that was excessive."
"No, no, that was fairly mild. I've been called worse by better."
"Oh, shut up. I'm leaving."
Algi leaned casually against the crates, examining his nails. Still a dandy, still an idle fellow who just... he spoke with this drawn-out drawl, every syllable would be extended far beyond its expiry date. She'd... she wasn't a vengeful person, but right now, she felt the urge to throttle his scrawny neck. She still remembered the nights she'd remained awake, paranoid about her future, and paranoid about Eygi. That letter she'd sent, warning Tanner from enquiring further about Algi, had been furious. Hearing Eygi furious, it... it was like being a dog hearing one's master yelling angrily, there was fear, shame, embarrassment, discomfort. That memory had coiled around her bones like some sort of parasitic worm, and it had unnerved her. Deeply. And with Algi not there to... apologise, or explain, there'd just been a core of paranoid resentment lurking somewhere in her gut. And now it was moving upwards, emerging into her head with a cold flash. Disliked him because of what he'd done, not who he was. He'd been one of the only people she knew at the school, one of the only two people she was somewhat friendly with. Him and Eygi. Eygi, she wrote to regularly. Algi had just vanished, leaving behind a stew of confusion.
"Listen, Tanner, I could talk for hours and hours on the topic, about how the Golden Parliament is a corrupt little den of usurers who use the Erlize to clamp down on anyone who disagrees, about how Fidelizh is like a fatherless child that's constantly trying to replace their father with something else, be it gods, be it law, be it the Parliament. I could talk for hours about how even the judges preferred the days when the king was around, and they didn't lose more and more control to a bunch of committees and merchants. I could talk for days about how Fidelizh is, inevitably, taking on more and more people from the north, people it can't send back home or resettle somewhere else, and this is highlighting how we've got a gaping void where purpose once sat, and now we just have self-serving usury which collapses the second it comes into contact with something meaningful. I mean, you're a judge - your order is explicitly royal, or used to be, and you've held true to yourselves, but has anyone else? Has-"
Tanner grunted.
"You said you weren't going to talk for hours."
"Well, I haven't even spoken for half an hour. Barely reached a few minutes, honestly."
"I'm leaving."
She paused.
"And to clarify, you're wrong about the judges. We lost our power because of the kings, we didn't lose them to the Parliament. You wouldn't know, you didn't finish your course, you didn't see the hallways of ash."
"Well, semantics."
"Goodbye, Algi. I'm leaving."
"You've said that several times."
A pause.
"Who is Marana? She's going north with me. Is she... like you? Do I need to worry about the Erlize battering down my door because I taught to... to some sort of arch-revolutionary, some sort of princess who claims that she deserves to rule Fidelizh?"
"Marana's too drunk to do any of that."
"Well, did she used to be like that?"
Algi hummed thoughtfully, pushing his disturbed hair away from his forehead. He looked like a well-groomed frog, no matter what sort of suit he wore, no matter what... was that pomade in his hair? She could smell it from here. Small statue, bulging features, and... oh, goodness, he had a golden pocket watch. He had pince-nez hanging from his waistcoat. He was going local. And Tanner suddenly remembered something - from the meaningless burbling that came out of the drunkard last night. Something about-
"Look, I was just coming up to Mahar Jovan to have a poke around, I really didn't know what I was doing, why I was here. I had money from my father, no desire to work for his estate, so I thought I'd take things as far as I could before I hauled back. Fish on a line of credit, hah. Anyway, anyway, I wound up meeting Rana at a cigar shop, she was buying a huge box of the things, the woman's addicted. We got to talking, I went back with her, we had dinner, a few more dinners... things sort of spiralled from there. I met Marana a few months later, during dinner with her family. She stumbled in, slumped into her chair, fell asleep for half the meal, then woke up once the main course was being carved so she could slump forwards and engage in chaotic conversation. She drank like a fish, pardon all the fish metaphors, but she drank like a fish, then rambled about her 'surrealism', then had to be hauled away. She was reasonable the next morning, but odd. She's harmless, just very intense. I don't think she has any beliefs, and if she does, she changes them based on how much she's had to drink. Or... well..."
He paused.
"Keep her away from citrinitas. I've heard some ugly rumours about her and... well."
Tanner blinked.
"Is she... well? I mean, I've accepted a little responsibility, if I should kick her off the boat and send her home, I-"
"Gods, gods, no, no. She's driven half her family mad - her sister is young enough to be her daughter for a reason, her parents seem to have given up on Marana, decided to try again in their twilight years. Surprised they managed to churn Rana out, but I'm not going to complain. She always wanders around a bit, ever since..."
"She said her father was the governor of-"
"Krodaw. Yes. And the entire family hates talking about it. Her, especially. I think she had a poor time during it. So..."
He paused, rocking on his heels like a pendulum.
"Just, ah, give her that package - it's some of her work, she meant to take it up to the conference. Parents are just happy she's out of the house. Give her the package, and... if you wouldn't mind, could you stop her falling over the edge of the boat? Once she's off at her destination, you can completely ignore her, never think about her again. But for now..."
He shrugged lightly.
Tanner hummed, momentarily forgetting her animosity. Well, momentarily. She still disliked Algi. But there was... anyway. Odd souse, dispatched from home with dismissive ease, paid to stay far, far away, immersed in a career which could hopefully keep her busy. Well, maybe she was projecting a little. Anyway. Anyway. Come to think of it... Krodaw. Colony. Last foreign colony of Mahar Jovan, the last one they'd held onto after the Great War. Everyone had squabbled over the western marches, leading up to the mountains - the stinking, steaming forest where warlords feuded and odd kingdoms endured for interminable periods. But the Great War had just... silenced most of them. Mutants didn't attack them in huge numbers, bit too out of the way, but their owners had lost too much to hold on. Krodaw had clung on longer than it really should've. She'd seen veterans of that conflict, had neighbours who used to be auxiliaries. All of them, scarred. Prone to staring off into the distance for long periods, faces utterly blank. Krodaw was just a miserable blot on Mahar Jovan's history, and... well, now Fidelizh was trying to set up a colony in the north, too. Might be interesting to talk about that. Problems, solutions...
Anyway.
Tanner wasn't made of stone. Sounded rough.
"I see. Well. Good day."
She wished she had a hat to tip - again. It was just a good full stop to a conversation. As it was, she just nodded sharply and moved off, packet under her arms. Algi watched her go - she could feel his eyes on her broad back. She moved slowly at first, with dignified stateliness... before breaking into a small trot, nervous of any observers. Algi was still a dangerous subversive, at least in the eyes of the Erlize. She didn't give much of a toss for his views on the Golden Parliament - they didn't interfere in Tanner's life, at least, not until Algi decided to become a little radical. As far as she was concerned, she was happy where she was, Algi threatened that, and that was all. Nothing more to be said on the topic, nothing at all.
She turned briefly.
Algi was still watching her, hands in his pockets, a little dark figure on the horizon. At a distance, with his froggish face, he almost looked like a short-haired Eygi. He'd said they were corresponding - that was good, and... and she wanted, almost, to ask how she was. Eygi didn't say much in her letters. Pleasantries, polite enquiries, the occasional hint of things, a bit of advice from time to time. Nothing more. Maybe Algi would know more, how she was really doing, if the estate was really doing well, indeed, how her parents were - Eygi never mentioned them.
But then that little black mark on the horizon seemed to become a tiny dark tick in a proscription list, filed by dull-eyed men in tweed suits with odd cufflinks. A little check, and suddenly she was condemned to more interrogations, to banishment. Never allowed to return to her lovely labyrinth, to her news room, forced always to dwell on frontiers. The little dark spot seemed to expand, becoming a black sun looming to supplant the real one, swallowing the sky in its abyssal corona. She hesitated.
And trotted up the gangplank, feeling it strain under her, just a little. The packet rattled.
And Algi was gone. Mahar Jovan, Algi, her mother, her father, the lodge, all of it. Rolled up like a map, ready to be stored away in some dusty corner of her memory, as she made space for more experiences. For the cold.
For the north.
***
"Ah, splendid, my parcels. Was it that loathsome slitherer, Alg-something?"
Tanner blinked.
"It was Algi of Yorone. Yes."
"Oh, he has an of! He's an of, how lovely for him. Well, hand them over."
Marana looked like hell. Her eyes were surrounded by heavy bags, and remained bloodshot. Her face was riddled with tiny broken purple veins, and when she smiled, there was a bleary nonsense to it - a kind of senselessness to the smile, a desperation at the tips of her teeth, and her tongue was the colour of some overripe fruit. She looked like she'd been trying her best to replace her blood with alcohol, and had gotten a damn sight closer than any other human. She swayed slightly, and the heat of the engine belched upwards in a sudden flare - Tanner could easily imagine the theurgist rushing to soothe some pulsing pipe, or to replace some embolism-like tank of whale oil. Or just to whisper consolingly to a hiccuping metal heart. Tanner handed the packages, and Marana extended a single sharp thumbnail, slicing the paper cleanly, examining the internals. Looked like a fair number of papers and canvasses, alongside a newspaper tied clumsily to the front. Tanner shifted uneasily.
"Are you well, Ms. Marana?"
Marana ignored her for a moment, striding closer to the door with confidence that spoke more to muscle memory than anything else.
"Hm? What was that?"
"Are you well?"
"Oh, quite well, quite well. Thank you, incidentally, for your kind care last night. I hope it wasn't too much trouble?"
She smiled slightly. Tanner blinked again.
"Yes. I mean, no, it wasn't any trouble, no trouble at all. Completely fine."
She was on the verge of falling asleep.
"...so, do you know Algi, or-"
Marana flapped one of her hands like she was trying to imitate some sort of half-paralysed bird being chased by an equally semi-paralytic eagle during a snowstorm.
"Ms... I'm sorry, what was your name, again?"
"Tanner. Tanner Magg. Judge Tanner."
"Tanner, I do apologise, but my headache is rather tremendous, and I don't feel especially inclined to speak about my infuriatingly juvenile sister's dalliances. I'm sure Mr. Algi is a lovely young man, even if he looks like a frog, and I'm sure he'll make my sister very happy, and they'll make a colossal pile of frogspawn and tadpoles, and they'll make my parents the happiest retirees this side of the Tulavanta. But for now, I have a head to soothe and a stomach to fill - when the evening comes, however, I hope you will attend to me on the deck, when I intend to be on sharper form, and we can converse of Algi, and other matters romantic."
She leant forwards suddenly, planting a sharp kiss on either of Tanner's cheeks - and Tanner was convinced that her saliva was probably useful as an antiseptic unguent, she could feel the alcohol dwelling in every drop of this woman's moisture. She was probably somewhere along the way to being legally defined as 'pickled', honestly. Goodness, she had taken a... sass class at some point, hadn't she? Well, at least she was quiet about it. Gods, it was like being kissed by one of her more soused aunts. And that was a memory she didn't want to bring up. Marana nodded, bowed slightly, smiled airily, and swept out of the door with the sort of poise usually reserved to piano masters and models. But Tanner could see how her dress was rumbled as a used napkin where she'd slept on the docks. Still slightly stained with engine oil.
Tanner paused.
Sat down.
And started drafting a letter.
Dear Eygi,
I appear to have met a pickled human. Your brother is infuriatingly non-odious, but I hope you'll pardon me if I continue to loathe him for almost getting me deported. Might be unfair of me. A woman with fused fingers accused me of being a ravaging barbarian-woman kidnapping another woman for my bedchambers.
Mahar Jovan vanished. And the river consumed them once more, the Irizah slowly broadening as it began to meet the churning expanse of the Tulavanta. The wilderness swiftly became more untamed, and the river was almost immediately depopulated of trash - it flowed down from Mahar Jovan to Fidelizh, so Tanner didn't get to see the slow decline of familiar bottles and crates... well, not so familiar now. It was funny - the most familiar river trash was probably closer to Fidelizh, and the closer she got to Mahar Jovan, the newer, populated by brands which only emerged in the last eight years, reflecting trends which she had absolutely no familiarity with. Still. Hardly mattered. The waters of the Irizah were almost lazy, sluggishly pulsing across the landscape, the waters growing more and more populated with fish as they went upstream. The nets were gone, after all. These were the hordes that would be harvested for the infinite panoply of riverine food that Mahar Jovan dined on. That was something Tanner wouldn't miss - the endless, endless fish. She found herself lingering on the deck, hovering around the toothsome railing, looking out to see the scaled bodies squirming amidst the grey waves, enjoying their meandering chaos. No point swimming too far south too quickly - they'd just run out of river, soon enough. Easier to meander, to undulate, to glide with lazy grace. No destination in mind but tomorrow.
She found herself mapping out her memory-room again. Going over the tricks of the trade. She'd been cautioned that the colony would have no major libraries - they intended to ship up the basic exemplars, the texts that every judge used. Even if her job was simply to observe and record, to lay the groundwork for a proper judicial establishment - for if something was to be done, it ought to be done well - she still had to compose herself as a judge, do as she was instructed, act properly. And that meant she had to rely on her own memory in order to conduct the law, to compose judgements. The arts of memory had been invented back when printing books was expensive and difficult, all done by hand on expensive paper. The judges hadn't minded the arrival of the printing press, but regarded it as no excuse for laziness - modernity was a matter of convenience and sin, the judges were happy to take the former and skirt the latter with prudent scrupulousness. So, they still had students copy out long pecia from the scriveners, they still used exemplars, they refused to use typewriters unless absolutely necessary, they kept using expensive, delicate theurgic quills... and, they practised the arts of memory. She took a deep breath, focusing.
The arts of memory were manifold. One aspect was the place. All the scholars said that memorising a physical space was simpler than memorising a text. The human mind was a physical thing located in a watery organ in the skull, it wasn't meant to deal with naked notions, it needed clothing for them. The human mind was averse to nudity, after all - everything needed clothes, layers of accepted interpretation, or physical anchors. 'Knowledge', Halima had said, 'isn't something you acquire, it's something you tame'. For Tanner, her physical anchor was her room in the labyrinth, with her easy chair, her bottles, her double bed, her wardrobe. It was easy and every button on her clothes and her shoes. She was trying to remember the necessary principles of the law of nuisance - she imagined that was be fairly important in the colony, in cramped, cold conditions, with primitive amenities. Her room was suffused with meaning, all of a sudden. She could see precedents marking themselves out on the alcoves, the texture of her bed was the twittering strangeness of public nuisance - very important to remember precisely, to avoid claims of tyranny. She moved her hand down the front of her blouse, feeling the pearl buttons... this little button was private nuisance by encroaching on a neighbour's land, this little button was nuisance by direct and unambiguous physical injury to a neighbour's land, and this cheeky little button was interference with a neighbour's quiet enjoyment of his land, and the buttons along her wrist were the clarifications of fanciful complaints, for the law did not concern itself with trivialities. What had Sister Halima said? Right, right, 'a crumb of solid memory is worth a loaf of conjecture and speculation.'
She mulled over a word in her mind: 'nuisance'. The arts of memory had more facets than just physical space - 'nuisance' led her in new directions, reminded her of other segments of law. 'Nu' made her think of 'nudity', which led her to consider matters of public indecency, which led to intoxication. 'Sance' sounded similar to 'stance', and stance made her think of threatening demeanours, and the means of aligning subjective opinions with legal objectivity in the perception of threat and menace. The shape of the 'n' and the 'u' together reminded her of a winding road, and a winding road could indicate the emergence of nuisance from inconvenience, something that could be very hard to prosecute, but nonetheless ought to be noted, and might serve to aggravate future issues. And the 'i' was... well, 'eye', the dot reminded her of a staring eye from the top of a thin human, and that made her think of how the obstruction of a view was not generally considered sufficient grounds to claim a nuisance had been caused, something important when a ruined city was part and parcel of the colony.
She explored the law like this for some time, flickering from idea to idea, using the sounds and shapes of words, the textures and sights of familiar spaces, and then adding more - the college liked getting people to read bestiaries and scientific manuals, simply in order to provide more mnemonics. Assemblages of birds could each form little principles, songs she'd heard could become indelibly associated with others, and so on and so forth. But not eels. She kept eels away from the law, from the art of memory. The eels were hers. The only memories they were tied up with was her childhood, the happier moments of it. She looked down into the grey water, thinking deeply, her brows furrowing. Glad that she was going to get some help, a team of other judges from other cities. The judges didn't... well, they lacked the right to practise in most cities, at least, as supreme authorities, but their opinions were often considered valuable, and didn't often get appealed by parties judged against. In the end, they saved money. The judges practised law as part of a holy mission, not in an effort to curry favour or wealth. They made a little money, sure, but that was never the real goal, no matter how some of her colleagues behaved. Put simply... they were cheap. For most people, a judge of the Golden Door was the only legal counsel they could afford, and as long as that remained true, they'd always be in business. Still. She'd seen the barges carrying failed or overturned cases, prosecutions which died once a ruling authority caught wind of it, times when the semi-immaculate laws of the Golden Door clashed with... temporal laws. More ash for the urns buried beneath the labyrinth, near the place where they once hung criminals, back when they had the right.
Her thoughts were interrupted suddenly by the arrival of the captain at her side, a fat cheroot in her mouth, puffing away with huge clouds of acrid smoke. Her slightly deformed eyes flicked over to Tanner, who stiffened.
"Doing well?"
Tanner nodded quietly.
"Quite well. Thank you. Yourself?"
"Ship-shape. Should be arriving at that souse's destination the day after tomorrow. Stopping there for a night or so, just to get a few last things in order - that's the last point for weeks where we can get reliable telegrams, need to check movements, chart everything properly."
Tanner nodded along, humming at all the right moments. Fair enough.
"...small thing, though. Got word this morning, just before we set off."
Tanner tilted her head.
"Hm?"
"Got told in Fidelizh that you were travelling down with a team of... about five other people? Three of them were making their way out on their own, easier than way, but we were meant to pick up two."
Tanner nodded.
"I think it was two judges from further west, around my age, and three judges from Tuz-Drakkat off to the east - they're heading over at the Herxiel crossing, closer for them."
The captain grimaced, showing a hint of sharper-than-usual teeth, and scratched at the side of her mottled neck - nails slid right off the skin like it was covered in oil. Mutations had already given her a little extra resistance in that department... well, all but a single, blackened, slightly mutated nail, which managed to latch for a second, almost scratching properly. She wondered, idly, if that nail was venomous, or just exotic in some fashion.
"Right, right. Well, bad news on the western front - we're not picking up those two."
Tanner blinked
.
"I'm sorry?"
"Nothing to apologise for, not your fault. Not mine, neither. So no-one's apologising to anyone, I suppose."
Tanner pushed back off the railing, lips pursed, hands gripping one another nervously.
"Why, exactly? I mean, is there-"
"Trains. They were getting a train out to a port along the Tulavanta, then we were meant to pick them up before we swung into that tributary for the last stretch of the journey. Well, their train was attacked - Sleepless, they think, some of those freaks from out west. The ones that sacked Krodaw. Well, they're still raiding places, guess these two got unlucky."
Tanner paled. Sleepless. She'd heard rumours of them, once upon a time. Just... lunatics, half-mutated lunatics. More so than the mutant-hunters - both were exposed to mutation, but the Sleepless didn't have the good grace to monitor their own, to kill them off when they lost their minds. They just muzzled them and used them as attack dogs instead, unleashed wherever they'd make the most impact. They'd taken Krodaw years ago, after a years-long campaign of terror, and... well. Weird to hear about them, thought they'd just cannibalised one another to death without a common enemy. Evidently some had survived. And had decided to expand slightly.
"Are they alright? Did they get captured, or..."
She trailed off. The captain shook her head wearily.
"Nah, none of that. They weren't on board - the train was destroyed before it could reach their station, Sleepless blocked the rail with tree trunks, captured who they could, robbed everyone else, killed a couple of guards, moved on. Sabotaged the train to stop it moving."
"Why?"
"Why not? They're Sleepless, they do what they want. So, they're delayed."
"Can't we wait for them?"
"Definitely not. Winter's getting close - the tributaries around the Tulavanta, they freeze up once the weather gets harsh. Need to push on if we're going to find any clear stretches, there's some good lakes we've used in the past, those tend to stay open. Longer we wait, more of a chance we just have to poke along the main Tulavanta for a few months, just waiting for things to melt. Can't delay."
Tanner shivered.
"...so…"
"Five to three. Sorry. Message got dropped off for me in Mahar Jovan, just before we left."
The captain slapped her roughly on the back, but Tanner didn't move an inch. Too locked up by concern, and much too large in general. Five to three. Her team had already lost two fifths of its members... no, not lost, just delayed. She tried to force herself to be optimistic, running her gloved hands over one another, filtering the air for luck. They were delayed. Might not be able to get up... well, if the captain was right about the tributaries freezing over, then it might need to wait for next spring. That was fine. Workable, at least. No-one had died... well, except for some of the people on that train, but no judges had died, none of her team had died. They'd be along in spring, and she still had three potential colleagues coming in from Tuz-Drakkat. Sure, it wasn't ideal, but nothing ever was. All she could ask for was a few colleagues and some resources. They were just doing monitoring, after all. No need to grow excessively worried.
...still. It was unexpected, and... slightly unnerving.
"Thank you for telling me. I'm sorry if this causes any inconvenience for you, I completely understand the need to push north."
She spoke automatically, by muscle memory, mind concerned with other things. The captain replied, but Tanner barely heard her.
Five to three.
40% reduction. Not exactly ideal.
Not exactly ideal.
She needed to wear an optimistic god. And soon.
***
Soon was tonight, as it turned out. The evening was drawing in - Marana hadn't moved from her room once, but occasionally there was the sound of movement, or mumbled words, or simply snoring. Not sure if she was napping continuously or meandering around like a flouncy artist. Surrealism... no idea what it was, but that packet had contained a lot of drawings. Presumably that meant it was an artistic school of some kind. Sounded dangerous. Tanner imagined she was probably just... swanning around, drinking wine, dreaming of things, maybe hammering something out for half an hour a day, before requesting a little more cash from mummy and daddy dearest. No, wait, that was mean, that was very mean. Just because her sister had decided to radicalise Algi didn't reflect poorly on Marana at all. No, that would be the wine-vomit-stains on Tanner's cot, the smell of dock oil and booze, and the feeling of her slightly boozy kisses on Tanner's cheeks. Anyway. Needed optimism. Not sure of the stars, but... right, right, general-purpose. That meant... Clambering-Amber-Debutante, she was usually workable no matter the celestial conditions. Just had to... yes, replace a few of the buttons in her blouse with small amber ones she'd packed specifically for this, before cracking her fingers one by one (needed to remember to keep doing that throughout tonight), and slipping some small pins through her hair in a certain configuration. Simple enough. General-purpose gods usually were.
And Clambering-Amber-Debutante was excellent for this precise moment. Optimistic, capable of looking on the brighter side of life no matter what, relentlessly chipper and cheerful. Not quite as introverted as she liked her gods, but there was a time for introversion, and a time for enthusiasm. And right now, she needed to be enthusiastic - after Algi, after the news from the captain, after all that business. And as she threaded the last needle through her hair, she could feel a weight settling upon a shoulders. Almost. More of a subtle shifting of the air than anything else, an imagined prickle running through her nerves, like something had arrived. A goddess, riding on her back like a monkey, staring over her shoulder with a bright, amber-toothed grin splitting her face almost in two. She closed her eyes and focused, trying to imagine, as best as she could, the smell of warm cinnamon and wine - the favoured combination of the Clambering-Amber-Debutante. The wine was easy, the cinnamon would need work. Back in Fidelizh, some people had whole scent-books, collections of perfume-infused paper which they could take a deep sniff from, just to really charge the air with the right sympathies. Still, if she imagined warmth and wine, she could almost get there. It didn't do anything, but it helped. Tanner wasn't especially superstitious, she continually insisted this, but she liked the rites of superstition. Helped her relax.
She stopped in front of the crooked mirror by her door.
Paused.
Eased her mouth into a smile. Small. Polite.
Eased it further. Alright, alright, hint of teeth, getting better.
Now get it a bit wider, show off more of her teeth, try and show off as many as possible...
No, less, less, she looked feral. Fewer teeth. Less wide. Don't try and split her face open from side to side, that would be absurd. And alarming.
And...
There, that was a grin. Just like the Debutante demanded. Now, she was a civilised, wholesome lady, who just so happened to be able to lift ammunition crates like they were drunken heiresses - in short, like nothing. The thought actually made her grin widen a little more, a hint of enthusiasm entering it.
A knock at the door.
The grin snapped to something more polite and reserved, and less like she was preparing herself to bite the heads off several firstborns.
"Yes?"
"Judge, come on., I'm starving, and I shan't go upstairs alone, it's not fashionable."
Tanner groaned internally. Alright. The door creaked as she pushed it open, and leaning artfully against the frame was a familiar wine-stained artist. Marana smiled with something that, once, had probably been elegant detachment. Now, it made her seem slightly bleary, and just a tad out of place. Tanner brought her hands together in front of her stomach, cultivating luck automatically, and Marana unceremoniously gripped her shoulder and dragged her out... before tsk-ing.
"Take my arm."
"Uh."
"Take my arm, judge. And allow me to rest on you as we ascend. In this world, one either drapes or is draped on. And, with all the politeness I can muster, I'm not certain you could drape on me without breaking something."
"Um."
A pause.
"Alright."
"Oh, do be less taciturn. I swear, you're worse than... anyway. Come on. Upstairs."
She did, indeed, drape. A woman only slightly younger than her mother was draped slightly into her shoulder, leaning artfully on her arm. It was bizarre, she still stank of wine, and yet she composed herself with a strange degree of dignity. Her room, from what Tanner could see of it, was crammed with art that reminded her of the nightmare she'd had after that fireworks display a few years ago, and yet she was dressed well (green dress, long sleeves that covered everything up to her wrists, embroidered with silver vines and with a well-chosen overcoat to keep her warm in the cool night), her hair was delicately pinned into something of a hairdo, and her lips were rouged just enough to be tasteful without becoming trashy. Unsure of how much of her dignity was muscle memory, pride, or aristocratic blood memory. She'd heard about that stuff, apparently some people could let their ancestors ride on their backs instead of the gods, so maybe there was a series of be-wigged men and women in elaborate frocks riding on her back like some sort of deranged layer cake.
Ooh. Marana the pickled layer cake. Definitely sharing that with Eygi, definitely.
Her stomach rumbled at the thought of... pickled layer cake, apparently. Well, that or more generalised hunger. She deeply hoped it was the latter, the former would be terrifically worrying.
"So... why did Algi, that perverted little tadpole, choose not to deliver the packages himself?"
Tanner froze, almost stumbling over a step. Marana moved smoothly, not a single shiver appearing in her stride despite the wobbly giant beside her.
"And based on that little tremor you just had, I'll take it there's history?"
Her eyes were almost predatory.
"Does our mutual amphibious acquaintance have a liking for-"
"No. No. Just... someone I knew a while ago."
"Hm? No scandal?"
Beyond him being a neo-monarchist oddball who'd almost gotten her arrested and deported just by being briefly associated with her?
"No. Nothing of the sort. Just... surprised to see him. He gave me the package and asked me to relay it. Didn't say anything about why he couldn't do it himself, and he was gone before I could ask."
Liar. Total liar. What a beastly creature she was, she belonged in a children's bedtime story, living under a bridge or in some sort of grotesque mead-hall. Dolt. Complete dolt - call herself a judge? She wasn't a judge, she was... was a galumphing elephantine beanus. Yes, a beanus, meaning a first-year student, and that was all, there was no further meaning to the word. Gosh, she was a beanus. Marana looked her up and down, humming thoughtfully. That was another thing - drunk as a skunk, her breath smelled a little of wine even after a day of near-sobriety, and yet her eyes crackled with some sort of intelligence.
"Hm. Hm. Well, I'm sure you barely associated with him - you seem like a frightfully intelligent young woman, whole life ahead of you. I'm sure you wouldn't have associated with him at your... judge-schoolhouse, why, the way he describes it, he did nothing but lounge around, read obscure books that are obscure for a reason, and go to random cafes to dine on small fingercakes."
Tanner blushed slightly, redness appearing at the tips of her ears. Marana's grin was eerily toothy.
"Oh, yes, I'm sure you wouldn't dare to associate with such an evil-smelling spawn of a she-goat as Algi, why, I imagine you smelled him out the moment he arrived, and ran in the opposite direction. I'm certain you, a pinnacle of decorum and understanding and loveliness, would never dare associate with such a... shape of nothing. Certainly not."
Tanner coughed, and they kept moving, the fresh air beckoning. Marana leaned closer, whispering confidingly into Tanner's burning ears.
"And I hear he has a sister, can you imagine, some family decided that one Algi was just a sad accident of their cubicular gyrations, and that if they did it again, surely they'd succeed in producing something of worth."
Tanner blinked a few times.
"...well, I wouldn't want to be too mean. He's a bit of an ass, but I... don't really like speaking ill of people."
Lie, she enjoyed it from time to time, but only when corresponding with Eygi. She got one outlet for being a bit of a bitch (pardon the expression), and Eygi was that outlet. Not Marana, with her boozy breath and crow's-feet that reminded her of the cracked surface of a too-dry cake. And speaking ill of Eygi... no. Definitely not.
"Of course. Of course. I understand completely. Judges must hold themselves to a higher standard."
Good, she understood... no, wait. Marana's eyes were still dancing with amusement, her mouth was curled into a smile, and the hand curled into Tanner's elbow was drumming out a slight beat on the skin, almost mockingly. Not sure what was going on. Not sure what she was implying. Not sure about anything, really. Did Algi tell her about Tanner in the past? Was that an option? Oh, gods... she forced a smile on her face, thought of cinnamon and wine, felt a particularly chipper goddess massage her shoulders through her blouse. Right, just be... chipper. Pinnacle of enthusiasm. Apex of whimsy. So opposed to misery that she flunked out of the grand academy of misery-guts in her first week.
Marana's smile in return was both more effortless and more subtle than Tanner could dream of pulling off.
The deck approached.
The sound of hunters drinking and eating filled the air.
Tanner took a deep breath...
And Marana leaned forwards with a ravenous look more associated with certain species of predatory fish.
***
The mutant-hunters... say what you will of their minds, of their bodies, of their reckless self-destruction, of their gruesome boat with its burning heart... but they knew how to make merry. Alcohol did nothing. of course. They barked loudly that it was useless - they could drink and drink and drink, but it wouldn't affect them, at least, none but the most green recruits, the young men who had been too young for the Great War, had joined up for pay, willing to sell their lives for its sake. Alcohol was a toxin, ultimately. A poison that had some remarkably pleasurable side-effects, nothing more. Drink too much of it, and it revealed itself more fully, started to rot the organs, dull the senses, and eventually, render the body so incapable of independent existence that the shakes took hold in alcohol's absence, delirium tremens powerful enough to shake the body to pieces. And mutation tended to purge toxins, along with any other contaminants, before it got to work warping the flesh into newer, more monstrous shapes.
But...
"Nah, nah, so the liquor doesn't work on us any more, no, no, no, but liquor is toxin. And toxin can be weaponised. You... right, there was a man, back during the war, worked near my unit. They say he got mutated badly, real badly. Wounded during a battle, passed out, was soaked in contamination for hours before they could dig him out, protective gear was shredded and everything. But he was also soused out of his mind. Could do that sort of thing in the war, you got drunk as hell before battles - mutants don't roar often, but when they do, it's worse than normal roaring. Calculated to make you shit yourself, cry your eyes out, rumble your bones until you want to curl up and let the world die before you move again. So... where was I?"
Marana smiled saucily over a little glass of brandy - they didn't keep much liquor on board, for the aforementioned reasons, and what they did was strong. Not wasting room on big barrels of beer. Brandy... no, no, cut brandy, brandy with a little hint of something the theurgists generally used in their experiments. Brandy to make the potent stuff feel slightly more tolerable. Marana was circling it around over and over and over, enjoying the acrid smell. Tanner still nursed hers. Kept it away from her mouth. Not that she was afraid of liquor, she drank it from time to time, but she had no enormous love for it. Coca wine satisfied her needs in that regular. Marana spoke softly.
"I believe you were talking about a man who was as pickled as an egg when-"
The speaker, one of the hunters, a woman with shockingly red hair and a face marked with innumerable craters from conflict, and strange keloid scars pulsed in a handful of them. Mutation trying to heal, mistaking the scar tissue for healthy matter that ought to be reproduced, and creating odd, pimple-like things, some of which spread out little scarred tendrils to elsewhere on the face. Made her seem like she had an astrological map painted out on her face, especially as her skin grew red with excitement, while the scars retained a stellar paleness no matter what, no blood intruding into their immaculate coils.
"Right, right, right, right, I remember, I remember. So, this soused fellow, he was drowned in mutant bodies, splashed with contamination, and the mutation... I guess it thought that 'oh, how glorious-"
She drew out the 'glorious' to at least a dozen syllables.
"'...how glorious, how glorious, this thing is full of lovely lovely venom, like a scorpion or a wasp! Well, fellows, let's plump him up and set him ready!' And before we knew it, this thing was crawling around, like a... torso of a man. Tail like a mermaid, all fishy, but made out of human flesh. Covered in these fronds, somewhere between fat and muscle and nipple-skin, dripping in venom. Well, we thought it was venom. Then he launched himself madly at one of us, the stinger made contact..."
A pause.
"She was rolling on the ground giggling like a child, face reddening, saying how much she loved us. Then she vomited. Then she died. But what a fucking way to go. Drunk off your tits. So. Go on. Drink, we like seeing people drink."
Tanner shivered as these hungry eyes set upon her. The older veterans had a distinct animal quality to their gazes, the heavy gold rings on their necklaces glinted like the flat dead eyes of nocturnal predators, and they lounged on their haunches like a pack of jackals - jackals, the art of memory kicked in, jackals were associated with marine and riverine salvage, she immediately felt a few little specifications of cost twitch through her mind before she could dismiss them. Regardless. Regardless. She sipped cautiously at her drink, out of politeness. As expected. Nothing. Literally nothing. It took a lot to make her feel more than a little tingly inside, and if she'd eaten, it took even more. Marana sipped gladly, swilling the liquid around her mouth delicately, before swallowing with nary the sound of a gulp, barely the slightest bob of her throat. She hummed.
"Notes of citrus and liquid death, hint of plum. What spirit did you cut this with, my darling?"
"Rectified."
"Oh my."
She looked admiringly at the glass.
"That's quite excellent. I wonder what would happen if one were to add this... rectified spirit to, say, the punch bowl at a happy family dinner."
Raucous laughter, and Tanner smiled politely along with the others. The evening continued much in that vein. A little dinner of fresh meat, purchased in Mahar Jovan, the last bits of freshness before they set into the salted stuff, the preserved stuff that tasked like leather and spite. And then, booze. Well, booze for the human. Tanner watched as the other humans became more and more soused, the recruits settling into bawdy ballads or drowsy dazes, Marana lounging elegantly like she was on a divan, her hair tumbling around her head in glittering curls. The hunters mostly watched with too-sharp grins on their mottled faces, while the captain stayed at a distance, keeping a sober eye on affairs. Sometimes a hunter would break away to fight with one of the others, the kind of loose, harmless tussle that mostly just expressed energy. Marana ran a slender, slightly liquor-purpled finger around the rim of her glass, an ambiguous little smile on her face. She looked younger, in this light. Didn't smile or frown broadly enough to turn her face wrinkled in age, so age emerged through other means. Usually, age surged through chasms. With Marana, it oozed through pores, and slowly strained, slowly sagged, slowly unwound and planted little cracks around her eyes, which retained the glitter of youth... at least, around the red veins of alcoholism.
All this vanished once one saw the nose. Slightly bloated, and irrevocably an imperial indigo.
Well, more of a purple. But indigo alliterated with irrevocable and imperial. Eygi would appreciate the wordplay.
Suddenly, Marana spoke, and her voice had a low, casual purr to it which made Tanner feel very nervous indeed.
"You large creature, this isn't affecting you one little bit."
Tanner froze. Wasn't looking at her, but it was obvious who she was talking to.
"Not really."
"But you can feel it, can't you? A little warmth blooming in your stomach, a slight ripple through the flesh, something deeper than flesh, something that sits in the skin and makes it want to itch slightly, like you want to shuck it all off?"
One of the hunters had stilled, and was staring, enraptured, a sharp tongue licking her lips. Tanner shivered.
"Hm."
"You know what's another poison? Spice. Spice is a poison. Tell me, my lovely, can you still...?"
This question was for the hunter, and now another had joined her in paying close attention. The hunter shifted uneasily.
"Sometimes, I think. Not much for spice."
"Give it a go. Might work - and you can find spices that are very strong indeed. It's funny, isn't it? We find poisons, and we take them just to feel a little snap of something. By all rights, we should we eating grass and unseasoned meat. But we had to dig our hands into beehives for combs, had to scrape salt from stones, had to eat all the poisonous things just to see if they tasked particularly good... you know, in Krodaw, they used to have a little unique thing, a type of thin, spindly bird, so thin and small you could eat it all at once, gobble it down with a crunch. They fed it with a local flower, and in its delicate stomach, there was a spice which emerged. A little red bean of spice, nesting amidst the bones. You'd crunch and crunch, have to hide your head under a cloth to stop people from seeing you debase yourself, and then... pop. A rush of spice into the tongue, agitating the throat, you'd feel your eyes water and redden, and your lips would burn for minutes afterwards. Nothing else ever tasted as it should for the rest of the evening. Only by the morning would you be able to taste things normally again..."
She paused, and her face seemed a little sad. Tanner watched her with naked interest, and the hunters with naked hunger. One was actively digging her fingers into her knees to stabilise herself, the sharp, chitin-like nails easily going through her sea-worthy trousers, yielding rubious blood from where she delved too deep.
"All gone now."
Marana's voice was accidentally small, emerging almost by accident, and she hiccuped messily before pulling herself under control. The captain spoke lowly, voice barely audible, hunger dancing in her eyes, too. Tanner wondered if some mutant had internalised spice as a form of venom - imagined them sweating pepper, bleeding paprika, exhaling gas that tasted of chillis. Organs so hot they could kill with a taste, before you even managed to mutate yourself.
"Krodaw. You're from there."
"Daughter of the governor."
"How was it?"
That was Tanner, speaking softly.
"Hot."
The captain grimaced.
"Sure, it was hot, we all know it was hot... alright, alright, tell us a horror story about the Sleepless. We gave you horror stories about mutants. We've heard stuff about those freaks. Hell, our judicial friend here's had her team sliced up because of them, they ran a train off the rails, killed a bunch of people. What d'you think they got up to?"
Tanner stiffened. Awkward question, right? Awakening ugly memories. Marana didn't seem to hear it for a long, long moment, tracing her finger around the rim of the glass, a low keening note coming from the contact. A second, and she seemed awfully tired... then she snapped. Smiled - and the smile tightened up her face, making her seem incomparably younger. Her finger left the rim of the glass, and instead tapped a little rhythm across the side, delicate and strange.
"A question for a question, darling. We took Krodaw for trade, I was raised in trade, immersed in it, I know nothing but exchanges. My first word was 'lower' when I heard someone overcharging my father for bars of soap. So, how about this - tell me about those golden rings on your necks, any reason?"
Tanner leaned in. Curious. The hunters stiffened uncomfortably, and one of them slouched away to stare over the dark waves of the river. They never stopped moving the boat - a small crew kept it going at all times, the metal heart unceasing now the theurgist was gone. Great glaring headlights kept them from crashing, but there was still a sense of drifting in a great shapeless void. And now that void tightened, the hunters closing in. Eyes flat and sometimes angry. The red-haired one, with the crater-star face, growled softly. The half-bandages one was silent. And the captain spoke humourlessly.
"Know how to kill a mood, don't you?"
Marana smiled guiltlessly.
"Perhaps. But you did it first. Go on, then."
The red-haired one spoke lowly, her earlier enthusiasm gone.
"We were recruited for the Great War when it was running hot. When it started, they sent out the fighting men. Then, they conscripted. Younger and younger. Women were stuffed into factories, kids ran messages. When times got tough, they grabbed the singles, the women without families, shoved them into the field. Then... went for the widows."
Oh.
Oh.
Wedding rings.
The hunter kept going, her strange cratered face gleaming slightly in the light of the swinging lanterns, which creaked mournfully, like solemn carrion birds.
"My Jekmal got sent off, died. We'd just married, so no kids. Not yet. Sent me off a year after he went."
She saluted wearily, voice bitter.
"Sir, yes, sir, Widow Yellima reporting for duty, sir, yes, sir, tears are dried and I'm wearing my husband's underpants, yes sir, still warm!"
A dull, cold laugh ran around the circle. The half-bandaged one spoke grimly.
"Me too. Earlier. I had to stuff rags in my uniform to make it fit, cut my hair short. Shame. I used to have good hair. Never grew back right."
The captain snorted.
"Right. Sure. I'll believe that. Me, my mother and I got in the same unit, she had me young enough, didn't have any other siblings to keep her at home. Fought like animals, two of us. You don't know your mother until you've seen her cackling like a witch while firing up a flamethrower. Funny thing - my pa ran off when I was a girl, guess what? We found him again. Different unit, but he'd been conscripted, same as everyone else. And I met my half-brother, bastard had another damn family he'd run off too. Great, that. Great. They'd have kept us apart, but numbers were too low for luxuries like that. By that point, ma had more scars than he did, and when his son came along to try and break up the spat between his father and some random madwoman, my ma decked him into the mud, stomped on his head, then kicked his pa in the todger. Got along pretty well after that. Mostly. Made a good team on a few occasions, he had better eyes for spotting, she had better aim... half-brother and I got along pretty well once we'd been in enough scraps. A hundred dinners wouldn't have made the four of us get along, but stick us in a fox-hole, give us guns, give us mutants... hell, we got along like a house on fire."
A small grin.
"Till the war ended, at least. Then..."
She trailed off, but the others kept going. Story after story. Husbands and brothers and fathers and mothers, even one or two toddlers they'd left with elderly relatives before marching off, coming back to find them almost properly grown. Marana watched from beneath half-lidded eyes, her chest rising and falling softly as she breathed. Tanner examined her. It was... hm. The wedding rings thing, that could've been figured out by intuition, if Tanner hadn't overlooked it during the initial excitement. Marana had... she'd noticed, hadn't she? Figured it out quickly. The reason these women were still going while so many male veterans had wound down into dusty death - they'd come later in the war, conscripted after the men were starting to run out, and they'd been less exposed to mutation as a consequence. But now it was all catching up with them. Anyway, she'd figured out the wedding rings, and had used it to steer away from her own uncomfortable topics. Marana, while she thought no-one was looking, tugged a strand of hair away from her head, staring at it mildly... before setting it back once she'd seen a glimmer of grey in the thread.
Tanner kept watching her.
Marana's sardonic eyes slowly drifted over, locking onto the giantess'.
"Hm?"
Tanner shrugged.
"Nothing. Sorry."
"Surprised?"
Silence. Marana sipped what was left of her drink - not sure how many she'd had.
"Believe it or not, darling, us middle-aged crones do still drink, but we're in the middle of the race - enough to realise it's a marathon, not a sprint. One simply drinks slower, and with greater consistency. Makes the world a much rosier place. It's like Apo in spring."
She laughed throatily, and as she moved, the sleeve of her dress moved...
And she jerked suddenly, pushing it back into place, her face significantly tougher.
Tanner blinked.
"Go on, large woman, drink something."
"Tanner. My name's Tanner."
"Very well. Tanner."
Tanner nodded in satisfaction... then twitched. She could hear something. Something...
She rushed for the railing, an uncontrollable smile bursting out on her face. Oh, yes, yes, she was right, she was right, she knew they liked moving at night, and she recognised that distinct sound, and...
Eels!
Nighttime eels! Slithering and coursing, even heading onto the bank to go amongst the reeds!
Her smile was literally from ear to ear as an oily, winding river accompanied them upwards, the moon peeking from behind a cloud to turn their dark bodies an immaculate silver, like they were being accompanied by a fluid stream of moonlight. She could vaguely hear Marana shuffling to see what she was seeing. Didn't pay attention. Nor did she pay attention to the high-pitched, throaty, distinctly unladylike cackle which erupted from the rather-too-drunk woman.
Tanner was having an amazing evening all of a sudden. One of the hunters had passed her a very long net and an average-length bucket, and Tanner was fishing out an eel or two. She just wanted to have a look at them, was all. They must be heading to the random place where they'd eke out a living for the next few decades (potentially), if someone didn't catch them. Well, she intended to release them afterwards, obviously. She wasn't a monster. Marana watched with bleary fascination, eyes twitching up and down Tanner's tall form as she focused intently on the slithering surface of the water. Her tongue stuck out one side of her mouth as she concentrated, feeling her muscles straining like steel wires, shivering ever-so-slightly as she ducked the net down, down, down... contact with the river, and she let the net hang loose, feeding on the current. A splash, a shiver up the pole, and she was hauling with vicious speed, knowing precisely how easily one of these creatures could escape from a net. Nothing could stop them from getting to their destination, nothing but being killed and eaten - she'd heard of them bashing their heads to pieces against the side of their buckets, desperate to get away by any means necessary. Not afraid, just... determined. Die or live, they still had places to go, and no damn bucket would get in the way. She hauled...
And a moment later, she had a nice, watery bucket, with a handful of shimmering black bodies undulating about lazily. She knelt over it, brushing her skirt until it lay flat, not even paying attention to how she was putting her good skirt in direct contact with the deck of a mutant-hunting vessel. The hunters, incidentally, were largely just sitting around telling stories, mumbling them in a half-hearted susurration that spoke to long nights doing this exact same thing. Come to think of it, she'd never seem them sleeping much - suppose the mutations were helping there, keeping them running for longer. Like that metal heart under the deck, thumping away even now, sluggish and bloated with whale oil. It was burning slow, but it was burning nonetheless, and sooner or later it'd destabilise and blow everything to kingdom come. The mutant-hunters were the same, really. Sooner or later, they'd explode, perhaps a little less spectacularly, but... anyway. Eels. Eels! They were fished mostly in Mahar Jovan, meaning very few managed to get to Fidelizh, most didn't other at all - the Tulavanta was wonderful for them, they had a whole string of estuaries and bogs to play around in, no wonder they swarmed here in such enormous numbers.
She stared into the bucket like she was a seer, prophecying something by reading the undulations of eels. And what did she find? What did she predict? What great insights into the cosmos did she elucidate from the coilings and toilings of these ardent anguilloids?
She learned that eels were lovely and she loved them. Obviously.
Tanner glanced around uncertaintly, seeing Marana staring intently at her. Her fingers itched. The huners weren't doing anything else. Well... ah, who cared. Who bloody cared, she was tired, she was emotionally strained, she was heading for the northern wilderness where nary an eel dwelled, and her only witness was a middle-aged alcoholic who she'd never meet again in her entire life, most likely.
Screw her cowardice to the sticking place, she was eager.
Her hands plunged into the bucket... and a slightly embarrassing laugh bubbled out of her throat uncontrollably. Oh, goodness, they were lovely. She'd caught three of them, three big yellow eels - yellow in terminology, not in colour, they were largely fairly mottled, like those river pebbles which gained a thin coating of algae. The term actually emerged from their undersides - which were slightly yellow. The feeling of them wriggling around her hands was... well, it was delightful. They were smooth, muscular, almost impossible to grab - if it wasn't for the sheer number of them down below, she'd never have caught them with a net, she'd need tactics. Proper tactics. They were swimming freely at the moment, the moonlight inviting them out to have a little fun in the water - they knew to fear the sunlight, which meant heat, predators, hooks. During the daytime, these little fellows would be hiding among rocks, in burrows of mud, under fallen timber... some people baited them out with little worms, before hooking them and dragging them out of their dens. She'd seen fishermen with long wooden poles with numerous worms in rings at the tip, catching any eels which went for the bait. Some people didn't even bother with the bait, they just set up long tubes of wood in the right places, offered refuge then snatched them up once the time was right. Some people were honest, though - they just used spears and scythes, slashing into the mud while hoping to hit something that wriggled.
People were monsters, sometimes. Maybe that was why so many of the fairy stories she'd heard as a child involved evil creatures that lured people in with promises of food, shelter, warmth, comfort. Kindly grannies that ripped off their faces to show skulls writhing with maggots, weeping tears of pure contamination. Or... right, that was it, she remembered the stoires about the mermaids. Mutants below the waist, long, pale worms extending deep into the earth, latching into the underground rivers where contamination flowed. The upper body was that of a beautiful woman, luring people closer, before grabbing them, dragging them under the earth and immersing them in contamination, breeding new adaptations, new power for the mermaid. Maybe humans came up with these stories because they knew, in their heart of hearts, that they were being cruel to creatures like eels, exploiting their desire to rest during the day, their hunger, their movement, all of it. Innocent creatures just trying to live out their life cycle, and humans knew they were doing something wrong. To her, eels had mystery, in a way that a pig or a dog never could - and that made them special. Some people didn't eat dogs because of some kind of instilled loyalty, or cats because they knew how to manipulate human emotions, or carrion birds because of some perception of uncleanliness, a kind of liminality which made them symbolically risky in some way. But eels...
Eels had mystique. Shouldn't that make them special, independent from consumption? More worthy of it than dogs and cats, really. They were just glorified prostitutes, whoring themselves out for humans in exchange for scraps of meat and bowls of milk. And vultures, crows, ravens? What bird wouldn't give eating human meat a go, she'd heard of people eating horses, and she knew those things weren't exactly averse to chomping on a human or a small animal when they had a chance, those teeth were vicious, and what were you going to do, run from it? From a horse? Oh, but, sure, let's eat or not eat horses depending on taboo, but eels?!
A sudden interruption - a hand plunging into the bucket, squeezing in beside her own. A hand she recognised. Marana swam her hand around a bit, shivering slightly as the eels made contact. Her head tilted from one side to the other, shaking up her brains for some kind of exertion - just like Eygi did. Maybe there was a whole subspecies of humanity with brains that required shaking up, like salt cellars or sauce bottles. The Vinegarians. A small smile crept across her face, and her alcohol-scented breath washed over Tanner.
"Is this some sort of sexual perversity, then?"
Tanner gasped automatically, before her mouth snapped shut and curled into a scowl. And she glared. Indeed, she loomed.
"No. Don't be obscene. I just like eels."
Marana appeared to have grasped that insulting the very large person wasn't a very good move. Not that Tanner would do anything violent - that wasn't legal, not in a situation such as this one. But she rather wanted to. Just briefly. She actually went through the reasons why she should be permitted to strike her, calming herself down, diving into her memory room, going through the slightly sordid garment which contained all the laws relating to self-defence - again, something useful once she got up to a colony where law enforcement might be a little on the spotty side, and people felt the need to settle their disputes outside of the law.
"...really? Eels?"
Marana hummed. Well? Was she going to say something vulgar? Something grotesque? Something-
"Well, they're certainly... ambiguous. Strange-looking, somewhere between a fish and a snake, unusually edible and esteemed as a delicacy despite their strangeness... I mean, look to the monkfish, that's a vulgar little animal that's quite tasty, yet is generally shunned for being utterly ugly, and lobsters resemble enormous insects, only fashionable for dining amongst those poor fishermen on the coast. Eels, though... giant worms, snakes, even, and yet we consume them by the bucketload - my father had a great fondness for lampreys, once upon a time. Why do you think that is?"
Tanner blinked.
She hadn't expected an actual contribution.
"Well... they're common enough, and... hm, lobsters, they degrade very quickly once killed. Taking them inland is difficult, expensive. Easier to just eat them on the coast, but eels are... everywhere. They crawl over land, did you know that? If you look out there, you could probably see them moving through the reeds. I've even read about them crawling in meadows to hunt earthworms, sometimes."
Marana hummed.
"I didn't know that, not at all. Goodness, that far inland?"
"Rare, but possible. I mean, when they're grown-up, eels just lose the ability to eat, committed to travelling out to breed in the ocean. I don't think lack of determination is an issue for them."
"Does that make them harder to catch?"
Marana's eyes were bright with interest.
"I mean, if they're incapable of eating food, surely they won't go for bait, does that make them harder to catch? I remember hearing an epicure once talk about golden eels, rare, expensive, hard to catch, delicacies..."
Tanner thought for a moment, shivering slightly at the thought of eating an eel.
"They're... actually a little easier to catch. Silver eels, I mean. Silver eels are when they're about to breed - see, they're not going to survive for long, they need to move quickly, so they abandon their nocturnal habits. Yes, they're immune to bait, but it's possible to just... scoop them up out of the water with hand nets. Usually that's... very difficult, I only managed it because their numbers were high enough, they had less room to move."
"And... golden?"
"Never heard of those, I'm afraid. Is there anything...?"
"They're small, if it helps. Harder to catch, slightly transparent..."
Tanner snapped her fingers.
"Oh! Oh, you mean glass eels. Earlier stage in the life cycle. Not sure why he'd want to eat the little things, they're... well, they're just babies. Barely grown up enough to move on their own, honestly. I mean, they've just come in from the sea, exploring riverlands for the first time, they're just curious, and... sorry."
Marana hummed curiously, and moved her hand a little, letting one of the eels slither around it casually, dismissing it a moment later as both inedible and harmless - thus and therefore, nothing more than another obstacle. Tanner enjoyed the feeling of the long, glittering fins rubbing against her skin. They'd be getting ready for an escape attempt, soon enough. Didn't want to waste the night being doted on. But her mood was already improving, she found there was a sharpness to her vision that had slowly faded away since... not sure when, but she felt like the world was standing out clearer than it had in some time.
"You said they go from river to ocean, and ocean to river. I wasn't aware of that."
Tanner found herself grinning.
"Oh, yes, they breed in the ocean, we've no idea where. You know, we still don't know much about them. They just come into the rivers for a brief sojourn, all the important stuff happens far, far away. We've never even caught a pregnant eel, did you know that? Not a single egg. We cut open so many of them, thousands, hundreds of thousands, maybe millions over the course of years, beastly business, but we haven't found one pregnant eel! They're modest, they only do their business when we can't find them. They're... goodness, they're so determined, I could cut the heads off each and every eel in this bucket, turn away, and they'd be slithering back to the river. It's like... you know those stories about the old pilgrims, the ones who'd go on long adventures up to the north?"
Marana nodded silently.
"It feels, sometimes, like we're just side-characters in one of those. We're just temporary hazards. Some of these lovely things will outlive us, they can spend seventy years, seventy, as yellow eels before changing up for breeding season. They swim, and crawl, and climb, and we're just obstacles to them."
Marana smiled very, very slightly.
"Tell me, honoured judge, have you ever read the novels of Sarrows?"
Tanner shook her head after a moment, feeling a slight rush of ignorant shame rush into her cheeks, and-
"You ought to, you might like them. They're set in the fens, the ones closer to the Tulavanta, one of... yes, yes, those little townships near Khunrat. Not from too long ago, part of that whole pastoral redemptionist movement in literature, trying to drag it all back from the dismal realists who thought that writing about ten shades of mud in scientific detail was the pinnacle of art... anyway, he wrote well. Excellent descriptions of mud, reeds, weeds, fish... little castles and manors on isolated points of dry land, surrounded by swamps so strange and deep that the eels crawl upon the land with as much facility as in the water, and people stride out with scythes to rip them from the mud, load them into carts, and send them to these little islands in great squirming piles. The old barrows of old kings, the heads of rock, were used for weirs, and all the novels revolve around discovering a crowned eel, which has managed to dine on the remains of a king. Wonderful novels, plenty of incest."
Tanner blinked. Those books sounded fantastic, until she got to that last point. No idea about the appeal there, but it made the books sound raunchy. Vulgar. She suddenly remembered a little thing, a small story she'd read about in a bestiary. And she told it to Marana in halting, uncertain tones, aware of the sound of her own voice, all the little drawls and drags in it, her accent charted out like the topographical map of some deeply canyon-scarred country. Anyway. The story was this - during winter, eels tend to retreat to the warmth of the mud, where they could stay nice and still and happy. But they still needed to breathe - and so their little black heads protruded from the mud, like tiny berries, and hunters would stalk the frozen fens with hooked spears in hand, hunger flavouring their breath. One group of people, out to the west, thought they were fruits of the underground rivers, little rotten buds that had all sorts of symbolic meanings - and the people in this group were called Packlefens by some, for their fenland home, and their habit of packing their eel-spears in with them when they slept. Anyway, during winter, the eels hid in the mud... but things could make them leave. One village on the Tulavanta, a stilted village which hung above the mud to avoid the variable floods of the great river's branches, spoke of blacktides, where the winter burrows would erupt. The eels would flood outwards, scattering towards the cold water immediately, heedless of the chill. It meant the underground rivers were shifting, contamination was rising. The villagers lived on for years and years, relying on their blacktides to know when to run and when to stay, thus avoiding mutation and ruin. Became well-known for it. Until a local potentate decided to use them as reliable oracles, something to dictate the movement of many more people, marking the blacktides up and down the river instead of in a single place. Had dreams of profit, of reliable settlement, of avoiding mutation, of gaining an edge over his competitors by keeping his workforce intact.
The blacktide came, rushing out... people were moved, villages were abandoned, and the potentate felt proud for having avoided a catastrophe. He let his competitors move into the land, willing to let them squander all their labour and investment...
Nothing happened.
No contamination came out. The eels just left. Like they were burdened with the weight of execptation, and felt the need to remain mysterious. Unwilling to be chained by any kind of prediction, any kind of understanding. Eels were to remain unknown, at all costs. The potentate was ruined, and his people shambled away grumbling to beg for jobs from his competitors, the ones who'd moved into their abandoned houses. Some thought it'd been a small earthquake, enough to frighten the eels away. Some thought it was some mysterious signal, like the ocean had murmured that it was time for an explosive breeding season, and they ought to hot-foot it into the water immediately. A visceral allergy to being reliable, perhaps. Either way, the blacktides were never trusted again, and so long as they were considered peasant superstition which had no bearing on reality, they worked flawlessly. Or, rather, the consequences of failure were so small as to be negligible.
She trailed off, and found Marana was staring directly into her eyes - the evening had long-since died, the night was progressing, the faintest imprint of blue was cresting the horizon like a great wave, flecked with the whiteness of suddenly-illuminated clouds. Marana hummed. Clicked her tongue slightly. Glanced down. Glanced back up. Resumed her stare.
"Goodness. You ought to tell that story to the fellows at the conference. I'm surprised, really. I thought you judges were a mound of legalistic prudes with no sense of imagination. I still think you are, but..."
Tanner bristled slightly.
"It's a career."
"Hm. You know, it's funny - actually, a quick question, do you have a god riding on your back currently? I know that's the fashion in Fidelizh, and-"
Tanner interrupted, flushing slightly.
"Yes. I do. Clambering-Amber-Debutante. You can tell from..."
"The amber, yes, quite. We ought to talk more about that in future. But don't you find it... imprisoning, I suppose? Having a god riding on your back, monitoring and dictating your actions, withdrawing benefits if you don't comply... it's rather like being in some sort of elaborate torture mechanism, no privacy, no internal life, completely focused on the exterior."
Tanner tried to get her thoughts in order, move away from the eels, but... no, speaking of eels, these ones had to go back in the river. She pondered the question as she strode unsteadily over to the railing, bucket churning in her hands, and a second later the smooth, black bodies of the eels were rejoining their kin, ready to snap up whatever food they could before buckling down to weather the sunrise. She thought to herself... no. No, not really. Having a god on her back was nice, restraint was nice. Even here, she felt like she could start doing some damage to the railings, to the decorations, to something. Hell, Marana wouldn't last a second before Tanner picked her up and threw her overboard to join the eels. And the fact that she was capable of having these thoughts, to Tanner, proved exactly why she needed to be restrained. 'Prison' was thrown around like some sort of slanderous term, but Tanner saw it differently - prisons were where you put criminals, dangerous individuals. A zoo was a prison, and she knew full well that there were some terribly rare creatures preserved in them, studied in them. Most of the insights into eels had occurred under conditions of captivity. Is a volatile chemical reaction 'imprisoned' when it's kept under control, limited in its full, explosive potential? Oh, sure, you could get more out of the reaction by letting it run unchained, but you'd also lose a lab and everyone inside it, and maybe more people, if the reaction was especially unpleasant.
She turned, ready to give a deeply righteous lecture on the virtues of law and order, the necessity of a dictating principle to keep things regulated, the importance of restraint in the human psyche, and...
Marana was drinking again. But her eyes never left Tanner's face. Studying her carefully... even as the seconds wore by, and her eyes became more and more glazed, her body more relaxed... the conversation died a quick, unceremonious death. She tried to keep talking, mumbling a little, her accent somehow becoming archer as she became more tipsy. Even managed to churn out one or two aphorisms, but most of them perished before she could finish them. Drunkenness had taken root, and it killed her brain, her thoughts, her wit. Turned her into something which... honestly, appeared ludicrously confident, and yet was quite clearly barely a tenth of the woman Tanner had just talked to, who'd shown interest in her eels, treated her with some kind of respect... honestly, and it was odd, but Tanner had never actually talked about eels with Eygi. Just never came up, beyond the occasional reference which never led anywhere. And here, Marana had engaged her in conversation, didn't ridicule her interests once she realised how important they were, and immediately started giving book recommendations. Even her father hadn't done that. And now the alcohol had killed that person, and left a drooling idiot behind, swimming in her memories and spewing out whatever it could snap up. Tanner sighed internally. She'd have to carry her down below. Wasn't going to trust her on those narrow steps, not with those heels, not with those eyes. She moved quietly, hauling her up, steadying her, ignoring the laughter of the crew. The thump of the engines was in lockstep with her own footfalls as she went downstairs, towards Marana's cabin. A sudden grunt came from the older woman, rather unladylike, and a spark of intelligence returned to those cloudy eyes.
"Hm? Oh, yes, of course, terribly good of you. Apologies, I was parched. Now, you...you should come to the conference."
Tanner blinked, almost dropping her by accident.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I'll allow it, simply because you've done me a favour by taking me downstairs. Terribly good of you, incidentally."
"You said."
Marana thwacked her on the shoulder lightly, a drowsy smile crawling across her face like an elongating slug.
"Now, none of that. You ought to come to the conference. We're holding it in this beastly little hotel, for poetic reasons - most of us are heirs, heiresses, or simply have rich friends, getting out here was never going to be an issue. Regardless, you ought to come. A giant judge with an affectation for eels, oh, there's something very good there."
Tanner wasn't entirely sure she liked being treated like a prized show dog. And anyhow, she'd only known Marana for... what, a day? A drunk encounter, followed by a fairly decent conversation, followed by more drunkenness. Admittedly, it'd only taken a pie and a brief chat for her to latch onto Eygi, but... well, she was more adult now, needed to approach friendships or acquaintances in a more mature manner. Meaning, no tumbling head over heels because someone showed a vague interest in her brain - they were probably just wondering if being so large meant the brain increased in size as well. It did, incidentally. Not sure if it made her smarter, but it definitely felt bigger. So, there was that. She'd find out how useful that little feature was once she had some sort of brain injury and could compare herself to the rest of the medical canon.
"Hm. I doubt I'll have time. But I hope you have a good-"
"Oh, shush. You're coming. My guest. Just for a night - a bit of talking, a bit of drinking. I say conference, it's more of a drinking party with impromptu speeches. Our symposiums are just the little rooms we stagger to in order to drink in like-minded company."
"I don't even know what a surrealist is."
But she knew it sounded dangerous. Marana blinked.
"Well, that makes far too much sense, you're a judge, I imagine you stay far away from the arts. Surrealism, darling, is a form of art which attempts to grasp a higher or more primordial form of reality. To unify reality and dream into a super-reality, something rebellious, truly rebellious. Oh, some people talk about wages and rights and infrastructure and all that boring practical stuff - the only revolution worth doing is in the confines of the human mind, the only shackles which matter are mind-forged, and by breaking them, the shock can ripple outwards to inspire new, unimaginable flourishings of nature and art. Humanity is a fossil, my darling, a fossil buried in the soil, under interminable layers, and we're being crushed into oil, crushed into stone. The only thing, the only noble thing one can do is clear the layers, or content ourselves with becoming oil and nothing else for the rest of time, fit only to burn. Either we climb out of the earth, or we condemn ourselves to oil. That's the choice, and surrealism supports the latter. Well, it believes it's the only choice, and..."
She paused, running out of breath, and gasped slightly.
"Come in, I'll show you."
Before Tanner could protest that this all sounded distinctly weird, Marana was dragging her through the narrow, short door (Tanner barely avoiding bashing her brains out on the frame), into a cramped cabin. Her bag was open on her cot, though her clothes were eerily well-packed - Tanner was actually taking some mental notes on how she'd managed to conserve space, it had a kind of military precision to it all, and... anyway. Not the point. The point, or rather, points were the stack of drawings she had assembled on a tiny, rickety desk - more of a dining tray with legs, honestly, anchored into the wall to stop a storm from turning it into a dead projectile. The drawings... Tanner didn't like them. She didn't like much art, or rather, didn't particularly appreciate it beyond vague aesthetic appeals - a drawing of a flower was nicer than a drawing of a corpse, a happy dog was better than a snarling dog, a tastefully clothed portrait better than a debauched nude, some sort of... pornographic panegyric. These, thankfully, didn't fall into that category, but they swam before her eyes. Stark black-and-white illustrations, composed in delicate strokes of ink, sometimes by pen, sometimes by brush, sometimes by quill, which showed... monstrous things. Things with distorted limbs and bulging eyes, cloaked figures with axe-like heads cavorting madly over strange landscapes. A giant split open at angles which were uncomfortable to look at. A flower which, if looked at from the right angle, seemed to be aligning into a man and woman engaged in...
"Oh."
Marana grinned, looking almost girlish for a moment, age dropping away even as the drunkenness crept back in around her eyes. She focused on Tanner's face with uncanny intensity, like she was trying to anchor the giantess in her vision, resistant to any swaying or swirling.
"You see? It surprises, it alarms. The goal is to strike a chord within man, to shirk the usual aesthetic sensibilities of art in order to provoke more visceral reactions. How often do you see a work of art, and find that it looks like a work of art? Just exactly how 'art' should look in your mind? My movement rebels against that. Or, anyway, used to, I'll see if they've kept the faith at the conference. Art is meant to excite real emotions within the viewer, not simply a placid acceptance of norms and rationalities - these are my eels, Tanner."
A pause.
"...come to think of it, you should tell me more about eels, ideally immediately. Your images are... striking, I want to see if I can get some inspiration. Go on. Talk. Tell me about eels, tell me more, I want to develop some insights before we reach the hotel."
Tanner tore her eyes away from the distressing illustrations. Once more, she wondered if Marana had been around when Krodaw fell. Tanner had been a bit too young to remember it, but... well, she'd said she was the governor's daughter. And even if Tanner was too young, some calamities you didn't remember through the memorial services, or the deliberate invocations, you remembered them through the lingering scars in the eyes of others. Like Krodaw had been some enormous octopus attached doggedly to Mahar Jovan, and it'd been violently torn away - the octopus was gone, but the pucker-marks remained, red and raw, slowly fading but lingering longer than they should. A dampness where the body had clung. A shiver at the feeling of a cold creature wrapped too tightly. A strange hitch to the breath which had, for a time, been more than a little inhibited by crushing tentacles. People had scars from the war, people had neighbours who'd once been auxiliaries, merchants had old goods that smelled faintly of the forest, the train station had 'Krodaw' scratched away from the signs... felt like most people had a parent with one very unpleasantly sweat-stained bit of clothing in their wardrobe, kept around like a holy relic, and never once spoken of. Especially not when the children were around.
She studied Marana.
Marana stared back, her fingers twitching, eyes sometimes wandering for a moment before snapping back.
"Go to sleep."
"I can't sleep, I need you to talk to me about eels."
"No more eels for tonight. Go to sleep, Ms. Marana."
Again, she wished she had a hat, it would be wonderful to tip it right about now. Marana shuffled uneasily, opened her mouth...
Tanner laid a heavy hand on her shoulder, pushed her to the cot, and hummed.
"Goodnight."
"...hrmph."
And the drowsy drunken fool emerged once more, like a breaching whale crashing out of the surf. Her smile became wider. Her eyes were cloudier. And she mumbled a hundred meaningless phrases, included long words she stumbled through on muscle memory... and slowly leant back to stretch languidly over the cot. Tanner was already gone. Back to her own room, where she could actually sleep, just a little. Needed it. Not sure how she felt about Marana - Tanner was quick to like people, and did her best to avoid disliking them strongly. She slowly unbuttoned her blouse, feeling the god sag from her shoulders and vanish into the air. Removed her golden glasses, and saw the room swim slightly, everything a little harsher and sharper. Shivered from head to foot, eager to relax, to get away from people for a moment.
And a moment later, she was scribbling down a quick letter. She'd had a hundred observations tonight, little views on the world which spilled out of her mind too quickly to be of any use. In a flowing river, a single drop of water was borderline useless. So the paper received the deluge, and she wrote, wrote, wrote, getting out everything she could for Eygi. Would need to edit it, of course. They said there was a possibility of getting telegrams at this stopping point, a few days hence. Hoped to send Eygi a little note, just something nice. Definitely wanted advice, though. Definitely. Even if she couldn't receive it, just writing and imagining Eygi reading was enough to instil something in her, a kind of twitching confidence. Could vaguely hear Marana snoring, probably curled around her suitcase like a stuffed toy, her disturbing drawings ready to greet her on waking. Surrealism... eh. Tanner wasn't very artistic, hadn't hurt her none. And all she felt on seeing those drawings was... well, oddness. Interesting, from a certain angle, but it wasn't going to stop her turning into a puddle of oil or whatever Marana had been talking about.
There was something of the Golden Law in it, though. The idea of something self-evident and perfect, that just emanated through the minds of the people it affected. Hm. Might be something there.
Either way.
She had writing to do. And once she had the tiniest drop of citrinitas added to a glass of water, she'd have just enough energy to do a good job.
***
And almost a week later, full of days of idle conversation and very little else, the hotel came close. The land here was more rugged, more wild. There was a... demilitarised quality to it, hints where military equipment had sat until barely any time ago. The ground didn't move like it should, it was carved up by forces long-gone, the scars barely healed over by stringy, grey grass. Sometimes, they passed a crater, bored deep into the earth and gradually transforming into a small lake, a deep, deep pond too young for life to take root in it quite yet. The grass looked hesitant and provisional, the trees more so, like they weren't quite sure if they were welcome, and would happily vacate the premises if required to. They were here just until their contracts expired, that was all. They were coming closer to the war-front, to the place where the middle-kingdoms, like Fidelizh, Mahar Jovan, Tuz-Drakkat, Apo and so on, had held back the mutant horde and launched the first provisionary expeditions northwards. it wasn't quite a front line - but it was a place where fighting had happened, and where machines had needed to go. She'd heard rumours of the war machines, but most of them had just been left in the field, cannibalised for parts and left to rot - there were no roads home, and looking at the chaotic, jagged landscape before her, she could easily see why operators of decaying engines might just abandon them completely. Heading out would be bad enough - heading back, through the churned mud and detonated hills, the innumerable deep pools and the risk of land collapsing into the river, that was something else entirely
Sometimes, she even saw a piece of rusting metal. Sometimes intact... but usually erupted, malformed, half-melted and allowed to set into some abstract sculpture, something out of Marana's illustrations. A tattered flag hanging from a rotten banner. The bones of a horse half-embedded in the riverside, slowly being swallowed by the mud. Could even see the half-decayed remnants of a gas mask, a funeral shroud for the elongated skull of the poor beast. Tanner peered, and thought she could see the clever black eyes of an eel glinting within the depths of the ribcage, a nice little sheltered burrow soothing its strained muscles after the night's exertions. No sign of humans. Surprised anyone could settle here, when even nature was still giving it a wide berth until things were calmer. But apparently, apparently, there was enough settlement for a surrealist conference. Then again, there was something bizarre about this place, maybe that appealed in some sense. Marana responded to the question with unusual curtness:
"A hotel in the middle of nowhere is wonderful. They dote on you, and you can rent the whole place for a song and a handful of pennies. Simple."
When asked about the symbolism, she gave Tanner a wry look.
"Symbols are systems, systems are controlling. No, we rebel against symbols, and... goodness, it's bright this morning, isn't it?"
It wasn't. But she was hungover.
A small, mean settlement stood near the river, with just enough infrastructure to be functional. It was odd - had permanent structures, proper roads, all that business. It just lacked people. Like it was being set up as an administrative formality, and most people had a healthy distrust of the churned landscape. All the buildings were handsome and fresh, most of them made of wood, some of stone, all painted the same uniform shades of blinding white and rich, dark green - planes of the former, and stripes of the latter. Too fresh for mud to have stained it one little bit. The town hall had a dome and a spire, but the flag of Mahar Jovan hung limp on its pole, unwilling to move in the still air. The ship came to a gradual halt at a long dock, comically so - there was nothing but a tiny cluster of fishing boats, certainly nothing to warrant the long pier. The captain snorted with laughter to herself as a lonely official started to jog down the dock, emerging from his office like a mole from a burrow. Everything here seemed ecclesiastical, in some way - the same sterile perfection, the same lingering coldness, the same sense of an individual human not necessarily being welcome. A congregation, maybe, but a single, profane individual talking and walking and being unworshipful... it was a church, but she wasn't sure what it was praying to, or how one was meant to worship. The dock official didn't seem to know either, and he pulled his thick, blue coat around himself like a blanket, glancing around nervously, his voice low and quiet.
He spoke of nothing but business. No personal matters, no inquiries to health. Yes, there was a telegram cable, it went to an old military base a few miles away and they rode back and forth every few days - just something to do, presumably. Yes, there were people in the 'hotel' - the official proudly proclaimed that it was the only original structure in the place. Originally, the settlement had been a real, actual place, but it'd been abandoned during the war, and had been rebuilt in a grand new style - all but the hotel, which was simply refurbished. Grand enough already, apparently. He did all the right moves - he hummed and hawed over forms, he stared at the sky for long periods when asked about the future weather, he goggled at Tanner's height, he tipped his hat with every other word, and he generally contented himself with simply talking. Tanner could see his little office in the distance - very small indeed, and with a tiny snail-trail of smoke easing out of its brick chimney, like it was embarrassed to be clouding the sky at all. The day was wearing on, and the captain dragged him down to the office to have a chat about certain things, mostly on the subject of maps. Not a single other person had emerged during the interim, not a single shadow. The settlement...
Now, she knew there was proper term. Village, town, hamlet. That sort of thing. 'Colony', perhaps. But... settlement felt right. A settlement could mean a small collection of dwellings, or it could mean a legal agreement reached as the disappointing conclusion to a case - Tanner disliked settlements, there was an air of resignation to them, a desire to escape the firmness of a proper judgement. And this place felt like that. A legal arrangement which might, indeed, violate the law, and postponed a proper, organic, virtuous judgement. This place existed on paper... but nowhere else. The shops were shuttered and dark, only some of the houses had smoke coming from their chimneys, and the broadness of the streets - designed for quite some traffic - only seemed to make pedestrians feel unwelcome. This place wasn't designed for you, it was designed for the great tides of the invisible many. And until they arrived, and you had the fortune to join their number...
You were squatting.
Marana shot Tanner a polite smile as the crew stumped down the gangplank to see if there was anything worth doing around here.
"Well? Conference?"
"I... really can't."
Marana shot her a look, and Tanner was uncomfortably reminded of the fact that drunk Marana and sober Marana were quite different people. Sober Marana was much smarter, for one. And much more driven. Her hand snapped around, latching like a vice around Tanner's arm, hard enough to almost hurt.
"Come on."
Tanner hesitated. Could probably pull away easily enough. She had the requisite strength, and-
Marana was moving her...
And awkwardness drove her to obey.
"I... do have other things, I-"
"No, you don't."
The words were one thing, the look was another. Just... withering.
Evidently being a governor's daughter had given her some skills when it came to ordering people around.
Because Tanner felt, utterly and irrevocably, that going to this silly conference was expected of her. And if she remained on the boat, guilt would churn in her gut like a mound of tapeworms, and she'd find herself unable to sleep, drink, eat, enjoy herself... the broad white streets of the settlement widened to greet them, and the idea of breaking away to wander alone felt as alien as... as trying to breathe underwater. Leaving Marana now wouldn't just be rude - it'd be stupid, it'd made her a stupid person, and she would be regarded as a stupid person for the rest of time.
Marana, in short, was a one-woman peer pressure engine, and Tanner had given way in less than a second.
The hotel was a grim old place, and there were bullet holes in the holes where cowards had been caught in the darker days of the war. It had an aura of grandeur about it which lingered, despite everything else - more of a ghost, really, hovering around even as the substance slowly faded. The reflection in a pond which refused to move on even after the person casting it had shuffled onwards to other things, or perhaps nowhere at all. Five stories of it, sprawling wide and flat across the slightly odd landscape - already, Tanner could see how it had an obstructed view of the rolling moor and the river, at night the water would turn silver, the moors would moan with wind, and the whole thing probably felt like being on the edge of the civilised world. Beyond here, there was nothing but fen and marsh, the great sagging depression of the Tulavanta, where rivers were as changeable as wandering stars, and spilled freely over the blue-grey grass, which bridged the gap between weed and reed. The rolling infinity of the former, the sturdy endurance of the latter. She could see faint pale patches, too - patches were contamination had seeped a little, just a little, enough for the shallow roots to take it up and mutate the plant. The grass there would be thicker, stronger, less uniform... and as sterile as if you'd doused it with a flamethrower. Mutation made it stronger, but it also made it too complex, too varied, too... scrambled.
A piebald landscape of grass, and a shimmering ribbon of silver. Hm, alright, she could see why people would come here to holiday. Briefly. This was the sort of hotel that developed a reputation. Felt that way, at least.
The interior preserved the sense of ghostly grandeur. An unnecessarily large lobby, with a wide stone foyer covered in wooden racks for mud-stained boots and soaked umbrellas - this was a place for hiking, not reclining. Indeed, they had to walk through a veritable army of boot-scrapers before they could get to the front desk, which was... unmanned. The lobby was one of those types which extended upwards towards the roof, and the entire building felt more like a tower, with rooms arranged on tiers facing out into the central, empty space. Their footsteps echoed loudly on the stone floors, and carpets were rolled up and stashed along the walls like the scrolls of an antique library, their threadbare patterns looming mournfully at the guests. Out of season. The broad dark desk, empty save for a large ledger, was utterly abandoned. Not even a bell to summon someone. The ledger, Tanner was interested to note, was turned to a page from... a very, very long time ago. Almost near the beginning of the book, years back. Every name was punctuated with a rank - private, colonel, corporal, captain, sergeant, condensed down to little abbreviations that made them seem like the scientific names of obscure species. Ah, yes, Sgt. Wilks, a subspecies of Sgt, also represented by Sgt. Balod.
Her thoughts trailed off as Marana idly flipped through the ledger for a moment, passing from row upon row upon row of soldierly names to... well, fewer and fewer, spaced further and further apart, gradually losing their ranks, until eventually... blank spaces. For page upon page upon page upon page. Tanner glanced around with a childish nervousness building up in her. This was the point in the theatrophone play where Marana would turn a page, and it'd be their names staring back at them, dated to today, registering a stay of indefinite length.
She flipped.
"Oh, there they are."
Marana's voice was infuriatingly mild. Well, there was... not names, not exactly, but just a series of handprints on the final page. Like the sort of thing a child did while learning to paint. Well, if a child had adult-sized hands. And vandalised ledgers. Tanner could feel her law-nose twitching - the law-nose, incidentally, was a specialised organ that only judges of the Golden Door could develop, located somewhere around the righteousness gland - for she could detect something amiss. Should've known that a bunch of surrealists would get her law-nose all flared and whatnot, the first thing she'd seen a surrealist do was engage in public intoxication, be related to the person who'd corrupted Algi to the ways of nonsense, and dribble wine-vomit over her cot. Thus far, her opinion of surrealists, legally speaking, was somewhere between dim and gloaming.
"Why would they mark their arrival this way? This just inconveniences anyone else who comes along."
Marana looked askance at her.
"Oh?"
Tanner felt her face warming, but her righteousness gland was pulsing, it was. Pulsating and excreting all sorts of zealous hormones. The iron grip of legalese was wrapping itself around the righteousness gland and milking it for all its inspiring juice.
She... she shouldn't be allowed to think. She clearly lacked the qualifications.
"I mean, it's... just inconvenient. Not vandalism, but it demonstrates a casual disregard for the comfort of others. If the hotel decided to complain about it, they'd have grounds to regard it as a nuisance. Depending on their policies, they'd be perfectly justified in expelling them."
"Tanner, these are handprints."
"It's the principle of the thing."
Marana blinked languidly, her face almost becoming motherly - reminded Tanner of some of the older judges, who could just wither people with a single glance.
"...last night, you were talking poetically about the symbolism of eels. Now, you're talking about the nuisance a bunch of inky handprints have caused. Do you... realise why this might be catching me slightly off-guard, my very large countrywoman?"
Tanner huffed.
"I keep work and pleasure separate."
"We're at a surrealist conference. Most of us barely know what work is. I mean, we're not factory workers, or farmers, or soldiers, and according to my father that means I've never worked a day in my life. So, I assume this is pleasure. Go on, get back in your eel mood, you're much more fun when you're like that."
"You've known me for a few days. And you've been drunk for most of them."
Marana's look turned to a look.
"And?"
Tanner opened her mouth.
Closed it.
"Never mind."
"And there we go."
Marana maintained rigid eye-contact as she fumbled for a hitherto hidden ink pad, continuing to look right into Tanner's eyes as she clumsily unclasped it, pressed her palm down, and added her own sodden handprint to the collection on the final page. Fantastic, looked even more like some crowd of unreasonably large children had decided to deface something. Tanner bit her lip with barely-suppressed irritation. Nonsense. Stuff and nonsense. Judges, now, judges were normal, they didn't do this sort of thing, they obeyed the rules, listened to what was expected of them, had purpose. Didn't squat in empty hotels and deface ledgers. Was she getting a bit too worked up about this? Conceivably, conceivably. She was nervous, this was nowhere close to her home ground, and... well, acting as one should, almost to the point of caricature, helped. Indeed, the further away it got from reasonable reality, the easier it was to get lost in the role. The human mind was a moth, and authentic self was a consuming flame. Better to conjure up some deeply fantastical will-o-the-wisp which had no substance, no heat, nothing to it but a luring light which could lead the moth away. It'd never find its beloved flame, but it'd live. A mind locked into the right paths couldn't spin off-course and crash.
Anyway.
She followed Marana silently upstairs - only stairs, there were none of those newfangled elevating devices she'd heard about. The hotel was stained inside and out with age, and the walls seemed to ooze with mildew, layer upon layer of wallpaper and plaster used to protect against the advance of damp. The ceilings were covered with cheap stucco, sculpted into twisting flowers. Poorly sculpted, catching the dim dust-flecked light poorly, so they looked like deformed faces leering downwards at any visitors. The carpeting was brown as tobacco or horse-hide, and thick enough that each step left behind shiny footprints which resisted fading. Tanner imagined some beleaguered, bored maid scuttling through the hallways at night, straightening each individual hair until the immaculate brown was restored. How many soldiers had marched through here? A few of the rooms had open doors, anything to keep things aired out, and Tanner saw firm beds, slightly cloudy windows, and amateurish paintings of fruit baskets and handsome buildings. As they walked, they passed one truly surreal sight - a shoe rack. Just a shoe rack, the sort that was in the foyer. But it was stuffed with footwear, almost straining under the weight. Tall, military-style boots, scarred where the marches had been harsh on them. Sturdy hiking shoes with hobnail soles. Glittering black dress shoes, laces still stiff where they'd been tied with atomic precision. Small pumps, delicate high-heels... rarely did any shoe have a partner, most of them were solitary and lost-looking. And each and every one was polished to a mirror sheen, layers of polish thick enough to scrape off with an outstretched nail, and when Marana prodded one of the brown brogues, her finger came away ruddy, and cracks formed all over the waxy surface.
At the very top of the heap were two pairs of shoes, two of the only pairs which had a partner. A man's set of brown calfskin boots, and a lady's pair of high-heeled shoes that glittered slightly in the dim dusty light. Marana stared at them for a moment. Tanner stared too.
Maybe they were just placed there randomly, but... she imagined a pair of giggling lovers stumbling into a room, kicking their shoes off, leaving them outside for cleaning, and...
Then what?
How old were they?
Were they soldiers on leave? Some of the last civilians? Or were they older still, back when this was a functional hotel?
Were these lovers still here, in some way? Maybe they'd run into a man and a woman hopping barefoot down the hall, or...
They moved on. There were noises from one of the floors, and Tanner followed Marana hesitantly, drawn in by the low, low hum of conversation - a combination of bassy rumbles punctuated by the occasional chittering laugh. The floor where this was happening was... well... you could tell there was a party going on. Carts had been hauled here, heavy carts laden with trays that might've once contained food... and drink. Marana hummed in curiosity, and withdrew a little something from her bag. Ah. It was the milk crate that'd been filled with wine back in Mahar Jovan, and had gradually dwindled into nothingness as the days wore on. She unfolded the wooden thing, and her eyes gleamed eagerly as she looked around for... there. A cart with intact wine bottles. Immediately, she was poring over them, even as the sound of conversation rose nearby. Her fingers danced over the wine labels like they were holy texts, and she hummed, clicked her tongue, bit the inside of her cheek... mumbled incomprehensible things about terroir and vintage and good years and bad years and storage quality. One by one, she slid them out, before adding them to her little collection. Six bottles, in total. Six. The woman couldn't stand to go a day without a glass of something, apparently, and-
Oh, gods.
She had a second folding milk crate.
Tanner wished there was a law against excessive drinking, just so she could smack them away with a tut and a tsk. But... no, no, prohibition wasn't part of the golden law. They'd had some fights about that, generations ago, undermined by the fact that no-one wanted to be around the sober judges for longer than a few minutes. A sober judge was like a cat with fleas - looked nice at a distance, did all the things a cat did, but then you got close and suddenly remembered you had somewhere else to be. Anyway. She hummed disapprovingly, and Marana shot her a vixen-like smile.
"Oh, don't be a grouch, it makes you wrinkle with unseemly rapidity. Do you want your face to look like a turkey's wattle?"
"Hmph. I recommend asking for permission to take those bottles."
Marana sniffed the air suddenly, and her smile widened.
"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that, I think they've moved on from the wine. Anyhow, it's abandoned. I'm not plucking wine bottles..."
She plucked another wine bottle, adding it to her little clinking collection.
"I'm salvaging detritus. What's the law on salvage?"
"Salvage is maritime. You're claiming abandoned property with the assumption that you're part of the party which claimed it, thus extending ownership to you as well. However, you're relying on assumptions, rather than explicit statements. Theft is the dishonest appropriation of property belonging to another with the intention to permanently deprive - it could be argued that you're acting dishonestly by claiming these wine bottles, especially if you're turned away from this conference, or it emerges that these bottles aren't owned by the conference at all."
Marana looked at her like she'd just started dribbling wildly - mixture of disgust, pity, worry, and mild annoyance. Perhaps a little amusement.
"Well, I ought to make sure then, shouldn't I?"
"You'd better. It's always good to be careful."
"Do you have a beau, Tanner? Satisfy an old woman's curiosity."
Tanner's jaw tightened, and she didn't dignify her with an answer. Marana hummed happily as she walked away, the smile making her face seem ludicrously young for a moment. Just a moment. Then Tanner saw the thick blue veins clustering along her hands, and the mottled calluses from years of drawing, the shape of her pens worn permanently into her flesh. Scars of exertion. Tanner followed. Marana knocked at a sturdy door. There was a sudden stilling of the conversation, during which Marana hid her plundered bottles behind a corner, ready for later retrieval. Tanner clenched her fists, eager to make sure Marana held by her legal duty to make sure she was entitled to claim these objects - Tanner had observed enough to make a judgement, and she was almost tempted to do so, just to do something. Dishonesty... she twitched at some of the buttons running up and down the black sleeves of her blouse like prayer beads, reminding herself. Dishonesty - difficult to define reliably, flexibility often necessary. Broadly, though, dishonesty meant appropriating property while aware that it was unlawful, believed that the property would not be granted to them by the owner if the owner was aware of it being taken (including contextual circumstances), or obtained abandoned property while aware of who it belonged to, or how to discover them by taking reasonable steps. Marana was aware the bottles belonged to either the hotel or the conference - if she made efforts to clarify this, she wasn't dishonest, and would be considered to have been mistaken, easily rectified by returning the property.
A malicious thought suddenly bubbled in her mind. What would happen if Marana drank some of the wine? Now, legally, she'd have consumed the property, meaning destroyed it, stolen it, prevented restoration. But... hm, if she'd only had it a minute ago, she wouldn't have digested it very well, and could be compelled to vomit it all up, then she'd just have vandalised property by including chunks of her breakfast in the wine, and possibly damaging its quality in the process. But if the hotel was currently hosting a emetophiliac sommelier, then things could be worked out rather elegantly.
...this wasn't going in her next letter to Eygi. Tanner had limits.
Without any further ceremony, Marana pushed the door open, summoned by a vaguely querying cry. The door swung... and a wave of smoke blasted out, sinking rapidly to the ground, covering Tanner from foot to chest - her head, almost comically, poked above the heavy cloud and blinked confusedly. Inside... well. Well. There was a crowd of maybe a dozen people crammed into a room only slightly larger than the others, barely fitting them. They didn't seem to mind, of course. No beds, only couches, drawn together for people to sprawl on. Some lay on the couches, sharing them with others, others lounged on the floor and used the couches as cushions, others were slumped against the walls like idling passengers at a train station. The couch-bound ones were practically comatose. The floor-bound ones had a slight jitter to them, an uncomfortable shifting which said they knew they were close to real comfort and were eager to taste it. And the wall-bound ones were simply irritable, concealing it in a haze of booze and smoke. Some had fat, Fidelizhi-style cheroots stuffed between their lips, but most were taking samples from an ominous glass monolith in the middle of the room, filled with smoke that seemed to shimmer unpleasantly. At the base of the monolith, which almost came up to Tanner's chin, there was a compacted mass of stuff, unrecognisable and dark. Tanner hesitated.
Blinked.
And covered her mouth. While Marana dove right in, kicking her shoes off as she went, and dragging Tanner with her.
The surrealists all blinked in unison as the giantess entered.
They were an odd bunch. Tanner was feeling a whole series of subtle anti-lawfulness detectors flaring in her skin, prickling like goosebumps. A mixture of men and women, most of them slightly fleshy in the sense of the aged debauchee, their skin swollen with wine, their lips a little irritated by the smoke, their eyes squinting just a little. They were starting to sag. And yet, they'd managed to bind themselves up with fashion, and high fashion at that, combined with a degree of artistic intensity she'd never been subjected to in this sort of quantity. They sprawled in ways that made Tanner feel uncomfortable - their suits and dresses were too good for that sort of thing, they should be sitting primly, not propping their feet up and rumpling all that expensive fabric, ruining it with malodorous miasma. She placed her hands over her stomach as she usually did, crossing them protectively... before switching them to her back, forming a military-style lock which helped stiffen her back and broaden her shoulders. Gave her a more intimidating mien, in her mind. The surrealists barely reacted.
One of them spoke, a cadaverous woman with high cheekbones, red lips, and hair cut into a fashionable bob that ended in little swirls along her hairline, like inverted shark fins. Her dress was amber and glittery, swooping down to her... oh, oh, to her knees. Her knees? Tanner could see her knees, how...
How scandalous. She thought knees were a wedding-night surprise, not something you flashed to every giantess who strode into your hotel room unannounced.
"Ah... yes, it's the governor's daughter, isn't it?"
Marana grinned.
"Go and perform some mutilating performance art, darling, if you'd be so kind. I hear there's a fondness for doing the breast-stroke in pools of razor blades at the moment, it highlights industrialisation. Ought to give it a go."
The woman sniffed, and took a huff of the monolith's smoke from a long, rubber hose. A man next to her, bald, with protruding ears and sunken eyes, smiled wanly.
"Lovely to see you too, Marana. Love the giantess."
Tanner grimaced.
"Good evening."
She shot Marana a look, and Marana laughed lightly behind her hand.
"Oh, yes, may I ask - the wine bottles in the hallway, are they ours?"
A general chorus of acceptance, and Marana shot Tanner a look which screamed 'there, you excessively judgemental juggernaut'. Tanner hummed. Well, that was... nice. Good. No theft involved. Marana was nudging someone aside so she could perch archly on the arm of a couch, one leg over the other. Tanner stood around awkwardly before she managed to shuffle to the side, to a corner where no-one was nearby. The door closed. And the smoke continued to accumulate. The surrealists talked... well, they didn't often talk in languages she understood. Some of them seemed to be from very foreign parts, and insisted on speaking in their own languages, which Marana was often able to answer back to in like fashion, her accent resolutely remaining cut-glass and aristocratic. What Tanner could catch was... odd. They switched quickly from high-minded philosophical discussions which involved convoluted terminology, meandering metaphors, and references that clambered atop one another until it formed an incomprehensible mountain... before immediately and rapidly clicking into low-grade gossip, talking about scandals, most of them fleshy. Artists with perverse tastes. A woman with hair drawn up so tightly that her entire face was slightly stretched talked about being buried alive as part of an experiment to 'awaken her unconscious animus' - a rite conducted on the grounds of a friend's estate. The bald man with protruding ears, who crouched on his couch like one of Mahar Jovan's sacred gargoyles, rambled slightly about his latest bout of work, where he took mutant corpses in formaldehyde and presented them in a public square without warning - to show people what they were missing, the danger, the vitality of conflict that had sustained civilisation and yet was kept distant, like a necessary groundskeeper who was nonetheless never allowed into the house.
Tanner had felt herself paling when he laughingly talked about the moment when one of the cases had almost cracked.
There was a man nearby Tanner, and she found herself paying more attention to him. He was tall, though not as tall as her, and had a slow, reptilian look to him, like he was slowly warming some internal source of power before he dared to do anything. Young, just a bit older than herself, and dressed all in black, save for the stark whiteness of a high-collared shirt, and the glittering of a heavy golden signet ring. His face would've been handsome, if it wasn't for his downturned, sallow lips that reminded her of unbaked dough being pounded out into a long roll, and his pale face which was blotched with little eruptions of redness here and there, and which had the clawed look of hasty shaving - his neck moved rarely, as if the skin making contact with his collar irritated him. He stood limply against the wall, one leg down on the ground, the other raised at a right angle behind it, crossing over around the knee. Sometimes, she noted, he switched the leg - only exerting one at a time. He glanced at her, his eyes wide and slightly flat, possessed of a singular dullness that made her wonder if anything was happening inside that flaxen-haired head of his.
He moved a little closer, the others in the room lapsing into yet another foreign language - Tanner couldn't say much for the surrealists, but they were startlingly well-spoken. Most of them, at least.
The man spoke.
"You look a little out of place here. If you'll pardon me saying so."
Tanner looked down at him, hands still behind her back.
"Hm."
"Judge?"
Her face was flat, and she strengthened the grip on her own hands.
"You can tell?"
"You've got that look of permanent disapproval on your face, and you keep examining people like you might need to pick them out in a courthouse soon enough. I've met enough judges, they tend to look similar in situations like this."
She tilted her head slightly, tightening her jaw.
"Well-observed. Sorry, I don't mean to be curt. I'm travelling with Ms. Marana here, and she invited me in to... have a look around."
The young man smiled slightly, his dough-like lips stretching a little further than was seemly.
"Having fun, yet?"
"I'm just here to observe, really."
"Fair enough, the party's been at a bit of a low ebb since we... well, we do workshops, see. You found us in the middle of a rest period, none of us are really performing at our best. Give us time, we'll get back into it."
"Workshops?"
"Go out into the wilderness, put on gas masks, lug rifles, and do things. We take boats, when we can. Head upriver to have a look at other things. We arrived just four days ago. First day, we arrived, dropped our bags off, then headed out into the wilderness to go and build a fire. Took some of this... interesting substance from the south, then tried to stay in the river as long as we could in our skivvies, before running off to the fire to dance around it in the nude, just to stop us catching frostbite. You should've been there, was exhilarating."
Tanner looked at him like he was about to start drooling and biting things. Which he very well might be, it was unhealthy to be in a river like that in one's undergarments.
"I see."
The dough-lipped man smiled faintly, and Tanner tried to not imagine him naked around a fire.
"Well, it's just something to do. The goal is more to slowly break down the mind through intense experiences and juxtapositions. The more we oscillate, the easier it is to break down and reach that state of automatic production which... well, you can read our literature if you like, but it's all for a purpose. Hot, cold, they're just arbitrary sensations forced onto skin, people perceive them very differently depending on what they're used to. Switch back and forth, back and forth, the body numbs and just becomes insensate, it doesn't know what it wants, so it gives up, and suddenly... clarity of thought. Nice place, isn't it? The hotel, I mean."
She barely had a moment to blink before he soldiered on.
"I mean, hotels always have a quality of the liminal, they're for us, but never for us, they're all the structures of home compressed in a fashion which is undeniably alien. You know, I usually sleep naked - helps my circulation, excellent on warm nights, encourages a fuller appreciation of the human experience - but in hotels, I simply can't manage it. I have to wear a full suit in bed. Can't abide the idea of being surrounded, exposed, in that little cocoon of constructed domesticity. I mean, the domestic is an environment which allows for the structuring of thought - as we know, most sages tend to be homeless for a reason, or at least rootless - but if you work hard enough, you can turn your home into a kind of self-mobilised dictator of thought, something which violates the usual hierarchies of space and arrangement in order to make the world more real, or at least, experienced in a more real fashion. I mean, why should a kitchen have a table? Or chairs? I eat on the floor, I lounge around on the stone and exclusively take my soup from fine champagne flutes - soup has to be cold, of course, or the flutes crack open in your hands, very painful."
He came to a sudden stop, mouth snapping like a bear-trap, and he looked up at Tanner with those flat, thoughtless eyes. Tanner looked down at him. Scrambled for thoughts, for anything. Her mind was whirling in odd directions now, everything hazy due to the smoke from the monolith. She wasn't nervous, really, just... slightly annoyed. She knew how conversations worked. She'd observed them often enough, studied them, made little templates in her mind of the rhythm, the tempo, the tone. Conversation was a vital skill, so she tried to develop it. And she knew that conversations didn't work this way.
Still.
Wait. Memory. One she had filed in a deep, dark drawer in her memory room, but once she touched the handle, it slithered outwards in a puddle of silk stitched with stars, and the feeling of the differing textures woke up the right ideas. Algi in the kaff, years and years ago, when he was still studying. An awkward lunch where Eygi hadn't been there to mediate and moderate. Her voice was low, and she kept it to the cadence of a judge - the stately rhythm, the clear pronunciations, the avoidance of weasel words.
"I heard about one philosopher who thought something similar. I can't remember the name, but... he was talking about public dining, and about how public dining is... non-civility, how you surrender autonomy when you go inside, stop engaging with our own environments, talking about hotels reminded me of-"
"Oh, yes, I've heard of him. Fusty old fruit, ghastly little reactionary."
He waved her off, silencing her for good.
"Anyway, I was finished with that. The point is, liminality, the ambiguity of the space. Regardless. I find that it allows for an awakening of the mind to higher ideas - you're uncomfortable, aware of where lines of acceptability and unacceptability, familiar and foreign are blending and fusing, the division easier to see than ever, and easier to bypass... and it allows for a certain work. Why, we've been doing these wonderful workshops where we simply... well, breaking divisions is such a vital aspect of our work, if one doesn't break them down, how can one possibly cut through the layers of rite and tradition and law which otherwise confine us so completely? Don't you think that, sometimes? I mean, here you are, surrounded by surrealists in the process of unbinding their minds from conventional reality through explorations of the liminal, and here you are in your black dress with your little golden glasses, judging us - and I can definitely see you doing it, I don't dislike you for it, of course. But surely you can see how this makes you seem rather mad, by comparison? Honestly, this might make the good subject for a little drawing, if it weren't overdone as a concept - once you fully immure someone in the revolution, it stops being a revolution, and you have to remain cutting edge, avant-garde. If we'd met a few decades ago, there might've been something."
Tanner had no contribution to this. Well, beyond a vague bellow of 'how do you pay to do this?' and 'oh, make fun of my glasses, well, I'd like to see you pass even one of the dozen or so exams I had to get through, so there, my exams give me height of a proverbial nature, in combination to the literal! Ho ho!'
A bit mean.
Then again, she was a judge. She judged things. Ask her about the law, or about eels, she was your woman. This felt like a lecture, and one she wasn't really the right audience for. It felt like he was lecturing to someone who might not actually exist. Honestly, the closest she came to philosophy was some of the higher-minded legalistic principles, which largely talked about perfect law as an idealised state, and the idea of the law acting as a kind of... alchemy, that shifted bare, unadorned, uninspiring barbarian life to good life, characterised by contentment, confidence in where one is, where one was, where one is going, and where others fit into the same pattern. And those weren't really for debating, they were just core principles which validated expounding the law as something more than a mechanism. And this dough-lipped chap was talking incessantly about... breaking down boundaries, deconstructing thought, unleashing some inner primordial self.
She looked down at him, and hummed. Nothing to add. Nothing to subtract. Let him ramble, because she had no way of engaging. She started tuning him out, only vaguely listening to his ramblings about liminal spaces, and the strange activities they'd gotten up to here. She was heading up north to make sure a settlement was being run correctly, she had practical concerns. Sure, it was nice to sit around here and get drunk and dance naked around a fire, but some people had work in the morning. She managed to ignore him slightly for a while... but he snapped her back, maybe twenty minutes later, with a pointed question.
"...and I mean, it's not like your lot is going to last for long, but I-"
Tanner blinked, a little spark of defence lighting up in her stomach.
"I'm sorry?"
"...I said your lot aren't going to last for long."
"Aren't we?"
"Of course not. The fundamental structures of society are breaking down. People are unmoored, divorced from any kind of meaning. I feel, sometimes, as though most people just walk around in a dead-eyed haze, unaware of the world, no voice in their heads, just blind acceptance of everything around them before someone lowers a bolt-gun and puts a little spike in their brains to turn them off for good. I mean, I feel as though we might've lost touch with our living values, and if we can't get in touch with those, we're not really living, not truly, not in a self-realised, self-actualised, self-aware fashion, and how can we contribute to a meaningful higher order of thought, possessed of a proper solar link to a kind of higher conception, becoming absolute individuals if we're the equivalent of... intellectual creeps, posing as it without-"
"What's your name?"
"Oh? Didn't I say? My apologies, I'm Ape."
"What?"
"Ape. I reject conventional names. Chains of thought. Mind-forged manacles. No, I aspire to apes, they seem much more content, more in-tune with living values and higher orders - they grow from psychic and spiritual soil of a richer quality. Names are just instruments of control and differentiation, they bind us to an in-group which prevents us from engaging with higher, ultimately pan-cultural truths."
He seemed rather proud of this. Tanner rather wanted to leave. She didn't feel like she had anything to offer this place, and wasn't sure if she wanted it to offer her anything.
Marana was lounging, smoking from the glass monolith, talking rapidly to a woman who was wearing a nightgown, a single very long black silk glove, and nothing else. No idea what was going on there, but she was starting to feel as if this place was fundamentally incompatible. She started tuning Ape out once he started talking about how he saw his art (which mostly consisted of abstract painting) was meant to allow for a widening of the human mind to see to a state of ultimate reality, and he was just trying to harmonise sight, sound, smell, and taste until he could really invoke a violent reaction from his subjects. Again, how did he pay to do this? Did artists just vomit money at random intervals? Did they somehow wind up immune to rent or medical costs? How could they concentrate when they were perpetually aware of how poor they were, how close to catastrophe? Oh, sure, a job was a restraint, a binding, a thing which imprisoned them, but guess what, a diving bell was a prison, didn't see the people inside complaining!
Settle down, settle down. It helped no-one to get angry.
Tanner tried to tune into what Marana was talking about, and... hm. They were talking about the infinite variety of groups the two had engaged with at some point in the past - student societies, reformed salons, the occasional cult or esoteric group, a union of mediums, various artists and their students, a reading group at a small restaurant... all sorts of little meetings and arrangements, and Tanner found herself wondering, strangely, how they managed to find the time for it. If, say, they went to one of these restaurants in order to engage in discussion, and no ideas came to them, the discussion trailed off, did they just... eat in silence? What happened if feuds broke out? How did they get schedules to align, and if they were all poor, unemployed artists, how did they afford to dine out so consistently? For a proper meeting, they'd need to reserve a table, probably order drinks regularly to stay in the good graces of the owner, just thinking about the splitting of the bill was giving her a mental hernia...
Well, in the case of feuds, presumably it led to the founding of another group entirely, no idea on the other stuff. But there were other things, things she just... how could someone just have a salon? A place where, what, you just talked about things, showed some things off? Who provided the food? Who cleaned up? Was anyone sending out questionnaires on allergies and preferences? What if one of the artists only ate lobster out of a philosophical commitment?! She just... struggled to think of the basic administration, and the sense of mystique. To her, the last time she'd felt a real air of the mystical and divine was in that tunnel underneath the inner temple, where she'd had her cheeks painted with ash. There'd been something real in that, something... hard to describe. A part of her just found it hard to imagine recreating that sense of the mystic every couple of days at a different meeting. People couldn't just talk deeply all the time, surely there were periods where no-one was saying much at all, and when moments like that happened, did they ever think the joke was going a bit too far, and they'd committed too much? Put simply, she couldn't imagine them talking about the weather. And talking about the weather had saved her life on a hundred occasions, so she had no idea how these people functioned.
And she felt like talking about any of this would make her look like an idiot who'd wildly missed the point.
A voice suddenly spoke, and for once, it wasn't Ape droning on about how he was going to marry a lobster to prove how much he was transcending boundaries and taboos. A part of her wondered, idly, if he was attracted to her. No-one else was talking to him, and he was thrusting his surrealist credentials at her like they were a well-ornamented codpiece. No, would be narcissistic to assume... anyway. She gladly turned away to see who was speaking.
The cadaverous woman from earlier, with the short bob haircut that was practically plastered to her scalp, and the slinky amber dress. Her mouth tilted sharply down at the edges, and her eyes had a dark quality to them which made them hard to read.
"Ape, stop bothering her."
Ape blinked.
"I'm not bothering her, I'm talking about-"
"You're talking about nothing. Go and smoke something, there's a free space."
Ape grunted slightly, and shuffled off unceremoniously, face stiff with annoyance. Tanner flashed the woman a small smile.
"Thank you. He was... rather trying."
"I'm aware. His art is woefully derivative, woefully. Can't imagine listening to him for longer than a little while, it's not really arguing with a person, it's arguing with a pile of assembled pamphlets."
A pause.
"I do apologise. He's... well, sometimes one feels like the only real person here, and everyone else is simply acting out the part of the good, quirky surrealist. I mean, Ape just does things based on how good they'll sound at the next little meeting, and that fellow over there is just here because we provide good narcotics. So hard to find authenticity these days, real authenticity. Mahar Jovan, yes?"
Tanner nodded.
"Poor city, so stiff. And Fidelizh is worse, they practically make pretence a cultural feature there - that's where I'm from, don't try and spy a god on my back, I shucked them off years ago and don't intend to replace them. Ghastly superstition - you'd think they'd try and engage with something higher, but no, it's all so... domestic. Because of course the gods, beings of interminable thought and power, are very interested in your choice of coat. You're a judge, I assume you studied there, I hope you didn't embrace their ghastly business."
Tanner hesitated, remembering her lovely, lovely amber buttons. And they were lovely! And a man with an orange scarf had once helped her find the inner temple, and Eygi had been so open with her due to incarnating the right god, and... anyway. The woman seemed less incline to ramble endlessly.
Seemed. Which meant a conversation was in order.
"...may I ask a question?"
"You may."
"What do you do?"
She seemed slightly offended at the question.
"What do I do? I dream. I create. I slowly get in touch with ultimate reality in the form of dreams and unconscious perceptions. I do what surrealists do, on account of being a surrealist."
Tanner brought her hands around to the front, wringing them slightly to generate a bit of luck, aware that this pose made her look like... like that comical creature from the exhibition in Fidelizh, the pangolin. That was it, made her look like a big old pangolin.
"But... do you paint, or...?"
"Painting requires too much deliberate thought, it destroys unconscious process, and ergo, any hint of super-reality."
Dismissed the question, flashing Tanner a look of mild annoyance at being given so prosaic a query.
"...so, no sculpting?"
"No sculpting, no drawing, no inking, no prose, no poetry, no sophisticated choreography, no murals, no collages, no plays, no theatrophone dreck, no monologues, and no odious little stunts."
"...but what do you do?"
"Interpretive dance. I had a small exhibition in Mahar Jovan two years ago where I was utterly nude and smeared in paint. Quite fantastic, though I could only manage the correct chemical regimen for a week of performances, after that point I developed the most unsightly ulcers, had to cancel the rest."
She said all of this mildly, and Tanner had the sudden image of this woman, who looked like a skeleton dipped in wax and draped in a dress, spinning around while completely naked, mouth frothing with blood from her ulcers, jerking like she was in the middle of a fit, while a bunch of people in excellent suits nodded with absolute seriousness.
Tanner hummed.
"May I ask another question?"
"If you must."
She wanted to ask how much money that performance actually made, or how she got a deposit together for a theatre, or who came to visit, or how she coped with the paralysing terror of no-one coming, or how she mustered up the will to perform alone, naked, while dancing randomly, when Tanner had almost passed out when she had a few prescribed lines to perform in the background. How did she do it? Where did she get this confidence from?! But... no, no. Rude. Something else.
"I met... well, a man from Fidelizh, but he moved to Mahar Jovan. He's a monarchy restorationist, I was just wondering-"
The cadaverous woman erupted with sharp laughter.
"Oh, those clowns? Absurd. Not remotely practical. They love talking about spirituality and the regaining of some taproot into the unfathomable source of human thought, but all they really manage is some kind of unsightly political group which rambles a lot, puts up ugly posters, and promptly does nothing at all. There is nothing, my dear, more sad in all the world than a political group which no-one listens to, it's a hub of unappealing melancholia, and I've no time for it. I mean, they can't expect to change anything by doing their sort of business, passing our pamphlets, giving speeches in parks, sending petitions around for no-one to sign. Have you ever been to a failing political group? They're loathsome, full of this small-minded zealotry which makes me feel like they're all rampant onanists who smack themselves in the face after each successful release. A bunch of balding men sitting around in a little meeting room, waiting for the single female member to show up so they can promptly leer guiltily. It's always the same, the sad old men, the sad middle-aged men, the virginal young men, and the two females - the ancient secretary who bakes terrible cakes and the young debutante that everyone ogles. I might appreciate their spirit of change, resisting this tide of modern drudgery that's oh-so-eager to crush the human soul, but I do wish they'd be less unrelentingly pathetic about it all."
Tanner stared for a second at the woman.
"Alright."
Going to memorise that speech. Just in case she met Algi again. Just to see what he thought about it.
...was his present flame one of the 'two females'?
Was he despised by the other neo-monarchists for taking the only eligible female in the group?
Goodness. The world was such a complicated place, and she was quite glad to reduce it down to laws. The cadaverous woman sniffed sharply, like a questing mole finding a likely-looking worm.
"And that's that. No more on those cretins. Ah, my calm is shattered just thinking about them, my mind is reeling just by contacting such a depth of moronicism. The world is such a bore - I'm going for another smoke, would you like to join in?"
"No, thank you."
"It's good product, I assure you. We have some herbs from the south, the west... there's tobacco, too, if it helps. And we've even managed to capture some of those fumes from the titan by the river, keep it in canisters. Rather exhilarating, we're intending to release it into the room so we can dance around in it again."
Again, the word 'dance' - what did they mean, dance? Tanner thought dancing was... well, there was music, maybe choreography, something along those lines. She just found it hard to imagine someone saying 'let's dance', and then everyone stands up and, what, whirls? Pirouettes? Does numerous backflips? She could imagine them standing up, could imagine them sitting down again, but the middle portion of the equation was a complete blank, how did people dance without training? How did they dance without, say, having some kind of canon to look at and refer to, even just to rebel against it?
This was why she didn't go to those dancing halls like some of the other students, she didn't have the time to take the prerequisite classes.
Time passed.
She made her excuses.
They begged her to stay, despite the only people interacting with her being an insufferable bore and a very scary woman with weird hair.
She made her excuses more firmly, and left. Polite as possible. Always courteous. Always-
Completely bloody exhausted.
Hadn't had a thing to drink, and... sod it. She was a member of this party, she'd been here long enough, suffered too many people talking about rebelling against boundaries and bypassing reality. Destroying tradition and taboo and all that business. Sod it, she wanted something to drink, just to clear the stench of smoke out of her nose. Where was the spirituality in just blazing your brains out with some sort of herb, what was the point? She didn't feel like she could debate them, she didn't feel like she wanted to debate them, she just felt like there was a fundamental incompatibility. She felt annoyed, in short, as she grabbed an unattended bottle of wine and headed off, sealing the bottle away in a brown paper bag she was able to find. She was seemly, she didn't drag naked bottles of wine around, and she certainly wouldn't drink directly from it. Intended to head back to the boat and pour herself a glass, just one, as a nightcap. She felt stuffy and grumpy, felt like she'd come within an inch of being outright ridiculed, and just...
Anyway.
She was ready to go to a boring old colony in the north, where people thought about practical things, like snow, and law, and trout. Tanner Magg, she found, just didn't get art. And she didn't particularly want to. All the talk about... breaking boundaries, unwinding restraints, it just made her think that... well... a child could be unrestrained, and that was acceptable, they were still learning, and they weren't going to hurt anyone. She moved into the lobby, continuing her thoughts, lips moving in time with them - like she was rehearsing a play that would never be performed. A child could be unrestrained, and those rather flabby artists up there, maybe they could be unrestrained too - because what were they going to do? Once she reached the lobby, she could hear none of them, they were utterly silent, sealed behind layers of walls in their little smoke-room. She almost felt like... the only reason they could talk like they did, act like they did, was because they were toothless. She was a judge, she dealt with more practical matters - that cadaverous woman put on a play where she danced around naked, and Tanner had probably meaningfully affected more lives with a dryly executed judgement. Restraint was necessary when under conditions of responsibility, reality, and removing those restraints was only really permissible with someone who was harmless.
And she already knew they'd respond immaculately, with a proper speech about how she was wrong and woeful, how her entire mindset was warped from the beginning, how she was trying to philosophically commit suicide and abrogate all responsibility to broader systems and roles, how she was just afraid and if she ran around in a field naked for a while she'd become a more complete human being... her jaw tightened. Silly. All of it. Ape had slightly repulsed her with his constant showing off, the cadaverous woman had just criticised everything put in front of her like a spoiled child, and the rest... Tanner tried to adjust her golden glasses, remind herself of the upshot. They were fine, let them do what they wanted. She had no reason to engage with them, and didn't particularly want to. She had her books, her law, her job. Let them have their hotel room filled with smoke, in this dead building with brown carpets and damp-stained walls.
So what if they could manage to just do this sort of thing, emanating acts she couldn't dream of accomplishing. So what if they'd arranged a conference at a random place between participants from multiple cities and had managed it without a hitch. Really, she was impressed at their facility for organisation, very admirable. So what if all she could gesture about was 'but I know more about the law than you do', aware that they'd just laugh off that knowledge as time wasted. It was one thing to meet people you were incompatible with, it was another thing entirely to meet people who exceeded you through that incompatibility. Like being a fish, seeing mammals prance around on land. Sure, she could breathe water, and if they dove into her pond she'd mess them up good, but...
...well, she liked the look of running around mindlessly in a green field. Just maybe.
Marana's voice called out, suddenly. Tanner's jaw tightened further. Right. Marana, the one who'd dragged her here seemingly as a kind of freak-show act, meant to be surprising for surprise's own sake.
"I say, hold on!"
She was trotting downstairs rapidly, her shoeless feet utterly silent on the ancient carpets... before turning to a light pitter-patter as she reached the naked stone.
"Hold on! Hold on!"
Tanner looked at her through narrowed eyes.
"I'm sorry for leaving so abruptly. I just felt like getting some sleep."
"Me too."
Tanner froze.
"Excuse me?"
"Yes, definitely, one hundred percent. Back to the boat."
Her face was slightly flushed.
"You... came here for this conference, surely-"
"Forgot how rampantly, unapologetically odious some of them are. They're reminding me of my uncle all of a sudden. I just thought, well, I'll drop out tonight, maybe pop back tomorrow morning, see if my mood changes - I'm always a grumpy little so-and-so when I've just finished a journey, I grow too used to my own thoughts, start thinking that everyone thinks the way I do. Just need to resolve imagination and reality, should be right as rain."
She spoke too much.
Tanner hummed.
And reached out a hand to take one of the milk-crates of wine, then the other.
"Come on."
Marana smiled, and there was something... not quite her in it. Something different.
"Sounds wonderful."
Chapter Twenty - Finger-Wings atop Mist and Artery
Chapter Twenty - Finger-Wings atop Mist and Artery
They drank well that night.
And when morning came, Tanner was in a very peculiar mood. The surrealists hadn't... she wasn't remotely tempted to agree with them on anything, she found them downright ridiculous, and yet... there was something about their confidence, their simple ability to embrace a lifestyle which oscillated between harmlessly absurd and completely insane, their... well, again, their confidence. Frankly, Tanner couldn't see how someone was meant to act that insane consistently, it sounded like a hell of a lot of work, and probably required immense quantities of basic self-esteem. Oh, she was sure they had tormented souls and were wracked with their own kind of peculiarity, but... they had societies, salons, clubs, cults, meetings in restaurants and hotels across the world. They danced naked because it made sense in the confines of their minds, and carried it off well enough to make some sort of career. They were spiteful buggers who had, nonetheless, a collection of companions and associates. They were derivative hacks who were nonetheless well-read and had some basic level of skill with things, and had ingratiated themselves with the right communities. Tanner... Tanner was none of that. She couldn't move without worrying about breaking something, couldn't speak without being terrified of shouting or saying the wrong thing or saying it the wrong way or simply coming across as a total bore. Couldn't ask anything without worrying about the worst possible outcome. If she did any of the things they did, even one, she'd have a mental breakdown within a month.
Put simply, she regarded them as ridiculous, and she also wondered why all that basic competence and immense confidence had to go to them. Them.
The drinking helped.
And Marana was... well, they drank, spoke of little, drank some more, Tanner was terrified of seeming like dull company next to the surrealists, terrified of seeming like annoying company compared to those oddities... just wound up being quiet. Marana's quiet told Tanner that this was the expected and desired outcome, which made it slightly better. Only a bottle of wine - one third Tanner, two thirds Marana, and while Marana passed into a drowsy slumber (needed to be carried back to her cot by Tanner), Tanner remained awake with no sense of tipsiness. A question sprang into her mind as she struggled to sleep. They mentioned the smoke of a titan, up north. No idea what that was, but... north. Id est, the place she was going. Now, there were many things in the north, primarily snow and mountains, but... anyway, anyway.
The morning brought light. Clarity. A telegram from various observers along the river, telling the captain that things were just fine, the weather was clear enough, they were good to go. No hunters had been through the area in a bit, so there'd be good pickings. A note that there was another settlement, a tiny, crude place which basically just served as a dock for people heading out towards Rekida, which was where Tanner would wind up. Marana was still intending to stay here, as far as anyone knew. The surrealists had yet to emerge from the hotel, but Tanner imagined them sprawled around their rooms, ready to get up at one in the afternoon. Tanner and the captain found themselves in a rather odd position - sitting together in the dim post office, a place maintained by a single bewildered old man who seemed to have retired out here for the quiet, and was surprised when a town just emerged around him, like some sort of fungus. The post office was like the rest of the town - immaculate and dead. No mail in, minimal mail out. Telegrams were written, taken downstream by a regular ferry, sent off from the nearest place with a cable. Tanner was writing out something for Eygi, letting her know how to get in touch in future, wishing her the best... struggling. Hard to express things in a telegram, when she had to pay by the word.
The captain had no such hesitations, and was just scribbling out note after note after note, passing them to the silver-haired man behind the counter. He was that sort of old were the cheeks decided to give up on this whole 'structural stability' nonsense, and wanted to sag, and sag deeply, giving him a practically curtain-like set of jowls. Tanner would mull over a single word for a minute, and the captain would've already hacked out something loud and vulgar, directed at one of her suppliers. Complaints about the quality of fuel, mostly, based on her highly audible grumblings. Ammunition supplies, the temporary theurgist's quality, threats to sue, threats to violently assault in the street, letters to old commanders and other hunters warning them away from certain suppliers... 'all part of the business, you have to keep them on their toes or they think they have a valued client and they'll stop massaging you and your ego. You need to ruin a merchant or two before anyone takes you seriously'.
All sounded terribly stressful to Tanner, but what did she know.
She spoke suddenly as she chewed the end of her pen morosely, voice slightly muffled as a consequence.
"They mentioned a titan. The surrealists, sorry, they mentioned a... titan? North of here? Is that...?"
She trailed off, not sure if the captain heard her - she was still writing away in a wipe, looping hand... and then her eye swivelled uncannily to stare at Tanner at the other end of the counter. Stared for a solid few moments, even as her hand worked on autopilot to screech a bit more abuse at her arms supplier.
"Well, can see for yourself. We'll pass it in a few days."
"We will?"
"Sure. Hard to miss."
"...what is it, exactly?"
The captain pinched the bridge of her nose slightly.
"Big mutant. Very big. Crazy big. Back in the Great War, they used them to go and crack cities open, smash armies, terrify people. Had armies of mutants riding around on their backs. Most were up north, mutants started cannibalising them once they needed quantity, not quality. Hard for them to cross the river, though. Slowed them down, all that mud. They'd just sink into it and get stuck if they weren't careful. Four tried to cross, one was wounded, one was killed, the other two retreated."
Tanner blinked.
"How did they die? I mean... if they're so large, and if only four was considered good enough to invade, then..."
"Theurgists."
Tanner paused, and nodded understandingly.
"Right."
In short, 'no bloody clue, no-one knows what theurgists do, how they do it, why they do it, they just do, and if you question them they stop repairing all your lovely, lovely machines. Good luck being profitable without those things, enjoy having a bunch of ticking time bombs ready to go off'. That still left one issue, though.
"But... if it's dead..."
"You'll see when you see it. Mutants don't die quick. Titans, less so. Damn thing's still burning."
The captain fell silent, and kept writing, her eyes fixed downwards now. Conversation over. Tanner returned to her own task, writing words with deliberate slowness, each little curve of her letters articulated with such force that she almost started carving into the counter-top. Too much to say. Unsure of how to say it. Meeting Algi again, meeting those surrealists, it... well, she was feeling unsteady. And after chatting to Marana about eels, she felt a little drained. Just a little. Not writing about Algi in the letter, obviously - the censors would check it, and she didn't want to get Eygi into any trouble with the Erlize. Just thinking about those tweed suits and diamond cufflinks was enough to make her shiver - the feeling of being in trouble still haunted her nightmares, even years down the line. So... the surrealists? What was she meant to say? 'I met a bunch of complete weirdos, I keep finding myself envying their organisational capacities, the nudist dancer reminded me somewhat of you in terms of being unashamed and confident, though you're much more pleasant to be around. Also, I think I might have a small fondness for wine, and I'm growing curious as to how much I can drink before I feel warm inside. Talk soon!'
...hm. Well, if she removed the nudist dancer part...
And if she spent a while just talking about how to get in touch when she was in the north, she might fill up most of the telegram already...
Hm...
The door chimed loudly, and... Marana swept in, a fashionable sky-blue shawl around her shoulders, and her hair arranged into something much more ornate than it usually was. That is to say, it was combed and neat. Didn't look like drunken fingers had entangled themselves in it while she tousled herself up, seemingly out of habit. And she didn't smell like anything. Someone was feeling functional today.
"Tanner, wonderful, you're here. And captain, good to see you."
The captain grunted curtly, somehow transmitting a vast series of messages through that single sound. Admittedly, all those messages ended with narrowed eyes and a pugnacious 'huh?', but still. Quite admirable.
"I think I'll be extending my holiday. Apply to my parents when you arrive back in Mahar Jovan, captain, if you'd be so dear - they'll recompense you immediately, I'll write a telegram now."
The captain slowly stopped writing.
"Sorry?"
"Nothing to apologise for, dearheart, nothing at all. Simply asking if you could possibly-"
"We can't take you anywhere else. There's a schedule. There are places we have to be, dates we have to meet. We make one stop to drop off the judge, then we move on."
Marana snorted slightly.
"Oh, but naturally, the impressive and heroic mutant-hunters have schedules."
The captain set her pen down with great delicacy, slowly turning it until it was completely parallel to the paper. She drummed her fingers once upon the table, five little taps from each hand. A small breath inwards. A small breath outwards.
"Yes. We do. There's only so much river, and far too many boats. We get this portion of territory to hunt for a set period of time. We can't make back our days. If we hunt too much, the mutants just retreat, and everything becomes harder. We need to rotate. Like crops."
Marana paused, tilting her head to one side.
"Well, captain, there'll be no need for any deviations from your schedule. Your bloody harvest won't need to be interrupted by a single swing of the pendulum - I intend to jump off at the same point as our esteemed judicial friend."
And now Tanner set her pen down with very great care, steepling her fingers, unwinding them, steepling them in a slightly different pattern, before stretching them and relishing in the popping of her knuckles. A deep breath in. A deep breath out.
"Excuse m- what?"
Marana had a small smile on her face - she'd been preparing for more of that 'I'll allow it just this once' crap. Not today. Not today.
"I'd quite like to visit Rekida. If at all possible. You mentioned last night, while we were drinking, that you intended to hitch a ride, to use the colloquial expression, from some little settlement along the river. I only hope there's room for two."
Tanner gritted her teeth.
"I... don't know. You have a conference, don't you? Captain, can we... wait for a few more days?"
It wasn't that Tanner didn't want to go with her to a settlement in the middle of nowhere. It was... well... alright, Tanner was keenly aware of how tiny, tiny instabilities to her routines, once established, could become nightmarishly awful. She had, back over the last year of so, been legitimately put into a sour mood for hours because her stockings caught slightly on her ankle and took a second longer to pull up. Her routines were that consistent that she could sense even a second or two of deviation, and it annoyed her. Those were stockings. Those things she used to protect her legs from the elements and preserve modesty. Marana... this was a tiny settlement in the middle of nowhere, there were no conferences, no happy little cafes for her to dive into, no salons, no exhibitions, no nude interpretive dance for her to judge, there was nothing. And Tanner would be the only person she knew.
She didn't need to spell this out, she wasn't so blind to her own faults to think that Marana wouldn't slowly erode her mind over the course of... a few weeks. Months, maybe, at best. It was hard enough to imagine setting up her new routines, developing her new work-habits, adding 'be entertainment to a drunk middle-aged surrealist aristocratic heiress' to her list would just be too, too, too, too much.
Too much.
The captain shook her head silently, firmly. No staying. And Marana's face froze up slightly, her smile became slightly more fixed, and the strain made her look a little more her age.
"Well, let's say the conference might well have been... more of a temporary visit."
Tanner hesitated. Part of her wanted to be dismissive - the captain certainly was being dismissive, just grumpily asserting that 'if the judge wants you, then you can come, but you have to pay extra. I'll watch you make the telegram'. She wanted to just send her away, but... she'd not seen that fixed smile in quite the same way. And she'd said that she'd... forgotten how straining those people could be, so...
"Is something wrong? Did something happen up there?"
Marana twitched slightly, before quietly pulling out a chair and slumping into it, the barely-used wood creaking alarmingly, everything still new and squealing. Like a piglet, really. Chairs were like piglets, the younger they were, the sharper they squealed. Had to wait until they were older for a bellowing boar-like moan of ancient wood.
Anyway. She sat on her piglet-chair, hummed, nodded in greeting to the tired-looking old man who was busying himself with... anything else, and spoke confidentially.
"Like I said. I forgot how they can... be, sometimes. Have you ever, my judicious companion, found yourself craving some random piece of food, something utterly random, some random pie, perhaps, and you set out in search of your crusty comestible, returning eagerly, nostrils flaring as you tear the paper bag open, spill the contents, sharpen your knife, carve, and dig in... only to realise after the first bite that your imagination was a much stronger thing, and perhaps you had a little too much to eat today, or too much to drink, and now the matter crudely slides down your throat like a hunk of raw clay, and you look down at this vast, appealing confection of human ingenuity, swinish flesh, and the most elaborate chemical processes of dough and water... and you realise, you made a mistake. A mistake, and one you have to live with. You wasted money, time, and now you have a meal you either eat, or you discard. The humiliation boils. Do you stick with it, simply to be stubborn, only to feel sick and shameful instead? Do you throw it away, and waste everything, admit your error, admit your weakness? What's the womanly option?"
She took a small breath, catching herself, her face a little red around the cheeks.
Tanner blinked.
Coughed in slight embarrassment.
"...almost? I mean... I'm always somewhat hungry. I'm large. I need food. Always have. But... well, sometimes I think 'I might like spice, spice isn't so bad, I could go for something spicy', and within half an hour I'm just staring dead ahead with lips the colour of... of..."
The captain interrupted, her head still almost pressed against her paper, such was her concentration, and her voice emerged as a growl.
"An explosion in a tomato cannery at sunset."
Marana snorted, and Tanner smiled faintly.
"Quite. And I'm sweating like a hog, and I'm dreading the next few hours. Yes. So... perhaps. A little. Why are..."
She trailed off. Figured it out. Headed out here to have a little soiree with some old friends. Found they were much fonder creatures in her memories, where all the ugly details could be filtered away, all the irritations could be smoothed like a well-made bed... hm. Strange sense of... no, nothing. Maybe a flicker of deja vu, but she doubted it. She tried to smile sympathetically at Marana, who tried to shoot her an airy little quirk of the lips that was artful, graceful, ambiguous... really just came across as a slight facial spasm, honestly. Either way. Maybe she just wanted to extend her holiday to... what, save face? Avoid going back home, confessing that she wasted her time? She...well, she was an artist, an heiress, Tanner could imagine her using this conference as a way to justify her continued career instead of committing to something more... concrete. Coming back home, shamefaced and shambolic, stating that she didn't actually like the other surrealists, and so she had to come home after barely a day with them... there'd be something uniquely humiliating about that. It was one thing to choose an odd, unprofitable, eccentric career, it was another thing to fail at it. Tanner found herself thinking, in her rambling way, that if you were going to be eccentric, you had to earn it. Tanner hadn't earned eccentricity. Presumably, in the future, when she was learned and respected and elderly, she could start to bumble along innocent pavements while talking to herself vaguely, and could pin people down for stupid little chats as her senility worsened. But not yet. Not now. Hadn't earned it.
For a second, she felt a genuine pulse of empathy between herself and Marana. Could see exactly why she didn't want to go home - oh, this was fun, she got to be a kind of emotional detective, how positively bold. Her smile became more complete, more sympathetic, and her voice tried to be warm.
"Well, if the captain's fine with you coming along, and... well, I'm fine with you coming along, if you're sure you want to visit a place in the middle of nowhere, and won't interrupt my work, then... well, if she's fine, and you're fine, and I'm fine, then I suppose we're all fine, and... that's that?"
People should only earn the right to have vocal chords once they'd gained a degree in speaking like an actual human and not a limpid baboon. Urgh. Marana's smile broadened, and she leant back in her piglet-chair, letting it squeal a little, and her fingers twitched like she was trying to hold an invisible cigarette holder... a flicker of annoyance on her face at the motion. Well. Happened to everyone. Tanner sometimes pretended her pen was a cigar, made her feel very distinguished. In the confines of her own room, of course. Never in a post office. Hm. Small thought. Marana chattered away idly, not mentioning anything about what had happened in that hotel, what particularly had made her leave, not just general distaste. Didn't mention why Tanner should qualify as better company. Tanner hummed at the right places, nodded from time to time, did all she was meant to... while thinking about the telegram she was writing. A few minutes passed...
"Marana, could you... help me? With this telegram? It's... well, I just need some... words."
She trailed off pathetically, smiling helplessly.
Marana blinked.
"Oh, of course. Quite the epistolist, if I dare say so, and my cup of intellect overfloweth - please, if you like, sample some of the run-off. So, is this to a parent, a friend, a colleague, an enemy, a lover, or some mixture of these categories?"
"Friend. Friend."
Marana's smile turned toothy.
"Ah, naturally, naturally. Friend. Well, it's a telegram, so you can be brief... goodness, you're not using the right contractions. Listen, you think about what you want to say to this friend, and I'll contract this all down a bit - you're using too many words, far too many. Telegrams aren't meant to be flawless. Now..."
She paused.
"Hm. Eygi?"
"Friend."
"Hm."
Tanner didn't say that Eygi was Algi's sister. Just... there were things she didn't... need to bring up. She liked to keep her life neat, every little aspect separated into nice little compartments. Childhood acquaintances were filed away here, professional colleagues here, Eygi here, temporary encounters here, let none of them meet, let the issues of one never stray into the issues of another. She'd never let any Eygi business interfere with her professional obligations, and she'd really rather keep Marana (currently qualifying as a travelling friend) separate from all the other things, including Eygi and... that whole business. It was just... once things became tangled, they had an annoying tendency to self-sustain. One segment holding up another segment. At least, that was her nightmare - everything tainting everything else, a close friend being associated with a temporary acquaintance, forcing her to pivot between radically different behaviours. Being forced to engage with professional colleagues in a... gods forbid, a domestic environment. She was proud, proud, that she hadn't been invited to any house parties, the concept of engaging with people in both casual and formal environments, where she acted very differently, was... anyway.
Wanted to keep Marana separated from that. How Tanner behaved was dictated by circumstance and context, but people tended to think that the way you acted was they way you were, and once her nice compartments were breached, suddenly she came across as a rampant schizophrenic who flickered between different behaviours at a whim, and the entire experience was more stressful than it was worth. Maybe she'd have to stumble into this later, but... for all she knew, Marana would leave that little colony in a few months, Tanner would be there for years, and nothing would happen. There was a non-zero chance of nothing happening, and that was good enough for Tanner. Oh, she'd heard the phrase 'bite the bullet' before, but why bother? Why not just, you know, spit the bullet out, or not put bullets in your mouth? And even if you did have to bite it, why not use those nice sturdy molars at the back, the chunky ones, which were good at biting hard things, rather than the more delicate stuff at the front? Hell, why not store it in the cheek like a deranged hamster? Point was, there was alternatives to biting the bullet.
Regardless.
She had a telegram to write.
***
The ship was stiffening.
Bit by bit, the hunters were winding themselves up to a higher level of tension. Their guns were being oiled and repaired in shifts, almost automatically - they refused to be unready, even for a moment. No more lounging around with boredom written over their faces, now they hunched over the railing, scanning the wild horizon. The Tulavanta was coming close, and the land was becoming marshier, boggier, generally wetter. It felt like travelling over a great bed of moss, where random areas would sag and fall away, while others rose higher, and yet it all felt uniformly thin. At the end of the day, any of the greenery was just a carpet covering a harder reality. Well, a wetter reality, in this case. The Tulavanta... right, she remembered a little story, been wracking her brains for it for days. Trying to remember this one little myth that described why there was a great watery channel in the world, this long, long artery flowing from the mountains to the sea, why it should be so large. She remembered. It was... there were underground rivers. Huge underground rivers, pulsing with contamination. Sometimes they slithered upwards, infiltrated the ground, soaked into the roots of trees or burst outwards in little stinking springs. Mutating everything they touched. But these were just eddies, really, little offshoots. The real underground rivers were incredibly deep, and profoundly huge. If the little springs were the results of capillaries, and they led down to small veins, then the true rivers were arteries. Mother said the Tulavanta was one of the arteries, dragged up to the surface by the hand of an old king, cracked open with a sharp hammer and drained until the poisoned heart of the world abandoned it, left it hollow and dry, let it fill with water instead of rot. The lodge said this was one of the great mysteries of the world, something to be contemplated and never understood, to accept that some things will always remain unknown - so, yes, she ought to shut up and do what she was told, it wasn't her place to understand.
Judges didn't have many thoughts on the topic. Fidelizh in general didn't. Maybe they lived too far away, didn't feel the need, didn't understand just how... well, she could see why the Tulavanta inspired myths. It was approaching, and she could see the signs, the way the ground belched mist from gloomy furrows and divots, the way everything felt strangely formless. She'd been terrified when she first heard of the underground rivers, like... there was something writhing underneath her even now, something hungry. Snakes, wriggling blindly in the dark, inching upwards day by day until the tip of their forked tongues could break the world's skin. Maybe the glistening apex of a slender fang. Maybe more. Rot, behind the world, always itching to break in. Living in the walls of her home. Sleeping in the springs of her mattress. Always coming closer.
She shivered. This was the sort of landscape that inspired such thoughts, even if it was only conveyed through stories. Rugged, shapeless, shifting, uninhabited. The only villages which survived out here were those that rested on stilts, and even then, they didn't stuck out here, in the mud and moss. Nothing to hunt, nothing to forage. Like life had just decided, all of a sudden, that it didn't enormously want to work for humans, and would keep this place for itself. So the meat of the animals was lean and stringy, often filled with parasites. The plants were inedible or meagre. The ground sank under creatures as clumsy as humans, sank and swallowed them whole. Overheard, she could see the whirling forms of the leathery birds of the Tulavanta, some of them with wingspans wider than her spread arms. Their beaks were long and sharp, their cries hoarse and unpleasant. The animals... well, the animals she could see were thick and strange, lumbering over the landscape with ugly, struggling motions, eerily delicate atop the ever-shifting vegetation. A lid covering a great lake of mud, surrounding a torn artery of the world. Funny, really. The way the mud worked, the river worked, contamination found it hard to take root here. Hard to seep through the ground when the ground was changing so often, sinking downwards faster than contamination could push upwards. Made it impossible for humans to live here, of course.
One of the animals looked over at her, head twitching on a thick neck to stare at the boat. Recognising it wasn't a threat, by fascinated simply by the motion. It was an ugly damn thing, not sure what it was called, but... well, it was large. Maybe the size of a bear, and built like a war machine. Wart-ridden, with thick, grey-green skin, perfect for blending into the mossy environment. Had viciously sharp teeth protruding from its thick lips, some of them almost tusk-like with their thickness, stained where it'd been at work recently. Its muscles looked like they were made of stone, shifting slowly and powerfully with even the slightest movement. It moved slowly, following the boat briefly, and it clambered across the ground like some sort of lizard, the torso swaying very slightly as it did so. Its tail twitched suddenly, rattling a little, and a mane of wiry, greasy fur around its neck twitched unpleasantly, closer to a mound of whiskers than anything warming. Something between a bear, a wolf, a lizard, a rat, and yet all those comparisons felt inadequate, like saying a parent acquired features from their children. It stared with eerily human eyes, rippling with a kind of uncanny intelligence. It was... unformed, like it wasn't quite finished, still had to become smoother, finer, cleaner. Despite that, it was healthy-looking, had bright eyes, didn't look likely to go extinct any time soon. No human lived here to hunt it. No mutation was there to corrode it. For all she knew, when she came back from the north, she'd see an identical creature looking at her. Just as countless voyagers had beforehand.
It stared.
She stared back.
And with a low rumble and a click, it ambled away, disappearing in moments.
"Hunting us."
The captain's voice startled Tanner out of her reverie, and she almost jumped. Shivered slightly in the cold, drawing her thick coat around her shoulders a little more. Draughts were like interruptions to routines - the tiniest one stood out. The better one did at eliminating them, the worse they seemed to loom in the mind. The captain was chewing an unlit cheroot, the damp leaves sagging weakly in the moistened air.
"Excuse me?"
"Hunting us. Not enough humans to make them afraid of us. Just figuring out if it's worth trying to get aboard... decided it wasn't. It's fine, they usually decide that."
"What... is it, exactly?"
"Gorgonopsid, I think. Well, that's the type, not sure of the exact species. Big bugger. Seen one open its mouth to a damn right angle, didn't hear a click or anything, just... smooth. Bit off an animal's head like that, crunched through the spine like it was nothing. Freaky thing. Steer clear."
Tanner intended to. Felt redundant to say that, though. She lingered in silence, the captain tapping her foot restlessly. Occurred to Tanner that she didn't know the captain's name, despite travelling for days. Everyone just said 'cap'n', didn't go any further. Did she have a name, was there something symbolic going on? Or was Tanner just a useless little ingrate who'd forgotten to ask, and had now lost her chance to do so? Awkward to ask... she bit her lip slightly, trying to figure out a way of learning it... hm. Start a conversation, work up to it. The gorgonopsid was completely gone now, and the captain wasn't offering further information, so...
"So... when you drop me, sorry, us off, what next? I mean, I can imagine you shooting guns, and sailing, but... I'm a little unclear on the rest."
The captain shot her a look, her mottled face twisting slightly.
"...didn't you hear about hanging mutants up? Remember one of my girls mentioning that. Oy! Didn't you tell her about hanging mutants up, bleeding them?"
She yelled across to one of the hunters, standing watchfully by another railing. It was the half-bandaged woman with the slightly fused fingers, the one who'd decided to be odd around Tanner when she first arrived. The woman glanced, hummed, shrugged, glanced away again with an expression of absolute tension. Too busy with being paranoid to answer questions, the enemy could attack at any time. Stood with military rigour, hands on her gun, fingers away from the trigger, legs spaced enough to give her support, eyes scanning the horizon with mechanical readiness. No smile to be seen. The captain spat crudely into the river, grumbling to herself.
"Well. We do. See, what we do, we head north, find a river, go along it as far as we can, then we start hunting. If we get a mutant, we haul it up on spikes... can see the cranes right there, not active right now, but when they're going they hang over the boat's side. Same things whalers use. The contamination gets into the air, that attracts more, we keep hunting them, the stink keeps building, eventually they stop coming, we burn the lot, move on to another place."
Tanner blinked.
"How do you get that first mutant? I mean... I don't want to be rude, and tell me if I'm being stupid, but... mutants don't go for... non-mutants. Nothing to gain. And if you're putting up a fight, half the time they just go. Or, well, that's what I heard. I'm probably wrong."
"You're not. Mostly. Sometimes we get lucky and just spot one. Sometimes we have to get out these lures - got some in the hold. Sometimes we have to do little expeditions out of the boat, hunt around, set lures, plant traps... something shows up, we kill it, staunch the wounds immediately, haul it back to the boat, then start the bleeding."
"And what if none come? Just... surely they'd start to figure it out? That it's killing them, hunting here?"
The captain leant back a little, before settling into a crouch on the deck, squatting with lazy ease. Tanner wasn't going to join her, that pose looked like hell on one's knees. The captain hummed, turning the soaked cheroot around in her mouth a few times. Not humming in confusion, just humming in thought, with a certain amount of mechanical satisfaction about it - she liked talking about her job, or at least, liked not having to think about what to say, just how to say it. Always nice when a conversation partner gave you most of a script, turned things into a case of fill-in-the-blanks rather than inventing from scratch.
"...right, well. Mutants aren't stupid, but they're still animals. Usually. All they want is to get more contamination into themselves, grow bigger, stronger, faster, meaner, smarter. Thing is, contamination... it improves them, but it does it badly. Keeps reinventing the wheel. Maybe it decides that this scar should be how all skin looks, so it makes you covered in scar tissue. Maybe it thinks this disease is part of you, and you should be optimised to spread it. Maybe it just starts working on something, but there's not enough contamination to do it, so you get something half-finished. No guarantee further doses will finish it, or if it'll just start some other project, or keep repeating mistakes. Mutants out there? Great War mutants? They're more stable than most, sure, but they're still mutants. They'll kill each other if they can. Eat whatever contamination they can get. What we're hunting out here aren't soldiers, they're dregs. The more they eat, the more chaotic they get, half the time they get dumber, and they need more and more contamination to stabilise it all. Maybe some figure it out, but so what? If they don't figure it out, they come close and we kill them. If they do, maybe they wait and come later to lick up what we leave behind - good, that stuff's burned sludge, hundreds of mutants swimming around in it. Destabilises them, makes them dumber, makes them easier to kill. Maybe they just leave. Hell, sometimes we let mutants go, let them run off to poison their own damn species with the instabilities we planted in them. And if they leave... good. Great. That's what we want. Dead or gone. Nothing else."
She came to a stop, chewing in a satisfied manner on her cheroot, the damp leaves oozing brown liquid to the deck, like she was munching her way through some comatose living creature, juicing it bit by bit. Like when you stepped on a slug and the innards frothed out through the head in a tangled pale pile. Tanner hummed, thinking.
"...I see. I see. Great War mutants, though, some of them were... fairly powerful, I mean, surely... some of them have figured out to stay away from your ships, but they're still in the area. I mean, if they figure out that it's wise to stay away, then they can just... migrate, really. And then you kill off their competition."
The captain glanced up at her.
"Sure. We know that."
Tanner blinked.
"You do?"
"Sure we do. We're not idiots. We're killing the stunted, wailing little freaks, we clear the way for the smart boys. What do they call it... right, natural selection. 'cept, here's the thing - mutants are never friends. Never. No mutant gets along with another mutant for more than a minute at a time, and that's just an alliance of convenience. Every second of their little friendship, they're wondering if now is the right time to break it. They're competing for the same supply, and other mutants qualify as food for them. They're cannibals. Warfare cannibals. Never going to get along."
She paused, grinning grimly.
"The dumb ones get killed by us. The smart ones kill each other."
"But... they worked together during the Great War, so-"
"Exception. Never happened any other time. Great War's over, so that exception is over too."
Her voice was firm. Don't talk about the Great War. Ugly example.
"Right, right, sorry, didn't mean to... anyway, anyway, I can imagine that, the smart ones killing each other, but... again, there's so many, you've been hunting for years, and you haven't mentioned stopping, so... just, just out of interest, what happens if-"
"Gods, just ask the damn question."
"What happens if some survive?"
The captain grunted.
"Some do. Few."
She stood up suddenly, lifting one leg and placing it on the railing, stretching the calf muscles as half her face screwed up with exertion. The muscles crawled underneath her skin, twitching in ways she didn't tend to see human muscles twitch. Mutated. Did her muscles have more in common with some animals? Or was this just... the ideal state of human muscle, to slither and crawl, to move in unnatural motions, was that just better than what humans had come up with?
"Want to give you an image. Smart mutants. Clever enough to avoid us. Clever enough to not just destabilise and get killed after they eat some contaminated contamination. Big, most likely. Tough, too. But there's plenty of them. Like you said - there's enough up there, even a small proportion of the total horde is still a lot. Imagine... alright, imagine two kingdoms. Two countries."
She drew her leg back, and used her foot to trace two circles in the dew coating the deck.
"Two countries. Kingdoms. Whatever. They're both powerful. Both want the other one dead and gone, to take their people as slaves, take their resources, their territory, everything. And hell, maybe they could. Either country could march off, right now, and might win. If they get lucky, they'd be just fine. But they might not. Maybe they lose some men - a lot of men, maybe. They commit. They send their armies here, and... well, maybe a third country gets interested. Comes in. 'cause this third country, it sees one country dead, and another country weak, so if it slides in, it gets two for the price of... well, not even one. Half, maybe. That's pretty tempting."
She smiled grimly.
"Imagine ten countries. A hundred. A thousand. All of them hate each other. That's the mutants. All of them are terrified of fighting, because if they do, they might win, but they might get wounded. Weakened. Need time to integrate the contamination properly, safely, stop it just destroying their long, hard work of refining themselves. But the moment they kill one of the others, they put up scents in the air, and the smart mutants, they smell this, they know it's not one of the hunters, so they come in, they attack. Tear apart both. But maybe... maybe mutant number three is wounded, hm? Or inconvenienced. So they might get torn apart too. It's a long, cold, quiet war up there. The dumb mutants die to us. The smart mutants are quiet, though. Always moving in silence. You'll never see them. Never. I barely see them, sometimes, and I know what I'm looking for. I've seen them stalking other mutants for days, even the dumbest ones, before they think about going in. And when they do, it's perfect. And I mean perfect. They kill in one strike, perfectly planned. They ambush immaculately. They cut off the smell of contamination from the wound, then rip off what they can, and run away. Disappear in seconds. I saw a mutant, some big ugly thing, kill another big mutant in a second, snatched what it could, gone. Not one other mutant came by to that corpse. The smart ones weren't going to approach, no-one wanted to be first, to be vulnerable. Huge corpse, full of contamination, they just abandoned it."
Her smile faded.
"Saw... well, friend told me about it. He'd seen it, when he was working for a crew further east. This mutant, big, big thing. Long beak, more like... those needles that mosquitoes have, you know?"
"Proboscises."
"Right, that. One of those. No, bunch of those, moved independently, like fingers or tentacles or something. Anyway, it was covered from head to foot in this black, black leather stuff, really tough. Why? See, it was smart. Figured out a good way of hunting. Tar pits. Big, stinking tar pits. Something goes in, it doesn't come out. Hot and nasty. And this thing... my buddy, he saw it kill some other mutant, opened up its ribcage like a mouth, enveloped the thing in this... leather skin stuff, like a reverse cattle birth. Swallowed it up, then ran for its pit. Jumped over, released the body, let it sink. Smell, gone. Like that. And sometimes, the thing would come back, stick its little beak-things into the tar, stick them down, and would drink from its larder. I've seen mutants hang their kills on trees like shrikes just to attract more prey. I've seen them vomit mucus over their enemies, choke them to death, stops the smell of contamination getting out. I've seen them paralyse, not kill, then feed slowly and carefully from the warm meat. And the thing is?"
Her smile was gone, but her eyes danced with a morbid kind of humour.
"Those guys will never hurt you. If you're not mutated, and even if you are, if you can defend yourself well... they'll leave you alone. They don't care. The dumb ones, the idiots, the poor little things we burn by the hundred? They'll hurt you. Some of them still remember hunger, still think that just eating something will help, haven't quite figured out they only want contamination. But the smart ones... they're your friend. They'll kill the idiots. They'll leave you alone. They want nothing to do with you. They'll look you dead in the eye during a meal, and do nothing else. Could sit next to one and it'd probably just shuffle away, if it even thought it was worth doing."
She leaned close, her breath slightly fetid.
"Think about that. Rekida's far north. Plenty of untamed ground there. Big old silent war, out in the snow. You're not even a player in it. Just an observer. A hazard the players need to avoid from time to time, nothing else. Hell. There's some watching us now, I know it. I know it. Always watching. Just don't think it's worth it attacking. Like that gorgonopsid out there in the reeds - wasn't afraid, was hungry, but didn't think it was worth the effort of swimming out here, didn't think the gamble was necessary."
She sighed.
"So that's how we hunt. We hunt idiots. The clever ones leave us alone and rule the north. We never really took it back. We just started building stuff, and we hope none of those things in the snow think it's worth coming after us. Like having a vulture always over your head, staring down, waiting for you to die."
Tanner shivered.
"I... see."
"Nah. You won't. If you see one of these mutants, and it's not doing anything? You're fine. If you never see them, ever? Then they're coming after you. You only hear these freaks when they don't care about you. And when all the burning's done, all the idiots are dead, all the people back home say the Great War's over... well. Me and you, we'll know. We'll know."
Know that the north wasn't a place for humans. Not any more.
Tanner stared out into the darkling mists, the chill seeping to her bones, the air rich with the cries of strange, crude life amidst the moss and mud. A leather-bird swooped down suddenly, perching on one of the railings surrounding the smokestacks of the boat. Shaking itself to shed a little moisture. It glanced down, beady eyes glinting like marbles. Tanner looked up, and the thing stared back. Two crests emerging from its head, long, needle-like beak bristling with teeth, wings the colour of wet sand, the impressions of little bones barely visible through the leather. It didn't screech at her, just stared, like it was wondering how her eyes might taste. Head twitched to one side. Twitched to the other. It shook, shedding more dew.
And a moment later, it was gone.
Swooping over the remains of the earth's gored artery.
The Tulavanta was here. The mudlands were gone, the moss-covered plains had faded, and now... water. Boundless, slow-moving water, undulating down towards the sea from its origin in distant, distant mountains, so distant they weren't remotely visible. Tanner and Marana were standing near one another, staring out into the distance, watching the horizon. Doing nothing at all. Marana was slightly drunk. Tanner wasn't. And, naturally, Marana was finding the bleary nothingness to be quite enjoyable indeed, while Tanner was starting to crave some actual work. She was honestly just revising everything she knew for fun. She was going over her memories of influential case precedent for fun. The word estoppel was now becoming a point of humour for her. She was clearly going mad. And she kept looking around for mutants, the big, smart ones that had grown fat on the meat of their kin, and now lurked in the dark waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. It was funny - they were venturing into the great, bleak unknown, and Tanner had almost expected to meet... things. Odd villages, strange cultures, people.
Instead, there were just miles upon miles of dead land. Even the animals were quiet, half the time. The strange life of the mudlands and the riverbank were exceptions to the rule, but they'd always ruled that place. Sometimes they passed the stumps of villages - the houses were gone, the stilts lingered, slowly being weathered to nubs by the wind and rain and rot. Banks of mud studded with chunks of slimy wood - like cigar stubs in an ashtray. Like the mud had swallowed them whole and left nothing behind. The mist was perpetual, the clouds were heavy and grey and sodden, it felt like the world was being unmade all around them. Fields becoming drowned in rising mud, the clouds swooping down to gobble up the sky and horizon, the water rising higher and higher until it might flood the land completely. The people were gone. The animals wouldn't be around for long. They were wandering at the edge of the world. For years, it had been. For generations upon generations, the north had been this unknown, strange expanse, difficult to reach, but providing all manner of peculiar furs and trinkets, shadowed in whispers of infinite sects of arcane religions, cults of hammer and eye, reverent of the thirty-seven towers of an ancient city. The north was a myth... then, as ships became better, as crossing the Tulavanta and its endless soggy borders became easier, it became real. And then... gone.
This felt dead. The mutants had consumed everything in sight. Their bodies had to be burned. And the fires had wiped out what was left. The disease had spread to a terminal point, and the only thing left was to chase the infection with amputation upon amputation, followed by a hundred sterilisations via every method, mundane, chemical, theurgic, even spiritual from time to time. The land had been exorcised of the demons possessing it... and the soul they'd possessed. What remained was absence, and contented absence. It desired nothing to fill the gap left behind by humanity. It desired nothing but itself, existence was satisfaction for a landscape like this. They passed by a strange mosaic on the banks - mussels, or oysters, or some sort of shellfish. Great arrays of them, lurking in the mud and sand. Black as opals, with the faintest rainbow sheen playing about their edges. Sometimes she thought she could see them moving, their rigid mouths opening a moment to lap at the air. A mosaic, tangled with beards of weeds and reeds. Marana stared at them dully.
"I suppose that's all that can live out here."
She smiled slightly.
"When the world's a grim, grizzly old thing, must be easier to just build a world around yourself. Would you call that endurance or delusion?"
Tanner didn't reply. Marana did this, sometimes. Asked random questions, without expecting an answer. Sometimes she just hummed curiously and never followed it up. And sometimes, most embarrassingly, she'd sing a few notes of some unfamiliar song, slurring them out in a drunken slurry. Or vary up her accent for a moment, which was more annoying than embarrassing, but annoyance was embarrassment riddled with veins of anger, really. Embarrassment the stimulus, annoyance the response. Her own eyes slid away from the endless mosaic to stare at the horizon, once again. The hunters were grumpy today. Stiff as boards, their breath emerging in great plumes of steam, eyes unblinking. Well, the air was damp enough, maybe blinking was unnecessary... Tanner tried to stop blinking, and... no. No, didn't work. Raised the question, though - could the air ever get so moist that blinking became unnecessary? She imagined people sprawled in humid forests, staring blindly ahead and passively accepting the moisture. Or people in mists, doing the same. Maybe that was where toads came from - humans that never blinked, just stared ahead in the moisture and eventually changed, like blinking was the vital switch that stopped people becoming frogs. Hm. Maybe Algi would complete his metamorphosis if she dumped him here. Or Eygi. No, no, that was mean, Eygi had a nice face, it was only slightly amphibious. Anyway, she made up for it by being her friend, that probably gave her immunity to Anuric metamorphosis.
Heh.
She paused.
There was a... stripe on the horizon. A black stripe, very faint, barely visible through the clouds and mist, but... it was like having a hair lying across her eye, it was there, indisputably there, and without a doubt annoying. Staining the immaculate grey. Marana stared at it for a moment, tilting her head from one side to the other, thinking things over...
"You keep tilting your head. I have a friend who does that. It's like you're shaking up a sauce bottle to make the flavouring more intense."
Marana blinked.
Shifted her gaze to Tanner.
And Tanner didn't mind what she said, really. Not like she did when she'd made that observation to Eygi.
"I suppose it is, yes. But I think it's because I'm being efficient. After all, do you take walks in order to focus your thoughts? Do you find physical exercise conducive to contemplation?"
She smiled slightly, and Tanner hummed.
"I suppose."
"There we are. You need to take a walk. I tilt my head. I've made myself much more efficient, haven't I? Makes more time for work. And for drinking, naturally. Ah, there we go again - drinking, it causes the skin to redden, warmth to spread, all the little features of exercise, but it requires none of the physical motion. Maybe we just have to dissect exercise down to its most basic components, before reproducing them in miniature. Tilting of heads, drinking of liquor, cracking of knuckles, that sort of thing. Sometimes I read awful, awful books, and let my mind drift away as a tiny percentage of my well-girthed brain studies the page. You make an interesting point, Tanner, but it needs development."
Tanner blinked.
"Sounds right."
She paused, and bit her lip.
"I think it's because the brain is a complicated organ full of complicated parts - I mean, I've seen diagrams, it's full of coils and twists, maybe when it's inside the skull it's slightly fluid, bounces around a bit. And by shaking your head, you realign it all. It's not improving it, just changing it around, giving you new perspectives. Maybe waking up parts which have gone to sleep. More like... voluntarily giving yourself pins and needles just to check that your nerves are working correctly."
Another pause.
"Also, if liquor just simulates some of the effects of exercise, but without any substance, then the creativity it inspires would probably be simulated, not genuine. You're not really... 'breaking down' exercise there, you're just skipping to the end."
"Hm. I'll reject that logic, because I don't want to stop drinking."
"It'll kill you."
Tanner's mouth shut with a click, and her eyes widened with terror. It'd just slipped out. She hadn't meant to say it. She was just... she was saying random things, they both were, and... and that meant she had less of a filter, so... nuts, she was excusing herself, shouldn't be trying to excuse herself, no excuses, no explanations, just apologise, apologise- Marana was smiling slightly.
"Already has. Delirium tremens, you see. The shakes. The rumbling. The nights filled with lizards and crawling things which bite and sting. If I stop drinking, my body shakes, my blood stills, and I keel over. Dead, and dying in fear and pain. Alcohol is no longer a comfortable bed, it's a thread holding me above the abyss."
She sipped from a small hip-flask, engraved with the symbol of a family she didn't recognise.
"Behold, my thread thickens. My safety increases. If I let it thin too often, I trace too close... well, it can be creatively satisfying, but not exactly sustainable."
"Oh."
"Oh, don't look at me like you're sorry, it's pointless for both of us. It's the way of things. Everyone's body is a laboratory, really. A set of chemicals and tools for processing them. Old alchemists had... alembics, crucibles and so on, we have the stomach, the lungs, the liver, the kidneys. A whole set of tools and reagents to work with. Now, usually, we have a prescribed set of experiments we're meant to perform, like student chemists. We breathe, and we undergo reactions where our body takes in air and exhales fixed air, which has been altered by internal processes. We eat, we break down food, and it fuels other reactions in turn. We allow a gentlemen to have some fun with us, we take up a deposit of material, and begin a complex reaction for the creation of a new human in the bubbling cauldron of the womb. Oh, don't look away, it's a natural process, don't be a prude. I have no intention to have children, and I exhausted my interest in the basic chemical processes when I was... perhaps fifteen, sixteen. Tired with the toys I'd been given, adept with the experiments I'd been taught, so, I started to experiment further. You'll use your alembic and crucible in the same way everyone does, and you'll do it over and over and over again for the rest of your life, until the equipment breaks down or the reagents run out. I wanted to do something else with my tools, to add newer and stranger reagents to see what happened, to cultivate chemical reactions of remarkable scope and power in order to fuel my creative outbursts. Trains involve shoving coal into a furnace, burning the coal, boil water, generating steam, driving an engine, and carrying the carriages in sequence. I do much the same, but I apply it to my internals. The stomach is my furnace, alcohol is my coal, and it carries me further than any mortal food could ever manage."
She took another swig.
"So, in short, I'm not stopping."
Tanner gripped the railing a little tighter.
"Alright. Do as you like. It's your prerogative."
"Quite."
And that was all. They lingered in silence for a few minutes, staring at the slowly broadening black stripe on the horizon, which wavered slightly in the wind - smoke, perhaps? A strangely shaped cloud? Tanner wasn't sure, but... well, even if she said it was smoke, which seemed likely, she had no idea what was creating it, or how long it would burn. She'd heard stories of burning peat, or the little wellsprings of crude oil that frothed up in parts of the mudlands, but the soil was simply too soft and awful to build a derrick to exploit it, really. She could actually see the graves of oil derricks out there, amidst the mud - little monoliths where wood and metal had just sunk, ground giving way, no hole lasting for long in land which healed any wound faster than it could be made. In the distance, she could hear the lowing of gorgonopsids, and the occasional sharp chirp of the leather-birds. She thought. Time passed. There was nothing to do but think, and watch the stripe become larger. It'd started thinner than a hair - now it was almost thick enough that if she raised her hand, there'd be scraps of darkness on either side of the palm. And she had a large hand. She wanted to haul something, move a little. Exertion, that was it, exertion. Not just simulation of exercise, but the real thing. When her mind was full-focused on thought, it spiralled faster and reached odder conclusions, she kept reliving random memories, going over strange facts, and songs kept on recurring, time after time after time. She kept struggling with a single line from a play she'd had to do as a sutdent, a single line, and a few words were wrong. No matter how she tried it, the sentence never aligned, it never clicked, and she scrambled with it like a cat trying to catch a smooth nut, rolling it crazily around the floor and never latching a single claw into the flawless surface. When she couldn't move, the mind's gyre widened considerably faster than usual. Needed to do something, move something. There was nothing to move, though. Everything was where it should be, except for the boat, except for the passengers. And she couldn't exactly carry those.
She spoke suddenly. A question danced across her brain, and it needed expulsion.
"Why did you leave the surrealists? They had chemicals with them. Reagents for the internal laboratory. I doubt you'll find much in that vein in the north, probably just... tinned food and rectified spirit."
"Rather too late to be dissuading me, Tanner."
"I'm curious. That's all."
Marana smiled slightly, and reared back from the railing, settling her hands on her hips. Naturally, well-dressed. Green riding dress, high boots, thick overcoat with embroidery around the cuffs, and a scarf tied just so, where it could flow behind her without tangling around anything. Just flying like a banner of green and red and white.
"I left them because they were annoying."
"...well, that's fair. But..."
"But being annoying is no reason to run away from them, I know. It was more than that, it was..."
She sighed.
"They were... well... they've been around for a long time, all of them have, and I've enjoyed warming myself in their collective glow from time to time. Participating in their little rituals and experiments. Very pleasurable, if you're in the right sort of mood, though as I grow older I find I'm not quite as fond of all the nudity. Either way. I liked them, I liked them quite a bit, if you can believe it. I liked their insights."
"Insights?"
"Don't be derisive, it doesn't become you. I liked the... reality of it. The genuine revolutionary stance against a whole host of boring old things. I'm the first daughter of a governor, trust me, I've seen the great and good of Mahar Jovan, Krodaw, and beyond, I'm aware of the boring old things. Seen the direction the world was moving, and it didn't make me especially happy. All I saw was... drudgery. Drudgery and pettiness. Krodaw, crunched up and burned by a host of raving lunatics who wanted nothing more than to oppress each other instead of being oppressed by us. Mahar Jovan, where we dress ourselves up like dolls on one side of the river, and become paranoid little wrecks on the other, while our kings wallow in their own impotence. Factories belch smoke, bureaucrats with grey eyes keep getting more powerful, Fidelizh is a state of enforced pretence where secret police rule with an iron fist. Veterans are dying off, bit by bit, and we're forgetting that the world is delicate, that things can end at any moment, and there are patterns broader than us... then I turn around, and I see people just talking about the same old things. The surrealists seemed to realise this."
Tanner didn't quite like this line of thinking. The world might not be perfect, but it was all the two of them got. Tanner had chosen to find a life amidst it, to be a judge, to seize a vocation between both hands like a wriggling snake and clutch until it stopped trying to escape. Maybe these damn jeremiads were hunky-dory for governor's daughters, but for people who actually had bills to pay, the world was quite delicate enough. If Tanner didn't work, she didn't get to be a judge, she didn't make money, she was disciplined, maybe even expelled. If she didn't work, she went insane or died. That was delicacy. She didn't say this, of course. Allowed Marana to continue as the pillar of smoke grew larger and larger.
"They seemed. They were genuine revolutionaries, they saw the absurdity of it all, how the world had gone from apocalypse to... this in a matter of moments. Had to shock people, surprise them, remind them that there's a human buried under all the mundane nonsense we wrap ourselves with. I used to draw propaganda for my father, back in Krodaw, and I wanted to be subversive with it, to support the status quo with art designed to undermine it. You know, I actually made my posters devoid of as much writing as possible - to my understanding, the Sleepless are using them as propaganda now. I was general enough. A leering figure in a cloak could be the Sleepless ready to carve out our throats, or the vicious oppressors lurking in the background. I found that... well, it was a statement. Maybe it could change something, maybe it couldn't. But the surrealists understood it."
A sigh.
"Now, I'm not sure. They're... cloistered. They do the same things, they seem to just act the way surrealists ought to, without much consideration for higher meaning. They dance naked in fields, but what does it matter if it's only them, if no-one else comes, and if they danced naked in a field a week ago? When does it stop being a protest against delusional reality, a shock to the system, and just becomes another affirming rite?"
A pause.
"Some of them keep valorising the Great War, keep talking about heroism, about how heroism is some... taproot of vitality which connects us to super-reality. How danger reawakens the spirit. They were seeing themselves as an intellectual nucleus standing beyond boundaries, some sort of... cabal, really. The world wasn't listening, so they stopped telling it anything. Let them be sages, isolated, cold, brilliant, inspiring others but not condescending to their level. History was out of their hands, so what? Spiritual power wasn't based on numbers, it was based on quality. That's what they were talking about today. I haven't met with them for some time, I didn't... realise how very isolated they'd become. It's the natural progression, isn't it? Revolutionaries out to change the world, revolutionaries rejected by the world... and either that rejection undoes your entire raison d'etre, or it makes you bitter and shrivelled, unwilling to engage because you know you won't be listened to. Becoming hermits because of rejection by civilisation, rather than some inherent benefit. Inventing justifications for failure."
Tanner turned to her lightly, her tortoiseshell hair blowing in the strong breeze.
"Where does that place you?"
"Hm?"
"You. I mean, you're a surrealist. You consider yourself one, or you consider yourself an artist. You experiment on yourself with alcohol and other substances. You accept that you're not going to have children. You sit back and paint, draw, speak, and you seem to believe in the whole... revolutionary ideal, but you've never achieved it. Where does it place you? I mean, you're doing what they do... what's your justification?"
Marana shrugged.
"I don't know. I know I don't agree with theirs. Their justification is just... lazy, bitter, almost elitist."
"Believing a tiny cabal of people painting and speaking and dancing naked in a field will change the world isn't elitist?"
Marana paused, and a coy smile crept across her face.
"You're arguing with me. That's new."
"It's not."
"No, no, no, you've made points, but with resolute certainty of reality, you make points about the law, mostly. Never actually tried to challenge my views on things - you state the law, you don't argue why I should believe in the law. This is new."
"Sorry."
"No, no, it's quite fun. Doesn't happen often. I'll... think of an answer, I promise that much. Aren't judges elitist? Judging the rest of us, lording your knowledge..."
"Not forever. The intention is to create a perfect form of law that anyone can understand. We try and avoid legal jargon for that reason - in Mahar Jovan, they use ceremonial language in the higher courts. We don't."
"How likely is this perfect law, though?"
"We're getting there."
"But it's an idealised state which might never happen."
"We still aspire to it. Do you look at the foundation of a building and say it's worthless because it hasn't become a... a god-tower, quite yet?"
She felt like all her roles were clicking into place like clockwork, spinning exactly as they were meant to. This was how a judge should speak in this moment, this was how she had to speak. Her personal inclinations towards silence were irrelevant, she wasn't really arguing, she was playing a part. But that meant she barely had to think. She wasn't creating genuine rebuttals, she was simply asking herself 'what rebuttals would a judge have', and half the time the answer was already provided to her. It was... eerily satisfying. Thought without thought.
"But if everyone was an artist, nothing would ever get done. Likewise, if everyone dedicated themselves to the law, nothing would get done. We're all elitist, it's called being somewhere that isn't the bottom of the hierarchy. The only non-elitists in all the world are farmers, but even they're elitists who rule over their livestock with an iron fist, or their workers, or the market by charging it. I dislike the justifications the surrealists come up with. Not the basic premise."
"But you don't have a justification of your own. You're still setting yourself apart from everyone to try and change the world."
"Well, people need inspiration."
"Leadership?"
"Inspiration."
"What if they misinterpret the inspiration, and you adjust your message to try and adjust the interpretation?"
"Hm."
"That's leadership, isn't it? Sending a message, then changing it when people use it for the wrong sort of inspiration?"
She paused.
"...I study the law. I preach it, and I apply it in my judgements. I don't invent more laws. And I place myself under the same restrictions as everyone else. Just because I'm a judge doesn't mean I'm immune to prosecution. I mean... you're talking about breaking boundaries, but people need boundaries, restraints. If you just provide inspiration, people will interpret it how they like, making boundaries. You adjust the inspiration, and now... well, now you're just writing more laws. I don't dislike the people at that conference, but... well, I wouldn't buy anything from them. You say 'surrealist' or 'artist', I just see people who aren't really doing anything, and are just... sitting around, being very self-satisfied."
And being bizarrely well-dressed, well-coordinated, well-organised... again, no idea how they managed to live, she'd go insane if she acted the way they did. Swanning around having lavish lunches and interesting conversations, perpetually in motion, perpetually talking and thinking, it... she didn't think a person could live that way for long, not really. She knew she couldn't imitate it, knew that this annoyed her, and she knew that the only thing she had against them, really, was the role of judge. It was all she had to set her above - her job. Her role. It gave her arguments, purpose, power, a little money... a sense of genuinely contributing to the world. It was like being a farmhand smacking a merchant over the head with a spade. Wealth was nothing if you were getting whacked by a spade, but... it didn't change that the merchant was richer than her, more powerful, better connected, and probably understood things her brain couldn't possibly grasp.
Feh.
Now she was remembering why she disliked arguing. Marana smiled gently.
"I think you might not understand surrealism. Or art. Or artists. No offence intended, Tanner, of course."
Damn.
"Hm."
"I do mean no offence. But I... do get the feeling you're not a very artistic person. Interesting, not entirely boring, and with odd thoughts on eels, but... well, it takes a certain kind of oddity to make an artist."
"And money."
"That, too. Goodness, you are being outspoken."
They'd been on this boat for days. She had nothing to do but think. And talking to those surrealists had made her think, just about who she was, what she wanted, how she related to others. In any other circumstance, she might idolise those people, with their conversation and suits and companions and lives. Their ability to just do things with limitless confidence. But... now? She was a judge, idolising them wasn't an option, being jealous wasn't an option. She knew she did useful things, she knew she was qualified and accredited, she knew she was an individual of some utility to the world, but... couldn't reserve a place at a kaff without getting paranoid and itchy, had only one friend in the whole world, and was perpetually eager to lose herself in roles which stifled thought and left her pleasingly senseless. Because the alternative was being an unrestrained weirdo who hurt people. The idea of exhibiting art and not being terrified about the audience response was... beyond her. The idea of never knowing what each day would bring, whether inspiration would strike, whether her work would satisfy her, it... the irregularity and risk of the whole endeavour of art made her skin crawl. Being an artist was something that a good judge ought to be annoyed by - it wasn't practical, solid, useful or anything of the sort, not in a legal sense. But really, it was something that Tanner found incomprehensible. She could imagine artists waking up. She could imagine them eatng breakfast. She could imagine them going to bed. But the middle of the day, there was a total blank. Maybe painting, but... could you spend hours doing that? Day after day? Wake up, work solidly, just ooze inspiration onto a canvas?
Anyway. She was rambling.
"Sorry. I don't mean to argue. I don't... even really know what I'm arguing, honestly. Sorry. I don't mean any offence."
"I think you might just be grumpy, Tanner."
She was, a bit.
"No, it's not that."
Marana's voice become infuriatingly sing-song.
"You are a little bit grumpy. It's fine, I'm grumpy too. Seeing a bunch of people I like turn into elitist, snobbish, cabbalistic fruitcakes who're just surrealist-industrial engines at this point... well, it's annoying. I don't know what makes me different than them, I haven't succeeded in anything, I'm a middle-aged artist heiress who's been sitting on a nice marble pillar my whole life, and have a very regular allowance from my parents... the world changes, and I just watch it happening. If I died, the price of fish wouldn't change one jot."
Her voice was unsettlingly cheerful.
"And yet, here I am. Here I remain. Here I continue."
Tanner looked at her.
"Are you alright?"
"Oh, most likely not. Hardly matters, though. I like you, Tanner. You're an odd duck, I'll say that. I almost want to teach you how to paint or sculpt, but at the same time, I quite like just... hearing your thoughts. Your actual thoughts. Your rambling about eels was more interesting than your rebuke of art and surrealism, given that I'm not sure you get either of them, but you're certain that judges ought to rebuke those things on a moral level."
A pause. Tanner paled.
Fuck! She knows!
Oh, crumbs, vulgarity, that wasn't becoming of a judge, not at all.
"Here's an agreement, then, Tanner Magg. You're not going to be a moralistic, supercilious judge who dismisses fruitcakes like myself, and I'll do my absolute best to avoid annoying you with my silliness. How does that sound?"
"Uh."
"I want you to actually express yourself. Tell me what you really think, not what you think you should think."
"Uh?"
"Really, talk about eels, talk about random things. This is like outsider art, it's fascinating to me. I mean, some effete, limpid, pickled debutante, who cares what her unfiltered thoughts are, I want some gigantic eel-enthusiast judge who very occasionally says something genuinely interesting to spill in front of me, to spill until she can spill nay more."
A hand clasped around her bicep with tremendous force, and Tanner froze. Marana's eyes were distressing her. Her smile was distressing her more
"You're a creative cow, Tanner, and I intend to milk you."
Tanner had never been more terrified.
"Um."
"Wonderful."
She wanted to dive off into the river and live with the gorgonopsids, thank you very much. They seemed normal.
Hm.
The pillar of smoke was close.
And now... they could almost see what it was. And Tanner remembered, suddenly, the... thing, the captain had talked about. The titan. The thing the surrealists had taken a boat out to, in order to dance in the smoke. She felt like an absolute dunce, not putting it together sooner. In her defence, Marana had been rambling, and wound up saying she was going to milk Tanner, which was a statement that awakened deep reservoirs of fear she didn't know she possessed. But now... nothing to distract her as a dark shape loomed. The hunters slowly gathered on the deck, their mottled, distorted forms crowding around the giantess and the surrealist, staring out into the great fog banks.
A titan was looming.
And as the minutes drew into hours, it became more and more visible. The entire boat was enraptured by it, like they were... soldiers, seeing the first light of home. And, indeed, lights began to dance before them. Little flames piercing the fog, studding a vast, shadowy shape that was growing more and more resolved as time wore on, yet never seemed to become normal. Each clarification was just the gate to another bundle of mysteries. Tanner felt something twitch in her at the sight of it, of how... large it was. She felt a twitch in the base of her spine, telling her to run, find shelter, do something. Hide with Marana, no matter how odd she might be, just get away from this thing. The river was stranger here, the landscape was scarred deeply by war, by engines, by construction. No more rotten stubs of villages, there were the ruins of fortresses and bunkers. Shells hollowed out by conflict and age, crates bobbing in the reeds like the cradles of abandoned children, huge, huge piles of expended ammunition just bobbing around, clinking gently against the side of the boat. A battlefield that refused to be cleaned up, as though the usually all-devouring earth was spitting this stuff back up, refusing to take it in. Bitter pills to swallow... or something else was stuck in its throat. The enormous shadow.
A mutant titan.
The captain took her small hat off, holding it at her side in a strange display of respect. The others did the same, even if they also clutched their guns tighter than ever. Mouths locked tight enough to throw the contours of their face into sharp relief, bone structure almost poking through the skin, such was the pressure. The thump-thump of the theurgic core under the deck... it might as well have been the slow, steady pulses of some monstrous heart in the distance, loud enough to shake the world. A few more came forwards, just a few, handing around gas masks. Ugly things, with long nozzles dangling weakly from the front, and eyeglasses tinted a jet black. One was much larger than the others, looked to be a repurposed horse mask, which faintly insulted Tanner, but she was too nervous to act on it, or even to dwell on it for long. The world turned to a compressed place when it went over her head, and she stuffed her hands into her pockets out of instinct, feeling the world turn into a cloying, stifling cocoon. Like that mosaic of mussels marking the muddy mire, sealing everything away, rejecting cruel reality in favour of a secluded world of her own cultivation. Preserving the only role which really mattered - human, as opposed to mutant. Gas mask, heavy coat... the most indelible costume of humanity, more than any other.
A breeze.
A scent carried over the breeze - sweet and sour, popping in the nose. Tanner, in a fit of panic, adjusted her mask, terrified of leaving a gap. Like champagne, crackling in her senses. Syrup and champagne. Contamination. Godsblood. Fruit of the underground rivers. The infiltrating death of humanity, always seeping upwards, a hand wrapped around the throat of sane, decent life.
The breeze picked up, and the mist cleared enough.
She saw it.
It was... horrific. Her breath caught in her throat.
She'd expected something like an elephant or a whale, something which the mind understood to be vast. A few legs, a torso, an abdomen, a head... the normal instruments of motion and existence. This had none. It wasn't shapeless, though. It was simply... advanced beyond the need for taking a familiar form. It was coloured a soot black, but this was purely the result of burning, which also left the flesh with the texture of carbonised wood, pulsing from time to time, chasms oozing with matter the colour of tar. The limbs were coiling, pseudopods or tentacles pressed into service as something else. Like... someone had taken a thousand spinal columns and wound them around one another, over and over and over, into cords thicker than some buildings, riddled with bristling steel-grey antennae. Dozens of them, maybe more, rigid as iron bars, latched into the soil and the river. Even slumped, the creature was titanic, looming far, far above. The pseudopods were everywhere, the coiling helices of matter that ended with enormous 'fists' of twitching blue-grey flesh, bundles that sank into the ground and seemed immovable. But must've once been mobile. Might still be. How else could this thing have arrived here? The torso wasn't much better, the carbonised-wood look omnipresent, but... it was oddly arcane. It was dramatically geometrical, smooth faces and sharp articulations, more like a machine. Enormous coral pillars speared through the faces, drawing in air, like the creature had moved by inflating its enormous torso with air, or something lighter than it. Drifting like an airship, clawing along the ground with coiling spinal columns.
And it was burning.
Why was it still burning?
Why did smoke belch from the coral pillars? Why did the carbonised flesh part and split, pulsing, revealing internal wells of oil? Why hadn't it fallen completely, why did it still seemed hunched, ready to move on with its march? Why hadn't they dismantled the metallic weapons adhered to its surface, flowing, semi-organic things which looked valuable and powerful? Why was there a faint, purple light blooming within the depths of the creature, spilling from time to time, looking like those photographs she'd seen of aurora borealis? Why was there still smoke, why hadn't it burned to a crisp by now?
The captain was silent. But the half-bandaged woman spoke, her voice almost a whisper.
"...you always... forget, how big it is."
Tanner murmured.
"Why is it burning?"
The half-bandaged woman turned, her face still, devoid of humour.
"It's not dead."
Tanner stared.
"Not dead." She repeated. "Hard to kill. Wound it, it heals. There's contamination in that thing like you couldn't imagine. Can't even get close without becoming a mutant. This is safe. Closer... no."
"But it's... why can't it be dead?"
Marana's voice was muffled by her mask.
"You chop an eel's head off, it lives for a while longer. Why not this? Why can't something this massive become mindless, brainless, dead... but still alive? Do you need a brain for your heart to beat?"
The bandaged woman snorted.
"Poetic. Not wrong, though. Not wrong. Dies slow. Contamination keeps it alive. But won't make it think. It lives, that's enough. There's oil, in its heart. Fuels the weapons. Has glands that make the stuff. Never stops burning. Like throwing a lighter into a derrick. Not even mutants come to eat it. They try... the contamination in the air just destabilises them. They get closer, the thing... the flesh parts, it swallows them whole. I've seen it. Not even mutants can hurt it."
And silence consumed them again. Reverent silence before something so utterly vast. This... there had been more of these. Many of these. Too many. Where had the rest gone? How had humanity beaten this? She tried to imagine it in battle, shambling over the rest. Truly enormous, laden with weapons, impossible to approach... probably dousing people in contamination if they even looked funny, while a screaming horde of mutants surrounded it on all sides. Hurt them, the titan would heal them, wrap them up like the prey of a jellyfish and nurture their growth. No way of getting close. No way of attacking without immediate retaliation. How had it been stopped?
They couldn't even finish burning it, how had they managed to put it down in the first place?
Maybe one day it would wake back up.
Maybe.
For now, Tanner was going in the one director she didn't want to go in. North. To the place where these things had come from, where they'd been made. The Great War was a long nightmare which had ended before her birth, and yet... how? How had... she could see bodies, burned bodies, lying in islands in the pit, high enough and strong enough for the current to be impossible to break up. Solid as rocks. The banks were practically heaving with them. Burned, half-melted, showing an infinity of contorted limbs and snarling faces, maws ripped wide, some of them still with half-intact teeth, bones softened to sludge. Burned until the contamination evaporated or disintegrated. So destroyed that the stink of contamination was gone. How many had fought here? How had humanity survived? And what... what had designed these? The titan, that couldn't have been natural, mutants didn't get that big. Contamination was stupid, it just advanced what it was given. Give it a wolf, it might make a larger wolf, but it wouldn't make a wolf the size of a building. A titan... it implied one of two things. Either there was something in the world which could form a basis for this creature, something vast, powerful, bizarre and utterly unearthly... or something had designed it.
In which case... what?
Why?
And how had it stopped?
The creature pulsed. Even now, it was still breathing, somehow. Living despite the fact that it was perpetually burning from the inside out. A living theurgic and industrial engine wrapped inside a quivering mass of mutated flesh.
And they were going to the place where it'd been made.
The burned armies all around them... she looked at the bodies, wondered how many had died, how many the hunters had killed, had many mutants had been dead and gone once the Great War had ended, and then... how many still lived. How many were watching, even now.
How many were eager for the day when they could get close, without being devoured whole or destabilised irreparably.
How many were close.
She looked around... and in the mist, there might've been none.
A few more days after they'd seen the titan. The great black pillar of its ever-burning body slowly faded away as they travelled, going from a dominating monolith which swallowed the sun, to something which merely tainted the sun a dim silver, to something which was thin enough for her hand to cover... and then so small it was barely a hair on the horizon, easy to miss if she wasn't looking for it. And then, gone. Swallowed by the grey. The Tulavanta was, in some places, monstrously large, and perpetually shifting - the land was flat and wide, the river was eager to burst its banks and run freely downwards, hungry for the ocean, for the companionship of other waters. Again, the barrier the Tulavanta presented was one of chaotic change and sagging mud, a barrier which engulfed train tracks and bridges, flooded so constantly that nothing could be built for long, was filled with creatures that lacked any fear of humanity and its weapons, and often saw horses as nothing more than tonight's dinner - she'd seen only one gorgonopsid, and Tanner was convinced it could easily tear apart a horse, especially if the horse was mired in the swamp, swamped in the bog, bogged down in the mire. For an untold number of years, travel meant a combination of luck and good timing, moving in small numbers over the islands of stable land, like navigating a desert from oasis to oasis. Moving by boat worked, but... well, she could see weather balloons hovering around from time to time, pointed out to her by the captain. A whole chain of lonely watchers, keeping an eye on the waters, making sure that the boats wouldn't get stranded by an unexpected period of shallowness - hardly unheard of, especially in winter, when more of the water was locked up in the mountains as ice and snow.
The weather balloons relayed messages by flashes of intensely bright light, operated by their isolated residents. Helped them get through the mudlands and the better part of the river, avoiding the pitfalls that stranded other vessels. The captain loved sharing stories of ships which had been stuck here, ground deep into the mud. If the boat was light enough, you could shunt it along using barge poles, but it was long, hard work, and their boat was much too heavy for that sort of business. Airships were the only truly reliable way of getting to the north and back, and they were expensive as all hell. Still. The captain thought the mutant-hunting business would abandon boats entirely after a while, once the banks of the Tulavanta and its infinite estuaries and tributaries were cleared out and resettled. Then it'd be airships that sailed far north, weathering the cold and the snow, raining death on the mutant horde. Apparently they'd already started, but it was still spotty.
"One day, they'll have to demolish this boat. Can you believe it? One day, this'll all be over."
The captain's smile was always sad when she talked about things ending. Tanner found it tricky to agree. Could see where she was coming from, but... well, a mutant-free world was a good world, overall, even if it meant a few mutant-hunters lost their work. But it felt rude to say that to a woman who had nothing left but mutant-hunting. Running out the last years of her sanity doing the only work that had any meaning to it. Either way. They sailed north, and the weather began to chill. Tanner found herself wearing her heavier overcoats as she waited on the deck for things to change, and relished in being able to haul around oil for the heaters and lamps, huge tanks of the stuff, hard to lift even with her own muscles. Helped warm her up, though. Sometimes she was so warmed by the exercise that she could remove her overcoat and roll up her sleeves, steam rising from her bare arms as she laboured away in the gathering cold. But then, when the morning came round, she'd find herself curled up in her cabin, shivering like a leaf, clutching her blanket around her into a kind of cocoon. Treasuring any scrap of warmth, wrapping a scarf around her mouth to savour even the lingering heat of her breath. The snow began to fall a few days after the titan, and it never really stopped, falling constantly from a slate-grey sky, wind rushing over a too-flat landscape, nothing to stop it, nothing to break its passage. The ship started to hang heavy with little icicles in the morning, which dripped away tears of moisture as the day progressed.
Marana was practically an immobile bundle of coats and jumpers and shivering, huddling herself around any source of heat that presented itself. Perpetually sniffling, too. Seeing Marana suffer in the cold was... well, not nice, but it made Tanner feel more competent as a human being. Look at her, she had more mass, she could soak up the cold with ease! Woeful surrealist, what use is thine skill with drawing when thine hands shiver and shake?! Ignorant artist, what does it matter that thou'rt a creature of sophistication and social aptitude, capable of changing one's plans without being nervous for a split second, when... well.... well, Tanner was warm, so there! She was lifting things, heavy things, and that presumably meant something in the great cosmic ordering of the universe. Presumably.
Look, Tanner wasn't a petty person, but she was still struck by the fact that Marana could just... do things without pacing around nervously, planning out every single tiny detail of her choice to avoid catastrophe. Tanner was still the sort of person who'd just go hungry if other people weren't eating at that particular point in time, hated standing out in any way, hated looking lazy, hated giving the wrong impression. Marana was of a different species entirely - she ate when she was hungry, slept was when she was tired, and was bold and brash enough to just... talk to people. Didn't care if she cultivated the wrong impression, her personality didn't require others to validate it, if they thought less of her, they thought less of her, didn't alter the price of fish by a single coin. Tanner couldn't even watch people working without feeling the itch to join in - Marana just stood there, shivering, watching others haul things around, scrape ice from the railings, monitor the horizon for mutants... she had no allergy to looking lazy.
Feh.
Damn surrealists with their damn social skills. Feh, she said, feh. Well, she thought, Wouldn't say. That would be profoundly rude. And judges were not rude. It wasn't professional.
Days.
Days upon days of ice and snow, of building cold, of slow labour atop the boat. Tanner found herself slipping into routines, into perfect cycles of action and behaviour. Wake, breakfast with the hunters, then haul things for them, or look busy by monitoring the horizon and going over her legal principles. Lunch. More work. Dinner. No alcohol, not while they were in enemy territory. And then... well, sleep, curl up in her bed and hope she got to sleep before the cold seeped into her bones too much and inspired shiver upon shiver. Wake. And repeat it all over again. A little more chaotic than she liked, no guarantee that she'd be needed for any form of labour on a particular day, no idea of what lay ahead, but... well, it worked. She was reaching the point where she could create firm hierarchies of preference when it came to crates - which ones she liked, which she disliked, which had a good grip, which didn't, which had splinters... she was building a hierarchy of crates. If she told Marana this, she knew she'd be laughed at incessantly.
She knew this because she'd told her, in a moment of weakness, terrified of an extended, awkward silence, and the laughter hadn't stopped for a while.
Even now, Marana would smirk when she saw Tanner hauling something.
Feh.
And as soon as her routines began to seem permanent, reaching the point where she could time her mornings down to the second...
It was over.
A grim, grizzly settlement, glued to the side of a little branch of the Tulavanta, a stream that wound north along a shallow, rocky bed. The landscape here was... invisible, the snow consumed it all, and whenever it cleared, she could see nothing but dispiriting flatness, swathed in white powder. The mountains she'd heard about were just a dim haze, barely recognisable as anything at all. The boat came to a grinding stop at this settlement, an assemblage of primitive dwellings that clustered together around a long, solitary dock - a single finger of wood and metal protruding into the river, comically tiny against the hungry landscape. Hard to imagine people living here, but... well. It was eerie, everything just ending like this, with unpleasant suddenness. She had no expectations now, nothing whatsoever. The hunters were all wrapped up in heavy black coats, lined with fur - made it look like a crowd of mourners was seeing her off. She hefted her bag easily, the work on the boat having toughened her a little, given her muscles a real taste of labour. Marana was behind her, struggling with the weight of her own... a second, and Tanner relieved her of the effort, taking whatever she could under her powerful arms. The captain spat into the churning grey waters.
"Well. This is you."
Tanner hesitated.
"...thank you. For the... well, for the journey up here. I apologise if I caused any inconvenience, I understand this is a little out of your way, and I hope your hunting goes well."
The platitudes spilled from her lips hastily, and the captain snorted.
"Gods, stop apologising for everything. You were a help, if anything. Hope the judging business goes well. And... well, hope the artist isn't too much of a burden."
"I'm right here, you know."
"I'm aware. If she gets uppity, pack snow in her ears, gives people a headache like you wouldn't imagine."
"Again. Right here."
"Well, not like the judge is going to threaten you, too polite for that. But, well, if you feel she's too much - the option's on the table. She's had fair warning, you can do as you like now. Legally speaking. Right?"
Tanner blinked a few times.
"...not... really?"
"You mean being warned that you'll get shot in the stomach if you keep coming forwards doesn't.... what, absolve you of guilt when the person comes forward and you shoot them in the stomach?"
"Somewhat? There's context for things like that, and-"
The captain slapped her on the shoulder.
"Shush. Just saying, no-one will know. You've been a good passenger, damn good passenger, probably spoiled us on any future ones."
She rocked back and forth on her heels uncomfortably for a moment, clearly trying to think of something else to say...
"Well."
She paused. The crew shifted.
"...uh..."
Tanner felt her face heating up as the silence drew out... and a single question came to mind. One she might never get to ask again.
"Sorry, you never said your name? Sorry, I should've asked, but-"
"Oh, right. It's Kralana. Nice to... meet you? Anyway. Good luck, nice having you aboard."
Another pause. A crooked smile, revealing slightly too-sharp teeth.
"Piss off?"
Tanner, indeed, pissed off. Thumped her way down the ice-slicked gangplank, Marana trotting behind her, using the giantess to shield herself from the rushing, snow-laden winds. The crew yelled after them, a few last wishes of good luck, good health, good travel, and good wine. Goodbyes were awful. Goodbyes were terrible, they were impossible to do properly, and... well, there was the knowledge that if she left a bad impression with her goodbye, she wasn't going to be able to rectify it. Ever. Not unless she met the crew again, which she faintly doubted. Another question was boiling in her mind, she'd still never found out if they knew the vessel which had... injured her father, but the time had passed. She'd kept putting it off, and now... anyway. Anyway. The settlement beckoned. The ship withdrew the gangplank with a clatter of metal, and a few moments later, smoke was belching from the stacks, the crew was moving with practised ease, and the great dark shape of the ship slid away into the snowy mist... and a minute later, the sound was gone. Banished into the mutant-infested darkness.
Leaving Tanner and Marana alone on a long, lonely pier.
Marana coughed.
"Well. Let's be off, unless you feel like freezing to death."
Tanner nodded shakily. She kept checking her pockets for everything she needed, all her papers, her letters, everything, sealed in waterproofed packets of thick, treated brown paper. She felt... what did she feel? The boat was gone, there was no going back, no... it was crazy, but she had a little thought in her mind, that she could become a total coward, abandon her duty, beg the mutant-hunters to keep her around... stay on the boat forever. She'd be terrified, and would likely die, but... well, it was just a thought. Made for a nice little outlet of stress - push came to shove, she could always abandon everything and everyone and become a dockworker in an obscure settlement who didn't talk too much about her past. Cultivated an aura of mystery which intrigued and allured.
Then she remembered that she was Tanner, the person who had to give herself an encouraging internal speech every time she had to knock on an unfamiliar door, and decided that it would be best to just get on with being a judge.
"Right. Right."
Marana shot her a look as the two walked down the lonely jetty.
"Are you... well? You're shaking like a leaf."
"Oh? Am I?"
She appeared to be shaking like the aforementioned piece of vegetation.
"Yes. Yes, you are. It's quite alarming. Come on, you wanted to come out here, didn't you? Got on that boat for the express purpose of coming out here?"
"Yes, yes, I did. I did."
"So..."
"It's nothing. Let's just... get moving."
"You're nervous, aren't you?"
"A little."
Marana hesitated... then reached over and squeezed her hand slightly, the feeling of contact barely noticeable with the thick gloves they were wearing.
"Don't worry, I'll take the lead with a few things. I don't see a train station, so... I assume we're taking a coach?"
Tanner nodded rapidly, getting her breathing under control. Idiot. Idiot. She wasn't... gods, she was an adult, she was a judge, why was she feeling so nervous? There was a sick feeling in her stomach, a leaden weight pulling her down, this conviction that... that her options had collapsed, and now all she had was one road, leading directly ahead. Usually, that reassured her. Now, it was slightly unnerving. Just slightly. She rubbed her hands together for warmth, cultivating luck at the same time, while remembering the duty placed upon her as a judge. There was no path to take but the one laid out for her, there'd be other judges waiting in the settlement, she was fine. Stop worrying. Stop being such... such a little coward. This was expected of her, demanded of her, she had no options beyond obey or disobey, and she couldn't disobey. She was just coming away from weeks of gradually developing routines, that was all. Still. A part of her was terrified of one silly thing, and before she could think, she was saying it out loud.
"...it's ridiculous, but I'm... well, I haven't judged anything for weeks now. I've spent the last year with briefs and duties and everything, refining my routines... then I was on the boat, and made new routines, and a part of me thinks that I might've lost the knack for judging. Just... somehow gone astray. A little."
Marana blinked.
"It's been a few weeks. I doubt you've... lost the knack, Tanner, I doubt it sincerely."
"I know, I know. I know."
She did. She did know. But there was always the fear that once a habit was broken for even a tiny period, it could never be reasserted. Same reason she never took time off from being a judge, even when she was entitled to little vacations from time to time. Thought she'd just get lazy and soft, lose her skill. If she didn't keep moving, she might stop and never start up again. If she broke too many routines, why shouldn't she start to enjoy the freedom from them, the slothful pleasure of doing nothing at all? And if that settled into her soul like a parasite, then it might never be removed, this constant knowledge that she could be happy doing nothing, and that would start to poison everything else. Why clean her cape every week? Why sacrifice her evenings to brush up her skills in certain areas? Why get up so early? Why clean her room so thoroughly? Slothfulness was death by a thousand cuts, and once she let it seep in, she thought it might never stop.
Had to keep moving. Couldn't grow moss on a rolling stone.
Just... keep going. Keep going.
The settlement here was a miserable little place that evidently closed down most of its activities come winter, content to huddle around fires and eat the food they'd stored up. It was clearly waiting for things to pick up, in terms of trade and whatnot. Little houses, where the curtains twitched to reveal thin, winter-shrivelled faces, looking out suspiciously for a second before retreating inwards to the warmth. The snow underfoot squeaked as they walked over it, and the crumpling of the white powder started to set Tanner's teeth on edge. There was a feeling of... not being unwelcome, but being unexpected. Taking a wrong turn and ending in somewhere where visitors didn't generally go. Just like back in Fidelizh, when she first arrived. Why was it that her arrivals in foreign climes were always accompanied by silence? Either way. The settlement had the practised anonymity of depots the world over, the kind of un-space where necessity drove it to exist, necessity and nothing besides. The dock was designed for many boats, the streets for many people, and the number of places with signs advertising rooms for rent was... well, uncountable. It was a vacant space eager to be filled by people who'd only stay for a day or two, before moving on to places unknown. And in this constant movement, settlement and abandonment, there was a sense of... being around someone who went through strings of torrid affairs. The same half-lidded boredom, the same cloistered sadness, the same leathery shrivel, the same feeling of being worn-out and weary, sparking to life only occasionally.
Being in a depot like this was like being in the bedroom of a serial philanderer, seeing the little traces of old lovers, and feeling keenly their absence.
The settlement was bare on the inside, but the exterior was clustered with thick, black trees, grown in orderly rows to give some shelter from the storm - the trees were almost bend double with the effort, their trunks hunched like the backs of old peasants. Their leaves were dead and soaked, hanging in clumps from the branches like the bodies of dead bats. The air was cold. The sky was starless. The moon had been eaten by a cloud. There was a thickness to the atmosphere, like she was moving in the accumulated breaths of every last visitor to this necessity-born settlement. Her bag thumped a steady rhythm as they searched for the coach station - after a few minutes, they found it, a tall building of grey stone, with a cheerful green roof studded with pools of snow, turned sharp by icicle-teeth - like the building was bearing its fangs at them. A lantern swung listlessly outside, a sign clacked against the stone over and over. Tanner and Marana looked at one another.
Just had to knock.
Just had to step forwards and knock on an unfamiliar door in the late evening.
Just had to-
Marana knocked smartly, and Tanner felt her spine slowly coil up in embarrassment. Dolt.
And as expected, the door swung open, a thin face greeted them, and they were ushered inside the interior without further ado. Simple as that. Nothing to be worried about. Nothing dreadful had been awakened by that knock. Tanner was glad for the cold - it turned the skin red, and hid the flush which clambered from her neck to her cheeks. The man who greeted them was old, his long, stringy beard the colour of ash, his eyes practically locked into a perpetual squint, and his left leg dragged slightly behind his right, stiffened by some old injury... or, well, age. He looked them up. He looked them down. And he brought them into his station without another word. The ceiling was stained by oil lamps, and the air stank of paraffin. The waiting room was dusty, and where passengers ought to sit, there were instead huge piles of... anything and everything. Tanner found herself stepping around a box filled with stationery, before swivelling to avoid crashing into a gigantic pile of shabby volumes. The old man grunted, revealing teeth stained brown with... coca? Maybe? She'd heard chewing the raw leaves was still popular out in some parts of the west, even if the middle-kingdoms had long-since moved to the refined product.
"Sorry about the mess, ladies. Not many visitors, not this time of year. Don't like seeing the waiting room all empty-like, feels right nasty to have a big old space with nothing in it."
Marana nodded airily, moving a careless eye over the myriad objects which crammed the space. Ink bottles, sheaves of paper, blank books ready to be written in, anonymous jars filled with something... the only thing which caught her attention for long were some dusty crates of strong liquor, ready for dilution somewhere else.
"Quite all right with us. Isn't it, Tanner?"
Tanner nodded hesitantly, before licking her lips and speaking.
"Oh. Yes. Quite all right. No problem."
The old man grunted again, and led them to the front desk - a ponderous thing of dark wood and leather surfaces, the legs shaped like the limbs of lions, claws digging into the wooden floor below. It stank of the man's dinner - some sort of salted fish thing - and was heavy with papers and ledgers, the latter with lavish ink patterns along the pages, the sort they painted to make it obvious if something had been removed. Swirls of near-luminous pigment that would've made a surrealist proud. Marana took precedence, Tanner instinctively slinking a little into the background, letting the two geto on with the ins-and-outs of getting from here to Rekida. No pleasantries, just... they stopped walking, the old man shuffled through his papers, ran a hand through his vague cloud of thinning hair, and grunted a few times.
"Rekida?"
Marana blinked.
"Oh? Were you expecting us?"
"Nowhere else to go but Rekida. Only road out of town goes up there, only good road. No trains, sorry to say. Not yet. Place used to be the arse-end of nowhere, real backwards types all around, no love for trains."
Marana smiled lightly, and Tanner mimicked her a moment later.
"So, I take it that coaches are the only option?"
"More or less. Just sent one out a few days ago, meant to deliver some post to the settlement, actually. Don't worry, still got some coaches here, ready to go. You're heading up there for good, then? Don't look much like normal labourers."
He squinted suspiciously, and Marana laughed.
"Oh, heavens, no. My lovely companion here is a judge, but I'm here for recreation and recreation alone. Holidaying, to revitalise the spirit a tad - must say, the landscape here is simply poetic with its vastness, eager to see if I can paint some of it a little, though I'm a little concerned as to how much white paint I might use. Still, could be pleasingly peculiar to paint it in another colour - something pleasingly surreal in a purple wasteland, though purple paint is much harder to acquire... anyhow, anyhow. So, coaches - could you illustrate how we might acquire one, my good fellow?"
The man blinked.
"...uh. Well. Our coaches are... well, we've got these big-uns, pulled by about four horses, local breed, good in the snow. Shouldn't be too harsh now, winter's just starting to nibble our ears, not ready for a proper kiss, if you'll pardon the expression."
This was... winter's foreplay? It was bloody freezing already, Tanner didn't want to see it getting worse.
"And these horses... they're uncontaminated?"
The man stiffened, his eyes flashing with something resembling indignation.
"Wouldn't survive out there if they weren't. Tested their blood just this morning, they're good. And there's gas masks in the coach if they need them."
"And the coachman?"
"Got a lad upstairs, sleeping off a hangover. Should be ready to head off tomorrow morning, right before dawn."
He paused, and hauled out a large map from below his desk, spreading it and weighing down the corners with a candle, a bottle of liquor, a chipped plate stained with stubborn crumbs, and his own fist. He traced out a route, marked in red ink, leading from this settlement - a little carbuncle on the river named 'Pad Dock' - towards a distant point, a much larger city. Rekida. Didn't look especially big by objective measurements, but compared to this place, it was a metropolis. The landscape looked smooth, not too many inclines in any direction, and no mention of big forests. Rekida looked to be nestled in a small valley, sheltered from the wind and snow, and little markings showed it to be surrounded by trees - like plant life couldn't grow in the plains, had to huddle down for warmth. The old man grunted.
"Right. So. You'll be heading out this way, following the road. Takes three days to reach Rekida from here. There's regular stations for the horses to warm up, and the carriages have heaters inside, proper ones, should keep you toasty. No beds at the stations. Just big stables, really. Got gas masks?"
Nods from both of them.
"Good. Not too necessary up here, but you never know. Goggles are good for the snow, last thing you want is to go snow-blind. Horses get blinkers for that. Coachman's got a gun if anything gets uppity. Round here, there's not too much in the way of mutants, not aggressive ones. Heard there's some hobbles around... here, just somewhere into the second day, but they steer clear of carriages."
Tanner blinked in confusion.
"Sorry, ah, hobbles?"
"Hm? Oh. Right. Mutants. Humans, used to be. Contamination got into their water, their food... made 'em stupid before it made 'em big. Still look mostly human. Refugee camp survivors, mostly, Great War and whatnot, contamination keeps them alive. Harmless unless you've got contamination on you for them to take, don't accept any of their food, don't get too close. They ain't intelligent, but they ain't cruel. Leave them be, they'll leave you be in return. Might watch from a distance. Nowt more."
Marana hummed.
"Interesting. I'd have thought they'd have been wiped out by now, hunters and whatnot."
"Eh. Give it time. Mutated enough to be stupid and durable, but human enough to stay away from us. Smaller than the other mutants, much smaller, so they just steer clear. Not going to find them in those big burning piles the hunters make. You find these things, just wave some fire in their face, they'll back off real fast. Fire a shot overhead if they stick around, that scares them off. Not too many left, but there's reports of a few near the road, is all. Don't want ye surprised and doing something stupid, now."
Well, that wasn't worrying at all. Not remotely. The man rambled a bit more about the route, how it wasn't too challenging, how everything was sorted out... it seemed like a professional operation, no corners cut, no standards slipped. The old man didn't seem especially nice, but he was honest. Didn't even charge them for a room, just said they could sleep in one of the guest quarters - no-one was coming by this time of year, the old man said, be damn rude to charge them for using a cold chamber for a couple of hours. And before Tanner knew what was happening, they were secluded away in their room, sitting uneasily on opposite beds, not comfortable with undressing in a strange house, when they might need to run for the carriage in a few hours. Tanner hummed. Marana hummed back. A little light flickered between them, held captive by the bulb of an oil lamp. The settlement beyond was dark as coal, the hunchback trees shivered and rattled, the land beyond spread outwards in infinite sameness. This wasn't a country for humans. Tanner kept remembering the captain's... Kralana's words on the topic, the smart mutants that lived out here, immune to the cold, waging a silent war against one another for the right to survive and evolve. How many were out there now? Watching? Waiting?
The old man came back with two small plates and a pair of cups - fried eggs on black rye bread, and tar-like coffee. He grumbled wordlessly when they tried to thank him, and a moment later, they were devouring the little meagre meal hungrily, eager for any kind of warmth before the ending. The eggs had solid yolks and slightly oozing whites, the bread was toasted unevenly, the coffee appeared to have scarcely touched the strainer before being served to them... yet to Tanner, it was wonderful. She spoke quietly around mouthfuls of eggs, covering her lips whenever she spoke, terrified of seeming uncouth and vulgar, showing egg-and-coffee-stained teeth. Like a barbarian.
"So."
Marana smiled faintly.
"So."
"...it's funny. Always feels like... well..."
She trailed off for a moment, uncertain, and Marana laughed delicately.
"Oh, you silly girl, just say what's on your mind, I shan't judge you for not speaking in flawless verse. Go on, speak."
She prodded her yolk-stained fork vaguely in Tanner's direction, like a conductor wielding a baton. Tanner gulped down some more coffee, waited for her mouth to stop smarting from the heat...
"Familiarity. I mean, the whole... comfort of being somewhere. It's funny how it works almost by layers, like you walk into a strange house wearing huge veils, huge coats, and bit by bit you remove them all. Like... I don't want to sleep, not now, not here. I don't like the idea of being asleep in a place I don't know. But after eating, I might want to take my boots off, my coat, undress slightly. But I wouldn't dare to bathe here. That would be a step too far."
Nor would she go to the toilet unless absolutely necessary. But that would be vulgar to admit. Marana hummed lightly.
"Hm. I think that might be you, honestly."
"Hm?"
"Hm. I mean, I'm happy to do whatever, but that's me. You're such a cloistered creature, it always feels... well, like you have to slither inside a gigantic shell before you do anything, and the moment you crawl out, you look as pale and vulnerable as a newborn lamb. No, don't blush, it's quite endearing, in a lonesome sort of way. I don't mind it at all, it doesn't annoy me in the slightest. That being said..."
She tilted her head to one side, and smiled when she saw Tanner tracking the movement.
"Just shaking my thoughts up like a sauce bottle. I wonder, really, if you've stumbled into the mindset people had untold centuries ago, back in the formless days of the world. I mean, for me, going this far north with little to my name but some clothes, some drawings, and wine... for me, it matters very little indeed. Yet, I imagine that you going to a new shop in Fidelizh is probably flavoured with a greater sense of adventure than I can muster from travelling across half the continent."
Tanner looked down at her coffee, straining against the nervous impulse to clasp it harder, work out some of her energy. Knew she'd just crack the thing, and then she'd have to run into the snow to just get her death over with nice and quick, let Marana apologise about the cup in the morning.
"Oh."
"No, no, it's... I imagine it's how people were in the old days. Before we knew about anything, when we were just scared little animals poking around the world, never sure if the next corner would provide safety or death. When wandering a few miles outside our home was fraught with more than a little risk - you know, it used to be virtually suicidal to walk around in parts of Mahar Jovan at night, just a few generations ago. Then, the rest of us became... safe. Little traditions wrapped around us, little assumptions, and suddenly we were able to get by without worrying about those corners. You know, in Krodaw..."
She trailed off for a second, the winter winds battering the window in the silence.
"In Krodaw, we were having dinner parties before the colony fell. We had merchants talking about the movement of property while the Sleepless carved at the outskirts of our territory. Sometimes I think Father saw how absurd it was, from time to time. Usually it happened when he was tying his cravat in place. There'd be a moment when he realised how mad it was, but... it was what we knew. It was what we did. And if we didn't, then we accepted that there were no rules out there, and all our precious assumptions about... the value of money, the value of life, the minds of other men, it all showed itself to be nonsense. And if we accepted that, then... what? What then? What did we accept?"
She smiled wanly.
"I think, Tanner, that you have the luxury of being under fewer of those concerns. You're aware of how precarious it all is. In Krodaw, we were still talking about little victories, how to gain what we could before it all came crashing down, we phrased things in terms of victories and setbacks. I think, Ms. Magg, that you understand how victory is impossible, and all one can do is lose as slowly as you can."
Tanner stared at her.
"...ah."
"Apologies for the uninvited psychoanalysis."
Tanner shrugged, still feeling a little core of... oddness in her stomach. A mixture between indignation and validation. Eerie to have someone summarise her like that. How did Marana figure it all out? And did her laying it out in the open make her weaknesses better or worse? If she had her personality painted out in front of her, was she the sort of person to step back with a whistle of interest, to run away in embarrassment, or to move forwards with a paintbrush in hand, eager to alter the mural into a shape she preferred a little more.
Not sure if she knew which.
But she wasn't sure if she liked even receiving the choice.
"No, it's... fine. Never thought about it that way. I think."
...no, she hadn't figured it all out. Missed the restraint. She wasn't quite terrified of all the horrors of the world, more... frightened of how she could affect it. Other people were basically functional, they did everything they were meant to, the sole rogue star in this cosmic play was herself, crashing around clumsily. Needed to find herself a quiet orbit to settle into, before she slammed into something which didn't appreciate being slammed into. Did that qualify as being scared of the world? Or just scared for the world?
She cracked a tiny smile, banishing the thought.
"Not... dissimilar to the world in Tenk the Ravager."
"Hm?"
"Tenk. Uh. The Ravager. It's a theatrophone play, you know, Annals of Tenk. Well, it's popular in Fidelizh. I quite like it. But it has that... sort of wild world, the kind of precarious one you're talking about. Everyone's wrapped up in caution and suspicion, everyone's growling all the time..."
"You think you like it because of that resonance? A world which obeys laws you understand?"
"...well, I like the action. And the voices. It's a good play. I'll miss it."
"Hm."
She didn't seem overly thrilled by the adventures of Tenk the Ravager. Too low-class, probably. Devoid of artistic virtue. Feh. There was something funny about talking to her like this, clearly Marana was trying to examine her mind like it was under one of Tanner's lenses, and Tanner... well, her world-view remained beyond Marana. It was like a secret she could hold onto, a warming little secret that was only for her. She didn't fear the world, she feared her own impact on it, and how she failed to do what everyone else did easily. There was nothing romantic in her predicament - nothing at all. Everyone else existed in the world with an ease and fluidity she couldn't manage, they simply existed in harmony with everything else. If they didn't, the world would be over by now. Tanner had to work to achieve what they did effortlessly - what Marana did effortlessly. Look at her, with her relaxation, her confidence, her way of simply being in the world. And look at Tanner, hunched, nervous, hesitant to even remove her boots in a foreign house, unwilling to sleep, because she was afraid of how it might come across, how she might embarrass herself, leave poisonous impressions to flower in her wake. Nothing glamorous. Once she reached her new home, she had every belief that she'd rebuild her routines. In a few weeks, she might have all her meals under control, her wardrobe organised, her days understood. In a few months, she might have her days timed down to the second. In years, she'd be a happy automaton, an attractive wasp suspended in a glittering web, fit to admire, fit to display, and completely immobile. Heavenly.
She sipped at her coffee, enjoying the rush of wakefulness it brought.
Marana had tried to sketch out her personality, but seeing the almost-correct conclusions... it helped throw herself into relief. Not that she'd share this.
"May I ask you a dreadfully impertinent question, Tanner?"
"Oh? Ah. Sure. Of course. Go ahead."
She sipped to cover the blush pricking her cheeks. Marana smiled slightly, and tilted her head to the other side, looking at Tanner from beneath half-lidded eyes.
"Why did you become a judge?"
Tanner paused.
"...it's an honourable career, provides enough money to live on, gives a good retirement. There's worse vocations."
"Did someone else feed you those lines?"
"Doesn't make them wrong."
"Did you, Tanner Magg, wake up one day and go 'I want to be a judge', or did the choice get made for you?"
"It's a vocation. I was called to it. My mother called me to it, at least."
"Told to become a judge, then."
"I suppose."
She didn't like this line of questioning. Didn't like having the notion of her vocation being challenged. The reliability of being a judge, the self-evident virtue of it, she liked that. She liked the certainty. Marana leant forwards, her smile spreading out slowly and subtly.
"Why?"
"It's an honourable-"
"Vocation, I know, I know. But why that? Why did your mother send you to do it, and not something else? You're large, you're not unintelligent, you could do a whole host of other things. Becoming a judge is expensive. It wasn't a light decision."
Tanner bit her lip.
"My... great-aunt was a judge. My mother's cousin's mother. So, that started it."
"Hm."
And it was easier to get Tanner out of the house. Becoming a judge meant going to another city for the rest of her life, it meant a constant supply of wealth back home, it meant purpose and control and refinement. It was stability which her mother couldn't provide. And the two of them had drifted. Maybe her mother thought Tanner would flourish without worrying about her injured father, maybe she just wanted Tanner to leave and make something of herself. Cut ties with the lodge. Maybe being sent to become a judge was her mother being kind, sending her to be free of everything Mahar Jovan meant for her. Or maybe it was her making a rational decision that benefited everyone to the highest possible degree.
It'd still stung when she was sent away. As much as she liked being a judge, there was... she was fifteen, and had been sent off to train in Fidelizh by her mother, no expectation of return. Hard for that not to sting.
But she wasn't going to say that.
"And what about the money?"
Tanner stiffened.
"That's... rather personal."
"I'm a surrealist, I break down barriers and whatnot. Politeness forms just one of the chains binding us in place, regulating society, etcetera etcetera, so on and so forth. Pardon the boldness. But I'm curious. Because, with all due respect, going to Fidelizh, studying for seven years, that takes wealth. Most judges are either from rich families, or they've received a scholarship. And I don't think they send glittering prodigies to the middle of nowhere."
Tanner could feel a little coal of anger light up somewhere around her diaphragm. Rude. Rude. Not meant to ask about money, it was rude. And implying she wasn't a glittering prodigy... yes, it was accurate, but she didn't have to say it. She was taking too many liberties, her surrealism didn't make her free from all social mores, there were limits. Didn't find Tanner asking her painful questions about Krodaw. And this, this was why Marana, nice as she was, wouldn't replace Eygi as a reservoir of true confidence. Because Eygi didn't ask about things like this.
Her letters were usually too short for that.
"If you must know-"
She paused, ameliorating her voice's tone a little.
"If you must know, it was an inheritance. My mother's cousin went on an expedition years and years ago. She didn't come back. Her parents were dead, she had no children, no siblings, and had apparently requested that all her pay be given to her cousin, my mother. By the time the expedition came back, she'd evidently accumulated quite a bit of back pay. Years of it. And... most of the expedition died, some of them without any living family or known friends. The expedition owner decided the decent thing to do would be to put their salaries to good use."
Marana blinked, her eyes suddenly becoming more aware.
"So... your mother's cousin, and..."
"And a few other people. I think it worked out to... three others, who died before they could claim their salary, and had no-one to give them to."
She sipped her coffee, mouth locked into a frown. Talking about money like this was impolite, and it made her feel like she was benefiting from... from nepotism. Made her feel grubby, like she had to justify all her successes, had to do everything in her power to stop them being tainted by the leg-up she'd been given. She had worked, and hard at that. But this tainted it. And as much as she liked to think she wasn't an egotistical person, having that little part of herself knocked at hurt.
"Hm."
Marana hummed to herself... and a small smile crept across her face.
"...who delivered this to you? Some sort of... intermediary?"
"No, it was the expedition leader."
Marana's smile was all-consuming now.
"Was she a woman... hm, very thin, almost rodent-like, large, dark, intense eyes, a diamond mark on her forehead, a foreign accent but a great facility with languages, and-"
Tanner interrupted, her own eyes widening.
"How do you know?"
Marana paused.
Blinked.
And roared with laughter, overwhelming even the winter gale outside. Tanner jumped slightly, a startled 'yip' leaving her lips as Marana unleashed peal upon peal of mirth, her eyes prickling with tears. Tanner stared, alarmed...
And Marana spluttered out a sentence.
"I offered that rat cocaine!"
Oh.
Goodness.
Small world, for the two of them to have met that woman with the letter.
A woman called Carza vo Anka.
Chapter Twenty-Three - Recollections of the Founder's Eye
Chapter Twenty-Three - Recollections of the Founder's Eye
Tanner was fourteen when it happened. When the woman with the letter came to their house in Mahar Jovan. The woman with an eye tattooed on her forehead, and an accent which spoke to a very, very distant city indeed.
The day was grey, the sky overcast with heavy clouds that didn't promise rain, and didn't promise sun either. No cold intense enough to be feared, no heat powerful enough to be enjoyed. A non-committal sky, in short, which seemed to drink colour from the world below. Tanner was picking little bones out from her beneath her nails. Been working at the fishery again, gutting huge piles of fish sent in for processing. This was how she spent her day, at this point in her life. The morning was for schooling, in a cramped little building maintained by the great and good of the cities. The afternoon was for labour, where she and the other children in her little caste trooped off to find work where it could be found. For Tanner, that meant the fishery, meant hours of hunching over a soaking-wet table, her hair tied into a severe bun, her front covered by an oiled apron, her hands aching as she sliced again at another shimmering body, parting scale and ice-cold flesh to find the little red organs that lurked within, inedible and bitter. A flick, and the body was open. A flick, and the organs were torn out. A snap, and the head was gone, spiralling away into a nearby bucket. And then she moved on. This fishery dealt with sauce production, which meant that the fish was destined to be macerated in brine. The bodies would be for the poor-quality stuff, and the organ bucket was destined for the high-quality batches. Not her business, she didn't deal with it, but the stink of the tanks lingered in her clothes and hair afterwards, made cats give her longing looks as she walked home.
This was her life. And she was doing all she could with it. Morning, school. Afternoon, fishery. And evening.. heading back home, usually a little before her mother returned from her own work. There was an old woman who'd stopped working years ago, who was nice enough to keep an eye on father during the day, in the periods when everyone else was out of the house. But once the evening rolled around, the old woman returned home, and Tanner had to make sure father was alright, that he hadn't been in the same place for too long, that he'd eaten everything he needed, that he was comfortable. She could tell when he was uncomfortable - there was a tightness around the features, and she'd developed a good sense for what worked, what didn't. She got dinner started, and then picked out the bones from beneath her nails with a small knife, waiting for mother to get back home so they could eat. She had a slate-eyed solitude painted over her face, a dull resignation that... this was it. Her life would continue in this vein. She didn't think of herself as marriageable, and so... well. There were worse fates. She had her business, looked forward to the hours of peace she got, enjoyed school as much as she could, and all the while the lodge protected her from witchcraft.
Just thinking about the lodge made her shiver.
They weren't evil or cruel. Not objectively. But they...
She still remembered, and would remember for the rest of her life, that first initiation. Dressed in a white shift. Stood before her aunts and uncles, all the distant relations who were joined together beneath the lodge's leaking roof. Gathered to practice their rites, to gather luck, and prevent others from stealing it away. A perpetual occult war raged in Jovan, and no-one acknowledged it was happening, not outside of a lodge and its ceremonies. Luck was a zero-sum game, and if you were to win, someone else had to lose. All that mattered was clinging together and fighting against all the others. And in the initiation, she was tested. Probed. Examined. Interrogated. Naturally shy. Naturally afraid of being stared at. And exposed before a crowd of people she barely knew, who seemed to take relish in watching her squirm her way through question after question after question. No idea what was happening. No idea why. Only aware that when she looked in her mother's direction, the woman's eyes flickered down, refusing to meet her own.
Never forgiven her mother for dragging her to that. Never. Even if it was for the greater good. Even then.
Her skin crawled at the memory, and she worked harder at her nails, biting her lip. Didn't want to think about it. Didn't want to think about it.
When a little knock came from the front door. Tanner twitched. No-one knocked. Mother had a key. The old woman, too. No-one else came by, not really. Mother didn't entertain guests. Her mind immediately went to the lodge - they were sending someone to check on them, the little outposts of lodge-approved virtue in a city of sin and ruin. She stood carefully, setting her knife down, twisting her fingers nervously... flattening her face. Expressionlessness coming to her as easily as nervous twitches did to others. She adjusted her ribbons - slightly grimy and in need of replacement, but money was strained enough as it was, even with the lodge helping out with the occasional spot of bother. She approached the door, nervous.
"Who is it?"
"Is this the residence of Tonrana Magg?"
The voice which came through the door was female, and sounded... not old, but not quite totally youthful. And strained, very slightly, like something was obstructing it. Unusual accent. Tanner hesitated for a second, and kneaded her skirt furiously, looking around for some sort of large object to whack people with. Just in case.
"Who's asking?"
"My name's Carza vo Anka, I worked with Tonrana Magg's cousin, Lirana."
...mother didn't talk about her family. Not much. She didn't have much of a family, they were largely dead and gone, either by age or the Great War. Did she have a cousin? Had she mentioned her before? Tanner hesitated, glancing at her father, staring blindly ahead. As he'd done for the last few years, without fail. A childish part of her wanted to say that no-one was here, there was no-one in this house, the voice was just a hallucination, and then she'd run to her room and hide under her bed for a while. Another, equally childish part wanted to open the door to see what was happening. And eventually... the latter child won out. The woman sounded civilised, sounded polite, and knew mother by name. And if in doubt, Tanner could use her knife. She opened the door slightly, keeping it on the chain...
A woman with an eye tattooed on her forehead stared back, looking up at Tanner slightly.
"Oh. Mrs. Magg?"
"I'm Tanner. I'm her daughter."
She kneaded her skirt uncomfortably with one hand, keeping the motion hidden by the door. The woman wasn't alone, there were a pair of individuals waiting a little way down the street, talking idly. Both of them were massive, thuggish-looking, and their faces were hidden by scarves and masks, even on a fairly muggy day. No sign of their flesh, but they were large. Larger even than Tanner - and that was a feat. Carza smiled slightly, her face always seeming to twitch from one expression to the other, never smoothly transitioning.
"May I come in?"
"Mother's not here. She'll... be back soon, though. Would you... like to wait inside/"
Her eyes kept flickering to the large pair, noticing only now that one was a man and the other a woman. Carza followed her gaze for a moment... she was an odd-looking woman, really. Slightly dusky skin, messy brown hair, large dark eyes, and... well, she was rake-thin. Seemed rattish, honestly. A giant rat wearing some sort of gown, reminding her faintly of a judge's cape, over a heavy, ever-so-slightly mannish tweed suit. Her shirt had a bizarrely high collar, almost stretching up to her chin, and it made her look even thinner, and this in turn made her look more ravenous, more... well, she looked like the sort of person who wouldn't do anything slowly. The sort of person who gnawed her way through time, rather than savouring every drop. She was foreign, but... no idea from where. Carza drew a bundle of papers out of her bag, sealed in an envelope, humming slightly to herself as she did so, scratching her neck with the other hand... no part of her remained still for long, especially not her face, which was always screwing up, relaxing, twitching... her eyes were perpetually on the move, and it was making Tanner nervous.
"Oh, yes, I would - sorry, those two don't need to come in, I know they can... fill things up. I have some papers to do with... everything."
She smiled helplessly, and Tanner found herself almost smiling back, just to resolve a little of the tension in the air. A moment, and Carza was inside, sitting herself down in the kitchen while Tanner hunted for the cleanest tea-things they had. Would let her into the sitting room, but father was there. This was why people didn't visit unexpectedly - because father needed to be moved around in order to stay healthy, but they didn't like having him in the same room as visitors, made everyone feel self-conscious, and she couldn't move him to the bedroom immediately, so...
Anyway.
Carza's smile was fixed in place, and she kept adjusting her hair.
"So... Tanner?"
Tanner twitched.
"Yes, miss?"
"How old are you?"
"Fourteen, miss."
"Go to school?"
"Yes, miss. Every morning."
"Enjoy it?"
"Yes, miss."
Carza was practically squirming in her seat, in obvious discomfort with small talk. Tanner returned with tea, laying down a cup for both of them, nestling a cosy around the teapot to keep it warm for her mother.
"...I like your ribbons?"
Tanner flinched as she sipped her tea, almost spilling it.
"Oh. Ah. Thank you. I... like your... tattoo?"
Carza's hands twitched towards it on instinct, and for a second Tanner thought she'd insulted her. Just for a second.
"Oh, yes, this thing. Had it done when I was twenty-one, just after I graduated. Have you heard of ALD IOM before?"
Tanner blinked.
"I don't... think so. No, no, they mentioned it in school, sorry, just remembered. That's... a city, right? Off to the west?"
"That's the one. Well, that's where I'm from. And where... your... hm, sorry, trying to figure out the right time for a mother's cousin."
"First cousin, once removed."
"...that was quick."
"Lodge. They're... very interested in family ties. Sorry."
"Ah."
Silence fell for a few painful moments. Carza''s hands were white with tension around her cup, and she seemed to be itching for something that tea couldn't quite satisfy - Tanner wanted to offer her a cigarette, or a cigar, or something, but they could barely afford basic amenities, luxuries like tobacco were completely off the table. She felt ashamed at her poorness, wished mother would come back, felt how grimy her ribbons were, how she still stank of fish sauce - there was a stench to the maceration tanks which was quite unique, a mixture of spices, rancid flesh, salt, heat... it was rot, blasting outwards at all times from vats heated with furnaces, and the resulting sauce didn't taste much better. She envied the children that got to work in the normal fisheries, the ones which salted fish for preservation, or just butchered them for the market, but... well, those places were taken. Leaving her with the vats. She kept staring at her own fingers, at the still-unclean nails where bones and flesh had wormed their way into spots hard to scrub. Bit the inside of her cheek.
"...I'll be talking about this with your mother, but... well, your first cousin once removed died a few years ago, I'm sorry to... bring bad news, but there's some salary she was owed, which I'm here to give to your mother."
Tanner blinked.
"Oh."
Well, she'd found out she had a first cousin once removed, and a few minutes later, that the aforementioned cousin was dead.
"I see."
Carza sipped her tea. Nodded. Hummed. And suddenly spoke, her voice infused with artificial brightness.
"...so! Uh. The... you know, I've never really been round here before, to Mahar Jovan, I mean. Interesting city. I'm surprised it still has a diarchy. So... you're in Mahar, but you said there was a lodge, that's... more to do with Jovan, isn't it?"
"Yes, miss."
"I've read about those."
She paused, swallowing weakly.
"I mean, I've... had a little poking around. I wonder... I mean, Tanner, have you ever thought about why the lodges are the way they are?"
Tanner blinked.
"No, miss. Not really."
"I mean, they're cloistered, they're secretive... they're obsessed with us-against-them. Why do you think that is?"
Tanner blinked a few more times. This was new. People didn't ask her these things. She was getting the feeling that Carza was a bit... odd. And... hold on, ALD IOM? As in, that city which just appeared? She'd heard about that, some ships talked about some of their goods ultimately ending up in that place, lots of luxuries which ALD IOM treasured above everything else. Bizarre place, apparently, but it sounded exotic. The woman in front of her, with her mannish suit, her gown, her tattoo... Tanner felt a little, long-neglected spark of curiosity well up, moving past layer upon stifling layer of stinking fish sauce, the routines which had slowly ground Tanner down into a hard-faced automaton.
Just a little bit.
"...well, the lodge says it's because being secretive protects us from witchcraft. If we let our secrets into the world, the other lodges will be able to attack us more effectively, steal our luck for themselves, leave nothing good behind."
"Luck. Hm."
Carza's head tilted to one side.
"And there's the luck in Mahar, which is more about... filtering the world for the good things, isn't that right?"
"Yes, miss. More or less."
"Why do you think there's a difference?"
"Mahar was founded by foreigners, miss. Fidelizhi. Jovan wasn't. So... well..."
She could trail off. But she felt the urge to continue, her thoughts clicking, her mind's gyre widening.
"Maybe... Jovan was encouraged to think of the world as something which was theirs, and has since been invaded and needs to be protected, but Mahar was more about finding the unfamiliar and filtering out what's bad about it. I mean, just look at the buildings, Mahar's full of domes and wide streets, loads of gargoyles... it's richer, but Jovan has some very wealthy lodges, but they all live in these narrow little buildings."
"They don't show off their wealth, then."
"No, miss. No point. If you show off your wealth in Jovan, you're just showing how much luck you have, you attract attention from the other lodges."
"Or from Mahar, which invaded this place. I mean, Mahar is wealthier, maybe there's an element of just hiding your assets from the other side. Wonder if there's been any civil wars in Mahar Jovan, and if there were, if the lodges formed some core part of it. It makes sense to me, at least, but I don't imagine Mahar would tolerate the lodges if that happened. What do you think?"
"Oh, no civil wars, miss. None. The royal families like each other too much."
She nodded, satisfied with this answer. If the royal families liked each other, the state was fine, everyone was fine, no civil wars. And thinking of all those bridges, how could one side invade the other side properly? It'd take ages to march across from one to the other, they were narrow, some of them were easy to sever, so... maybe that was why the bridges were built that way, to discourage fighting. Hard to have a riot cross from one side of the river to the other when the rioters had to march up and down and up and down and left and right and do it all in single file. Carza leaned forwards, her hands suddenly becoming much stiller - just noticed that she was missing a few fingers, and usually angled her other fingers to cover them up, self-conscious. Her nose twitched.
"Really?"
"Oh, very much so."
"Do they intermarry?"
Tanner blinked.
"Miss?"
"Intermarry. Does one royal family marry people from the other royal family?"
"...sometimes? I think? They're private, they don't really tell people what they're doing, they don't make a big deal out of it all. Mother says that's good, one of the princes had a scandal a few years ago, and she said that it was best if the families kept all their issues inside the families, didn't bring the whole thing down with little... well, things like that."
"I assume they don't always intermarry. I mean, if they did, they'd be very inbred by now. Just, logically speaking, I imagine they don't intermarry all the time - makes me wonder how they stay on good terms. Though, then again, maybe avoiding intermarrying helps, reduces the number of marital spats."
Tanner blushed slightly.
"Ah."
Carza smiled guiltily.
"Sorry. So... luck, it's interesting how that works. You know, there's a place out to the west - this is where I went with your first cousin (once removed), it was on an expedition into the steppes over the mountains. And they're obsessed with luck, too. But their conception is more... well, about invitation. For them, luck is just a day where nothing happens, bad luck is something you avoid attracting to yourself, like... when a thunderstorm happens, and you don't stand under a tree .That's how they conceive of luck. Because out on the steppe, you're constantly moving, there's a perpetual risk of getting raided by someone else, suffering an injury or illness, being stuck in bad weather, having your herd attacked, meeting the Scab- well, mutants... lots of bad things. So their version of luck is just the absence of bad luck coming down on them. Bit more pessimistic."
Tanner's eyes were wide, and her words were rapid.
"Really?"
Carza nodded quite a few times in quick succession, her enthusiasm written obviously all over her foreign features.
"Really. Names are a big deal for them, just because naming something can call on it - so they don't name the dead, people who are going through mourning lose their names briefly, and there's a massive number of mythological things they just don't name except in a very roundabout way, just to stay safe by avoiding attracting attention from anything. It makes sense on the steppe, but it's... interesting to see a similarly pessimistic angle emerge in the lodges."
Tanner's face was starting to creak into a smile, just by accident.
"Maybe the lodges used to be different, but becoming part of Mahar Jovan changed them into what they are now. The lodge doesn't really talk about it, but... well... I mean, being part of a lodge helps, mother joined after father had... had an accident, and they've helped with money, with bureaucrats, with all that stuff. Just from time to time. Maybe... lodges originally only did that, but then Mahar came along, and suddenly it was all more paranoid. Just thinking."
Carza nodded along.
"Yes, yes, that does make sense, though you'd probably need to prove it a little more. Maybe... well, colonies, maybe lodges helped with the first colonies, provided a way for colonies to stay bound up with the city, rather than going their own way with their own beliefs. You could travel to a colony, just make the right signs, and you'd have a lodge-mate ready to help you, house you, feed you, everything. Binding people together."
"Oh, yes, yes, that's something they do! Some of the bigger lodges, I mean. The oldest rites are always the rites we have for people leaving home, going on long journeys, we keep shrines for them, and... sorry, sorry, shouldn't be telling you."
"Don't worry, not a witch. But I understand. Out of interest, do lodges provide actual defence?"
"Miss?"
"Defence. Do they fight other lodges, or-"
"Oh, no, no, never. Not polite. Not good. Against the law. I mean, we steal their luck, but we don't fight them physically, that would be rude."
"Hm. I see, I see. What about feasts?"
Tanner blinked.
"There's dinners."
She shivered. She didn't like the dinners. Not one little bit.
"I wonder if that's how the practice started. I mean, feasts are good, everyone likes a feast - anthropologically, we love talking about them, they're very popular for cross-cultural comparisons. Anyway, think of it this way, the bigger a feast, the more prestige you get, right? In ALD IOM, there's a... well, a court, the Court of the Axe, they love feasting, they're obsessed with it, draw in all their members. The bigger a feast, the more prestige the organiser gets. Thing is, feasts are also expensive. But by cooperating, you can extract a lot more out of it - your feast winds up bigger, it's less of a burden to put it on, and it binds you together with the other people organising it with you. If lodges aren't really for mutual defence... you can imagine how they'd grow up. You start by having feasts, then people cooperate in order to put on bigger feasts, this binds people together more and more, they start using this cooperation to help their members in other ways, over time the feasting element declines, but the association sticks around, reinforcing its fraternal bonds through other means. Because I doubt the cooperation element came first, there needs to be a goal, otherwise it'll fall apart fairly quickly - the Court of the Axe loves feasting because, originally, it helped bind them together around their warleaders, it was a way for leaders to give directly to their retinue, keep them happy, while also publicly asserting rulership over their latest conquest, and..."
She trailed off, coughing slightly and flushing with a hint of embarrassment.
"Sorry. Theorising."
Tanner was leaning forwards, her eyes locked on Carza.
"What about religion? I mean, there's gods, and... I shouldn't say this, but the lodges, we have tutelary gods, maybe we started as a cult for them, but gradually we expanded outwards to do other things?"
"Possible, possible. But why did you choose to revere gods that way, rather than more openly? Why did you become more secretive?"
"...because if the enemy knows about-"
"There you go, enemy, why is it about enemies? I suppose a question to ask is how did Jovan get founded? Did the lodges emerge out of nowhere, or was there a past invasion which made them get set up, or some sort of religious schism? If Jovan was invaded in the past, or if some other religion was set up that disliked tutelary deities, maybe hiding them was a way of preserving their worship, and then this developed into a more... paranoid outlook on the world, paranoid outlook on witchcraft?"
"Or contamination. That could be it. Contamination comes out of the ground, it'll always come out of the ground, you can't stop it, so... bad luck is the same way, you're just avoiding it by letting someone else soak it up. Zero-sum."
Carza clicked her fingers.
"That's the basic idea, yes, but everyone deals with contamination, why would Jovan be different? Might... hm, I wonder what histories exist of the early years, I assume Mahar writes most of them, but I'm... hm, if there could be an ethnography of a lodge, then..."
She shook her head suddenly.
"Anyway, anyway. That's... very perceptive of you."
She smiled strangely.
"Have you considered going into academia?"
Tanner stared. Blinked.
"Miss, I gut fish for the maceration vats."
"I used to be a street urchin."
Tanner's eyes widened.
"Really?"
"When I was a child, yes. Then I blackmailed my illegitimate father, got into the Court of Ivory... point is, just because you started small, it doesn't mean you can't do something."
"Hm."
"You don't look sure."
"...father's a dockworker. Mother's a maid. I'm a dockworker too. Not a bad life."
"Could be better."
"Hm."
Carza drummed her fingers on the table softly, tilting her head to one side, slowly studying Tanner. Tanner felt a sudden flush of... not sure what. There was embarrassment at being poor, uneducated, idiotic, in many ways unsophisticated. Shame and fear at revealing things about the lodge - maybe this was a test, maybe they were watching, they said they could always be watching, they had many members and they had wide eyes and keen ears. Could be watching. Might be here. Might be Carza. Another part of the initiation. And... something else. Something twitching its way through the grey matter in her head. Something she'd... when was the last time she talked like this? Not since father's accident. Not once. Mother didn't... she hadn't been one with time for Tanner's silliness, and after the accident, the two just didn't talk much at all. Especially not since the lodge. Things had been said. Mistakes had been made. No going back from most of them. And so, for the first time in... longer than Tanner really wanted to acknowledge, she was thinking. Human thoughts were writing through her. Stupid thoughts, bizarre thoughts, an endless string of extrapolations and non-sequiturs, thoughts pinging from one another in arcane trajectories.... eels. When was the last time she'd thought about eels? She wanted to get out that battered book she had under her bed, the one she'd been too tired to read for so very long, she wanted to ramble about the little interesting things she'd found, she...
She coughed.
"Sorry, miss."
Carza blinked.
"You... haven't done anything."
"Sorry for... wasting your time."
"No, no. Listen, I... need to talk with your mother about this, but... alright. So, I have your first cousin (once removed)'s salary to give. Few years of back-pay, I promised to give it to your mother when I returned, it took me... longer than I expected. Expedition went on for a while, it took a long time just to get back to ALD IOM, and... anyway. Anyway. I'm sorry for how long it's taken. But I have... other salaries, from people who died on the expedition, and... some of them, no, all of them don't have next of kin. The Court wants me to just keep the money, filter it back to the treasury, but that just seems... it seems rotten. It seems wrong. And..."
She smiled slightly.
"Well, anyway. I need to talk with your mother. But, if I can... help, in some way, I'd be happy to."
Tanner froze.
Money?
How much?
No, rude to ask. Rude to ask. A question erupted from her lips before she could think.
"Could I visit ALD IOM?"
She immediately flushed, and her hands dropped below the table to knead anxiously at her skirt. Carza's smile was faint, and there was a hint of something in it, something Tanner couldn't quite identify.
"Maybe one day. Hard to get there. Harder to leave. Can I ask... what it is you want to do, Tanner? Beyond gutting fish?"
Tanner shrugged nervously.
"I don't know. What do you do?"
"Anthropology and linguistics."
"Can I do that, too?"
"...well, maybe. Give it some thought. I... well..."
She paused.
"If there's any advice I can give you, it's just... well, people will say 'do what makes you happy', but what makes me happy is doing very little and sleeping in every day. Can't really do that, right? So... try and find something where you feel like you can justify doing it twenty years from now. Or fifty. Seventy. A hundred."
She smiled weakly.
"Your... first cousin (once removed), she... wasn't like that, she just wanted to make a lot of money and then retire to a house in the country filled with attractive menservants, pardon my vulgarity. Didn't really succeed. Died in the west. So... find something, burrow into it like a tick, and don't let go. No matter what. The world's a chaotic place, so just... find a rock, and latch onto it. Best people like us can do."
Tanner stared. She didn't get advice like this. Father had just done whatever work he could possibly get. Mother had only done little odds and ends before the accident, then she was just scrambling for whatever paid. This was... the first time someone had suggested that she do something which doesn't involve fish, manual labour, the destiny of people in her situation. Unskilled business that went on and on and on and on until she died or was injured too badly to work any further, then she'd go and mend nets for the rest of her life. She had no real... ambition for anything else, but... find something to do for the next hundred years, then burrow and cling. Don't aspire to being lazy, don't aspire to decadence, just find work and do it. It... spoke to something in her. Restraint. Limitation. Accepting boundaries and marking them, for the rest of time. She imagined... imagined if her father had done that sort of thing. Had a job that he did reliably, instead of whatever came his way. Something known, something bounded. The same schedule, every day from now until the end of the world.
Would he have been injured?
She stared at Carza, and thought about... what she must do, every day.
Did she have a kindred spirit? The same longing for predictable limitation? The same knowledge of how... delicate everything was, how everyone else operated so smoothly while she was so clumsy, how she had to work twice as hard just to do what everyone else did...
A click at the door. Mother was home. Tanner looked down at her tea, and focused on it as the conversation above began, and didn't stop for several hours - the letter was opened, papers were dispersed, the grisly matter of money was discussed. She kept looking at her tea as it grew cool, then ice-cold. Her mind had been set off, clicking outwards like an expanding army, taking more and more mental territory with each moment. What was she going to be doing years from now? Would she still be gutting?
Would she live the same way for the rest of her life?
Would she end up like father?
Would she end up like mother?
And when the topic of becoming a judge came up...
She accepted. And eagerly. Judges made money. Judges were stable. Judges were always needed. Judges didn't get struck by damaged harpoons, didn't get shoved into a salt-stained hovel by the riverbank. Judges didn't gut fish all day in a stinking fishery, hoping that somehow this would go somewhere positive.
Judges could do the same thing for the rest of their lives.
***
"...that's about the long and short of it. Ms. Carza vo Anka came to my house, gave me the money, talked about jobs..."
Marana was leaning back in her bed, eyes bright.
"Goodness. All this time... I knew her in Krodaw. She was younger, I suppose, practically still a girl, lacked the... worldliness which makes you seem old. Still innocent, and dying in the heat. We had dinner, I offered her cocaine, the usual. I always wondered what happened to her afterwards... she slapped me, you see. People didn't generally do that, not when I was the governor's daughter, not just a governor's useless old hag of an offspring. I... so, she made it to the steppes. Good for her. Always meant to... look her up again, but when Krodaw fell, ALD IOM was cut off for a long while, took some time for the routes to be opened up again, and once they did, I was... rather busy. Having a few ghastly breakdowns, you understand."
She smiled sadly.
"I used to be young... I swanned around with the silliest damn haircut, went to dinner parties while artillery fire was perpetually audible... she had a companion, a young man, I didn't dislike him... I wonder what happened to him? Hm. I'll... well, once this is all over, I'll look her up. Reminisce about the old days. Gods, after all this time... she shows back up to just give money to some random giantess who meets me on the way to a conference."
Tanner grunted, still refusing to undress, even her boots remaining tied and ready to march.
"Small world."
"No, big world, but only tiny pockets of life within it. Goodness..."
She suddenly seemed terrifically sad, for some reason. Hadn't known Ms. vo Anka for more than a few days years upon years ago, yet... oh. She was probably remembering Krodaw. The fall of the colony. The old days where she was young and bright, wasn't quite weathered by the passage of years. Tanner watched the older woman as she stretched back languidly on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Her fingers were itching for a drink, Tanner could see that much. Not healthy to do so, not when they were about to set off into the snowy wilderness. She'd read up on hypothermia, she knew that alcohol only made it worse, warmed the skin while chilling the organs. Deadly, in the right conditions. It was... years since she really relived that day.
Had she followed Carza's advice properly? Carza hadn't been in touch, and Tanner hadn't reached out. Not due to any inherent reason, it was just... their relationship wasn't one of correspondence. Never intended to be. Carza was presumably travelling now, doing more work, maybe she was in ALD IOM, locked off from the outside world by years of isolation and the destruction of many routes by the fall of Krodaw. The nearest settlement to ALD IOM, and it was a shattered ruin occupied by raving lunatics who'd destroyed all the train tracks years ago in a fit of fury. She hadn't corresponded, but... anyway. Had she done as Carza recommended? Found a career, lost herself in it, bound herself in a thousand routines, restrained herself with predictability and safety... burrowed into the world like a tick, secure in her own little world. She remembered the mussel mosaic on the banks of the mudlands, the shimmering mass of shells, cloistered and closed, unwilling to engage with the world beyond the one they cultivated for themselves. Only opening when they were absolutely confident. Resilient creatures, very resilient... but immobile. Just took the right predator to crack them open, and in their tiny little worlds, there was no defence against things so large and specialised. Safety in smallness and isolation... until the right thing came along, and then it was just smallness, nothing else.
She'd been sent north by the confinements that kept her safe, restrained, happy.
The winds howled beyond them. Tanner thought about the journey. The distance. The low dread in her stomach at moving forwards without a plan to go back.
Had Carza ever dealt with this?
Anyway. The coffee was keeping her awake, the eggs were a lead weight, and she had no intention of doing anything but waiting for the dawn, for the coachman who was sleeping off a hangover. The wind wailed disconsolately. She remembered the titan standing amidst the uninhabited country of the Tulavanta. This place... this place had birthed that creature, and a million others. How many were still out there? How many were...
She saw a shadow, near-invisible amidst the dark.
Seven gleaming silver eyes, looking in through the window, right at Tanner.
Tanner froze. Fear surged up her spine at the sight of those eyes, flat, dead, resolutely and dismissively inhuman. Something about them made her feel... small. Weak.
Something was out there. Something was...
No longer there. The seven eyes vanished, and she imagined heavy lids snapping shut, concealing them completely. The shadow slinking away into the dark.
How many were out there? How many were watching?
She scanned the darkness, but nothing presented itself.
The Great War... they said it hadn't really ended. Not really. The mutants just lost the will to remain cohesive. People still didn't know why, it was one of those interminable mysteries that only fools looked into, because there was nothing to be found. Nothing but gloom and uncertainty. The mutants stopped aligning into million-body legions, the sculpted mutants stopped coming out of the distant north, and that was it. They stopped prosecuting the war, but that didn't mean they lost. The armies were still out there. Surrounding everything in the north, lingering in the dark, eager for contamination to consume. Living in conditions most creatures couldn't, so nothing could bother them in their long, silent lives. The armies were still here.
The armies were outside her window. Watching. Waiting.
She examined her skin carefully, checking for a hint of mottling, the first traces of contamination. Did it see her as an irrelevance, or a meal?
...if her routines had brought her here, what value did those routines have?
No, no, she was being nonsensical. She'd be fine. Just had to get to Rekida, set herself up, get on with her job. Simple enough. Marana suddenly spoke, her eyes sliding over to examine the intensely tense Tanner. Her voice was painfully loud to Tanner's ears, straining to hear a hint of movement in the great wasteland beyond.
"...you've never been west, have you?"
"No. Fidelizh and Mahar Jovan. And here."
"Well, calm down a bit. Trust me. No matter how bad it looks out there, it's quiet. Nice and dead."
"Except for the mutants."
"Not so many. See, out west... well, the foundation stone, the stuff which stops contamination welling up... in the middle-kingdoms, it's nicely balanced, some big permanent deposits under the major cities, and some smaller, temporary deposits where we dump the colonies, the coloniae if you want to be fancy. Out west, the deposits are much smaller, not many permanent ones at all... and north, up here, there's too much. It fills the soil up. Kills most plants, stops you farming, really. No wonder not many people lived up here, even before the Great War. When contamination breaks through, it's a giant pool of the stuff - the only stuff that can get through. The smaller trickles, those don't have a hope in hell, they need pressure to break upwards. Difference between a swamp and a geyser."
Tanner was dimly aware of some of this, but just listening to Marana was helping her clam down a little. She nodded along, always watching out of the window.
"So, the point is, calm down. Out west, every other breath is contaminated, especially if you go outside the cities. Pool after pool after pool, it just doesn't stop. You get old-growth mutants like you wouldn't believe... and plenty of mutant humans. Ugly. Hot. Not good. The north... if you take your pills, clip regularly, you'll be fine. Out west, you can't survive forever, you just try to die slower than everyone else. Up north, you're fine. Alright? So settle down."
Tanner hesitated.
"If the west's so dangerous, why do people live there? How do people live there?"
"With difficulty. And... you know what happened to Krodaw. Sometimes, people don't live there. They fail. And loudly. Point is, I've been to worse places. The two of us, we'll be just fine, we just need to stay warm, calm, and steer clear of those big pools."
"What if one of those pools appears here?"
"Then we run away when the rumbling starts. Remember... hm, you had that story about the blacktide, those eels that warned of change. Well, just think like that. We hear rumbling, we move. Not that it'll be a problem."
Tanner shot Marana a look, a little annoyed at how flippant she was.
"If the north is so harmless, why did the Great War start here? What made this place so special?"
"It's quiet. They could kill us city by city and no-one knew until it was too late. The cold was fine for them, but it killed us. Hard for us to invade lands that were already basically dead - you don't invade the north, it's never been a good idea, the land's too barren, there's no food, you just starve to death before you can do anything, and that's without moving forces through the Tulavanta."
Marana's voice had a low consistency to it, a calm rationality that was... quite at odds with how she usually was.
She was trying to make Tanner feel better.
Appreciated. But the idea of being babied, pitied, it... made her slightly annoyed.
Still.
She appreciated the gesture. Slumped back from the window, lowering her head and resting her eyes for a moment. Just a moment. Struck her, thinking about Carza, seeing those eyes... made her think. About her life, where she'd come from, where she was going, why she was doing it all in the first place. Her lips thinned slightly, but she said nothing, even as Marana continued to ramble about foundation stone, going over random factoids to calm everyone down. Humanity had endured for a very long time, even in environments like this - and if humanity had endured out here, so could they. The mutants wouldn't touch them. Not unless there was a damn good reason. There was a brutal calculation to the smarter ones, they'd forgotten mortal hungers and desires, lost their attachment to concepts of territory or sport, they simply did things as they became necessary. They wouldn't go for humans, not unless there was something worth eating or killing. They'd fought a genocidal war against humanity, yet they seemed to barely have any strong feelings towards them... or any feelings at all. No enmity. No hatred. No cruelty. Nothing at all.
She slumped back...
And when she next opened her eyes, the sky was tinted a light blue, and ragged streamers of cloud marked where the interminable grey had been banished. The sun was rising, small and golden and bright, turning the landscape into a boundless plain of blinding diamonds.
It was morning.
Time to go to her new home.
Time to go to Rekida.
This was where her routines and her vocation had led her. Nothing more to say. Nothing more to think about. She'd chosen this, in her own way. She'd committed.
The coachman was smoking outside in the snow, stamping his boot-clad feet to stay warm. He was young, but had the sort of bearing which made him seem much older. A kind of weathering, a quality of stillness, the sort of thing that was usually honed through age and experience. Not to mention, Tanner thought, his mutton chops. Big black things, looked like odd fungal growths on the side of his cheeks. His clothes were frost-flecked and threadbare, worn in multiple layers until he looked like a well-off rag-and-bone man. He looked over as the two women approached, his back automatically stiffening, his lips thinning beneath his moustache - funny, how people did that. Tanner found that people with moustaches tended to automatically thin their lips a little, maybe born of a desire to make their facial hair seem a little more impressive, and less like a pink-red slug had decided to grow a mohawk. She'd seen a man who'd shaved off his moustache at some point, and his lips always seemed overly thin and bloodless, drained of life by years of trying to augment his whiskers. Wondered if the same applied to cheeks, if this coachman would find himself looking pale and scraggly for the rest of his life, head perpetually seeming incomplete. Either way, she hoped the best for him - having hollow cheeks and bloodless lips sounded like a recipe for being alone at any pub for the rest of time. He blinked a few times, took a long wheeze from his drooping cigarette, before opening his mouth to pick a little stray ash from his tongue, startlingly red against the snow.
Marana smiled winningly. Tanner followed suit a second later. The coachman grunted.
"Right. You're off to Rekida, then?"
"Quite right. Three days travel, yes?"
"Right. Let's get started then, want to make good time before nightfall."
Marana's eyes twinkled.
"Right."
Tanner nodded firmly.
"Right."
He turned away sharply, staring into the distance, eyes squinting against the glare. The snow was blindingly bright in the morning light, and it seemed to spread outwards interminably, devouring the horizon and any sense of distance. The air wasn't full of flakes, not quite yet, but there was a sharp quality to it - like ice was struggling to form, needle by needle, imperceptible to the eye, but not to the skin. The settlement seemed fragile before it, and Tanner shivered, little tongues of cold slipping through the layers of clothing she had on. Keenly aware of how... hot she was, biologically speaking. When you reached a certain size, it felt like the body just emanated heat with lazy abandon, and she was keenly aware of how her skin lost heat, how her organs wept heat, how her breath stole heat. What had Marana said? Seeing the world not as something which could be won, just as something which could be lost as slowly as possible. Tanner didn't necessarily agree, but in situations of intense cold, she found the idea tempting. The weather was a constant killer, and it was going to steal away whatever it could until there was nothing left. Heat stole moisture, cold stole heat. No wonder everyone lived in the middle-kingdoms, there was something quite nice about weather which didn't have a constantly tightening jaw latched around your throat, pushing deeper and deeper with each moment, only temporarily banished by fire or shelter.
Anyway.
The coachman talked as he started to stride away, his voice tobacco-scarred and older than it should've been.
"So. Three days on the road. Got gas masks?"
Nods from both.
"Good. Shouldn't be too necessary. Shame you came when you did, could've hitched a ride with the postal coach, they usually take up isolated visitors."
Tanner flushed.
"Oh. Ah. Sorry about that, don't want to be inconvenient."
The coachman snorted.
"Not a problem. Work's work. Now. Few rules. First, no drinking. I'm not cleaning vomit out of my coach, and if you drink too much, you die in the cold. Understood? I don't want you drinking more than you can handle, taking off your coat, and dying of the frost. Second, no questioning me if I have to make any changes. Weather looks to be fine, but if a blizzard hits, we buckle down at a rest stop, ration out the food, and stay put until it's done. No arguments. You don't want to waste the energy, trust me. Third, do not approach the damn hobbles, understood? They're still mutants, even if they look somewhat human. Those are your three rules - no drinking, listen to my orders, and don't talk to the mutants."
Tanner nodded rapidly, and Marana gave a single, curt inclination of the head. Her face was slightly stiff at the idea of not drinking for three days - Tanner resolved to keep an eye on her. Make sure she didn't do anything stupid. The village was eerily quiet as they walked out to the coach - a heavy wooden thing, bolstered with metal, drawn by four shaggy horses which stank to high heaven and snorted out great clouds of steam into the cold air. Little blinkers covered their eyes, presumably to help with the snow blindness, and the coachman swung himself up into a covered seat, starting to wrap himself up with more layers of scarves, gloves and whatnot. He had the drawn look of someone who was, ultimately, still getting over a hangover, and with each moment that went by, he seemed to tighten. Drawing his flesh inwards to preserve warmth - she could imagine him sprawled on a rickety bed, practically oozing over the sides, before being compelled to go out into the snow, to tighten, to sharpen, and to make ready for a proper journey.
...maybe she shouldn't think about the coachman oozing in any way, shape or form. Well, shouldn't bring it up to anyone, at least. Especially not Marana. Especially not the coachman.
The carriage smelled of all its previous passengers, a kind of small stove sat in the middle of the carriage, already starting to warm up. The two passengers loaded their luggage to the roof, meagre as it was, wrapped themselves up over and over with their layers of clothes, then hunched into the coach. Seemed like two bundles left in the back of a pawn shop, really, the sort of messy, undifferentiated heaps which stood like cairns memorialising a long, dusty, concluded life. Well, they would seem that way, if it weren't for the two pairs of gleaming eyes that shone out from them.
And they waited.
***
The ice-fields were boundless. They'd travelled north, Tanner knew that much, but she hadn't been quite aware of how... quickly it'd become so cold. Regardless. There was a bleak beauty to it all, the great plains of snow, which rose in dunes and drifts like the landscape of a sweeping desert. It was vast, truly vast, yet even before the Great War it'd been sparsely inhabited. And now... well, they said that it would be generations before it reached anything close to former numbers in some of the southerly reaches. The northern reaches, closer to the mountains... those were going to be the domain of exiles, nomads, madmen and eccentrics for many, many more generations still. The mutants had ripped apart half of the forests, apparently - torn them apart for more biomass, to armour themselves with bark, to grow enormous monumental wombs to birth more of their kind. Meaning, the winds had nothing to stop them as they howled from the distant mountains, and they could pick up speed across the plains - a tidal wave of sleet and ice, fierce beyond reckoning. And in the summer, there was nothing to stop the dust, the arid heat of an unblinking sun, the fierce humidity that rose from the sodden ground. The north was a country for nature, for the strange life which thrived in such conditions. Not for humans. Not for those delicate, pink, hairless apes that flabbily tried to set up homes and mines and factories wherever they could, even as they sweated to death in the heat, turned to frigid corpses in the cold, or melted in the wake of exotic diseases and shrivelled as hunger clawed at their stomachs.
She was in a mood today. Not sure why.
Either way. They rumbled onwards, the coach bouncing over the uneven road, horses snorting as they went, tossing their heads about and shedding little particles of frost from their shaggy manes. Seemed to know that this place was poisonous to them, would slowly curl its frigid fingers around their bones and drag them into the earth for good. Just had to run between nodes of warmth, like pilgrims hopping from holy site to holy site. The coachman kept up a perpetual chatter, though, his voice carrying clearly in the still air. No birdsong. All of them had migrated south, or were continuing to do so - even now, they could see white cranes flying southwards, beaks extending out like compass points, unerring and absolutely certain.
"They've got some good business up in Rekida, tell you what. Freaky place, freaky tombs, all grim and whatnot, but I tell you what, there's some good ladies. You been before?"
Tanner called through.
"No! First time!"
"Well, hey, welcome to the north! Hey, want to know something? Now, have to tell me if I'm being vulgar, I don't want to insult anyone, but I tell you what, the ladies in Rekida? Good ladies. Best. See, back before the war, all the noble-ladies from all over the north, had to run south, run south to escape the mutants. Running, running, had to stuff all their jewels into their corsets. Say every woman back then had, pardon my vulgarity, and do tell me if I'm being vulgar, I don't mean to be, but every woman back then had tits the side of my head, just filled up with jewels, gold, potatoes... I mean, potatoes were worth more than gold, you know? So, Rekida, north, loads of noblewomen come south, shack up with whoever they can. I know one guy, promise he's real, met him a while ago, lovely man, you should meet him, well, he farms swedes, and his wife used to be an anfissa, like... noblewoman from some northern place, can't remember the name. Either way, she travelled south, lost all her gold, spent it all on potatoes and turnips, then found this one farmer, with a barn full of swedes, and she thought 'this guy must be the richest damn man in the whole world, look at all his swedes!' So, jumped on him like a randy rabbit, hasn't let him go since. Gave him a whole brood, you know? Never seen that guy angry, never. Lucky man, no?"
Tanner's face had turned red around the point where he said 'good ladies', mostly because she knew where this was going. How... utterly vulgar. And inappropriate. Marana hummed, and called to him through the thick walls of the coach, voice straining to be heard over the clattering of hooves and the rattling of wheels.
"You're not the first coachman who's insisted on talking to me about something wildly inappropriate, you know."
The coachman's grin was audible, even as his voice became sweet and innocent.
"Am I being vulgar?"
"Oh, very."
"Ah, I'm very, very, very sorry. I don't mean to be vulgar. You see, it's the cold, it chills my brains, makes me do crazy things. You know horses? You put them in snow for too long, with too much sun, they go snow-mad, can't see, can't behave, they just go nuts. It's the light and the cold, see. Me, I'm from Mahar, and I think it's because the light gets filtered through the snow. 'cept, instead of cultivating luck, it just makes the light more powerful, makes it zap right into the brain, dance around like boules in a box during a storm, scrambles it all up. You know?"
Marana examined her nails demurely, and spoke lightly.
"Oh, well, in that case, please, keep on going. I mean, we can hardly ask you to stop driving the coach. Please, ramble away."
Tanner shot her a look. Marana's voice dropped.
"Go on, let him talk. Should be fun."
"It's... he's being terribly rude."
"Yes, and he's also driving us through the wind and snow for three days to reach a grim little settlement, and let me assure you, when the only thing you can appreciate are the women, then it means the settlement is likely quite grim. I mean, women should only be half of the people there, meaning only half of the settlement's population is worth appreciating. You know?"
"Hmph."
"Don't be a grouch, Ms. Magg, it doesn't become you."
Tanner tuned out the coachman's next rambling diatribe on the descendents of noblewomen you could find in the north - honestly, the way he rambled reminded her a little of those pulpy theatrophone plays, the ones involving women sprawled on divans in exotic climates. Tanner could say for sure that she'd met three nobles during her life - Eygi, Algi, and Marana - and two of them looked like frogs, one of them had broken teeth, and Marana was a middle-aged alcoholic with a too-red nose and cheeks stained with tiny spiderweb veins, pushed too close to the surface for comfort. Like her own body was trying to escape itself... hm, or like the Tulavanta. A river, apparently once underground, rupturing its ceiling and escaping into the outside world. And Marana's blood vessels trying to escape her poisoned flesh, to expel the liquor by any means necessary. It'd be terribly insulting to mention that, though. Anyway. Nobles. In her experience, if they weren't 'forbidden', there'd really not be much appealing about them.
But she wasn't going to engage in a long talk about... uh... aristocrophilia?
Anyway.
Anyway.
"I think you might just find vulgarity more entertaining than most, Marana. I mean, you're a governor's daughter."
Marana's eyes flicked over, half-lidded.
"Are you implying I was sheltered?"
"A little. I wasn't. Vulgarity isn't entertaining to me, it's just... vulgar."
She leaned closer, her face utterly flat.
"Sorry. I'm doing a little uninvited psychoanalysis."
"Tanner, you don't even know what psychoanalysis is, you just heard me using the word last night."
"I can guess by inference."
"No, you can't."
"I'm a judge, I have a certificate of my intelligence. If I say I can deduce by inference, I can deduce by inference, my certificate of smartness gives me the right. What do you have/"
"Money. And a house."
Tanner huffed.
"Oh, be quiet."
"How terrifically rude of you. Vulgar, even."
"Shush."
"You might want to know, incidentally - I wasn't sheltered, not in the slightest. Honestly, of the two of us, I think the woman who spent eight years in a judicial monastery is probably a tad more sheltered than the well-seasoned and well-aged epicura that stands before you. Sits. Regardless. And, my father was a soldier before he was governor of Krodaw, and he generally thought that no daughter of his should be raised to be... lily-livered. Mother disagreed."
"Which one turned you into a surrealist?"
"Surrealism's a school of thought, Tanner, not a mental illness. Neither of them turned me into a surrealist, the world turned me into a surrealist, the world compelled me to be an artist. Though, yes, being a governor's daughter helped when it came to... early patronage. Believe it or not, even the radical revolutionaries tend to enjoy associating with the lady who can buy them all as many drinks as their anti-establishmentarian abdominals can arguably accept."
Tanner snorted slightly, and leant back in her seat, watching the snowy wasteland course by. The coachman was talking about Rekida again. Tanner thought... hm. She didn't know too much about Rekida. The north in general had always been content to remain obscure, its cities associating with one another rather than anyone else, the mudlands and the chaotic Tulavanta preventing most invasions, or even raiding parties. Not to mention, even when transport became a little easier, Rekida had been one of those places which stood at the annoying intersection of 'obscure enough to be easily ignored' and 'deeply suspicious of foreigners and unwilling to allow them unobstructed entry'. She'd tried to find some books on the topic, but... nothing. Nothing at all. The judges didn't have big tomes of ethnography on Rekida, and it barely appeared in the histories of the middle-kingdoms. The bigger libraries in Fidelizh had nothing on the topic either, but everyone knew the Erlize liked to pluck out books from the libraries every so often, or filled them with long, black bars to cover up any sensitive information. She felt a pulse of shame at not researching more, but... here she was.
A wind clattered through a flaw in the coach, sending shivers through its occupants. Tanner adjusted her greatcoat a little, appreciating the thick fabric more and more with each moment. She popped the collar up a little, fastening it in place with a little flap which buttoned solidly in place, forming a kind of neck-brace, a warm tunnel which kept her insulated from the cold quite admirably indeed. The scarf plugged the rest, though she found herself wishing for a blanket, nightmares of hypothermia still tormenting her more than she wanted to admit. They said there were some sailors, once, out in one of the lakes near the mountains, where the snow-melt turned the water frigid. The ship capsized, and they had to bob around in the water for over an hour, just weathering the cold as best they could. They managed it, somehow - even managed to get rescued. They were hauled out of the lake, each and every one of them, shivering but alive, and were guided into a gentle celebration - blankets, hot drinks, all of it. They sat down. They sipped. And dropped dead. The shock of recovery was more than the body could bear. She tightened her greatcoat around herself, using her gloved hands to clutch the sleeves shut, reducing any probing limb of frost, to say nothing of its bite.
Marana shot her a smile, barely visible behind the scarf. Tanner hesitantly returned it.
And thus it began. They talked idly, passing the time however they could, but there was an air of nervousness in the air, beyond even the dread of the insidious cold. Knew they were being watched. Animals didn't like mutants - how many of the snorts from the front of the coach were natural, and how many were out of fear? A scent of rot driving them to frenzy? The snow began to whirl more powerfully.
It was to be a short day. And a long night.
***
When they stopped, the coachman was in high spirits, rubbing his hands eagerly at the chance of a proper lie-down. The rest-house was eerily new, standing bold and unstained amidst the great desolation. Bright white, with a green roof, and a huge front door to allow the coach and its horses to warm themselves. A huge coal bunker stood ready, and the coachman hummed a drinking song as he got to work. Tanner hesitated... then stopped him. He'd done enough, and she'd always felt deeply, deeply awkward whenever she'd been driven around by others. Never felt right - she always became keenly aware of her size, her strength, how she inconvenienced others perpetually. A bemused Marana took her gloves from her, and Tanner headed for the scuttle, the shovel, the instruments of coal extraction, and got to work on the grey metal shell that contained such reserves of black gold. The coachman snorted, brushed his fingers vaguely against his thick woollen hat, as though he wanted to tip it honourably in her direction. He nodded a few more times, rubbed his hands, and headed indoors, followed by Marana. Leaving Tanner to shovel away. The horses even seemed to shoot her a grateful look from behind their blinkers, before shuffling through the great creaking door to a hay-strewn barn. The coach would be a bed enough for Tanner and Marana, the coachman had no qualms about sleeping amidst the hay, and the horses would just be happy to slow their labours, rubbed down to stop them overheating, allowed to rest for a while in snowless confinement. Be off again in the morning.
The sun overhead was very red indeed, turning the sky into a tattered mass of saffron strips and paprika spots, orbiting loosely around a glowing ruby coin. Tanner relished the movement of her muscles - she was getting the feeling that her time on the mutant-hunting vessel had planted this habit in her, this renewed liking for manual labour. She'd spent years focusing on... being a judge, and she liked being a judge, intended to keep doing it for the rest of her life, but she'd been raised as a dockworker's girl, gutting fish and picking out the bones from her nails. Odd, to relive it. To meet someone who knew the woman with the letter, Carza vo Anka. To be reduced back to a state of undifferentiated, unmoored chaos... no, not quite. When she was on that boat to Fidelizh, years ago, she'd been in a state of unmoored chaos, but there was a path to take. She could either take it, or abandon it and spill away into nonsensical non-existence. This was much the same. If she wished, she could wander away from this little house, and lose herself in the dark. She'd die. But she could. Many paths available, but only one was obviously correct and prosperous. Sounded reassuring... but when you saw how many paths there were, and how few were correct, it was like seeing a single strand of light extending over an interminable abyss. And the narrowness of the correct was highlighted by the vastness of the incorrect.
Either way. She liked shovelling coal. Not enough to make a career of it. But enough to make an evening. Just viscerally fun to take an empty thing and fill it up. Hopefully that just said something innocent and winsome, rather than infantile and moronic. What had that fused-finger woman said, on the boat? 'Ug, me Tan-nar, me like bucket fill, ug. Me only want fill bucket. Me fill bucket - me happy. But then me no fill bucket, because bucket full. So me sad. So me empty bucket. And fill again. Tan-nar smart, ug.'
She... shouldn't be allowed to think, should she?
Silly Tanner, she was qualified to think about the law, everything else was right off.
Hm. It occurred to her that she hadn't met any northerners yet. The coachman was from Mahar. The old man in the riverside settlement had a Fidelizhi accent. The mutant-hunters had been a people unto themselves, mottled and rootless, though probably originally southerners, based on their military records. The north, after all, had lost a lot of its fighting-age men before the Great War ended. The hotel had been full of surrealists, and they were all from the middle-kingdoms, taking a jaunt north to contemplate the emptiness. She'd been in the north for days, and she'd not met a single northerner. Didn't even know what they looked like. Idly, she wondered if Mr. Pocket from all those years ago had been a northerner, and she was about to meet a huge number of masked people who talked about their dead relatives. Hm, no, his home had sounded warm. Which this place most certainly wasn't. Maybe those gigantic people who'd accompanied Carza vo Anka, who'd hidden themselves under layers of clothes?
No idea. Be interesting to find out, though.
The scuttle clunked as it filled up.
She grunted happily, and hauled it up with ease, enjoying the feeling of her muscles really waking up, alertness thrumming through the fibres.
The sun was setting. Night was coming. She wasn't ready to sleep, but she was eager to be warm, to gnaw on whatever food had been brought along. The rest-house had a primitive homeliness to it, an innocent cheeriness lingering in the near-luminous paint. She moved, holding out the coal scuttle as far as she could from her body, to stop the dust from staining her dress. She hummed contentedly, going through the motions of remembering the proper forms for her arbitrations. How to record an injustice, how to siphon emotion from all reporting, how to reduce to numbers when possible, and how to estimate. How to make list upon list upon list, and condense her findings to conclusions. There was an art to this kind of thing, blended easily with equity law, and she'd have plenty of chances to practice. In a way, not having to pass judgements in Rekida was a relief - she'd just have to do groundwork, wait for seniors to arrive, to take over at some later point. Her responsibility was abrogated - she was simply here to observe. And observation meant passivity. And passivity meant peace.
And when she heard the snow crunching behind her, her back froze, and all thoughts of law and purpose ceased.
Suddenly, she felt completely aware of every inch of her vulnerable humanity.
And how entirely alone she was.
She turned slowly, knuckles whitening around the scuttle's handle, ready to swing it as a crude bludgeon. The sun had drawn low, and it glared directly into her eyes, making her wince. Red light spilled over the blasted plain, and even the smallest object cast shadows for metres, thin and sharp as new pencils, and the sparse trees and shrubs created tangled black labyrinths on the flawless white. She scanned, wincing continually when she accidentally met the sun's red gaze. Was it just an animal? A fox? Whatever things lived up here? Or... mutants were silent, mutants didn't strike until it was too late, they weren't idiots, they didn't sleep and had nothing to do but plan out new plans, their hunger was slow-burning and constant, a heat which never rose to a blaze unless they wished it to. The captain, Kralana, she'd talked about the silent war up here. They had nothing to give the mutants. No food to be found. She wasn't infected, right? The horses had been tested, the coachman seemed confident, and he had a brashness which made her convinced he knew what he was doing. She stared into the gloom. Stared.
And saw a pair of flat, silvery eyes staring back. Flat. Dead. Soulless. Hungry.
A whimper died in her throat.
Memories of fish with too many eyes and mouths, scales the consistency of metal, tails that contained more muscle than an eel's whole body. Memories of seeing their bodies struggle to learn how to breathe air, seeing bones clicking as they tried to form primitive legs, seeing their flat, dead eyes twitching to focus on her, on the nearest threat, teeth sharp as needles...
She backed away, scuttle in hand.
The eyes... two of them. Just two. Small. The body was nearly completely hidden, and...
And it slowly came forwards. The snow squeaked beneath its bare feet. It moved on all fours, but... but she saw fingers splaying.
Human fingers.
Oh. Oh.
One of the... the human things, the human mutants, the ones the old man had talked about. It was here. Tanner stepped further back, retreating towards the barn, her scuttle gripped tight, her arm shaking ever-so-slightly. Produced a low tap-tap-tap from the scuttle as the coal impacted the sides, like a low, warning bell, summoning aid. Her voice died in her throat, her teeth were clenched.
The creature was... it... it looked human. Almost. But not quite. It had two arms, two legs, a torso, a head... but there, the abnormalities began. The flesh was mottled with darker, tougher patches, like it was growing a new set of skin, better suited for this place. The eyes were wide and bulging, completely lidless - they wept moisture, had no need to cut off stimulus, no need for sleep. She could see the scars where the body had reabsorbed the eyelids into itself. The fingers were long and four-jointed, the toes better-resembled fingers than anything else, and the back shifted unpleasantly, an uncannily liquid spine flexing and contorting, none of the comforting stiffness of a normal spine. A pair of chapped, scarred lips parted, revealing sharp, sharp teeth, curling inwards. If something was bitten, any attempt to escape would just dig the teeth in deeper. If she was bitten. Muscles like steel cords twitched along the neck and jaw, and she suddenly felt convinced that this jaw could open wider than it should, like one of those gorgonopsids in the mudlands, ready to snap like a bear-trap, never to be removed. And... and the head. Nodules of bone sprouted like tumours from the forehead, pushing the skin out and reddening it painfully, and a bizarre collar of similar nodules fringed the neck. Like the brain had grown, and was pushing outwards incessantly, moving the body as it went.
Why was it here?
What did it want?
It came closer to the faint light from the house's windows...
Tanner looked upon the corpse of a woman. A little older than herself, maybe. A shock of dirty red hair that streamed down her back, untamed and ungroomed. Her clothes... she wore silk. Beautiful, sky-blue silk, soaked with mud and gore, the skirt torn away around the knees, and yet... yet it looked like the creature had tried to repair the dress slightly, even if very poorly indeed. It stared directly into her eyes. Tanner dimly remembered that mutants didn't fear eye contact, they weren't animals, they lacked the usual instincts. Eye contact didn't mean aggression, it didn't mean dominance, it didn't mean unfamiliarity. It just meant reading someone else for a sign of movement. No emotional notes whatsoever.
She looking into the ruptured pupils of the mutant woman, she... she could see why. There were no emotions.
The thing stared at her.
Tanner stared back.
The winter wind blew the gorgeous silk dress a little, and it flowed in tattered streamers as the woman reared to her haunches, sitting like a wolf. Always staring. Her nostrils flared. Sniffing for contamination. No sign of aggression in her stance, nothing. Tanner readied herself to swing the coal scuttle.
The woman sniffed. Sniffed again. Padded forwards another step, bare hands and feet unflinching from the cold, heavy with tough black tissue, and-
A bark from the house.
A shape charging past her.
The coachman marched through the snow, a burning torch in his hand. His teeth were bared, his eyes were blazing, his brash confidence was forgotten in favour of purpose. The mutant woman backed up, her eyes locked on the fire, her face remaining otherwise flat. She backed up, up, up... the coachman didn't stop advancing, swinging the torch angrily, his voice rising into a string of wordless shouts, everything about him radiating aggression. The mutant woman stared, scratched the ground... and sprinted away, her limbs moving uncannily to allow her to go on all fours... but the moment she breached one snow-dune, she reared up and ran on two legs, her gait uncannily human. A second later, she was gone. Vanished. But something lingered - a whistle. A sharp, piercing whistle from her lips, splitting the air. Fading a second letter. Like she was signalling to the others, summoning them to hunt, driving them to-
"Next time, hit 'em. Or throw fire."
The coachman slapped her on the shoulder, and spat into the snow.
Tanner was pale as a sheet.
"...gods, calm down, just a hobbler. Harmless, most of them, unless you're mutated."
"Harm... harmless?"
Her voice was incredulous.
"Yeah. Harmless. Mostly. Trust me, these things, there's still a bit of human in their brains, just a bit. They prefer to eat animals, not other humans. Still got that anti-cannibalism thing going on."
"What?"
"They don't like eating humans. They know we're tough, they know our capabilities, they don't like eating us. Animals are easier, animals are plentiful, humans are better at killing animals than they are at killing other humans. Come on, get indoors. Warm up, have some grub."
He paused.
"...gods, you're really shaken? Right, fine, you get one drink. No more, not letting you freeze to death. C'mon."
And with that, he was gone. And Tanner followed him hurriedly, almost breaking into a jog just to get out of the cold sooner, coal scuttle rattling lonesomely as she entered into the shelter of the rest-house. Marana was already gnawing on a piece of dried sausage, and shot Tanner an odd look as she entered. Did they... gods, none of them had noticed it until the coachman had looked out of the window. How many were still around? That whistle... the woman had been signalling to others, bringing them in, readying them for a hunt, for devouring. Maybe they'd grab the people here and haul them to a pool of contamination, dunk them and change them, slice off the parts they thought were stable, she'd heard of that happening in the Great War, they said all Great War mutants had ribs like huge cages, designed to hold captives, they were coming, they were...
She dropped the scuttle, and moved far away from the door, ears twitching, back of her neck prickling with beads of sweat.
A thought occurred, and she stopped the coachman - someone else whose name she should've learned some time ago, back at the dawn of the day, and now it was too awkward to ask.
"Wait! Wait, there was... the man in the coach station, he said these... things, they were only going to be around sometime into the second day, not the first. I mean, is that... is that normal?"
The nervousness in her voice sent a pulse of humiliation through her. The coachman looked at her, eyes inscrutable, and he scratched at his mutton chops.
"...hm. Is that right? Remember him saying something about that... see, the worry with these things, it's not them attacking us, it's them leading something else in, some bigger mutant that wants a snack. Less common these days - some mutants use them as food, others use them as bait to get a good meal. Wasn't worried about them. Still. They're moving slowly, we're moving quickly..."
He hummed. And Marana interjected.
"So, for them to come out here, they'd need to... what, be moving concertedly? Like something was drawing them in?"
"Or driving them away."
Tanner sat down heavily, forcing herself to calm down a little - like pretending to snore to convince the body to go to sleep. If she was sitting, she was obviously relaxed, otherwise she'd be pacing, and she wasn't pacing, so she wasn't nervous. Come on, people dealt with mutants all the time, they were natural threats, like... earthquakes, landslides, virulent plagues, famines, volcanic eruptions, apocalyptic floods, hateful comets pounding the earth into a soup of molten rock, the very world rupturing and exploding all around her, or-
The coachman sat down curtly nearby, drawing out another cigarette.
"Listen, I've been on these roads a few years now, driving worse coaches in worse conditions. Now, listen here, see - mutants go for you if you're a mutant, or you're threatening to kill them. Stay out of their way, stay uninfected, you're fine. Check yourselves for anything, clip if you need to, take pills if you feel paranoid. The horses were fine last I checked. So, these things don't want us. Maybe they are being driven away by something, but if they are, it'll be another mutant - same rules. Mutants fight each other, humans are just hazards they have to work around."
Tanner looked over, eyes narrowing.
"Then why did she come close to me?"
Marana coughed.
"...well, we did spend a few weeks on... a boat full of mutant-hunters."
"But-"
"Our clothes, Tanner. If something came close, it was probably just sniffing around your clothes, seeing if there was something worth nibbling at. Clearly decided not. Think that'll be a problem, sir coachman?"
The coachman snorted, smoke spilling from his nostrils like a fire was burning in his lungs.
"Doubt it. No mutant would kill you for a vague smell. Tell you what, smoke something, roll in mud, whatever. Should cover the smell. And on the road, damn nothing will care. Now, shush. You get one drink because of the excitement, otherwise, pack it in, go to sleep."
Tanner wanted to object. But the sound failed before it could pass her lips. The coachman had a confidence which overwhelmed her own - she was out of her depth, she lacked experience, she lacked knowledge. Meaning, she was working from a place of weakness. Every question she asked, objection she made, it was an opportunity for her to seem like more and more of an idiot, a panicked idiot. Humiliation and shame skittered over her flesh already, like a mound of spiders, and she knew they'd start to bite if she went any further. Her eyes flickered lower, and she nodded hesitantly. Unwilling to engage further. A grunt of approval from the coachman, and he smoothed his barbed moustache with a self-satisfied finality. Her tutor, Sister Halima, had ended all her points with a 'hm', Brother Olgi had a downwards cadence, and the coachman had a bit of facial-hair-onanism. Urgh, her thoughts were vile. Regardless.
Marana seemed happy at the news that she could have something to drink, and the coachman drew out a large stone bottle from a cabinet in the house, pouring three tiny glasses of something clear and acrid. Local brew, apparently.
Tanner downed it in a single gulp, and felt nothing. Not even the slightest spark of warmth.
Marana swirled hers, and poured it down her throat unhesitatingly. Her smile was immediately a little broader, her stance a little looser.
The coachman sipped his, and balanced his time between tending to the stove and horses, smoking his cigarette (the first in a sequence), and sipping the drink further.
That was all.
The matter was settled.
If only Tanner could convince herself of that fact, she might be able to sleep. But the red sun died away, the silver moon rose, and Tanner's eyes remained locked open, her ears peeled for the sound of any crunches in the snow outside, any further whistles of summoning and rallying and hunting.
The night was fitful and restless. Every time Tanner closed her eyes, she found herself fearing the consequences, imagined nimble fingers opening the doors, imagined waking to find a pair of soulless silver eyes staring into her own, incapable of blinking, incapable of sleeping. Here to investigate her and Marana, to see if they'd kept anything around during their time on the boat. Even if they didn't find anything, it was still dangerous to be in close quarters with a mutant. If it felt threatened, if it felt like it couldn't escape swiftly, it'd fight. Even if it was simply running away, it might still inflict damage on the way out, and... and how long would it take for the others, the other mutants that were surely outside, to think to themselves 'well, we've clearly annoyed this bunch, they're clearly inclined to violence, best to nip this problem in the bud. Tear them to pieces, and stop them from reporting our presence'. She knew that was ludicrous, she wasn't sure how much intelligent lingered in those swollen skulls, but it almost hardly mattered. She didn't know how they'd react. Their logic was beyond her, and... anyway. She remained awake. Staring into the dark, waiting for dawn to come, treasuring the safety of the coach. The horses, at least, were good detectors of trouble, though she found her heart rate increasing every time one of them snorted in its sleep. Terrified that it had smelled contamination, and was growing agitated.
The moment she got into Rekida, she intended on soaking her clothes in enough smoke to make them basically intolerable to be around... but also definitively purged of any lingering taint, anything that a mutant might find curious. It was like... yes, like dealing with a bear, you kept your food suspended away from your camp, she remembered hearing that in the Annals of Tenk, during their adventures with the bearlords of Strulgamathria. Keep the food away, let the bear take it and move on, don't risk contact. Same with mutants. Either way. She stayed awake, and huddled into her greatcoat, sometimes stretching out languidly just to keep her muscles properly limbered up, ready to run, or fight. She'd never hurt something deliberately before. Never. Never struck someone in the face, never really gone out of her way to make someone else suffer. Wondered if she could break a mutant, if it wore a human's face. If she could feel bone split under her fists. Could crush something, the way she always knew she was capable of, if she pushed herself, if she lost all restraint. Remembered being a child. Accidentally snapping an arm while playing too hard. That crack had inspired a terror in her, a fear of what she could do if she went too far. Even if the memory of the crack had slowly faded away into vague, easily confused impulses, the terror had lingered, like an arrowhead embedded into a healthy limb, scraping when the wrong motion was made. Most of the time, she avoided such motions.
Sometimes, she didn't. Forgot. Slipped up. And the scrape would bring it all crashing back.
Morning came in a haze of unyielding light, and the slow, steady patter of snowfall, quieter and softer than rain, whispering across the roof of the house. The coachman could be heard rising, groaning, stretching, shuffling outdoors to relieve himself... when he came back to slam on the coach door, he already had a cigarette dangling from his lips. Tanner had seen how cigarette smoke could dry out hair, leach it of colour, turn it a sickly yellow and permeate it down to the roots. Wondered if his mutton chops would up the same way, or if the smoke would miss it, head straight for the top, and he'd wind up looking like an egg in a hairy egg-cup. Anyway. Marana woke grumpily, and sat stiffly, almost regally in her seat, waiting for the day to begin. And begin it did, and unceremoniously. The coachman had work to be getting on with, and though he was clearly trying not to show it, the approach of those mutants last night, ahead of schedule, had clearly tickled something in the grey matter. Something ever-so-slightly nervous. And it transmitted to the horses, who whinnied disconsolately, the great cold beyond swallowing up their voices and turning them to silence.
The world beyond was silver. Glittering. Shockingly cold.
Without any further ado, the coachman set off, and they clattered into the wilderness, the wheels of the carriage almost whisper-quiet amidst the snow. But when a little sound emerged, it seemed to only reach a few inches away from the source before the snow swallowed it whole. Were it not for her paranoia, Tanner would've drawn a curtain over the small window, shut out all the brightness, so glaringly intense that it was impossible to really see into the distance. But she wanted to see the enemy. Needed to.
"Gods, Tanner, calm your mammaries."
Tanner twitched. Her nose wrinkled.
"Please, could you-"
"Oh, come now, that was barely vulgarity. All I'm saying is that the instruments you use for feeding your squalling brood should be kept under control."
Tanner looked at her. Sized her up.
"It feels like my mother is being vulgar. And that just feels... viscerally wrong."
Marana froze.
"Take that back."
"No."
"Take that back, you gibbon."
"My mother is around your age."
"I will hit you."
Tanner didn't dignify that with a response. Marana knew it wouldn't work. She was smaller than Tanner. And older. And drunker. Tanner hadn't gotten properly drunk once in her entire life, the desire to get really drunk would need to overpower her natural frugality, and her frugality was mighty indeed. This presumably meant she was physically superior to Tanner. Behold, her liver was immaculate. Behold, her digestion was smooth and flawless. And her nose was not remotely... ah, hell, it was cold outside, her nose was about as red as Marana's during her binges. And she did drink coca wine. Not sure what mild quantities of cocaine did to the system, but...
No, wait, Marana said she'd once offered Carza vo Anka cocaine, presumably that meant she used the pure stuff. Tanner was still ahead.
"...old enough to be your mother, not my fault your mother is unusually young, what, did she enjoy dallying in the company of gentlemen early on?"
"No. She's normal-aged."
"Oh, your mother is normal-aged, but I'm middle-aged. I see how it is. Blatant favouritism, that's what. I won't stand for it - that's elitism, that's elitism which unreasonably benefits your parents simply because they gestated you, while I'm doing my best to initiate you into the ways of righteousness. I reject elitism in all its forms, each and every one, I reject all arbitrary boundaries as ridiculous, and I-"
"You're a governor's daughter."
"Ex-governor's daughter, darling, ex, I know it's a terribly unusual letter, twenty-fourth, but it's quite pivotal in this circumstance. He was deposed, remember. Kicked out, tail between his legs, running home on the last train he could catch."
Marana's words ran ahead of herself, and her mouth closed with a dainty click as she seemed to... remember something, or relive it. Her face wasn't flushed with embarrassment, but her jaw tightened up a little, and she stared fixedly out of the window for a long, uncomfortable moment. Again, Tanner wondered what she'd seen. Who she'd known. What had happened in the last days of Mahar Jovan's largest and sweetest colony, dragged away into the steaming forest by the Sleepless, leaving nothing but a black mark in the train stations, a downward cast to the eyes of their kings, a class of people in the city who spoke with strange accents and always seemed strangely haunted by something unnameable. A layer of spectral scar tissue running throughout both cities, even the cloistered corners of Jovan remembered Krodaw, and not very fondly. Even if she'd heard the lodge complaining about how 'Jovan was Mahar's first colony', there was a dim sense of horror at what had happened to its second. A thought.
"Did you say 'ways of righteousness'?"
Marana blinked.
Her smile was automatic at first, fixed in place by decorum. An empty bowl that meaning took a few moments to flow into, before the thing could become genuine.
"Oh, yes. Well, that's just a turn of phrase. Means very little. Certainly, I hope that by the time the two of us part ways, you'll have a good taste for the finer things, for art, and you might be able to hold a conversation properly. That's all."
"Hm."
"Oh, don't judge me like that, with those big eyes of yours."
"I am a judge."
"And I'm a surrealist, but you don't see me hitting you with lobsters at random intervals."
"We're inland."
"See, Tanner, this is what we're going to solve, you and I. This sort of patter you have, where you either resort to panicked apologies, lengthy rambles about eels, mechanics nods and shakes, or this, just endless sass. I intend to correct it."
"You've taught me nothing."
"Teaching is authoritarian hoo-ha invented by factory owners who wanted workers who could operate more complex machines, all schools resemble factories, and all factories resemble prisons. I teach by osmosis. I emanate teachings. I positively ooze wisdom from each of my immaculate pores. Absorb them where your ignorance supplies a void. Reject them where your knowledge is complete. And that shall be all. I teach nothing? I dictate nothing."
Tanner's eyes were narrowed, but her mouth was curling into something of a smile, even if weariness still clawed around the fringes of her brain, tugging at the bottom of her eyelids.
"You're absurd."
"And you're exhausted. Go to sleep."
"You can tell?"
"You look like you've smeared your eyelids with tar, darling, they're positively blackened by weariness."
Tanner hesitated. Shouldn't sleep. They'd gotten through one day of travel, just the one, they had to get through two more before she could feel safe. She could handle not sleeping for seventy two hours, right? Presumably? Out of paranoia? See, if she was one of her colleagues, she could say 'ah, yes, pish-tush and flim-flam, I spent one hundred and eight hours awake, fuelled by nothing but a handful of cheroots and a pint of citrinitas, all to complete my latest judgement! This should be a piece of proverbial pastry, ho ho ho!' But, alas, she had a healthy sleep schedule. Always had. If people couldn't get their work done in time, it usually meant they had bad work habits, went out for too many lunches, or worst of all, canoodled with other people in the hours when they should be studying tax law. Not Tanner. Tanner was too competent to canoodle, she was.
Gods, she really did need to sleep, didn't she?
And she stared out towards the plains, the rolling expanse of snow and ice, punctuated by the silhouettes of raggedy leafless trees, standing like lone soldiers on the horizon. How many of those trees were contaminated in some way? She'd heard stories about those, about carnivorous trees with needle-thin branches, or the hollow remnants of mutated trees were great slithering mutants lurked, burrowed into the devoured trunk, gnawing away at the roots for a hint of power. The lodge had a mystery play about those, she remembered. The mystery plays were... right, thinking of the lodge either terrified her or sent her to sleep. Might as well. The mystery plays were enacted over and over to incarnate the events and virtues they described. Like Fidelizh with its gods that rode on the backs of mortals, the lodges invited the past into the present in order to sustain the future. The dead riding on the backs of the living. She was usually the monster in these plays - she was large enough, clumsy enough, and the monster was always the least prestigious part. She remembered the story about the Bristle-Back Man who marched off into the forest to kill the slithering thing in the hollow elm tree, a tree which had stood for years and grown fat on the rot in the earth, until a great beast came to devour it. Other heroes had come to fight the thing with spear and sword, but the mutant simply sprayed them with its poisonous blood, which marked them for death at the hands of other mutants. Or mutated them into the tree's newest protectors, enslaved to the gifts of its master. The Bristle-Back Man chose another option. He ignored the bleating of others, and set a great fire throughout the forest. Villagers wailed at the loss of their homes, soldiers marched against the Bristle-Back Man to punish him for his crimes, and mutants rose up to face him...
But the fires never stopped. The Bristle-Back Man lost his arm to the fighting, yet he never stopped setting fires, burning the whole forest down to ash and dust. And amidst the ruins, the Bristle-Back Man gestured grandly, showing them how the poisonous elm had been burned, even unto the roots. How all the mutants had been cleared. And how the land, barren for years, was now infused with nutritious ash, and would be blessed with good harvests. Tanner slumped back in her seat, already bored out of her mind. The point of the story was that sometimes, everyone's wrong, you're right, and you just need to burn everything down to make it better. The lodge used it to say that, no matter how strange it might seem, yes, they should burn Mahar down to the ground, and from the ruins would rise prosperity. Or burn all their enemies.
The lodge was... she had few good memories of it. Very few.
But the idea that she was doing something to make them proud of her, after years of being practically beneath their notice... there was a part of her which felt viscerally gratified. Liked to imagine other lodge members being mocked for 'not heading off to be a famous judge, like that Magg girl', or some of her stuffier aunts being told to keep her candle lit, or the lodge in general hoping for her success, protecting her from witchcraft.
Almost felt like she'd won. And the best thing was, she could win without interacting with them.
She slumped down into dreamless sleep, the last thing she heard being Marana's low hum, as she traced out the tune of some old song.
***
The thing about napping, for Tanner, was that she never truly fell asleep. Not truly. She just drifted through an endless grey haze, sometimes opening her eyes a little to see the snow, sometimes slumping back to do nothing at all, sometimes dimly aware of the world, and sometimes deaf to it. It was both restful and restless - above all, it was useless. She thought of almost nothing, even at her most aware, she was still a being of flesh and little else, content to simply pore over her own basic nerve impulses like they were holy texts, absorbing her absolutely. In short, she became an idiot for the entire day, and rather liked being an idiot, at least for now. Many things were fun in limited quantities - idiocy was just one member of a broad church's congregation. Coal scooping, crate lifting... anyway. She drifted through her grey fog, limping from hour to hour with little starts and stops, sometimes falling finding a half hour had vanished, then finding that time was passing normally all of a sudden, before finding that the afternoon had come and gone with her being nary the wiser. There was nothing else to do. Speech was fun, but three days of constant talk with anyone, including Eygi, would drive Tanner a bit dotty. The coachman was silent. No stories of noble turnip enthusiasts (turnip enthusiasts who are noble, not enthusiasts of remarkably refined rutabagas).
And as the hours dragged on, she realised why, even in her idiotic state. He was nervous. There'd been no cries of alarm, no blasts from a hidden gun - no mutants, in short, not a single one. Tanner kept thinking about that red-haired creature in blue silks. Kept... not quite dreaming, but somewhere between dazed thought and half-baked fantasy. Had she been noble, once? Fleeing south, finding that she was already poisoned... she imagined her being saved from mutants, but being contaminated in the process, feeling the rot fester within her, too deep to be extracted. There was no curing contamination, just purging it by any means necessary, like chasing infection amputation by amputation. Maybe she'd been abandoned to the snow, left to change. Maybe her entire group had been altered. Maybe she'd not been saved at all, had hidden away in some little cupboard while mutants took over, their presence slowly corroding any hidden survivors. And eventually... ape-like, shambling, dead-eyed and loping from place to place, human enough to be painful to look at, mutated enough to be unreasonably dangerous.
A crack.
And she woke.
They were here. Another rest-house, painted in cheery white and green, silhouetted starkly by the rubious sun. The cold seemed to have grown, and the landscape was more varied, less flat - she'd barely noticed during the journey. They were coming closer to a place where humans might live, rather than simply travel hurriedly. The hills were more dramatic, there were divots where streams might flow during warmer weather, and it seemed... right, it seemed as though Rekida was nestled in a valley, she remembered that from the coach station, and they were heading into an array of towering, monumental hills, dark and ominous. Could easily imagine a town being nestled amidst some of these, hidden from the wind and snow. Not from the mutants though, apparently. She'd missed most of the day, spent the whole damn thing dozing like a lazy little oaf, and somehow she was still ready to sleep. But the moment she stood up and stepped out of the coach, the snow crackling as she disturbed its immaculate surface... a very unpleasant mixture of weariness and alertness spilled over her, from the top of her spine to the soles of her feet. She felt like a gambler begging a die to hit a favourable number mid-roll - come on, stay tired, stay tired, stay tired, just until she got settled down to sleep, don't wake up, this wasn't time for waking up, it was night-time, she was meant to sleep now, ignore all the dozing, ignore how she'd stayed awake last night, night means sleep!
No idea how those oddballs with odd sleep patterns coped, she'd go insane if this happened more than once in a row.
There was no singing now, no cheerful whistles from the coachman. And no shovelling of coal on her lonesome. Not taking the risk. The coachman hesitated as he clambered down from the box, no cigarette to be seen. And a second later, he had a brace of pistols extracted from his little perch, and he was removing his gloves with his teeth, giving him enough flexibility to pull the triggers, to load smoothly. Three pistols arranged on a leather belt, revolvers each and every one. He plucked one for himself, stuffing it into his belt, where Tanner could see another one already loaded, and a sturdy shotgun was strapped within arms reach of his perch on the coach. The others were handed over casually to the two guests.
"Right, you two know how to shoot?"
Marana nodded confidently. Tanner shook her head. The coachman hesitated... then plucked her pistol back, handed it to Marana, and extended a large stick in her direction. Tanner frowned.
"...is this-"
"If you use a knife, you spray blood over yourself, you get contaminated. With mutants, you either burn them or you bludgeon them."
"...must I have... a stick, though?"
The coachman paused. Tilted his head to one side, chewing his lip thoughtfully. Then extended his hand.
"Fair. I do have a better idea."
Tanner handed it back gratefully. She wasn't... opposed to hitting things, not at all, but she didn't quite like the idea of walking around with a stick like some sort of ogre. Plus, it didn't look sturdy enough, not whatsoever, now, if she was given something metal and-
The coachman poked her in the nose.
With the stick.
Quite hard.
Tanner yelped, and had a sinking feeling - the adrenaline. She wasn't going to get to sleep, was she. Oh, crumbs... she rubbed her nose indignantly.
"Now, that's really-"
"Would you like the stick, big woman?"
"...yes, please."
"Good lass."
And with that, they all collected around the coal bunker, watching Tanner shovel it into the scuttle. Not because it was terrifically entertaining - not sure how fun coal-shovelling could be - but because being alone felt like a poor idea, with the mood as it was. The world beyond darkened, and Tanner could imagine hidden mutants waking up. No, not waking up. They weren't nocturnal, didn't even need to sleep. They'd just wait, hidden under snowdrifts, hidden in dark burrows where they were safe, before clambering out. She'd dozed her way through the entire day - but she knew no mutant had slept a wink. That red-haired creature hadn't slept a wink, certainly. Just stared solidly ahead while waiting for the safety of darkness, safety from other mutants, safety to prepare and execute ambushes. Miles away, of course. Must be. Even if she sprinted through the entire day, which felt unlikely, she'd never have reached this place ahead of the coach. Presumably.
She could have wings...
No, no, don't be daft. No wings. A flying redhead wasn't going to crash through her window to eat her clothes like a deranged moth. No.
...definitely going to have to include that image in her next letter to Eygi, though. Gods, Eygi, it'd been ages since she'd written a proper letter, everything had just become so chaotic, it'd been impossible to find a free moment where she wasn't going to pass out instantly. No better a time than now, then, given how that single poke in the nose was enough to solidly put in her the world of the wakeful. The coal clattered. The plain around them was silent, save for the winds, which were slowly picking up. Felt like a storm was coming, or at least a gale. Pitied the coachman, he'd... no, no, he'd be fine, they'd get to Rekida, and he'd have an excuse to stay there for a few days to let the storm blow over, while he got to sample... dens of sin. Goodness. Did she... hm, laws, laws... now, she couldn't go after him necessarily, or at least, she wouldn't go after him now for the crime of sampling a brothel. No, no, the Golden Door had taught her that... she meandered through her hall of memory, going through her principles, associating them with the arrangement of items beneath her bed back in Fidelizh, even the texture of her various boxes and trunks telling her what was what. Right, once she arrived in Rekida, she'd need to record this, make sure the judges coming into the colony were aware of the phenomenon and, ideally, most of the major players. If she could outsource that duty to some of the other judges, she definitely would.
Well, coal shovelling, flying redheads, catching up with an old friend, and prostitution law. And all after a day of being basically comatose.
Who said Tanner Magg didn't know how to have fun, huh?
...when did Marana get that close?
"...hm."
Tanner shovelled another load of coal.
"What?"
"Just... I'm completely aware you have odd thoughts, you express them from time to time, mostly with regards to eels and... head tilting. I was just trying to see if you have any tells. You know, like while playing cards. Your patron, Carza, oh, she had tells for days back in Krodaw, she was melting into a puddle every other second."
Tanner blinked.
"You're thinking of something odd, aren't you?"
"Not... now."
"You were thinking of something odd."
"Were. As in, during the past. Well, between the moment when I became aware and now, yes, I have had thoughts that might be considered weird by the standards of an average individual. I'm sure for you they were relatively ordinary."
"The judges really punch the fun out of people like you, don't they?"
"I'm sorry I'm not a... theatrophone playing nothing but the greatest entertainment of the last century, Marana. Some of us have jobs."
The coachman snorted. Said nothing else. But the reminder that someone else was around to witness their... tomfoolery, their dickjapery, their harrycapricery was enough to shut them up. Hm. She turned to Marana.
"Tomfoolery."
"Hm?"
"Dickjapery. Harrycapricery. Does that make... sense? Tom, Dick, and Harry, I mean. I know... those are names."
She finished weakly. Marana blinked owlishly.
"You were having a weird thought, I knew it! Goodness, you do have a stoic face, you look positively stone-hewn, Tanner. I mean, dickjapery?"
The coachman snorted again.
"I like me a bit of dickjapery, if you'll pardon the expression."
The flying redhead coming in to eat her coat suddenly didn't sound quite so bad. Tanner tugged the collar of her greatcoat up, covering the infernal blush that began to march over her features like a rapacious horde. Goodness. Not her fault that the shortened version of 'Ricarlesū' was 'Dick', now was it? Feh. Her own damn fault for using a clever foreign saying, her own damn fault. She'd just stick to legal humour, that was always fun. Not very good for anyone who didn't practice the law, admittedly. Still liked that one about the judge who became a general and lost every battle he fought, because he refused to believe most of his messengers - abiding by good legal instincts, he refused to countenance hearsay, and would only believe an enemy's movements if the enemy testified to them in person. See, that one went down a screamer in the news room, absolute howler, but out here, she got the feeling she'd get the cold shoulder. No idea why a cold shoulder should be so bad, shoulders were fine, now, a cold finger slipped up the back of her blouse in direct contact with her back, that was awful. But saying 'get the cold finger' probably came across... hm, well, good thing she thought about that, she was about to ask Marana or Eygi. Never would've lived that one down.
For all she knew, 'getting the cold finger' was some lewd bit of slang regarding... icicles or uncooked sausages or some loathsome little story about a fellow who comes in out of the cold and...
No more thoughts.
She wasn't qualified for thoughts.
Just coal. She was good with coal. You knew where you stood with coal. Burny black rocks, innit. Just frozen oil, innit. Oil ice cubes.
Urgh.
***
As expected, the night was long and sleepless. Tanner was genuinely worried that she was going to become nocturnal, like some of the weirder colleagues she'd had when she was still studying. Goodness, imagine that - developing the sleep schedule of the serial canoodlers, without canoodling anyone or anything. There was something infinitely sad about that notion, wasn't there? Knowing her luck, she'd develop bags under her eyes large enough to carry her shopping in, her hair would grow tangled and greasy, forming long filthy dreadlocks, her skin would turn translucent, her fingers would elongate, her eyes would gradually fall out and be replaced with smooth skin, and... well, she had a long night, plenty of time to think about what a completely nocturnal human might look like. The night outside had the ominous character of a world where the weather was growing worse - the snow had ceased to whisper, now it rattled, clicked little crystals against the small glass windows of the rest-house, like a thousand tiny hands knocking insistently, eager to enter. And with each hour... it was hard to say when the increase happened, but happen it did, and the snow blew fiercer, the windows rattled more alarmingly, the horses snorted and gruffed to one another, shaking their shaggy heads from side to side like they were warming up for the long, cruel day ahead. Marana slept soundly, mostly through the ministry of a tiny nip from her hip-flask while she thought Tanner wasn't looking. Tanner would've objected more, but... if the woman was right, and she'd escalated to shakes-level alcoholism, then it was probably for the best to let her take her medicine. A slight vulnerability to cold was probably better than uncontrollable shakes and hallucinations, followed by death.
Well, both could end in death, but either way.
Morning didn't really come. There was just a slight dimming of the dark. Wise animals remained quiet, the sun hid its face behind growing clouds, and when Tanner extracted herself from her coat and blankets, she found that the cold had been sleeping in this coach with them all night, coiled up like a domesticated cat. And the moment she stirred, it moved, rumbled, purred, and slid up her leg to place a frigid paw on her cheek. Wanted to curl back up and go to sleep, but... no, no. All she could do was soldier on. She stumped out of the coach, into the rest-house, seeking out... there. Basin of water for her to splash over her face, just to get the grit out of her eyes and her skin. A second later, she pushed her soaked fingers through her hair, enjoying the little bursts of awareness that came with each droplet that made its way to her scalp. Funny, how that worked - she was loathing the cold a moment ago, now she was relishing it. Maybe it was the... honesty of it? Environmental cold was unyielding, it was something to be endured, nothing more. The entire body was aware of the danger around it, and... maybe it poked some deep-seated instinct. But this, soaking one's head in water, even on a cold day, it was... more controlled, based in choice, could be appreciated as a temporary phenomenon. Well, that, or the body simply felt intense cold, immediately panicked, released the right chemicals for relieving the shock, and made everything feel better. Like slapping a mosquito bite to prompt some proper painkillers, something to really staunch the itching.
Anyway. The coachman was already awake, staring out of one of the windows while smoking his habitual cigarette.
"...will we need to stay indoors today, sir?"
The coachman glanced over sharply, grunting.
"Huh. You move quietly."
Tanner ducked her head, hiding a small blush.
"Sorry."
"Nah, fine with me. Don't do it on someone with a gun, though. Should be alright to soldier on, honestly."
"The weather looks... harsh."
"Where are you coming up from?"
"Fidelizh."
"Well, that explains it. Weather's harsh for Fidelizh, I suppose. This? This could get nastier, could not, right now it's fine. If we stay still, maybe we just ride this out, but... not a good move when winter's coming in. See, want to know something you're not going to see out there? Melt. Snow-melt's done, so every blizzard, every snowfall, every few cheeky flakes that tumbles out of the clouds, all of that's piling up. Not going away until spring."
Tanner shivered.
"So... the longer we wait, the worse it becomes."
"Hm. Maybe we ride out the snow in here, only takes a day for it to blow over... maybe we're stuck here for days, or a week, just waiting for it to calm down, we step out, can't even open the door because of the snow. I've seen buildings swallowed by a proper drift, buried completely, need a map to find them again. Right now, the roads are fairly clear, the snow's not too bad, we push on, we get to Rekida, we're fine. Stay here, we just get worse roads, we're all hungry, we're all cold, and we start stabbing each other to relieve the boredom. Hm. Came up from Fidelizh, eh? Saw the weather balloons?"
Tanner dimly remembered them, yes. Big, floating masses above the mudlands, signalling to one another and to ships coming through, letting them know which passages were clear, which were silted up, which were frozen, which were too shallow for large vessels... the chaos of the Tulavanta wasn't something that could be tamed, or even really predicted, but it could be observed. That was the best that any human could ask for. And their role in looking out for any movements of mutants was appreciated, too.
"Yes, yes, I did."
"Each one of those things has... generally one or two people manning it. One slithers up the ladder to watch from the balloon, the other stays below, monitors, repairs, cooks, cleans. Little cabin down in the swamps, set on stilts."
His face cracked into a small smile. It wasn't an enormously pleasant one, and Tanner found herself feeling glad for her size - odd, she rarely felt that way, very rarely. Must be all the physical labour, presumably.
"Good pay. Very good pay. But not for me, too quiet, too... confined. See, me, I heard that sometimes the weather cabins, they just go quiet. Oh, the lights keep coming, the signals keep flowing, but when the time comes for relief... only one person comes out. Says their partner went mad. Gas comes out of the mud, sometimes - miasma and whatnot. Poisons the brain, poisons the blood, sends you scrambling into the mud so you can drown in it, laughing all the while. 'course, more than a few have used that as an excuse. Kill someone, throw 'em into the mud, the mud covers them, the little creatures in it eat them to the bone, and the bones get tugged apart by all the little underground currents. Never find them again. Might as well have gone mad - you won't find a body either way."
Tanner hadn't blinked for a long few moments.
"Bad business, going mad from the silence. Always starts quiet, the madness, then creeps in around the corners of the head, presses in like needles, gets into your dreams. And before you know it... fancies, pure fancies, no sense in them. Thinkin' the snow has something in it, something kindly. Thinkin' the mutants have the right idea. Then you're running out into the white, raving and rambling, naked as the day you were born, rolling in the cold till it feels warm - 'course, that's because your skin's dead as dead can be, can't feel the cold, can't feel anything. Salvation in the nothingness. Too rotten for the mutants. Bad business. Bad business. 'course, that's if you don't start hunting the others. Don't leave the door open when you run out, let everyone else freeze in their sleep. Bad business, going snow-mad."
Tanner stared.
"So, I say we get moving. Don't want to think about you going snow-mad, hm?"
He plucked the cigarette from his mouth, extending it in Tanner's direction.
"Have you a wheeze on that fag. Nice to have some warm smoke in you, better than alcohol in these conditions, eh?"
Tanner shook her head silently, and drew her coat around herself tighter. The coachman shrugged, spat a little ash-grey glob to the hay-strewn ground, and plucked out a dried sausage from his pocket, marred with lint. A knife, a spot of carving, and he was munching at a slice, Tanner hesitantly taking an identical one from his outstretched hand. Marana was stirring sluggishly in the coach - not a morning person, not at all. Well, until someone else saw her, then she straightened her back, brightened her eyes, glued an enigmatic smile on her face, and seemed incapable of standing - had to lounge, lean, recline, perch, do everything in the least straightforward fashion possible. Such a metamorphosis happened now, and it felt like no time at all had passed before they were starting to get on the road. Even if the sun felt weak, leached of colour and warmth, even if the world was growing smoother and more alien, evne if the snow was piling up higher by the moment, changing the contours of the great dunes and drifts into unfamiliar shapes, until it felt like they were on the surface of some barren celestial body, a bad, frigid wandering star which signalled poor omens to the world beneath. The carriage groaned, frost cracking from the wheels like the casing of a chrysalis, like the coach had to hatch before it could roam. The horses snorted, and stamped their hooves restlessly.
And they were off. To prowl the surface of this ill-omened star, and seek out a city of the dead.
***
There was nothing to be said of most of the final day. The snow slanted angrily into the side of the coach like the barrage of a warship, and it seemed like every nook and every cranny in the structure was filled up with glittering white scars, crystals compacting over and over and over. Like veins of diamond in the deepness of the earth. Marana didn't make any further comments as the hours dragged on, the coach struggling through the ever-growing snow, pushing onwards desperately to the finish line. Tanner wondered if the coachman was incompetent, if maybe he'd made a series of mistakes, if maybe the old man at the initial settlement had blundered by sending them on their way so soon, dismissing the idea of them staying in the settlement any longer. Maybe they should've waited. Maybe the boat had been delayed at some point, just by a few crucial days. The weather was an infuriating combination of inexorably vast and intimidatingly personal. The passage of winter was unstoppable, yes, and it would bring worse storms, more intense cold, the piling of snow in higher and higher drifts. And that was something that had been true since the beginnings of the world. But it was personal, too. This storm had started properly today. Had it been here last week? If they'd set out a day earlier, would they have missed it completely? Even as they rumbled on, Tanner wondered if they could've started riding a few hours earlier today, and avoided this particular gale, this specific gust. It was like being trapped in a great wave... while someone inside the wave poked her repeatedly with a needle. And cackling. Cackling, and slinging insults.
She thought of relaying this to Marana.
But the coach was rattling too loudly. Both were rigid as boards, unwilling to relax until they were safe. The end was in sight, no point jinxing it by complaining now. They could eat a huge, warm meal, share a little wine, and complain, complain, complain until the cows went home. She contented herself with monitoring each judder and shudder of the woodwork and wheels, and drafting her next letter to Eygi. Dear Egyi, etcetera etcetera, the usual questions about the weather, her health, all that business - asking after her health without naming anything specific, that way it felt less like an interrogation, see, and it wouldn't remind her of anything unpleasant. Plus, Eygi was rarely specific enough to be specific in return. Tanner had never even asked how her teeth were - they'd been slightly broken during their time studying together, and she'd had ivory caps over them on the day she left, never been sure if those were painful, if there was a story, if there were any unique inconveniences... then what? I'm sure I'm being a cowardly little oaf, but this is the coldest I've ever felt - it's not just the cold, it's how unending it is, how it seems to cling in my pores. I wonder if when I go somewhere truly warm, not just the meagre stuff the stove gives out, I'll start weeping water from every patch of flesh, as ice crystals melt. I see the snow forming scars on the coach - I wonder if those have formed on me, too. Hm. Too visceral. Adjust. The regular motions of inspiration, composition, adjustment, refinement... it calmed her down a little. Letter-writing was a calm activity, so by doing it, she was calm, she was safe, she was all the things she might not be at this moment.
The coachman was growling obscenities under his breath as the snow picked up, his voice growing thick as flakes invaded his lips, before a rasping hock of spit cleared it away. Tanner imagining it freezing before it hit the ground. Unlikely, but... the image stuck with her. Marana's fingers were laced tightly together, her knuckles white from the effort, her lips thin and nervous. Tanner rubbed her hands together, for warmth, and to cultivate a little luck. The lodge were protecting her from witchcraft, even up here. They'd be sheltering her from the dark, from the things that brought misfortune, from the unique poor luck that made a man be struck by lighting rather than simply soaked by rain, struck by a falling rock rather than barely missed. The witchcraft that turned an accident into a fatality. And as a judge, she was far too... well, she had a job. Couldn't freeze to death, there were jobs to do. Dearest Eygi, I do hope you're doing well. I'm currently relying on a chunk of dried sausage, a spot of nasty coffee, and tension. I wonder if the reason half-frozen people can suddenly die when warmed back up is because they're held together through nothing but tension, and when they warm, they relax, and they simply fall apart like an ice sculpture. I wonder if that's something sustainable, if a person can just keep going and going and going, even if whatever's inside them rots away into nothingness, turns into a little void, but the body keeps moving because it's too tense, too locked up. A suit of armour with no-one to propel it, moving out of habit. Makes me think of those ghost stories, the ones about the dead who don't realise they're dead, and just keep trying to live as they used to. This is the sort of landscape for ghost stories, the snow could hide anything, could preserve anything. If something died during this blizzard, it might not start to rot for months. Do you think that maybe-
Something went wrong.
She heard a strange sound. A hiss, like something was being shot...
And then a crash.
The horses squealed, and Tanner felt an evolutionary pit open in her stomach, some dim ancestral memory that animals should not sound like this.
The coachman was silent.
The horses could barely be heard twisting, bones cracking like the surface of an iced-over lake.
The noise was barely audible. The snow swallowed it whole.
But she could hear the groaning.
The groaning of a coach straining.
The crack of wood breaking.
She didn't think. Lunged for Marana, wrapped her up with her broad arms, sheltering her with her broad back. Marana was frozen in place, only a tiny whisper of fear escaping her lips.
