Chapter XXI
In Which Methods are Discussed and a Little Charm Leads to a Dead End
Even though Austria and Switzerland are neighboring countries, the two cities of Vienna and Geneva just so happen to lie in the most extreme sides of their respective countries, so the flight itself traveled the entire breadth of both. I spent a good portion of the flight pointing out to Victor (who seemed attentive) the various cities of import and listing the sites worth seeing in them, as well as some of the more recognizable mountains of the Alps. Since I am used to seeing these mountains from the Italian side, I actually found this rather difficult, except for some of the more iconic ones, like Cervino (the Italian name; English speakers know it by its German name, Matterhorn).
Have you ever been up to the top? Victor asked.
Of Cervino? No. I gestured vaguely. A good deal of the fighting in the Great War took place in the Italian Alps, which are just beyond Cervino it lies on the border between Switzerland and Italy. The Alps extend very close to the sea in the northeast part of Italy, so there is this corridor of relatively flat land which was patrolled heavily by both us and the Austrians, forcing both sides to try and use the shallower parts of the Alps to navigate around the main forces.
Wait a minute, he scratched his head, you fought in World War I?
I nodded. At first they were reluctant to make a man nearly fifty years old and who hadn't served for almost thirty years, but I didn't give them much choice. My drew my lips into a tight frown. Neither did the Austrians.
So you saw all the machine guns and mustard gas and trenches and-
Stop. I held up a hand and swallowed back the flashes in my head. You're thinking more of the Western Front in France and Germany. But, yes, there were still many of the more... memorable innovations of war.
Oh, like-
I'd rather not discuss it. I turned back to the window, letting my eyes wander to the southeast, to the tops of the mountains just visible on the horizon. Not here. Not now.
Victor coughed, embarrassed. After a short pause to recollect myself, I resumed my tour of the area until the plane landed in Geneva.
We arrived at the apartment building Thomas Amann called home shortly after nightfall. It, like most of the buildings in the city, was large and squat, with his penthouse apartment just high enough to view Lake Geneva over the surrounding buildings. While it was very expansive and likewise expensive, he shared the apartment with nobody, which would make the visitation much easier should it prove that Amann was responsible for the deaths of Benveniste and Auer.
As much as Mister Amann and I crossed swords in the realm of business, I had only met him a handful of times. He was a young man, in his late twenties, fairly tall and with an appearance that could only be described as meticulously handsome. Having the reputation of a playboy, it was apparent that he spent an inordinate amount of time on his physical appearance, ensuring that all of his clothes were tailored just-so to emphasize his physique, his nails manicured, and not a single blond strand of hair ever fell out of place.
And the eyes? Rostov Kushan whispered.
Blue, of course. Icy.
That's him, then. Rostov Kushan lowered his binoculars and slid them into the inside of his jacket. And nobody else in there but him. I would say he's unwinding from a busy day. Got a glass of alcohol and just turned on his television. A really nice one, too, he added, sounding impressed.
Yes, that sounds like him. Amann went beyond materialistic and into the hedonistic. Let's pay him a visit, then.
Rostov Kushan and I crawled across the roof we had been observing Amann from, to the opposite side where Victor Kushan waited below. He leapt down first, making a small crunching sounds as he hit the pavement below - or, more accurately, the pavement made a small crunching sound as it was hit by him; his cybernetically enhanced frame gracefully absorbed the impact, and most of the kinetic energy was dispersed into the concrete below.
I simply walked off the edge and fell safely at a controlled speed, making no sounds or small craters. It was a minor magical trick that most mages learned very shortly into their careers.
So, are we going in?
I nodded in reply. Yes, Victor. Nothing fancy; he might be a victim, not a perpetrator.
Ugh, I hope not, Rostov groaned. He's our only suspect.
Quite. It wasn't exactly true; I had some other ideas at the time, but I chose not to voice them for a variety of reasons, mostly in that they were not particularly concrete or likely. My biggest fear, though, was that the culprit was somebody whom I did not know, who could freely strike from the shadows and vanish without a trace. That would make things... difficult.
Yeah?A voice called immediately after I knocked on Amann's door, sounding a bit surprised since we hadn't bothered to ring at the entrance to the building. There were footsteps to the door, and then a pause. Oh. It's you. Heinrich said you might be coming.
I gave the peephole a thin smile. You were hoping otherwise, Mister Amann?
You bet! Owing to his generally international profession, he chose to speak English whenever we spoke, even though I was fluent in his native languages of German and French, and he in Italian. The same thing happens with Madam Rabinovich, even though I am well versed in Russian.
Are you going to let us in, or do you prefer shouting through solid wood?
Not solid wood, he corrected. You see wood and I see wood, but there's an inch of steel between us, Mondavi. Never can be too safe.
I waited. After a few moments, latches were opened and the footsteps departed. I opened the door cautiously.
Thomas Amann is a very wealthy individual, more so than myself, even though we are direct competitors in the field, owing mostly to the fact that he works full-time and I pursue it mostly as a hobby. He has no problems expressing his wealth, and he apparently chooses to express it with the help of an interior decorator: pieces of modern and abstract art hung from the walls and stood in the corners in a well organized and spacious fashion. The furniture, of which there seemed to be just enough, assaulted the eyes with a variety of pastels, except for the tables and cabinets, of course, which were metal.
Sit down, sit down. Have a seat, have a drink. Amann waved at the sofas surrounding the large wall-hanging television, which currently was running through some football (European, not American) game. He had a variety of bottles sitting on the island counter-top marking the border between the kitchen and the salon, and separating him from us. I was just sipping a nice martini. I think I've got some Kentucky bourbon that is your style, right? - and some other stuff for your friends... Unless they don't drink on duty.
Yes, bourbon will be fine. I sat down and the Kushans followed in suit. My companions will do without, I added. I didn't have any rules forbidding it, and I doubted the Kushans did either, but it helped to play along.
Amann shrugged and continued: Not like you to walk around with bodyguards. You always handle yourself. I've heard all kinds of stories about that... Not really that surprising, given how many metas there are nowadays.
I rather enjoy the freedom of letting my mind wander on to other topics than my personal safety. As well as not cluttering my mind with the variety of hanging combative spells that I would otherwise be forced to meditate on every morning.
I'm sure. Amann crossed into the salon, handed me my glass, and took his place in a chair. So, Heinrich says you've joined his team.
That is precisely the case. I smiled and took a sip of bourbon. I actually prefer wines to brandies, but I admit to a soft spot for the drink that shares its name with my noble heritage. Fighting over artifacts is something to be done in Hollywood films, not the company of gentlemen.
He gave a toothy grin and raised his martini. Cheers to that, old chap! He was the kind of person to randomly pepper his speech with idioms and phrases from dialects from around the world. I found it somewhat disconcerting. I think this marks the first time that you and I have the same client. Usually we fight for the bids before this point.
Or after the artifact has been found.
Or that. He smirked. But I've already got the thing.
I glanced at Rostov and back. I beg your pardon? Did he mean the Key?
The journals from the digs, he elaborated, somewhat annoyed. They were in the possession of this bank manager in Zurich, a real hot little number who has a thing for archaeology, long walks on the beach, and blond-haired, blue-eyed Swiss. It took a bit of doing, but a little charm goes a long way, you know?
Yes, we all have our methods, I replied vaguely, secretly disgusted.
He laughed. Yeah, you were always a bit old fashioned in that regard. Ha! You're almost two centuries out of date, old chap. Gotta get with the times. He eyed his empty martini and rose to his feet.
So I have been informed. Numerous times by numerous people. Sexual promiscuity is the rule of the day, it seems, and it is virtually impossible to avoid the topic. I quickly changed the topic. Did Herr Auer tell you that I'd be coming for the journals?
He nodded, not looking up from his drink mixing. Yeah. He did.
If you would be so kind, I will take those and be on my way.
Sure. Just a minute... He grabbed a remote control from the counter and aimed it at the television. The channel changed to a scene of flashing police lights under the night sky. I immediately recognized Auer's neighborhood. I winced and turned back to Amann.
So... He drummed his fingers on the counter, you were just going to go along pretending that didn't happen? Hmm? I gave him a puzzled look. Oh, don't pretend you didn't know, I can see the truth written all over the kid's face.
I refrained from giving Victor a look of disappointment and kept my focus on Amann. Yes, I found out just before the flight.
Yeah, yeah, I get it. Amann sneered. You don't care about him, just the stupid temple. People start dying and you don't give it so much as a glance!
I have my reasons.
Oh, I know you do. Amann's voice was rising gradually in anger. You killed him, after all.
That is a very dangerous statement, Mister Amann, I replied, keeping my voice calm and level. It is quite the accusation.
Oh, please! He rolled his eyes. You visit Benveniste, he dies. You visit Heinrich, he dies. And now what? You're here, you grab the journals, you kill me? Is that what happens next?!
Calm down. Plea-
No! He screamed, and brought his hand up from behind the counter. A large pistol gleamed menacingly. I'm not dying. And you're not killing. It's simple!
I flattened my palm to indicate to the Kushans not to take action yet. Amann was, frankly, no threat to any of us: Victor is fast enough to dodge bullets, Rostov can simply shrug them off, and I have my magical wards. I may not have taken the time to prepare my offensive spells, but I'm no fool surprise attacks, by definition, happen when you least expect them.
Mister Amann, please, I began, you need to realize the foolishness of your actions. Mere bullets are no threat to any of us, and, furthermore, I promise you, that I had no hand in Auer's death. You are mistaken.
I'm unconvinced. He bared his teeth. No threat? Ha! He squeezed the trigger.
There was a blur, but no sounds of gunshots. In a fraction of a second, Victor had leapt from the couch, snatched the pistol from Amann's hand, and now had it pointed at the back of his head. Rostov, meanwhile, had drawn his own and had it, too, levelled.
Amann gulped.
I sighed and rubbed my temples. Quite foolish. I am going to assume that you are unbalanced by the stress of your recent loss, and not hold you accountable for these actions. As I said before, I'm not the man who killed Benveniste or Auer, and you are in no danger from me. The real killer is still out there, and while I suspected that he might be you, I'm now reconsidering that belief. I rose to my feet. Now. Where are the journals?
He pointed to a door. Over there. In the study. On the table.
Victor, would you be so kind? There was another blur and he returned triumphantly, waving a small box in the air. I returned my attention to our Swiss host. Now that I have this, I will resume my hunt for the temple. I highly doubt that Auer's murderer will simply fade away, and at some point I am certain that he and I will clash over the temple and its artifacts; when that happens, I promise you, I will destroy him.
You'd better not be lying to me, Mondavi!
And you, as well, Mister Amann.
Do you think it's a good idea to leave him alive? Rostov asked as we stepped out of the apartment building and onto the street. He'll probably call the cops and tell him that we're responsible.
I gave him a wry look. Then it will give us that much more reason to find our nemesis quickly.
What if it actually was him and this was a- He stopped and tilted his head slightly. Did you hear that? Victor and I gave him curious looks; his hearing, like most of his senses, was augmented by numerous cybernetics. I did not currently have any magics activated in that regards. It sounded like a gunshot. Silenced. He froze. Sniper rifle.
Victor gave him a stunned look. How can you te-
Never mind that! I shouted. Amann!
We ran up back into the building and up the stairs to Amann's door. I knocked once, twice, got no response. Rostov took a step back to ram the door down, but I raised a hand to halt him. Unlocking doors and portals is, again, a rudimentary magical spell, and after a minor incantation on my part, the door swung open.
A large bullet hole stood in the middle of one of the great wall-height windows that exposed Thomas Amann's salon to the grand vista of the Geneva skyline, as well as the building across the street where we had observed his actions a short while ago. The glass table that had stood between the sofas was shattered, and amongst the ruins lay the body of Thomas Amann, and growing pool of blood.
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Chapter XXII
In Which Loyalties are Examined
We were encountering a very disturbing trend: every person who knew about the Temple of Anshar was being murdered, almost immediately after we spoke with them. At this point, it would be silly to conclude that their deaths were coincidental, so there were only two general areas of possibility: either the timing was mere happenstance, or there was some reason to kill them immediately after my involvement. As I said before, I do not trust coincidences, but why would my mysterious opponent murder these people when he does? And why not kill me, while he is at it?
The only person who might know was fleeing, somewhere, with a sniper rifle.
LetmeseeifIcanfindhim! Victor shouted in a burst of syllables and dashed out the door, leaving a small rush of air in his wake. Rostov and I stared across the street to the offending rooftop, doubtful.
We could track him magically, Rostov suggested.
I frowned. I'd have to get back across the roof and conduct the ritual there, since I have nothing to go off of... Not even a mental image. Rostov nodded in agreement; he knew the limitations of a scry-on-the-fly as much as anybody else.
Meanwhile, my subconscious mind had further traveled along the areas of probability for the issue of timing and I had come to the conclusion that either this enemy of mine was spooked into action by my activities, or that this enemy was purposefully letting me talk to these people first. I greatly preferred the first option, since it meant that he was losing his advantage; the second was far worse, as he not only maintained it but needed me for some nefarious purpose. He had already acquired De Sarzec's work, but I had the manuscript and the journals... If he had just wanted those, he could have killed Auer and Amann for them days before I was even contacted by Bertram.
Unless he was trying to frame me for their deaths, of course. Depressingly enough, once the police investigations start really moving, I will probably become the primary suspect, like Rostov had pointed out. Death followed in our wake, and explosions and bullets to the back of the head would fit into any profile of my mercenary companions.
Wait a minute. Could Rostov Kushan have been behind these deaths?
There was the night Benveniste was killed, where we split up and Rostov said he had business to conduct, which would have been a perfect opportunity to murder the curator (if only I had looked into the hows of Benveniste's slaying!). Likewise, he had left a man behind to watch Auer, just after Victor had gone and performed some mysterious side job. And for all I knew, Oxford or some other henchman was the one pulling the trigger, and Victor was over there having a laugh about how they were pulling the wool over my eyes.
As far as conspiracy theories go, it seemed quite plausible. The Kushans are honest men once bought, always bought but that did not mean they could not have their own agendas. Or that they could not be working for multiple people at the same time. Maybe my enemy (or even Bertram!) had hired them to find the Temple and murder anybody who knew about it, and being hired by me to assist me in my hunt for the Temple allowed them to get paid twice for the same job. Up until they tried to kill me, of course, but I doubt they would ever try.
I gave Rostov Kushan a wary look. When I left that message on your machine, you showed up rather quickly. Didn't even call back. And you took the job immediately. Why?
He return the look. I told ya, I wouldn't want to miss all the inevitable excitement. He pointed demonstratively at the corpse on the floor.
I'm afraid to say that I'm developing something of an alternative theory in that regard. If he had just been hired to pursue the Temple, then he probably would not have shown up at my door at all, because he'd be busy in Europe. That meant he knew in advance. So, tell me, who told you to take my job?
His eyes widened for a moment in surprise, but he quickly replaced it with his normal sardonic grin. What's this about, Lorenzo?
Suspicion, Kushan. I gestured to the bullet hole in the window, to divert his attention from my other hand, which was briefly in the middle of a small conjuration. One which I would need to use if he truly was involved. You have been coincidently absent during the previous murders, and the spot you and I just used to spy on Amann has now been utilized in this one. Now it appears that you were aware of my pursuit of the Temple before I called you. So I want answers, and I want them now.
Whoa. He held his hands up in surrender. Look,I wasn't involved in this, I promise you. And I didn't know about the Temple thing but I knew Dammit! He bared his teeth, exposing a pair of abnormally long and sharp canines, a mark of his pact with the demon, I'm sure. I can't tell you. I wish I could, but...
But?
But I promised not to. It's a, um, clan thing. He licked his lips and paused as he tried to figure out exactly what to say. In any other person, I would suspect he was trying to come up with a good lie. Knowing Rostov Kushan, though, it was more like he was trying to find a way to tell me as much as he could without telling me anything. Another Hunter told me to take the job.
Pardon me? I didn't like the sound of that.
Oh, the Hunters are this group that Vic and I are a pa-
I waved my hand dismissively. Yes, yes, I know. I recognized the symbol.
Really? He stared at me for a bit. Sure, I mean, you know just about damn near everything, so yeah, sure you do. I didn't reply to that little barb and just waited for him to continue, which didn't take long. I got some instructions that something big was about to go down in Europe and the Middle East, and then you called me up saying you had a job for me... I just figured that you might be involved.
I frowned. Something... big?
Yeah. He looked around nervously and then lowered his voice conspiratorially. I don't know what, and I can't tell you which of the Hunters knew about this or how. I'm not allowed. As annoying as it was, this last part I understood; I was not a member and, thus, could not be trusted with their methods.
You'll have to trust me on this one, Lorenzo: I'm not working for anybody else; I don't know anything about these deaths. He held up his hand with his thumb crossed over his little finger, the middle three fingers standing up straight and together. Scout's honor.
I raised an eyebrow, dubious. You were a Boy Scout?
Wasn't everybody? He grinned again.
I wasn't, I pointed out. It was invented about thirty years too late, to be exact, but the movement was popular enough in England and, later, America and Italy, for me to recognize the salute. After my time.
Ooh, so you can trust me but I can't trust you. He leveled an accusatory finger. How do I know it wasn't you?
That's easy, I replied, I'd have had no reason to hide it from you. I would have probably just hired you to do it.
Oh. Good point. He reached into a pocket and pulled out an old coin, which he started turning as was his habit end over end between his fingers. So are we done being suspicious?
Amazingly enough, I was satisfied with his explanation, so I nodded and dispelled the conjuration I had begun. It was a strange story he had given, full of vagaries and, likely, half-truths, but it fit. That meant I was back to my earlier reasoning.
SorryguysIdidn't- I snapped my head to the side; Victor had come in so quickly I hadn't noticed his arrival. He coughed. Sorry, nothing. Whoever it was disappeared.
Lovely. I turned back to the window. If we have enough time, we can try to scry- I was interrupted by the sounds of sirens in the distance and sighed heavily. Nevermind. We must go quickly.
Should we call that Bert-guy now? Victor asked. I mean, couldn't he be next?
Bertram, I corrected. And I suppose we- I hesitated at the realization came that he, like Amann, was a suspect. Perhaps he had been unable to get the items himself, so he had me do the dirty work, then killed off his competitors afterwards. In that case, he would probably be setting a trap for my arrival; alternatively, if I showed signs of realizing his involvement, he would try to coax me in or, perhaps, just have a hit squad come after me. And, of course, if he was simply another target, like Amann...
A short while later, we had successfully crossed several city blocks undetected and were driving back to the airport.
Hello. The voice on the other end of the line sounded tired. Not a surprise, given the late hour. I could hear the sound of a television in the background.
Mister Bertram? I asked.
Yes. Who's this?
Lorenzo Mondavi, Mister Betram. I would like to meet you tomorrow. I have acquired both items you requested.
So soon? He sounded genuinely surprised. And eager. Great! Tomorrow would be great. What time?
I will arrive in Luxembourg some time in the early morning. I gave Rostov a querying glance, and he nodded confirmation. We would have a small problem with the increasing police activity, and it would not be long before the police started making connections between our travels and the numerous deaths, so we were flying out as soon as possible. Bertram replied that this would be perfect and asked me if I had his address; I told him I did not, and he rattled off the location.
Victor leaned over and whispered: Aren't you going to warn him? He might need protection...
I nodded. Have you seen the news, Mister Bertram?
I watch it religiously.
So you've seen about the deaths, today? I asked cautiously, trying not to give away anything. Benveniste, Auer...
Horrible things, yes. He sighed. Good men. They really loved history. Though, maybe the next curator will let me at De Sarzec's work... So he didn't know about Auer's involvement, or was hiding this. You don't think it has to do with it, do you? Somebody else is after the Temple and is willing to kill?! He sounded panicked.
I wouldn't rule it out, Mister Bertram.
Do you think we should call the police? He asked, nervously, then quickly added, Oh, no, if we do that, they'll want to know why, and I'll have to tell them about De Sarzec and then I'll be a suspect and, even if not, it'll all become evidence! It'll be weeks or months before I get them back and whomever this is will already be there and beat us to it! No, no, definitely don't call the police.
It was an odd line of reasoning, though I admit I had gone through something like it a bit before. The important bit here was his insistence not to get the police involved, which would be the last thing he'd want if he was the murderer.
Yes, just wait there until I arrive tomorrow, I suggested.
I will do just that. I will see you then, Mister Mondavi.
Farewell, Mister Bertram.
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Chapter XXIII
In Which Theres An Unexpected Reunion
We arrived in Luxembourg well rested and well prepared, with nary a sight nor sound of anybody following us or laying in ambush for us. This was an almost disappointing fact, since I would be adequately prepared for such an event, having taken extra time in the morning to prepare my more powerful and extensive combat magics. If anything, I'd had the distinct feeling that I would need them later in the day, especially if Bertram did, indeed, try to betray me.
In a sharp contrast to the cosmopolitan lifestyle of Amann and the metropolitan lifestyle of Benveniste and Auer, Donald Bertram chose to live on a large estate in the rural countryside, isolated and distant from the teeming throngs of the cities. I felt a kinship with the idea of retired solitude and the concept of living the life of the hermit, but the stark realities of the world along with my own cosmopolitan leanings prevented such silly notions from ever taking root.
Luckily, the combined travel time of airplane and automobile allowed me to peruse the journals we had acquired from Amann. They were, as Herr Auer had suggested, filled with meticulous detail and various minutiae regarding the expeditions, with precise dates, times, and measurements of every event, encounter, and exploration. The various sketched maps drew the most of my attention, as they would be invaluable later for finding the location of the dig; in fact, I was certain that if I were to cross reference this with the details of De Sarzec's more recent expedition helpfully provided by the Louvre's internet faculty I would be able to narrow down the location of Shubat-Anshar.
Not to say I'd be able to get it right the first time, of course, unless Fortuna was on my side (or Gad, as the case may be).
As we approached the small township he called home, Victor Kushan suggested that we phone ahead and check on his safety, having gotten close enough that he'd be unable to mysteriously disappear. I agreed, but the line rang several times and then switched to voice mail.
Perhaps he's in the shower?
I gave him a doubtful look and tried again, to no avail.
How much do you want to bet he's dead? Rostov asked.
I sighed and set the phone to dial once more, while I stared out the window to where, within a few more minutes, I should be able to see Bertram's home. I am not sure whether to hope that he is alive, I replied, or dead.
What?
I glanced back at Victor then returned to staring out the window, ignoring the voice mail message once again. You see, if he's alive, then he has probably run off and we'll be walking into an ambush.
It also means that poor Lorenzo's been fleeced this whole time, Rostov added in his usual helpful manner. Better some poor chap get knocked off than him being manipulated.
I thought the additional sentence was unnecessary.
That should be the place.
Bertram's house stood tall and expansive and, thus, expensive among the trees and hills that made up his estate. It was all very well kept and maintained, and had the look of the wealthy, retired homestead that it was. I could even see the small barn and stable where, I am told, he had a small collection of horses. It being broad daylight, I was unable to see any evidence for or against current occupancy, and a closed garage door tells no tales.
Can we circle around back? I asked. Or just park somewhere behind the barn... Let us play it safe.
Oxford nodded and pulled the car off the nicely paved road and into a small dirt one that appeared to loop around. He slowed down, letting the car switch from petrol to the silent electric engine, and slowed to a near halt as the road curved to side of the barn.
Looks like someone else had the same idea. Rostov pointed to a pair of black sedans which were parked over here, hidden from the main road and the house. Surprise visitors?
I frowned. For him? Or for us?
We piled out of the car and approached the sedans carefully. They appeared empty, but we were taking no chances; Rostov had his hands low, ready to draw his pistols if need be. Victor dashed ahead and put his hand on the hood of one of them, and turned back.
A bit warm, he announced in a stage whisper. No people in them, but, uh...
'Uh'? I queried.
He leaned into the open passenger window and pulled out a long, black, sleek object, which I quickly recognized as an ultramodern assault rifle. Uh, yeah.
Two possibilities: these people are here to harm either Bertram or myself, or they are unknown allies. I turned to Rostov. Knowing our luck thus far, I shall assume the former. Do you have a spare pistol?
A pistol? Rostov blinked, then pulled back his jacket and drew two silvery sidearms. Sure. I didn't picture you to be the gun type, though.
I'm not, I replied as I took the pistol from his hand. It looked like a heavily modified Desert Eagle .45 with an expanded clip, one of the few common pistols that did not exist before my disappearance. But I would rather that, in case of ambush, our enemies think that I am, so that they will assume that it is possible to disarm me. I saw Victor start to speak and quickly cut him off: Metaphorically speaking, of course.
Alright, uh, then you need to flip the sa-
I rolled my eyes and flipped the safety, checked the cartridge, and readied the pistol. Mister Kushan, I know how to work a pistol. I would not have survived all my years in the Italian Army if I couldn't handle such trivialities.
Oh, right.
We carefully hugged the wall of the barn as we crept towards the house, having left Oxford behind to guard the car, while cloaked in a mystical shadow a spell that all three of us knew and could thus combine for near invisibility. The house itself was raised in the back, with a deck, so we could not get a good angle to see through the windows until we had claimed up a small set of stairs and approached the back door.
Which lay in shambles on the floor.
No... Victor whispered. They're after Bertram...
We cautiously passed through the back and into a veritable minefield of canned foods and dry goods. A glance to the right revealed the open door to a pantry, whose shelves had been unceremoniously emptied. We stepped gingerly through the mess, taking care not to make any traitorous noises and into the kitchen, when a loud crash alerted us to motion in one of the adjoining rooms.
At this point, there were two exits, and thus two paths to take and two areas to cover at once. I gestured for the Kushans to go left, while I went right, in the direction of the sound.
A man in worn civilian garb, much too young and far too athletic to be Mister Bertram, was staring down at the remnants of what appeared to have once been a very expensive, very old vase. I winced as he shoved the pieces of priceless Xuande porcelain around with the butt of his rifle, another of the same model as that found in the car outside.
I took a step forward, sliding my finger over the trigger. He froze.
Jakob? The man asked in German, one of the official languages of Luxembourg, and turned to look back over his shoulder.
I waved my free hand and activated an enchantment I had placed on my shoes shortly after purchasing them, and took a quick step across the entire four meter space between us. It was not quite the fabled Seven League Boots, but it served its purpose. I jammed the pistol into his side and grabbed him by the shoulder, then leaned forward and whispered, No. Now be quiet, or you will die.
The young man stiffened a moment, and seemed to acquiesce. He swallowed.
I heard footsteps behind me.
Turn around, a voice commanded. German, so not the Brothers Kushan.
I knew that if I turned to look, the man would take that moment to attack me, so I did the simplest thing short of killing him, and squeezed his shoulder. Dark energies passed from my body to his, and he started shaking as his mind was opened up to the blacker portions of the spirit world. Somewhere, within his skull, his brain was under onslaught of his deepest fears and nightmares and a small hint of what I had experienced for the last seventy years.
Confident in his subdual, I started to turn.
Uh uh. The gun.
I raised both hands in the air, gun pointed at the ceiling, and faced another man in shirts, slacks, and steroids. Both of them had the look of military men, which would not be surprising, given the firearms.
Who are you? He asked.
A friend of Herr Bertram, I replied.
He frowned. Name?
It was, perhaps, still possible that these were not agents of my mysterious entity, though, admittedly, it would be highly embarrassing to have subjected a poor child to mind numbing horrors over a misunderstanding. Nevertheless, I went along. Lorenzo Mondavi.
His eyes widened in recognition and he pulled the trigger.
A very long time ago, I was an associate of a young Russian magician and the small cult of personality he had cultivated. They, like the Golden Dawn and numerous other such organizations, seemed an innocuous pursuit for young Victorians and aging authors, though I had grown aware that they had had plans for much more. They introduced me to the lost civilization of the Mu and its splinter society, the Oranbegans, who had been persecuted and eventually wiped out in a full scale magical war over their beliefs. The cult, whose name was changed to the Circle of Thorns after the ghosts of the Oranbegans tricked the leader and his followers into ramming Spirit Thorns into their hearts and thus allowing themselves to be possessed, had stumbled upon an ancient storehouse of Oranbegan knowledge and had learned a great deal of potent magics, including one that caused bullets and other projectiles to pass harmlessly through the caster.
I ignored the cacophony of screams and splatters emitting from the poor man behind me, and casually lowered my pistol and put a bullet through the forehead of my would-be murderer.
The gunshots faded away, leaving the house again in silence, save for a dull static from the earpieces of the gunmen. With the element of surprise lost, I edged my way out of the open and to the side of the entryway where Jakob had arrived from, cloaking myself in magical shadow once more to see if any more gunmen would appear to investigate.
I heard a rustling sound approaching from the kitchen and whirled around, just in time to see Victor hurtle into the room, brandishing a pistol and cloaked in dark mist. He glanced down at the two bodies, then swirled around, spotting me on his second pass.
You okay? he asked unnecessarily, and took my level gaze as an affirmative answer. I didn't see anything upstairs, but I didn't get much chance to-
Gunfire rattled in the distance the cacophony of an automatic rifle punctuated by several rounds of a high caliber pistol, interrupted briefly by the shattering of glass.
Ros, Victor declared. Should we check it out?
I grimaced. That would negate the purpose of splitting up in the first pl-
Oh [censored], came a cry in the distance. Lorenzo!
Or, I corrected, perhaps we should investigate. Victor nodded and took off down the hallway, leaving small friction burns in the well-polished wooden floors; I followed right behind, taking impossibly long steps across the intervening space.
Rostov Kushan stood with his back to us, leaning out a small window with shards of glass in a pool at his feet. Thick black oil was spilled over the floor, catching Victor and I and adhering to our shoes, making movement difficult. Rostov took a step back and closed the shutters to the window, then glanced at us over his shoulder and smirked; the magical tar evaporated, leaving no trace of its presence.
You're not going to like this, Lorenzo, he said. There were two guys in here when I got here; I nabbed one he's the guy to your left but the other made it out the window.
I glanced to my side, at the cooling corpse of another military looking young man in civilian clothes, and raised an eyebrow. Not a worry. He can't escape without Oxford seeing him.
That's not what I meant... He nodded to his left my right to a large oaken desk, one of many such items that filled this room that was, apparently, Bertram's home office. I cautiously approached the desk, which was covered in blood and paper; what random note could be on the desk that would upset me? A death threat? A ransom letter? A letter from Bertram announcing his betrayal?
I saw an object sticking out from the opposite side of the desk, something which I quickly deduced was a foot. I knew immediately who it was, and dashed forward, around the desk, and knelt beside the body of Donald Bertram, putting my fingers to his throat to check his non-existent pulse.
Victor appeared beside me and gasped. I guess we know he wasn't the murderer now...
I nodded gravely and stood up, and immediately crouched as a bullet hit the wall beside me. Even with my nigh invulnerability to conventional firearms, I had encountered magical enchanted and dimensional anchored rounds, both of which were capable of bypassing that particular protection; I generally played it safe. Besides, I might be immune, but Victor most certainly wasn't and I wasn't sure about Rostov. So long as I ducked, the shooter would still consider me a target and I could draw the fire.
Out the window! Victor shouted, and pointed to a pane of glass with a bullet hole in it. Rostov sprang into action, knocking over one of the desks and dropping behind it. Victor and I quickly followed suit, hastily erecting a small barricade. I peered over the top and out the window, but there was no sign of the shooter.
A sound caught our attention; a door at the far end of the room swung open, and a woman entered. She stopped in front of a thick beam between two large windows, making it hard to identify her until my eyes adjusted. At first I thought it a trick of the light or maybe some hallucination; what would she be doing here, of all places, and now?
I caught movement in the trees behind her, and I felt the bottom of my stomach fall out. Madam Rabinovich's powers had been lost or, at the least, in remission for some time, and even then she had no tricks to ward off bullets; a stray shot from a gun fight would make things incredibly... depressing.
What is this? she said softly.
It doesn't matter now, madam, I replied, catching the same movement outside; I could make out a figure hidden with them. If she took a single step to the side, she would obscure the target entirely. I raised my pistol and took aim. Remain still, I warned, or you will be shot.
END OF PART II
Global @Diellan - 5M2M
Mids' Hero/Villain Designer Lead
Virtue Server
Redside: Lorenzo Mondavi
Blueside: Alex Rabinovich
Got a Mids suggestion? Want to report a Mids bug?
((Might I be so bold as to ask, "When does Part III debut?"))
[u]PART III:
The Lone and Level Sands Stretch Far
[u]
Chapter XXIV
In Which A Reunion Goes Unexpectedly And Does Not End In Tears
I hate it when freaking out is not a viable option.
Which it most assuredly isnt; most especially when someone aims a gun at your head. If the aforementioned gun is held by a good friend a person whom youve chosen to trust (at least up until that point) and who knows you well and if that person is accompanied by two more gun-toting gentlemen the satisfying, but ultimately fatal, notion of sinking your nails into his wrist really doesnt beckon.
Instead I froze, staring around me with an emotion somewhere between hilarity and hysteria; I was, all told, much too close to the latter for comfort. In this moment of frozen tension, when options danced Irish dances in my head, the impression of the room and everything in it was almost astonishingly clear. I noticed, in the rush of adrenaline, the barrel of Lorenzos gun, and the pattern of light and shadow on the floor. My own silhouette was, much to my amusement, concealed by a square, large beam
There was a soft click.
I shouted, Garent, drop! and fell straight forward onto my knees.
The air erupted with bullets. There was whistling. The windowpane shattered with a desperate tinkling sound, and a neat semicircle of lead buried itself a centimeter from my knee. I stared at it, the epiphany settling in in bursts of metaphoric light. Lorenzo fired his gun methodically once, and again, and the window groaned in protest a second time. On the other side of the room, the sound of automatic fire thwacking into wood as an entire magazine of bullets hit the wall and played a rapid counterpoint. Rostov whirled on his heel and stuck the barrel of an oversized pistol through the shuttered, glassless window, firing deliberately.
Behind me and to my right there was a brief thump as Garents knee hit the floor. Dropping his illusions and mist, he slapped a hand onto the ground, hard, and outside the ruined window there was the surprised exclamation of a man who had, suddenly and inexplicably, found himself shooting upward on a geyser of water.
The bullets stopped. In the back, the automatic fire became sporadic and erratic, then quieted completely. Rostov withdrew his gun.
Lorenzo grimaced in annoyance at his disrupted aim, and shifted slightly, firing again.
Alive! Get him alive! I prudently, with the help of Victor, edged further into the barricaded room.
Garent twisted around, and pulled his hand back, as if for a throw. Then he flung an icicle (though calling it such would mean renaming the entire Alps into foothills) which sped on the heels of Lorenzos bullet, leaving behind it a small vacuum, and the sort of not-noise made by supersonic planes. The spear of ice went like a knife through butter into the shattered windowpane. There was another shout, this time of shock and pain. I lifted my head slowly behind an overturned desk, and sneaked a glance at the window, where the figure of a man dangled from a tree limb, pinned by the shoulder with a giant, dripping icy stalactite.
Damn it, Sofia, Rostov grinned his shark-tooth grin at me from the back. I was going to cook him for supper.
Fetch him, if you please, Rostov. Lorenzo took the joke as he always did stoically.
And be sure he can talk when he gets here! I added hastily, considering some of the less subtle but more convenient ways Rostov might contemplate in order to not burden us with a prisoner. They were numerous and, in the heat of the just-ended fight, quite graphic.
You never let me have any fun. The tall mercenary presented an artistically crestfallen face and slunk out of the room, shoulders drooping theatrically. I could hear him whistle to himself just beyond the door. The image remaining in my head was of a cat whod pawed the cream, stalking the food dish.
Lorenzo leveled an irritated gaze at me. Do you always do as you please in front of a loaded gun barrel, madam? I told you to stay still.
I knew you were not going to shoot me, I explained the in retrospect obvious facts. You werent even looking at me and, one should think, you would at least grant me the courtesy of looking me in the eye when you decide to do away with my inconvenient presence.
One should think, he noted, somewhat drily. Then perhaps you should have listened to me? Not, he added as an afterthought, that that was a realistic hope to entertain.
I would have, I examined the pillar which had become my unwitting shelter critically, rather shocked, as an afterthought, at the slimness of it, If you werent going to put a bullet through Garents head by accident. He was in your way, and you were so concentrated you never noticed him. You should just be happy neither of us tried something silly, like disarming you. It was rather called for, with you pointing a gun at my head.
I had utmost confidence in your good sense, madam.
We stood, looking at each other awkwardly.
I broke the uncomfortable silence rather hesitantly. Im
glad to see you are safe, for a given definition of safe.
Naturally, madam. You shouldnt concern yourself. Lorenzo smiled wryly, looking at the wrecked room and the bloody corpse. I do apologize for inconveniencing you, however. I hope your trip was not particularly strenuous
You dont, he allowed, after a brief consideration, look well.
I dedicated a long moment to studying the slightly frayed ends of my stockings. Just the usual, nothing worth mentioning.
There were a few more seconds of silence. Then a bullet whistled outside. Garent pointedly cleared his throat. Um
guys? We still have a bit of a situation here. Could we finish this tearful reunion later?
Right. I hastily retreated to the safety of inspecting Rostovs medical supplies. Which he, naturally, didn't seem to have. Lorenzo found his refuge in sarcasm.
I hope, madam, that we should not expect any further surprise visitors. Or did you bring an army?
No, what you see is what you get. I glanced around, directing a rather pointed gaze to the late Bertram. Don't you have a first aid kit?
No. Victor stared at me with a vastly innocent face: the face of the truly uncomprehending and blissfully ignorant of any notion of concern. Should we?
Yes! I said, exasperated, contemplating how I was supposed to treat a man with (presumably) a hole in his shoulder from an ice spike, and came to no conclusions whatsoever.
Why?
I groaned, staring from one uncomprehending face to the next. Magicians. Magicians and their... tricks. Someday, completely without expecting it, they will find themselves failing to take some small, but necessary, precaution, and see their convenient house of cards collapse around them. And, if I have my way, I will be there gloating.
Or so I thought.
I knelt to examine Bertrams body while Garent and Victor, under Lorenzos direction, took apart the barricades and as appropriate in all matters involving barricades rebuilt them somewhere else, further out. I am, until this point, uncertain as to why they needed barricades in the first place or, for that matter, what use was served by moving them but I was told by three of the four male members in the group that this was how things were done. In a shoot out, just as in a small-scale revolution, one built barricades.
I didnt need the dutiful examination I carried out on Bertram to tell me that he was very dead. There is an emptiness about dead people that is like a small Black Hole in the fabric of reality a silence that oozes like oil on ones fingertips. I could feel that oil from the opposite end of the room, and now Ive bathed my hands in it
I shuddered slightly and leaned in closer to observe Bertrams contorted face and the three bullet holes in his chest. Someoned closed his eyes. He was dead when you arrived.
Lorenzo sighed. For all intents and purposes.
I did not bother with condolences, for which we had even less time than explanations. The door swung open and Rostovs foot proceeded through, followed shortly by Rostov himself, in company with the gentleman with designs on my head or at least on my torso and bits of my limbs. There was a momentary scuffle in the doorway as the prisoner managing somehow to negate Rostovs significant weight and bulk struggled almost out of his hand. Rostov aided the mans decisiveness with the convenient reminder of a gun barrel and marched him in by the scruff.
Look, Sofia. Hes not even in pieces. Rostov provided one of his trademark grins for emphasis. He must consider them disconcerting, to abuse them so heavily, but due to some quirk of upbringing, I routinely fail to pay attention to faces, and so the effect of this not-so-subtle intimidation is lost on me. Nonetheless, it was not lost on our esteemed guest; the latters eyes gyrated from one hostile face to the next, returning to rest on Rostovs with an expression of tightly suppressed, sick horror.
I examined our newest acquisition. He was thirtyish, as best I could estimate (which wasnt very reliable), tall and Scandinavian. He would not have attracted a second glance in a busy city street, though, being possessed of rather average features, a somewhat weak chin and a largish nose.
He was not I sighed dressed in a uniform of any sort. Instead he wore the standard attire for a male of the current generation that was not a businessman or a geek; jeans, t-shirt with the logo of some innocuous company Ive never heard of and never will, and shoes that seemed deceptively common but which, upon closer examination, had soles built for a sportsman, or woodsmans traction.
Well, I said cheerfully. What language will it be?
None, snapped our prisoner, struggling one last time for the sake of propriety to escape from Rostov's death-grip on his scruff. I noted the rather bland, American accent, and smiled.
All right then. You can sit down and proceed with not-talking.
The man scowled and remained standing. Rostov, with a single, well-placed, fluid motion, sliced his palm across the back of the prisoner's knees. The long body went down like a mast in a storm.
Whoa! Garent, until now more or less silent, threw up his hands in a defensively-assertive gesture. Were not pistol whipping this guy for the next hour, are we?
Come on, Garent, you know me, Rostov patted the prisoner on the shoulder familiarly, and the latter flinched. I cant pistol-whip a fly.
The younger generation in the form of Garent and Victor looked dismayed.
So what was that?
Oh, that, Rostov waved a leisurely hand in the air. Private initiative. Sofia said she needed him to talk; she didnt say anything about kneecaps.
The man, groaning softly from the unexpected pain and the reverberation of the impact along his bleeding arm, glared up defiantly. I won't tell you anything.
See? He won't tell us anything, Garent pointed out. So hurting him is beside the point, right?
As much as I may dislike the idea, Lorenzo said in a slightly distant tone, examining the man before him with the look that a biologist levelled upon an especially rare specimen (about three seconds before the specimen was stuffed with wood shavings and put in formalin), but we do need to know who he is.
Oh, that's not necessary, I smiled at the assembly charmingly, then turned the smile onto the prisoner who, for some reason, flinched. I can tell you who he is.
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
Chapter XXV
In Which Deductions Are Made To The Background Noise Of Chagrin
Sofia was smug. Again.
They all do it with alarming regularity, actually, and it never really gets more tolerable. Yes, we get it, youve read everything on the planet that has pages and a bind including, I bet, the phone book but that doesnt mean you need to give in to the urge of pretending to be Sherlock Holmes. I just knew that, in a moment, Sofia will go into a litany of deductions, with all the little clues and bits that every sensible person probably missed. Theres no reason to be smug about it.
Lorenzo, by the way, was looking sort of unhappy. His expression said I should know this, and I should know this before you. Which I have to admit I enjoyed briefly before checking to make sure I didn't have a similar look. I didn't. I wonder half the time how Sofias weirder friends (myself included) dont just pile up and kill each other out of sheer competitiveness. The fact of the matter is that they dont; in fact, theyre almost disgustingly loyal. Vic looked around with his usual isnt this exciting stare, completely unconcerned. He, just like many other people, pretty much got used to the annoying but, admittedly, handy, ability that the Rabinoviches and some of their friends had of pulling rabbits out of their sleeves.
Youd think that, as a mage, this would be my thing, but no, they usually did it much more prominently, though they used metaphorical rabbits. To counter the insubstantial nature of the rabbit (maybe) they made up with a flourish worthy of a big stage.
Rostov just smiled like he knew something the rest of us only started figuring out.
If I wasnt so concentrated on trying to figure out what it was Sofias figured out, and of course on the prisoner, I probably should have paid attention to that look. But I dismissed it as simply Rostov being Rostov he always looks like he was let in on Gods own joke and said nothing.
In the end Lorenzo managed a pretty understated Is that so?
Indeed, Sofia said helpfully.
And
?
This was the point where, I thought, Sofia was likely to look up at Lorenzo, smile angelically, and tell him to say please. She didnt. Instead, she dusted her skirt off slowly, and stared down at the prisoner. He was absentmindedly rubbing his kneecaps, but stopped and looked decidedly wary under Sofias gaze. Gentlemen, she said in that lecturing tone she used when she was about to give us a lesson, whether we wanted one or not, meet
what is your name?
The prisoner glowered.
Meet Mr. Not-Saying-Anything. He is a super soldier, and he works for the 5th Column.
The prisoner looked, for a second, before his face closed on itself again, like he was kicked.
There were communal groans.
Oh. Of course there would be Nazis, Rostov rolled his eyes and prodded the guy on the floor in his wounded shoulder. When did we not have Nazis while you two were around?
I had to admit in a slightly annoyed tone. We do get a lot of them around you. Which is true; Sofia and Alex, and Lorenzo, now that I think about it have a Thing for the Column, its sister and enemy, the Council, and all these wacky Nazis. They dont just go out of their way to foil their plans. No, they take it to the realm of the deeply personal. They give it the hatred warranted only by History with a very large capital H.
Sure! Vic was nodding excitedly. Come on guys! Dont you ever watch any movies? Were hunting for ancient artifacts, right? So theres got to be Nazis.
That chain of logic, although typically Vic-like, didnt seem to pass either Sofia or Lorenzo. They both were grimacing visibly, a feat that should be recorded in its own special fact book. Suppose, madam, Lorenzo looked at Sofia wryly, that you explain your reasoning?
I gave Sofia my full attention. I was about to receive a lecture, and I wanted to be sure I could correctly answer any question if I was called on. My goal wasn't to impress the teacher, but my fellow classmates. Up until now my role has been very simple: Keep Sofia alive while she figures everything out. Things were slightly different now that our duo had become a five man band, and I wanted to be sure that the transition went smoothly.
My strategy for achieving this was to prove to Lorenzo that our team was a lot smarter than his.
Very well. She touched her ponytail briefly, presumably trying to put her thoughts into some sort of order so that we mere mortals could understand. Ive been running around with some vague
intuitions, since we landed in Paris. And there it was. We were now going to hear every little bit of it whether we wanted to or not.
Ill start with my last hint, Sofia said solemnly. The paw-prints going into the office.
The dirty dog prints? I blinked.
Yes, but Bertram didnt have a dog.
How can you tell? Rostov was unconvinced. He could just run off somewhere.
No doggie door, Sofia counted on her fingers impatiently. No bowls. No fur. Very purposeful steps. This doggie didnt just lie around, he came straight into the office, from the trees. But, most importantly, she smiled the thin smile she kept for when she wasnt amused at all, it was a foregone conclusion.
You see, she explained, the reason you gentlemen couldnt connect the dog with the, ah, wolf
is because you didnt see Benvenistes body.
Lorenzos mouth opened slightly. Oh.
You merely heard that he was murdered brutally, by Circle of Thorns. You didnt see the claw marks over the body. And even if you had, you might have thought that it was irrelevant. Garent, however, didnt, and I believed him when he told me that Behemoths didnt do it. The question looming large in my mind then was, of course, who did?
Someone who had claws and left dog prints on the floor, said Lorenzo bleakly.
And used guns and rifles. And, she stared down at the soldier sitting at our feet, had members who could give Rostov a challenge to drag into a room. Super soldiers. Enhanced humans. Someone who, I point out, felt it necessary to declare nothing, operating in complete secrecy. Someone with an agenda to stay low.
But
but
Vic squinted. They actually succeeded! They were effective! That was a good point. These people killed off everyone we tried to get to, and did it before we got to them. Maybe we were still excusable, because we didnt know who they were going to kill, but they also seemed to get ahead of Rostov and Lorenzo and they, presumably, had a list of names to begin with. It wasnt like the Column we knew and loved to hate.
Sofia chuckled drily. A splinter branch, I daresay.
That still does not answer every question we may have, however, Lorenzo said. Sofia shrugged a little. She would never look disappointed, but I could tell she was a little let down by the complete indifference with which her moment of revelation was received. Its not like she should have expected anything else, really.
Yeah, Rostov dug into his pocket, and was now playing with his old silver coin. Knowing who is nice, but we also need to know what for, and how far they got.
The what for seems rather obvious, Sofia shrugged. They want to find the temple before you, and without competition. As for how far... we will simply have to ask.
Everybody turned to look at the prisoner who was still sitting on the floor sullenly, holding his wounded shoulder.
I won't tell you anything. You will lose and--
Yes, yes, Sofia cut him off. Now that she finished her exposition, she was cold, and definitely not happy. We will triumph, et cetera et cetera. Spare us the slogans, if you intend to cut short on the chatter.
There are all sorts of ways to make people talk, said Rostov thoughtfully. They all have something... ego, fear, maybe something else...
I winced. We're going to be here forever if we do it that way, Rostov. And it will also take us a long time to break all his bones, don't you think? We need to get out of here pretty quickly, before people come and find this body.
That is, indeed, an issue, Lorenzo was playing with his gun, in the same way Rostov was playing with his coin. He was flipping it end over end casually, trying, I guess, to go for an aura of menace. It worked pretty well; Lorenzo is naturally scary, wears black, and can tear people's souls out through their ears. Sofia is the only person who not only isn't scared of him, but actually doesn't get why anybody else is. The prisoner, not being Sofia, didn't like the black-wearing guy and his gun, and it showed. He now took this one step further, and pointed the gun straight at the prisoners head. As Mr. Ward pointed out, we need a quicker way.
The prisoner was defiant. I'll die before I talk!
Deal, said Lorenzo. And shot him.
I could see this coming for miles. You really don't want to say something like that to a guy whose magical expertise is black magic in all its forms, and to another guy who likes trapping souls in snow globes. I wasn't going to take the bullet for him, though he did just make a serious effort in taking Sofia's head off, and I didn't like that at all. Besides, what was I going to say? I needed a better excuse than 'shooting people is bad', in the present company.
I settled for giving Lorenzo very disappointed looks. They didn't help at all.
Lorenzo put away the smoking gun calmly, and stared down. Sofia was doing the same thing. She took a step back from the body, and watched it with a clinical expression. Lorenzo is a pretty good shot, it turns out, because the guy lost about half his head and was probably dead before he hit the floor. There was a lot of blood, which Sofia was avoiding, looking unhappy and grumbling about not having shoes on. Rostov caught his coin, and held it, Victor was standing completely still, with his mouth open. He shut it quickly, and spent a second figuring out if a mosquito flew in there.
I suppose, Sofia said calmly, after she retreated from the blood and sat down on a desk, that I didn't need him alive after all.
An easy mistake to make under the circumstances, madam, Lorenzo said placidly.
Ask him, then.
He did. Raising a soul is actually not as complicated as people think. It usually isn't done because of, essentially, this concept people have that is known as Good Manners. It's not nice to grab a guy who just died and is probably not particularly interested in saying anything to anyone anymore, and making him sit in a third degree. But, of course, in this case we didn't really care.
I was sort of hoping that Lorenzo would be able to use a stick and carrot approach with the guy's spirit, saying that hed put him back if he answered nicely. But that doesn't happen with half the head missing. Besides, Lorenzo is the kind of person who wouldn't know what to do with a carrot maybe he'll hit you over the head with it? He stood over the body, held out his hand, and everybody else started staring at the space above intently. I had to adjust things a little to see the ghost hovering there, looking indifferent and fuzzy.
Now he'll tell us everything? Vic looked interested.
It doesn't work that way, I told him smugly, displaying my knowledge in the area of summoning dead souls (which I never actually did, but I've read it in Black Magic for Dummies), you have to be pretty specific in what you ask, and they tend to be really specific in how they answer.
For example, said Rostov, how many people were coming here?
Six. The voice was hollow and flat.
How many did you shoot? I asked, curious.
Six, including this one, Vic said triumphantly. That settled that, then. At least we didnt have to worry about snipers pulling a Tarzan out of a tree and dropping Sofia dead in her tracks. That did, however, raise the question of what happened to the werewolf. I guessed that he changed into human form for a short time maybe to search through the desk and was now as dead as everyone else.
Where were you going next? Sofia said quietly.
To the dig.
The Shubat-Anshar dig, Lorenzo wasn't actually asking a question but the ghost confirmed it with a nod anyway. Spirits are pretty literal. Were you the first there?
No. There are many others. We will join them. Sofia and Lorenzo exchanged a very worried look through the ghost's chest. I decided that Victor was my natural partner to do the same, and exchanged a worried look with him too. Rostov didn't do worried looks, so he got to be the odd man out.
I suppose that's our cue, Rostov shrugged and got up. If we stick around, well miss all those exciting things they do with microscopic brushes and shovels. Sofia slid off the tabletop and edged around the small but significant blood pool in the middle of the floor. Everybody started moving at once, getting ready to leave. How did you get here?
Rental, parked in front.
In front??
Please, Sofia said acidly. Don't pretend to be stupid. I know you too well for that. We all have our disguises; you run an exports and imports company. My disguise is that I am a five-foot-two, forty-year-old academic, and my car always parks in front.
Okay, well, we need to take apart these nice guns and put them somewhere quiet, Rostov announced, and we need to do it before the police shows up to find two dead bodies on the floor. Looks like we have more important things to do anyway.
Sofia nodded, and looked at me. Why don't you go help them out, Garent?
Me? I blinked at her, it wasn't very like her; she knew perfectly well that I know nothing about guns. I could probably shoot one, if someone showed me how, but I never really even touched one, and I never needed them.
Yes, you, she was determined. Now.
Rostov, Vic and I looked at each other. Vic smirked. I hid a second wince. It made a certain amount of sense. Come on, guys, I told the other two, glancing at Lorenzo with sudden sympathy Sofia is scary when she is upset, not in the 'suck your soul out' way, but in the much worse 'mother is unhappy' way and walked out with Rostov and Victor following. The door closed behind our backs with an audible thump.
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
((It's a good thing you weren't subject to my squeal of excitement when I saw you had a new episode up. I absolutely love your style and story!))
Chapter XXVI
In Which Someone Speaks in Tongues
Madam Rabinovich sat on the edge of Bertrams desk, stocking-ed but shoeless feet dangling over a pool of blood, while she waited for the others to leave the office. Only moments after the door clicked shut, she let down her standard mask and sagged visibly, then grimaced and began rubbing her temples a telltale sign that she was nursing a strong headache. She, like myself, was accustomed to keeping indications of weakness or emotional turmoil hidden from the general public and, especially, her friends. She rarely made exceptions.
I am distressed, madam, that you were so quickly able to trace my activities and catch up with me, I began, not wanting to embarrass her by commenting upon her poor state; she does not like people worrying about her.
I had help, she replied briskly, in the shape of the letters on your table, Garent, and a great deal of luck. I was rather surprised to learn, as the short version of the tale unfolded, how she traced us first to the Louvre, then to Vienna, Geneva (though she did not travel to the latter herself), and finally, to Mister Bertram. She is a modest woman, and did not attribute her success to her own mental acuity. As she is also rather abashed at compliments (perhaps moreso than expressions of concern), I refrained from pointing it out as well.
Instead, I commented upon the somewhat more obvious by voicing my fears of the needless time sink of dealing with an impending police raid.
Distressing, but impossible, she smirked, reaching into the pockets of her long coat, and extracting out several folded papers which she held triumphantly aloft. After a few seconds' scrutiny, I recognized the letter which I left her as well as the printed letter from the late Mssr. Benveniste. Since the evidence has, so to speak, grown legs and absconded.
At that point our conversation wandered into territory which is, frankly, a private matter, and will be discussed no further.
Madam Rabinovich held the door for me when we returned to the others, who had been rapidly cleaning the crime scene of our personal effects and traces. There was little we could do to stop anyone else examining the scene from realizing that a third party was here (who killed the Columnists, after all?), but at least we could leave them without any solid evidence outside of, perhaps, some form of retrocognition.
How long do we have until they show up, anyway? Victor Kushan asked, while he was idly passing an object later revealed to be one of the high-tech communications gadgets of the Columnists from one palm to another.
The police? I gave Madam Rabinovich a questioning glance but she shook her head, indicating that she had not warned them. I doubt theyre even aware of anything happening here. The 5th Column would not have given Bertram time to use the phone.
Madam Rabinovich winced. No, he was on the phone with me at the time they arrived
I tried to warn him but, too late. When we leave Ill call Fischer and ask him to inform the police. Hell want to know were safe, too.
Uh, I dont know if thatll be necessary, Rostov Kushan chimed in, and pointed back over his shoulder. I saw stripping and wires on the windows, so a silent alarm probably already went off. Standard procedure would see the police or the security company calling to double check, and if theres no answer
Lovely, she groaned.
Were not just going to use our IDs again? Madam Rabinovichs close friend and former co-worker, Mister Ward, asked. His tone dripping with liquid sarcasm and a dash in irony as he referenced, I suppose, some inside joke. They had a strong friendship stemming from several years of working close together as part of the leadership of their group that wandered between metaphorical aunt-nephew and sister-brother. This is standard practice for us INTJs: a small number of incredibly strong friendships.
She shook her head. I dont think we really have time to deal with the police right now
I nodded. We have no way of knowing just how much progress the 5th has made in their search for the Temple, only that they have suddenly and inexplicably moved to take De Sarzecs work and kill everybody who might interfere with them.
I took a look around the room, at its state of disarray, and felt the various pieces of the puzzle nudge the dark recesses of my mind. The 5th had thoroughly searched the house, so they were looking for something, but what? They currently had all of De Sarzecs work, and were only missing the manuscript and journals, which are in my possession, not Mister Bertrams. Besides the journals would only help with finding the spot to dig, and they apparently already had an idea. Likewise, the manuscript was mostly useful for the Key
I turned back to Bertrams corpse and stared in disbelief. I had inklings before that he had known far more than he had told me, and had known about the Key itself, but I had never guessed how.
So, you think he actually had the Key this whole time? Rostov joined me in staring down at the dead body.
It would explain why he would want the manuscript and journals, which are the only places that describe it. It is very well possible that he purchased the artifacts found by the German archaeologists in the 19th century. I silently cursed myself for not checking earlier.
We killed all the 5th here, though, Mister Ward pointed out, so either one of them is holding it, or its still wherever Bertram left it.
Did we? Madam Rabinovich looked around nervously. What about the Warwolf?
I shook my head, and the others did as well. Nobody had seen the large half-man half-wolf beast that was a result of 5th Column tampering with human and alien DNA. While some of the more advanced breeds are capable of temporarily regaining human form for a time, they generally revert upon massive trauma or death, and none of the soldiers had changed.
Victor scratched his head. But we got six, and the spirit dude said there were only six.
Six people, Sofia corrected, stressing the second word. We asked how many people there were, and the spirit might not have considered Warwolves to be people.
Who would? Rostov snorted.
We immediately split up to find the missing creature, searching in small groups instead of individually, since a Warwolf can be a dangerous opponent when faced alone, especially if it has the advantage of surprise. The precaution was unnecessary, though, as Mister Ward found a second set of paw prints leading away from the house after some significant searching.
They led straight into the nearby woods and were lost.
Along with the Key, Madam Rabinovich added with a grumble.
Victor grimaced. Those things can run pretty fast; not as fast me, of course, hehe, but with that head start and all the area of these trees
I dont think we can catch him here. What about magic?
Track it? Certainly. But
I sighed heavily. I think it would be better for us to not waste the time. We should leave immediately.
We returned to our vehicles and agreed to meet up at the airport. I decided to travel with Mister Ward and Madam Rabinovich in her rental vehicle so that I could fill the pair of them in on all the details of our journey.
I guess that explains it, Mister Ward said when I finished and ran his fingers through his hair. This whole time wed thought youd been doing it.
I gave him a critical stare. I would not be so sloppy, Mister Ward.
He returned my critical stare with one of his own for a moment, then looked away. Mister Ward has never trusted me and cannot understand why Madam Rabinovich does. He sees me as some kind of dangerous beast that only allows others within its presence on a whim, and is worried that at any moment Ill murder him and begin a process of world domination. Given my history, that isnt particularly unreasonable, so long as you only look at the act and not the motive. Besides, I wouldnt waste my time with him: his grasp of magic is far too rudimentary for him to ever be a threat to any plans I may have.
Rostov mightve been, though, Madam Rabinovich pointed out from the drivers seat. And framing the Circle for Benvenistes death is the kind of thing you would do.
I stand corrected, madam.
And Vic definitely wouldve been, Mister Ward added. Like maybe he sneezed and accidentally blew up Auers house or something. We didnt know he was there though.
I raised an eyebrow. You saw the Louvre guestbook, surely you saw his signature.
Thats what that horrible scribble was? Madam Rabinovich howled in laughter.
Penmanship is a lost art, I am afraid. I grimaced. With the proliferation of computers and mobile messaging and recent developments in electronic paper, of all things! it would not be long before handwriting would be lost entirely.
So what would the 5th want with this temple, anyway? Mister Ward asked, suddenly changing the conversation. I couldnt help but wonder if his own penmanship fell into the gap between horrible and non-existent.
I admit that I am rather perplexed by this, myself. I twisted in my seat so as to face him more directly. While their founding organization was known for pursuing such strange artifacts to help win the war, and we have seen them pursue ancient Roman artifacts before, to see them involved here instead of groups like the Circle or the Mu leaves me perplexed. The temple was used to keep their gods allied with them, receive prophecy from them, and prevent the negative influence of other gods.
What would they want with ancient Semitic gods?
That is an important question, yes, I replied to Madam Rabinovich. As a Jewess, she had legitimate concerns about their activities in the region. I could see them compromising if it was something particularly powerful, but the draught of prophecy would be unreliable, at best, and the only thing the Gem of Etnekhsa was associated with was keeping the climate favorable.
Mister Ward coughed. Controlling the weather is a pretty powerful weapon, Lorenzo.
Were talking regular rainfall over an entire subcontinent, Mister Ward, not tsunami summoning. Which was exactly where his talents lay. His control over the weather was very powerful, but very limited in scope for example, creating a whirlpool of incredible force but spanning no more than a dozen meters. Breadth, not depth, of power.
"Turning a continent from a wasteland into fertile ground is bound to appeal to half of the governments in Africa. Assuming that it doesn't have some other creative uses." He shrugged. Or maybe they just want to do some extensive gardening.
"Zor'im kaas v'kotzrim machloket, Madam Rabinovich murmured, amused.
Madam? I raised an eyebrow and gave her a scrutinizing stare. Her mastery of languages is second to none, but she loses her hold on them when she reaches the extremes of waking hours. Suddenly the dark circles under her eyes and the red in their corners stood out.
She reached up and rubbed her forehead. Which language was that in?
Hebrew, madam. I glanced nervously between her hands on the steering wheel and the road ahead of us. Perhaps you should pull over and let someone else drive.
Mister Ward raised a hand. Uh, not me. I cant.
No, certainly not. Madam Rabinovich snorted and pointed a finger at me. And you, dear man, vy ne vodili mashinu let semdesat, ne menshe.
What was that?
She pointed out that I havent driven a car for seventy years, Mister Ward.
She sighed and pulled the car to the rightmost lane. Ill just pick up some coffee at the next stop. Its not that much farther to the airport
It wasnt, thankfully, and we arrived without incident. Rostov Kushans jet was ready and waiting, prepped with a flight plan to Turkey, where we would swap it for a cargo plane laden with supplies for an expedition in Iraq and possible combat with the 5th Column.
Waitaminute. Victor looked around curiously as I was helping Madam Rabinovich onto the aircraft (she had been swaying on her feet alarmingly and I did not trust the iron steps). So theyre coming along?
We all shared surprised glances, as it had never occurred to us for a moment that Madam Rabinovich and Mister Ward might return to America, satisfied in the knowledge that we were safe. We had worked together so long that we had all fallen into the normal routine with nary a word or consideration of the alternative.
Of course, I replied, matter-of-factly, and led Madam Rabinovich to a window seat. I had phoned ahead to Rostov Kushan, so the seat already had a blanket and pillow waiting. She gave murmured protestations (No, no, Im okay), but she went out like the proverbial lightbulb the moment she had settled. Barring the short transition period in Turkey, she would sleep all the way to Iraq.
None of us felt it necessary to wake her.
Global @Diellan - 5M2M
Mids' Hero/Villain Designer Lead
Virtue Server
Redside: Lorenzo Mondavi
Blueside: Alex Rabinovich
Got a Mids suggestion? Want to report a Mids bug?
((Whoops. Edited the above post because this forum doesn't have UTF-8. The Hebrew and Russian are transliterated now.))
Global @Diellan - 5M2M
Mids' Hero/Villain Designer Lead
Virtue Server
Redside: Lorenzo Mondavi
Blueside: Alex Rabinovich
Got a Mids suggestion? Want to report a Mids bug?
Chapter XXVII
In Which What Goes Up Must Come Down
Unlike our previous flights, getting into Iraq was going to be a complicated and dangerous affair. The country itself has limited and restricted airspace, with a series of bureaucracies that must be navigated in order to obtain permission. Like other countries in the region, the government is something of a kleptocracy, so the navigation must be done by a series of bribes and favors in order to do it with any reasonable passage of time. Since we were talking about needing permission to land at some point within twelve hours after leaving Luxembourg, Rostov Kushan was required to place a long series of phone calls in order to find which people to bribe and with what. There was also a matter of getting permission from the United Nations or certain other affiliated countries, since we were not part of an Arab airline, but Mister Kushan insisted that this would be no problem.
I was quite pleased to leave the matter of such logistics to him and his international network of contacts, while I spent the flight to Turkey with a detailed topological map of Mesopotamia and the journals, calculating the region of the dig site.
You dont know where it is? Mister Ward asked skeptically. He and Victor had been hovering over my shoulders as I traced lines and distances on the map.
No. I marked the location of Nippur the location of the Mountain Temple of Enlil which had been destroyed by Naram-Sin and heralded the Curse of Akkad which had been found some one hundred and fifty years hence southeast of Baghdad. According to the manuscript, Shubat Anshar would be located north and west of it.
So why didnt we just ask the ghost? I looked up at him with a raised eyebrow. Since the 5th have already found it.
And would it be able to rattle off GPS coordinates or would it just say weve got it on a map back at base? I shook my head. Besides, we dont know if they have found it, only that they have a dig site set up. Since they were still seeking these relics, I can hope that they had not yet.
I thought they needed these for the Key, Victor Kushan chimed in. To know where to find it, like Auer needed them.
Apparently not, I replied, since they knew that Bertram had the Key. I placed another spot on the map to represent Shubat Enlil, the sister city of Shubat Anshar, that had only been discovered thirty years ago, and was actually so far north as to be located in the far northeast corner of Syria, less than a hundred miles from the Iraqi border. Shubat Anshar would be somewhere southeast of it. I had narrowed the location down to a rectangle, using Shubat Enlil and Nippur as opposite corners.
Congratulations, Mister Ward gave a pair of small, sarcastic handclaps, youve narrowed it down to a space three hundred miles wide and six hundred long. We should find it in no time!
I gave him a long, irritated look. The distances were given in measurements of days and weeks, so we can easily narrow this down. I pulled out a compass and ruler and measured the rectangle. The distances from each city are given as being more or less equal, with it being only a short bit closer to Shubat Enlil. Ten percent closer, to be precise. That narrows it down to being somewhere, roughly, along this line. I drew a diagonal line through the rectangle, perpendicular to the straight line between the two cities.
Okay. Better. But still
Yes, but still. I pulled out the journals and the small pad of paper where I had made notes during the car ride in Luxembourg and placed a small smattering of dots on the map. According to these journals, Shubat Anshar will be somewhere within about one hundred kilometers - I gave the two Americans a weary look - sixty miles from De Sarzecs dig sites.
Victor gaped. Well why didnt you put that one first? Thats much more specific than your gigantic rectangle.
This way he gets to show off, Mister Ward answered drily.
The choice was not deliberate, I interjected, not rising to the bait. He was generally suspicious of my methods. He was a child of the new school of magic, which considered the mages of the past to be mostly charlatans who dolled everything up for the show of it, trying to fill gaps in their knowledge with psychological manipulation. He was not far wrong. Extreme paranoia is unhealthy, Mister Ward.
He simply snorted.
I took the compass and made circles around the dig sites.
There, gentlemen, I announced, we should find the Temple somewhere where these circles overlap the line, just northwest of Lake Tharthar.
The plane landed in Istanbul and we woke Madam Rabinovich just long enough for us to make the plane switch. She and I shared a laugh when we saw the cargo plane and the large blue letters and globe painted on that were part of Rostov Kushans solution to the UN issue.
Nice plane.
You like? Rostov grinned at her.
Its perfect, Madam Rabinovich answered sleepily.
Rostov Kushan beamed. A little blue paint and some fun with license and registration numbers, and you can drive or fly anywhere in the world, hehe. It wont pass close scrutiny but, eh, nobody looks too close with a little money waved in their face.
We boarded quickly and took our seats. Once Madam Rabinovich returned to her peaceful slumber, the Brothers Kushan took Mister Ward and me on a small walk through the plane, so they could show off the gear they had brought with them.
Weve got enough stuff to hike and search for your dig spot, he announced as he gestured some of the large crates, and enough rations to last us a couple months though I hope it wont be that long before we get another good steak, hehe. Also: enough weapons and ammo to supply a small army just in case we need one.
I looked back towards the front of the plane, where a half-dozen of Rostov Kushans mercenary company were chatting, not counting the two more who were piloting. I think you already have one, Mister Kushan.
He laughed and moved past the boxes, to where a large vehicle sat completely occluded by a tarp. This little baby will be our ride through the mean deserts of Iraq. Light, high-tech, comfortable and, thank god, air conditioned. The US Army will be replacing their Humvees with these things in a few years.
Mister Ward gave the machine a critical look. I dont want to know where you got this, do I?
Probably not, no. Rostov Kushan patted the machine lovingly. I got it from Crey Corp as a bonus for some work I did. Nothing you need to worry about, Garent, unless youve got some relatives in the Uzbekistani government.
He groaned and we returned to the front of the plane. It was already getting fairly late and would be well into night by the time we would land in Baghdad, so even though we would be flying near the area that we would be digging, we would not be able to do any kind of aerial reconnaissance of the site. Thus, I decided to take a short nap.
Which didnt last for quite as long as I anticipated, as I was awoken by an extremely loud noise and the heavy shaking of the airplane.
Mister Kushan? I rose from my seat and entered the cockpit, where Rostov was staring furiously down at one of the many electronic displays.
Not good. He tapped a display a couple times, as if it might make the reading change. Somebody just tried to shoot us down with some kind of really long distance SAM. Countermeasures got it, but it was close.
Countermeasures? I raised an eyebrow. On a cargo plane?
Not just any cargo-
The cockpit lit up with the light of an explosion.
How did they do that?! Rostov Kushan shouted. There was nothing on the radar!
I didnt like the sound of that. Were we hit?
Yeah, but it didnt get through the armor. He hit some buttons and turned to the pilots. Lower altitude and speed for a cargo drop. Well hop out here. You try and make it to Baghdad.
I stared. Hop out?
His teeth glinted in the light from the instruments. Never parachuted before?
After my time, Im afraid.
Rostov Kushan and I returned to the passenger area and met up with his brother and Mister Ward. Surprisingly enough for someone who was well known to be a light sleeper, Madam Rabinovich had not moved from her seat.
"I, uh
used a little spell on her, Mister Ward admitted, somewhat sheepishly. She needed sleep badly, and I didnt want her to wake up just because we hit some turbulence or something. Sadly, though, its a little one-sided.
I see. I leaned down and shook her arm gently. Madam, we need to go.
Hmm? she asked incoherently and opened her eyes barely. The haze of sleep was still present, putting her just on the edge of consciousness. Go? Need my stuff
Specifically, her medics bag, without which she wouldnt make a step in dangerous situations.
We wont leave anything behind, madam, I reassured. Now come with me to the back of the plane.
Okay, she murmured softly. Are the stairs broken?
No, of course not. When we entered the cargo area, the ramp had already been lowered. Somebody is trying to shoot us down so were going to have to drop our equipment and jump down.
This stuff is all fitted with beacons, Rostov Kushan explained as he and the others slid crates down the ramp and watched as they plunged into the darkness below. Well be able to pick it up once were down. Hopefully, we wont be too far from the APC.
Never used a parachute before
We wont be using any. I took her hand in mine and led her to the edge of the ramp. Her skirt and my longcoat flapped menacingly in the strong winds. The Brothers Kushan will but Mister Ward and I will use magical means for the drop. I am more than capable of supporting a simple free fall spell for more than one person, so as long as you dont let go of my hand, well be fine.
Oh. She swept the room with a lazy, half-asleep stare. Thats nice. Parachutes always seemed so dangerous.
Quite.
We took a step forward, off solid metal and into the night sky.
Global @Diellan - 5M2M
Mids' Hero/Villain Designer Lead
Virtue Server
Redside: Lorenzo Mondavi
Blueside: Alex Rabinovich
Got a Mids suggestion? Want to report a Mids bug?
Aw.
Sometimes, I worry I'm not looking at situations with the sort of urgency I really should...
This happens to be one of those times.
My Stories
Look at that. A full-grown woman pulling off pigtails. Her crazy is off the charts.
You are not the only one. The characters appear to be rather blase about it themselves. Or so, at least, the part suggests.
Of course, the only character who hasn't completely overdosed on her own power is drugged into sleep - but, you know, when most of the crew can fly, how bad can a plane crash be?
I think that you will find, on the whole, this story to be somethiing of a dramatic deconstruction. Many of the moments which lend themselves to classic suspence or climactic resolutions are, for us, simply casual. (for a deconstructed drama moment, see Sofia's obvious disappointment with her armchair detection results). Others, which tend to present something of a backdrop, are quite important.
That's not to say that there won't be classic drama.... but, really, feeling guilty over not falling for what was not really meant as a cliffhanger is quite overkill. 
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
Chapter XXVIII
In Which Dreams Are Contemplated And Ground Is Discovered
I do not, as a matter of course, actually dream much. I have occasional snippets of surrealistic, almost artistic landscapes a flurry of sensations and colours which, together with a fleeting sense of deep horror, constitute my dreaming state but they are random. All in all, I dont recall my dreams. It has always been my assumption that this is a sort of defence my mind affects in order to ensure my sanity; I must dream in order to retain it, but my mind will be damned if it allows me to swim in my own dreams while awake, as well.
That was why I was rather surprised at the vividness of this current dream and the unusual nature of it. For one, it was not a nightmare, a rather exceptional occurrence in my experience. For another, it was among the oddest I have yet seen; we were slowly, calmly, dropping from a flying plane, over a dark, moonlit desert. I am generally not fond of falling dreams, and my stomach protested accordingly, but I did not, to my disembodied astonishment, feel much unease.
The cold wind brought me into complete wakefulness with a rather rude, and entirely literal, slap on the face.
I spent a quarter of a second surveying my rather inscrutable (it was, as mentioned, dark) surroundings, attempting to achieve balance between what my disbelieving eyes were telling me and what my ears were firmly asserting, and screamed.
Madam! Lorenzo reached out and grabbed my shoulder. We are quite safe.
I gulped. But we are
Well, yes.
And I was
You were, Garents voice came, thready and barely audible, somewhere to my left. It was kind of cute, actually.
The snippets of memory snapped into place. Around me there was absolute darkness, the sound of rushing wind and the bobbing, white parachute canopies of the Kushans. Somewhere below me, barely visible, shining in the white moonlight, was the rocky terrain of the Iraqi desert. I groaned. Then I did the intelligent thing, and buried my head in Lorenzos coat.
Garent laughed. I didnt realize you dont like heights.
I have nothing whatsoever against heights, I grumbled, my panic mostly muffled by the thick wool. Its the splat and dying at the end that I object to.
There was a thump, and then we hit the ground. Apparently, whatever spell Lorenzo used, while capping out speed and playing, as it must have done, with our inertia, or kinetic energy, or some other physical component of a fall, did not make us quite weightless or, indeed, inertialess and we made a quite small but very significant crater in the middle of the soft ground, spraying about small rocks and dirt.
I rolled, hit my shoulder on something with far too many corners to live, and came to a stop in a more or less stationary heap. A moment of pain and disorientation and I was scrambling up into a sitting position. Don Lorenzo!
Here, madam. The response was slightly muffled, but not, apparently, particularly pained. I am afraid I neglected to account for the wind factor. I cant say Ive ever fallen ten thousand meters, before.
Oh. I sat, breathing shallowly, for a few seconds, alternating between panic and fury and in the end settled for Ohgod.
That, I decided, scrambling to my feet and dusting off sand and small rocks furiously, was enough of that. Retroactive panic, though natural, was completely useless. I had no limbs broken, not even, most likely, bruises to mark my small tumble. There was no detectable ball of fire in the shape of a plane on the horizon, and I was chock-full surrounded by males. All in all, I concluded, sufficient reason to forego hysteria.
Garent, who had landed softly and almost inaudibly immediately after our rather more spectacular descent, was looking around, frowning. We should find Rostov and Vic.
We should, I confirmed, holding up a finger. Then I pointed. That way.
Are you sure?
I gave a sideways, dry glance at Lorenzo, also preoccupied with dusting his coat. Wind factor.
The desert was not completely unnavigable in the light of the diminishing moon, though I was still happy that the terrain we happened to chance upon was comparatively flat; I did not relish the idea of mountain-climbing and valley-descending in the dark. I huddled in my coat for warmth and gripped my umbrella, trying to find a pace between brisk and ankle-killing, and hoped that Rostov and Victor and the supplies didnt land too far off. The longer we walked, the more I would lag behind; being the shortest member of any party was not an advantage. Limp or no, Lorenzo was quickly outpacing me, a result of having to take two steps for each of his.
At least youre not falling off your feet, Garent pointed out when I muttered a half-voiced complaint.
At least not. Which, I issued drily, brings me to the pertinent questions of how I came about to sleep through a plane crash in the first place.
Um
Garent sounded faintly guilty.
Um? I inquired, my voice deceptively mild.
You really did need the sleep.
A valid point, I said in a tone that was considerably more frigid than the desert wind. And friends who like and respect each other certainly do make a point to take care of each other. Friends tell friends to go to sleep. Friends don't put drugs in their friends' teacups. Okay?"
Okay, Garent didnt sound terribly regretful, but he was at least mildly apologetic. Ill only drug your coffee from now on.
Sadly, our coffee supplies seem to have flown quite a ways off, Lorenzo was blandly sarcastic, as always.
Weve been walking for a while
Are you sure this is the right wa
A string of rifle shots cut off whatever silly assumptions Garent was about to make.
We froze in place, three dark silhouettes outlined all-too-conveniently against a lighter sky. The night was ominously silent for a moment, then broke with a sharp whoosh, a crack and a burst of light.
Parachute flare. Lorenzo was rubbing his temple almost unconsciously while trying not to look directly at the foreboding red light in the sky. A little too accurate for my taste.
"Parachutes," I provided the obvious explanation, in the tone given usually to dictionary definitions. "Big. White. Obvious." Another grenade flashed, and a large fireball bloomed in the sky immediately in its wake. Victor, clearly, was having the time of his life. I think we had better hurry up, dont you?
Lorenzo nodded and took a step forward. In one of the more mind-bending displays of magic, the space around him seemed to warp and his body distend and he somehow crossed a dozen meters with that step; in moments, he had walked over the hill and out of sight. Garent took off literally, by lifting several meters off the ground and vanishing in a film of incongruous mist after him, leaving me standing alone in the middle of the desert. I threw up my hands in exasperation and ran.
Rostov and Victor had long since managed to scramble out of their parachutes by the expedient way of burning down one, and cutting the strings of the other and were creating a distraction in the form of killing everything in sight. They also found cover, or perhaps the cover found them; with the plane drop, I am not exactly sure what order everything occurred in. In any case, they were perched behind a large vehicle which looked new but had a few dents in its sides. By the time that I arrived, clutching at my kidneys for dear life, the fight was practically over; Garent was uncertainly bouncing someone on a thin but concentrated stream of water, and Lorenzo was dusting off his hands in the middle of a rather wide circle of mutilated 5th Column soldiers in full gear and uniform.
Victor was wiping blood off of his shoulder with a rag, his shirt torn a little and dirty. He looked annoyed but, at this point, unharmed. Rostov was holding his arm a little too stiffly to his side and his manic grin was a tiny bit strained. I winced slightly. Wheres my bag?
Back seat, Victor waved to the car lazily.
It should be with you, I chided, sticking my head through a rolled-down window and fishing for the shoulder strap. Not stuck somewhere almost entirely out of reach. I held up my bag and rapidly flipped through it, basking in the ordered rows of medical supplies and small non-standard-issue items. Let me see.
Its no big deal, Sofia.
It maybe doesnt hurt a great deal, I snapped, curbing my irritation only at the very last minute, and then not very successfully, but its still a problem and, may I remind you, youre out of human fodder to heal yourself with. Unless you intend to use one of us; which is, under the circumstances, unadvisable. So hold out that hand.
He did. It was not a significant injury, and his clamping down on the blood flow trust Rostov to be sensible about loss of eye and limb ensured that the danger, such as it was, was significantly lessened. He had his own means of regeneration and pain suppression, I gathered, which made what would otherwise be a muscle-tearing wound that requires several dozen stitches and a couple months of physical therapy into a disinfect and wrap-it-up business. I used a tourniquet nonetheless, to clean the area off of seeping blood, and take a better look at the actual tissue damage. How many were there?
These were the guys who shot down our plane, Victor was fiddling with a GPS locator, tracing the beacons tied to our crates of supplies and to the rest of our little army. I guess they didnt think we were gonna just land on top of them, because there werent that many.
See, thats the SAMs they used to hit us over there. Whats left of them. Rostov pointed. Or tried to; I yanked back his hand and hissed at him. The missiles themselves were sitting on the flatbed of an all-terrain jeep. At least, I assumed it was all-terrain, because it was here, in the middle of the desert, days away from any road. My ability to identify a vehicle is limited to general nouns such as car, bus and van (sometimes confused with truck). This vehicle was especially unidentifiable as it was, evidently, the very thing Victor blew; the skeleton was blackened and occasionally sizzling, and the missile launcher installment lacked all its plastic parts.
I breathed relief that there was no missile sitting in the cradle at that point.
So whats our plan now, then?
I lifted my head momentarily from busily turning Rostovs arm into a thick wad of bandages. I advise getting our food and water supply.
Ive got them all right here! Victor informed brightly.
Then tonight we park here, Lorenzo decided gather our supplies and wait till morning. Then we head out to look for Shubat Anshar. And look for a fight I thought, but didnt comment. Perhaps Victor can take the vehicle and gather up our supplies.
Ill join him, if Sofia stops fussing over me for a minute, Rostov said drily.
Fine. I dropped the remaining roll of bandaged back into my bag, and snipped the end with a pair of small scissors. I only have one objection.
And what is that, madam?
Could we please move to somewhere without rotting bodies?
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
Chapter XXIX
In Which What Once Was Lost Now Is Found
We set up camp a little ways off, in a valley between two craggy hills which was no different from any other valley and any other couple of craggy hills in the entire land of what had, once, been the Fertile Crescent. The camp, by necessity and preference was rather simple; we clustered around the headlights of the APC and the men hauled out and opened a single one of the crates we managed to gather. The GPS locator, when activated, gave a neat map, dotted almost in a straight line, directed away from us towards Baghdad; the trajectory which the plane flew after it ditched its passengers. Wed picked them up as we went, distancing ourselves from the dead men that had brought down our plane.
Tents were pitched and sleeping bags extracted to make use of what little time we or rather, everybody else (I glared at Garent for a second and received an innocent look in return) had to rest and prepare for tomorrow. I supplemented my coat with a sleeping bag; the desert chill was decidedly unfriendly. After about an hour or so we finally settled down, and dragged forward the first, sacrificial, box of food. Rostov provided the Bunsen burner, and Victor provided the flame for it.
I was, obviously, expected to provide dinner.
I sat back to watch the spectacle. The covert glances flying my way were quite eloquent and, for a while, I amused myself by blithely ignoring them. When they turned into overt grumbling on certain sides, I excused myself from the makeshift campfire and absconded to go read a book in the dim of the small car light. Occasionally, I stole a peek at the men twirling around the box of provisions, probably contemplating sandwiches. I finished a chapter lazily before Garent caught up with me and my intentions, taking upon himself the chore Lorenzo was much too polite to assume.
Its not very like you.
What isnt? I pretended innocence.
Youre the sort of person who is more likely to be running around putting everything in place than just sitting around waiting for someone to do stuff for you. What are you waiting for?
Im waiting for them to ask.
What? Why?
A matter of principle, Garent, I explained patiently. It was obvious, really, and it had to be done, though I couldnt say that the notion of upsetting every single other member of our part appealed to me greatly. If I take up the camp chores as a self-evident thing I put myself in the role of the servant out of sheer duty
and Id really rather not deal with that.
And if we ask, what difference could it make?
Oh if they ask its a favour. Both sides recognize it as a favour and, of course, I am more than willing to do favours to people.
Well, Rostov is making dinner, and he sent me to tell you that you should come eat.
I pelted out of my seat, hitting my head on the roof of the car and staring out, wide-eyed. Rostov can cook?!
Apparently, he can. I have never been much of a cook, though I can certainly prepare food that is edible, occasionally tasty and at least mildly interesting especially if I have a recipe at hand. Mostly, though, I was happy to wash the dishes after our designated cook. Read; my husband. Who is also capable of preparing decent food that is mildly interesting if he has a recipe. Rostov, however, apparently is capable of actually cooking a term which I assign to people who can make me ask for seconds and seems to derive outright enjoyment from the process.
I was happy that the night hid back my always-excessive blushing, and sidled in to help whatever arcane processes were ongoing at the time with the simple menial tasks of vegetable peeling and pot stirring. I would, perhaps, be overly suspicious if I report that during the process Ive occasionally encountered a gloating pair of eyes or two. After the meal was eaten, the dishes put away at my insistence cleaned, we settled down to catch what little time we had left before sunrise.
And someoned better stay up and watch, because maybe our friendly neighbourhood missile vans werent all on their own out here, Rostov noted.
Ill do it. I waved my book up. Finish my book by sunrise.
You sure?
I am decidedly not tired.
But what if
?
Rostov, I said tiredly. My ears are quite good. If I hear someone or something approaching, Ill wake you up. That is the point of leaving a guard, isnt it? The guard doesnt have to be competent; merely awake.
He flipped open a sleeping bag and dragged it away from the light. Okay. But dont fall asleep. We dont want to be here until midday. Things get kind of hot in deserts around then.
I waved him off lazily, and settled into my book to while the hours away till dawn.
The sky began brightening, in an absolute quiet that did not even remotely indicate being shattered by anything other than the assortment of snores rising from our little camp, about three hours later. I folded my book, stuck it in a coat pocket, and went to watch the sun rise over the desert in what little privacy I had left.
Sunrise in the desert always struck me as one of the most eerily gorgeous sights available on this planet, and that holds especially true to such inherently ugly deserts as the craggy hill land of Iraq and Syria. Where in the daylight they appear merely blinding the limestone wreaks havoc on my eyes in the early hours they seem almost lunar, and the contrasts between shadows and light give them a sort of alien beauty. I sat for a while, until the sun finally painted gold the mountains to the west, then went to wake up the others.
After a brief period of frenetic activity during which we made tea or coffee, for those of us more inclined to that drug and supervised the loading of items into the vehicle (I found myself repacking the stacks of equipment in the back at least twice,, each time clearing space for one or two more items) we decamped, leaving behind nothing more than a few scattered paper wraps, and an empty beer bottle. Ive no idea and neither does anybody else where the beer bottle had appeared from, and what it was doing there, but it is a universal law of camping that at least one glass bottle must remain behind and the universe was not about to let us off the hook for the mere absence of glassware in our luggage.
Mileh Tharthar is due east of us, Rostov informed, staring at his GPS. Thats where you said we wanted to go, right?
Unless you had other ideas since then, Garent added, looking at Lorenzo with his best blank expression.
None occur.
I still have no idea what it is with those two, but they appear to have an absolute talent for getting on each others nerves. My astonishment stems not so much from the fact that they have that tendency two people who are so alike in some of their more annoying qualities are bound to find each other a pest but that a similar reaction does not occur between either one of them and other people who, looking objectively, are equally alike as well. For instance, myself.
Lorenzo and I are similar to the point of being scary.
I do want to point out, gentlemen, I decided to intervene and cut the next argument short, that dropping out plane from under us seems to be a fairly good indication that were close. Iraq is a large place. The size of
Oh
California, Rostov supplied, probably quite precisely.
right, California. And yet we neatly speared ourselves on the needle in the haystack, so to speak. I think that nails down our search area pretty neatly.
The point being?
The point being that we should find them, and find them pretty soon.
We did. Though not quite as soon as Id hoped. Not soon enough, in any event, to spare us the long hours of bouncing about in an off-road vehicle. The SAM battery with a significant range in and of itself, capable as it was of shooting down a high-flying cargo plane was driven a ways off the dig site. Wisely, objectively speaking, as a means to ensure secrecy. Thus it was close to noon when Rostov noticed, and pointed out to us unenhanced humans, the thin column of dust on the horizon.
At first we thought that it was smoke but Vic, our only active pyrokinetic, dispelled that notion quickly. Nope. Not smoke. I could tell you if it was smoke. And maybe I could, like, choke some people with it while we get closer.
An excavation of this magnitude would generate a significant amount of dust, Lorenzo leaned out the window curiously, peering in that direction. Slow down a bit further, Mister Kushan. We wouldnt want to approach this with engines loud enough to wake the dead.
Rostov dropped the speed down a notch, and the APC crawled along slowly, sneaking around the edge of the ridge as though it were a rather large, clumsy cat. Its nose poked out onto the edge of the ravine, and the interior was filled with a rather indignant, communal gasp.
There was a large, mostly excavated trench. Within it, disregarding proper archaeological procedure, the ruins of the temple rose undisturbed and unmarked. Pillars fell over each other and halves of walls rose out. Stones were tossed around in heaps and doorway markings erased. A large bulldozer I almost squealed indignantly was circling around the perimeter.
And there were uniformed men everywhere.
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
Chapter XXX
In Which A Clever Plan Is Hatched
We seem to have a little problem, I observed caustically, looking out to the obviously excavated dig site behind Rostovs shoulder.
What problems that?
Oh, the several hundred people that seem to occupy the place might be worth consideration, I replied airily, and waved my hand in a vague gesture towards the abomination that was the site of the ancient temple of Shubat Anshar.
I think, madam, that the problem isnt as great as you make it out to be. Lorenzo peered outside the rolled-down window intently, counting something off under his breath. Most of the people down there are native workers of some sort, not 5th Columnists. They should not present much resistance.
I half-groaned. But what are you going to do about the execrable way they led this dig? The absence of any sort of archaeological grid felt rather like a personal offense. If you are about to meddle with artifacts and attempt to launch some nefarious, probably devastating plan because the 5th Column couldnt figure on ay other sort of plan then at least you should do it right. I have a healthy respect for the evil in the hearts of men; I feel much less inclined to respect a fool who didnt study up on his methodology. Your search for artifacts is doomed; if they left the relics in situ Ill eat my nonexistent hat, and then take a bite of yours!
He smiled wryly. A valid point. I hope they have at least one archaeologist with them. Someone who can take charge of the relics, if not be in charge of the dig itself. It would expedite things tremendously if we could have a chat with him. Or them.
We could go ask. Rostovs grin was positively wolfish, and his hand rested enthusiastically on the steering wheel. Victor echoed the smile. Even Garent looked moderately eager. I sighed. In this sort of company, I often feel as though I am that person in cartoons who latches on to someones shirt collar, and spends the next thirty seconds tenaciously holding on while the rabbit or roadrunner, I smirked, eyeing Victor covertly dashed over thee face of a cliff. I keep expecting them to look down, discover they are standing on air, scream theatrically and hit the ground in a shower of sparks.
For us to ask anyone anything, we need to be alive.
Dont worry, Sofia, Garent comforted me in his usual manner. I cant die, and Im the only one who matters.
A wave of groans, snickers and disgusted silences followed suit.
Mister Wards attempt at humour aside, Lorenzo he of the disgusted silence mused, Madam Rabinovich has a point---
I have a point, I said, a little more dryly than I intended. Astounding.
-- though not quite in the way she meant it. It was my turn to be ignored. A large, explosive fight might put the artifacts at risk, and we do want them intact. Also, he pointed out to Rostov, you might not have considered this, but there might be a potential cache of magical items underneath our feet. Becoming embroiled in a large magical battle might be the equivalent to setting off a ton of nitroglycerine right over a nuclear reactor.
I confess, the notion that we might be standing on top of the magical equivalent of Chernobyl did not occur to me. I shivered, not in response to the chill of the air conditioner, and mentally dodged a flashback. I am
allergic to nuclear reactors.
My husband and I were mere university graduates when the Chernobyl reactor had divested itself of all its useful parts in order to fund the dinner parties of some of its officials. Unluckily, though, we were university graduates with an internship in Nuclear Physics or at least my husband was. They say that, in the meltdown, relatively few suffered direct consequences. You wouldnt know it if you were one of these, though. Of my husbands co-workers who were on shift, perhaps one in ten still lives today; one in five had not survived the week.
As for us, lets just say that we have grown weary to the bone of medial treatments, hospitals and doctors, and leave it be.
That, Garent said, snapping me out of my moment of irrelevant contemplation, would be bad.
It would.
But, of course, you have a plan. He is of the opinion that Lorenzo always has a plan. To an extent, I cant say he is far wrong, though Ive seen occasions where the pre-planning stage was about as long as it took him to open his mouth. Garent, suspecting as he does a similar eventuality, is usually quite unimpressed.
I do. Lorenzo turned to Rostov. When is your company due here, Mister Kushan?
In, he checked his GPS/locator combinations, where two or three dots moved slowly across a stylized map of the area, about three, four hours. I told them to be slow and careful, though, so theyre trading off speed for silence.
That is fine. We should withdraw a little ways back, to make sure that no wandering patrols see us, and then wait for your troops to arrive. If we are lucky, their arrival will coincide with nightfall.
And then we sneak in? Victor asked eagerly.
Exactly so. We sneak in.
Nightfall, and Rostovs little army, caught up with us at about the same time. Darkness comes very swiftly in the desert; one moment there is daylight, five minutes later everything is rapidly fading into night. It is surprising to those unfamiliar with the subtropical latitudes, and Victor and Garent were both confused and slightly surprised when the overbearing heat and my constant nagging for everyone to drink faded into chill that forced us to shrug into our coats within the small confines of the APC. Lorenzo, Rostov and I each had our experiences with deserts and were quickly making preparations as soon as the sun sloped westward.
What are you doing?
I was busy rapidly going through my pre-battle routine. These days, it consisted mainly of checking my medical supplies. I was hiding underneath my umbrella put to a convenient use as a temporary shade wrapping a large bandage around my hand, uncoiling it from the wad in which it was previously crumpled and into a neat cylinder, fastened by a clip.
Checking my bag. I dont want to have to hunt around and look at bottle labels if something happens.
Are you actually taking this with you? Vic was eyeing the bag which is big enough to have taken about half the space in my suitcase, and appropriately heavy, stuffed as it is with glassware and liquids with chagrin. Why?
Because if something happens, I told him patiently Vic always is a trial to my patience, all the more when he is being not only hyperactive, but also hyperactive and blithe I will need this.
Were all supers! well, except you and we have magic, he held out his hand, and I felt the beginning of his life-stealing healing, the slight nausea and vertigo, before he quickly broke it off. See?
I do see, I said, continuing to sort bottles by size in their special padded pocket.
At least you could let me put it up my sleeve, Garent suggested mildly. I already keep one bag in there.
I blinked. Since when?
Since you get all upset about my being blasé. I carry it around so you dont have to worry.
I considered. The idea had its tempting sides. For instance, there was the small or rather, not so small matter of the bags weight. It weighed at least a few kilograms. In fact, I would be carrying, of my own free will, and without coercion, more weight than anyone else in the group except Rostov, who was cleaning and putting together a rifle. Lorenzo and Victor had pistols, but they, as well as Garent, usually fought empty-handed. It was cumbersome, and not especially stealthy. I will further be burdened by my general inability to move about fast, or well.
No, I rejected the idea finally, with a not-insignificant degree of reluctance. If something happens to you, I want the bag available, not stuck in a pocket dimension. Garent shrugged and accepted defeat.
Are you all set? Rostov, who finished putting together his rifle and was eyeing the sun impatiently, I want to use the rest of the sunlight to get to a better starting point, without the car.
I grimaced How long of a trek is that going to be?
We have about an hour of sunlight, give or take. By the time it sets the rest of the guys will be in position and wrecking havoc like we agreed, and I want to be over there, he pointed to a narrow passage between two mountains, hidden from the excavation by several large rock formations. Its nice and hidden, and on the opposite end from where they will be coming in. Even if they are discovered before they were supposed to, the rear isnt likely to be searched.
Which made a good deal of sense. Rostov is not an amateur in this sort of thing, and I nodded more or less complacently, accepting the notion that by the time we finished our trek I would likely be worn into wretchedness, and sizzling from sunburn besides. Unless
I turned to Lorenzo.
Do you happen to have your swordstick packed?
I do, madam. Why?
Id like to borrow it, please. I want to keep my umbrella as a shade, unless we have to be especially sneaky now
I glanced at Rostov questioningly, and he shook his head, confirming my assumptions. Sneaking around with five people is hard at best, impossible at worst; we would use the distance from the site as our cover. And besides, its a good idea to have some sort of weapon on me, regardless of my skill with it.
Certainly, madam. I should have thought of it myself. Lorenzo walked over to the abandoned APC, and dug through the rear compartments assortment of bags, boxes and suitcases, coming out with his long, dark sword-cane. The slim wooden shaft was wrapped in cloth and tied, never used. He handed it to me, hilt-first.
I nodded my thanks, and carefully tested the catch mechanism, retrieved the cover and hefted my bag to my shoulder with a weary sigh. Then we were off.
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
Chapter XXXI
In Which A Clever Plan Is Brought Into Motion
The walk took less than I anticipated but, as quickly became obvious from the faces of the men, much longer than theyd had patience for. There was little I could do to accommodate them, however; while I do not per se limp, I tend to lack the necessary balance and coordination required to negotiate difficult terrain. My natural lack of skill in such matters (Ive never been a mountain goat) was augmented by injuries. I am seldom in pain and generally, in a city or over short distances, can negotiate my way quite adequately. Here, however, I needed every scrap of attention dedicated to the road and to finding ground that was stable enough. I stumbled through the walk, barely keeping my feet.
Occasionally, I saw both Garent and Lorenzo cast worried looks my way.
Rostov has chosen his position well, though and things got marginally easier as we finally hit his starting point. The ground evened out from a slope into something more resembling even terrain. From here on out, all the way into the camp and the temple, the incline was at a slight upwards angle much more easily negotiable in the dark than a descent would have been, for which I was thankful.
When the sun goes down, people will be returning to their tents, Lorenzo murmured, watching the climax of activity as the workday neared its end. If we skirt the campfires and the main masses of people, we should be fine until the temple.
We shrugged. It seemed a rather obvious thing to say. Just as it was obvious that no matter the commotion Rostovs men would stage, there would be guards by the temple itself. The 5th Column knew we were coming, after all, and it would need to be completely without wits a tendency this specific group has, unfortunately, not displayed so far not to take appropriate precautions.
Just as it was obvious what our cue to depart was.
The darkened sky on the other side of the dig lit orange. I counted mentally, got to one, and covered my ears a fraction of a second before the air exploded with noise. Alarm klaxons started howling all over the camp, and the tent city erupted momentarily with frightened Iraqis and outraged soldiers.
I clipped the umbrella to the strap of my bag at the shoulder, tying it off for additional safety to the bottom of the bag as well. Then gripped Lorenzos swordstick, and bounced a few times on the balls of my feet to see that nothing rattled or came loose.
Yep, Rostov said with deep satisfaction. Time to go.
Lorenzo nodded and moved forward. Until then, he was almost preternaturally quiet, even for his saturnine self. Just as he was busy assessing my physical condition out of the corner of his eye, I was preoccupied spying on his psychological makeup in the same way. Considering his history, he is likely to be as allergic to deserts as I am to atomic reactors. He was more allergic to public displays of weakness, though, so I held my peace until a more opportune moment could arise. That wont be until quite a while, and by then old flashbacks will have become largely irrelevant, but I had no way of knowing that then.
Lorenzo held out a hand, murmured something too quiet even for me to hear, and a dark, thick mist started rising all about us in clumps, creating an illusion of black storm clouds. It settled, slowly, into a familiar gray veil, and the world around us grew even darker than it was. I examined the mist critically; it seemed awfully thin, which I noted.
I dont want to use too much magic. This cant be detected, and it cant set off anything if we get too close. Even so, by the time we get to the temple itself I will be dropping this.
Which meant that we or rather, they, because this has never been my purview even in better days would have to take out guards. Possible small pockets of mayhem might ensue. The mist was a handy crutch for such circumstances; anyone dragged into it simply disappeared, vanished form the eye. Wed used the mist occasionally before and, though I in general dont approve of magic in all its forms, I am entirely willing to contemplate practical uses for it when necessary. Lorenzo and I are similar in that regard, as well.
We moved out silently. Not because we were such great experts in stealth, because while we are none of us new to the game and its rules, we tend to rely on a different kind of stealth and not because we were naturally inclined we had, among other things, a man with a limp and a woman who needed a cane but, simply, because the only people who could now see us were mages as skilled as Lorenzo. That we considered unlikely, as they are few and far between. A hundred and fourty years of expertise are not easy to come by, not even in this crazy day and age.
The tent city was not, in fact, vast. Merely somewhat spread out. The Columnists, ignorant as they were of local politics, apparently hired their workers off of two rather inimical clans, embroiled in, if not quite a blood feud, then certainly not friendly. Or so we inferred, being unable to understand the conversations particularly well.
What, Victor grinned at us, you dont know Arabic?
I shrugged. Its a bit low on my list, frankly. I started with Hindo-Europeans. I know the grammar of course after all, its just a Semitic with some quirks but even if I did study it, which I didnt, this would still be beyond me. The dialect seems pretty bad.
It is, Lorenzo affirmed, staring beyond the cloud of mist.
And about as far from literary Arabic as you can get. They teach you to read newspapers, out in the European hemispheres, not actually speak with the natives.
What about you, Language-whiz eidetic memory person? Garent quirked an eyebrow at Lorenzo.
Classical Arabic. Not modern.
Oh. Of course it is.
Come on, Sofia, Rostov looked around. Leave the linguistics lesson for later.
Sorry, I murmured, I do get carried away, and this seems to be soundproof.
Not soundproof enough.
You had to give the Column credit for not senselessly throwing the entirety of their workforce into the fray of the excitement we could overhear on the other end of the camp, thus turning them into unwilling, angry and incapable cannon fodder. They were mostly huddled in their tents, or around one or two fires, sometimes, cradling rifles in their laps cautiously. We skirted around them, sticking to darker corners and large boulders, with Rostov leading the way and Lorenzo holding Vic by the metaphorical collar to keep him from speeding and darting through with a supersonic boom.
The trip through tentland passed without much incident, indicating to us that there were no mages with the group of 5th Column at all. Lorenzo and Rostov started to relax.
Or they could all be in the temple, Garent blew their soap bubble.
Quiet everyone. Were here.
We were. The mound of the archaeological dig pardon, the mound of what should have been an archaeological dig was looking in front of us, pieces of brick and stone poking out of the dirt occasionally. There were intermittent bits where the walls of what had once been a ziggurat rose smoothly from the wreckage, and there were parts, much larger, where the walls were scattered in a shower of stone fragments. There was an entrance into the mound itself, dug out painstakingly in one of the slopes. Around the hole, two guards with rifles loitered, looking alert and angry.
We hid behind a portable toilets flimsy, plastic wall, clustering together. I am going to drop our veil now, Lorenzo said softly. Someone had better take care of the guards before they begin shooting.
Ooh, can I? Can I? Vic bounced on the soles of his feet, flicking an all-too-bright flame between his fingers as though he were a fire-eater on stage.
No, I dont think so, Lorenzo shook his head. You have an unhealthy penchant for overreacting. I would like that mountain to remain standing, if you dont mind.
Victor sulked. I wouldnt use fire for that, look! He held up empty hands. After a second they were no longer empty. He was holding on to two slim knives, made of, as far as I could see, shadow and nothing much else. Itll take no time.
Oh, very well. Lorenzo sighed, raised his hand, and then brought it down. The world suddenly became clearer, the edges of everything sharper and more distinct. Around the little corner of shadow in which we huddled the light of the waning moon and stars became marginally brighter. We pressed together silently, and stopped breathing.
Victor looked around, then crept slowly to the edge of the shed. Peering from behind the corner, he stared around attentively enough to satisfy even my paranoid leanings, then sprinted off. At first he was still visible, running softly in the direction completely opposite the guards, then his outlines blurred and he vanished altogether.
There was a slight whoosh of air as Victor reversed tracks and flew past us, then two almost inaudible little wet sounds from the distance and the sound of two bodies hitting the ground. At that, the group stirred. A second later, Victor appeared around the corner again, wiping his hands and smiling beatifically. There, its done.
Almost automatically, we arranged ourselves in a sort of line; Rostov edged forward, carefully sliding his rifle off his shoulder. After him came Lorenzo with a gun with a silencer not entirely proof against detection, but considerably better than Rostovs large gun would be and me with my inherently silent bag of medications. Garent and Vic, still holding onto his magical daggers, brought up the rear.
Okay, I breathed, lets go.
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
Chapter XXXII
In Which The Writing Appears On The Wall
We tiptoed across the brief distance to the temple itself slowly, trying to edge around pools of light from stray flashlights and remain against the skyline as little as possible. The entrance to the temple, now clear of guards, seemed invitingly dim and large, cavernous and concealing.
Didnt we say we wanted to talk to the archaeologist? I asked when we were clustered again, leaning against the stone of the temple walls. This is probably not our way.
I want to look at and for the relics, first. Lorenzo poked his head cautiously around the wall before answering as quietly as possible. If they are here, we shall take possession of them
that would make sense. If not, then we shall see whether this temple really has a depository of magical items or not. That would make sense too. Besides, if their archaeologist is obsessive
well, we will have gotten lucky.
And possession is nine tenths of the law anyway, Rostov smirked. Lets go possess stuff.
The entrance into the dig was formed into a tunnel supported by narrow wooden beams imported in from Baghdad or Samarra. It sloped gently downwards, and was equipped, at this late hour, with one or two rather faded lights hanging off of the central beam. Otherwise our little team had to make do with advancing by feel, to mitigate which contingency Garent took point together with Rostov.
Occasionally, along the length of the tunnel, there were spaced guards, by ones or twos. A rather foolish arrangement; none of them ever had enough time to make noise to alert the other pairs, as they were apparently supposed to. Sometimes, Victor darted in with his strange daggers I made a mental note to ask about them later, if such a later presented itself and did the work in seconds. Sometimes Garent, apparently feeling humanitarian inclinations, put the guards to sleep long enough for Rostov to club them over the head with the butt of his rifle.
Within the temple itself the tunnel split into several branches, leading off into gloom.
Whoa, Victor looked around with interest, momentarily proving us light by holding a large fireball afloat over his hand, its a labyrinth down here.
Its a ziggurat, I murmured drily. Its in the job description.
Wow, you sound like youre enjoying yourself. He seemed justifiably surly. I was taking out my nerves on him. Though sarcasm was certainly an habitual form of humour on my part, my tension showed.
Ziggurats. I hate ziggurats. I tugged at the strap on my shoulder and grimaced. Its always ziggurats, and I just know something bad is going to happen.
Hehe, well, at least its a step up from our usual thing. There is nothing more horrifying than a softly whispered pun. They disguise themselves in the form of a profound statement and thus infiltrate your brain from within. It is much better, so much better, when they are shouted or spoken out loud. Your defence mechanisms kick in and provide a suitable blockade against their onslaught.
Victor is one of the worst punsters in the world, and he was whispering very quietly.
Unworthy, I groaned, and was shushed by several masculine voiced all hissing very loudly.
The tunnel curved and expanded into a room. It was mostly excavated, though piles of dirt by the walls indicated the potential for more refined work. It was almost completely dark. It was not surprising that the diggers had not left lights simply burning all night on the dig site, of course; not only was it wasteful of electricity, but strong light could be extremely damaging to any remains one hoped to find it bleached old written parchments, exposed fragile ceramics and elevated the temperature of barely surviving paints. Considering the atrocious way in which the dig was led looking from the outside, I would not have been too astounded if, during the day, works on the inside were led in daylight glow, but I could hope that someone had the sense to use redlight, or at least dim the lamps.
Frowning, I stared around, into the blackness which coiled along the walls. The place seemed empty; as empty as every other ruined chamber we crossed. It had neither people nor artifacts. I sighed, and leaned momentarily on the wall to catch my breath.
My fingers found the markings of their own volition. I gasped and threw open my bag, where I had stashesd together with my medics supplies some additional items Rostov, in his paranoia, kindly offered. Including a flashlight. I flipped it on, and held it up.
Sofia, what the hell are you doing? Wordlessly, I turned and shone it on the wall behind me, then on every wall in turn. There were arrested gasps. The entirety of the room, every little it of the walls, was covered with faded cuneiform. We were all staring at them as though we found a treasure. Sadly, though, the treasure seemed much too worn to read easily in the light of a single torch.
Lorenzo was looking around, utterly engrossed in the writing, trying to make out as much as possible, but it was simply to much, in too poor an environment. Weeks go into the deciphering of a single inscription eroded with age and damage. We had perhaps a few minutes. I wished at least for a high resolution camera. Instead, my eye fell on a sheaf of papers.
Convenient! I grabbed it, waving the stack triumphantly. My goodness. Someones a lousy record-keeper.
Lorenzo held out his hand, and I handed it to him, smiling. The rest of the ensemble brought their heads together to better peer over his shoulder.
There was a small, subtle noise, a slight rustle of moving earth. I frowned. There were all sorts of possibilities; rats, distant tremours, even slides that were entirely natural. Id hear them all
Paranoia is an unhealthy trait. But paranoia seems to be the whole point of sneaking, and thats what we were doing.
Guys
I said urgently.
Wait. This is what we came here for. Another minute and
I heard the soft scuffling again. Ssh.
What?
Sh!
I sidled back slowly, edging towards where the walls met in a corner. The soft grinding of earth came a little more obviously now, and out a little to my right and back where the room changed into another dugout tunnel there was a slight thump.
This time, everyone else heard it, as well. There was massive freezing and clapping hands to mouths to silence breathing. Lorenzo rapidly stuffed the papers in his capacious pockets. In the head of every single person there now was the single thought: uh oh. We needed to move, away from here and into a different room. I grabbed Garent by the sleeve and pushed him off into the tunnel exit furthest away from the sounds. I prodded Victor into moving after him, and nudged Rostov and Lorenzo to follow.
Suddenly the room was bathed in light.
After the hour odd spent in the dark, the sudden flare of a large spotlight was almost unbearable. I whimpered and threw my hand over my eyes almost instinctively, drawing my head into my shoulders.
It was a reflexive reaction. There was nothing I could do for it beyond some preternatural abilities which I did not, and still do not, possess. The light hurt and blinded, and my body reacted in the only way it knew, protecting my eyes from damage. Sadly, though, my body was not exactly in the know on the matter of rapidly escaping into tunnels, nor was it up to date on the idea that being the last person in the room meant that I should not, under any circumstances, freeze.
By the time my mind overrode my body, several seconds later, and I opened my eyes before attempting to dodge after everybody else into the tunnel. Luckily for me, and for the rest of this particular history, Id done it in that order. If I had moved with my eyes closed, the rifle leveled neatly into my face would have blown my head into little pieces.
Ah ah, I think not.
I turned around silently, to examine the neat line of 5th Coolum soldiers staring at me. A veritable firing squad, which I thought quite high class for the normal modus operandi I could expect. I was, to say the least, singularly disadvantaged with no place to run to and nowhere to maneuver. Which is, of course, the point of firing squads in the first place. Tell your friends to come out of the tunnel now.
The man who issued the amused command was
grandfatherly. Slightly overweight drooping, with a good-uncles face and clever eyes. My brain immediately snapped into high gear with warnings of serious danger. I realize that this is an untypical reaction; this was not a face to intimidate. Most people, perhaps, would have dismissed the man, expected a more military type in this organization which prides itself so much on its Ubermenschen, but I am notoriously atypical, and a meter-sixty, besides. It is the mild, pleasant, unprepossessing ones who scare me to death.
I stared at the man for a while, constructing his biography and motivations. Sixtyish, florid, large, with a decent taste and a German accent. Born, I mused, at the tail end of the War; a plethora of motivation there.
I dont think that would be a good idea, I said mildly, staring up the barrel into the face of a young and rather blank fellow. Of course I was terrified. But, as it were, I was the most expendable member of our team (perhaps I was even a burden) and I never betrayed anyone to his death before. I was not about to start now.
Come, be reasonable. The man smiled at me. I just want to talk to one of your friends. A small chat; a sort of professional courtesy.
I rolled my eyes, but lacked the time to give a proper repartee. Garent, and then Rostov and Vic ducked out into the light, Lorenzo on their heels. I curbed a mental monologue of curses; this was not the note on which I wished to end my existence.
The hell! Rostov said, stunned, for a change into almost-speechlessness. Its Auer!
Lorenzo whirled, an expression of astonishment painted on his face as openly as I have rarely seen anything there. Clearly, the appearance of a dead man was not in his contingency plans.
I thought the guy was dead, Garent muttered to me under his breath.
Astonishing, so did I. I moved aside a little to let Lorenzo through so that he could face his
comrade? Ally? Enemy? Considering the blown up house.
Mustve done it to destroy evidence, Rostov said sourly. I told Lorenzo we should watch that man.
Garents eyes lit on me with an expression of incredulous joy as he silently after all there were guns aimed at us reveled in his moment of pure victory. I will, he murmured, cherish this moment for the rest of my life.
Yes, yes, I hissed under my breath. Now quiet.
Ah, Mondavi. A gutten tag, Auer said jovially in German. What a surrprise!"
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
Chapter XXXIII
In Which The Future is Discussed
I must admit that I was taken aback by this turn of events. I certainly did not expect to see Herr Auer here, amongst the Fifth Column. My mind was ablaze with possibilities to explain this: was he kidnapped and forced to assist them, and the explosion meant to cover it up? Was this a clone or twin brother or some kind of shapeshifter and the previous one had been murdered in order to replace him?
In all likelihood, I was merely reaching for such strange conspiracies because the most obvious and probable explanation would mean that I had been fooled: Herr Auer had been working with the Fifth Column all along, and had faked his own death in order to remove any suspicion on my part.
Herr Auer, I replied to his greeting and gave him a small nod. I see that reports of your demise have been greatly exaggerated.
He barked his hacking laughter in response. Clemens. The only good thing to come out of America besides, maybe, Poe. You didnt happen to meet him, did you?
I shook my head. He had died before I ever set foot in America.
A pity. He looked to his left and right, at the soldiers that had leveled their rifles at us, and gave them a quick order, in English. He gave me a dark look and elaborated, once more in German. They call themselves descendents of the master race, these colleagues of mine, but theyre all damn Americans. Some of them dont even speak a second language, let alone the Father tongue!
I glanced at my own companions namely the two young men, Victor Kushan and Mister Ward and gave Auer a sympathetic grimace. Madam Rabinovich winced. I understand that to be normal.
You should know, having lived amongst them for so long
He sneered. Exiled by Mussolini, right? Long time ago.
You forget, Herr Auer, that I spent the last seventy years trapped in the Spirit World. My experience with Americana is merely two decades. And even then, those decades were the Roaring Twenties and the Great Depression. Im used to a different America.
He raised a hand triumphantly. Were anachronisms, you and I, Mondavi. Men from bygone eras who examine the current world through our own dogmas and, in the end, find it lacking in critical ways.
I swept my eyes over my comrades, daring them to make any motion of agreement with Auers statement. They mostly looked confused, and I remembered that only Madam Rabinovich had any decent handle on German. She looked
amused.
Injustice. Tyranny. Auer sneered. A world with no vision, no focus. The corrupt and the depraved lead a society of hedonists. The elite are trampled by the least common denominator, and honor and dignity have been replaced by arrogance and hollowness. He leaned forward slightly, once more turning all his focus onto me. I know that you agree with me on this.
It was an annoying little debate trap, an old one, where you try to prove your point by proving a different one altogether while insinuating that the two are the same. Somehow, he expected that because I shared some amount of dislike towards the modern culture, that would mean that I would approve of a return to Fascism and National Socialism.
I think you misunderstand my position, Herr Auer. He gave me a skeptical look. I have my ways and my upbringing and my culture, and they are mine. In fact, in this time, they are mine alone. I may mingle in the affairs of others, but I am content to let their culture be just as they leave me my own. Time marches on. I am an endangered species.
Not that endangered
Madam Rabinovich murmured. She has always considered herself something of an anachronism, and outside of a few feminism issues, seems to wish that she could live in Victorian England. As it were, she lived a modest and polite life in Modern America.
How very zen of you, Mondavi. His voice dripped with sarcasm. Perhaps that is because you are a transient, a man lost from his own time, living in a future he did not write. But this is my time, and my future is yet to come.
Perhaps. I looked across the room, counting the soldiers. They were all standard 5th Column supersoldiers, no obvious vampyri or warwolves or anything else that might be a substantial threat. But from where I am standing, you have no future at all, Herr Auer.
A threat? You wound me. He feigned a swoon. And here I thought we were playing nice and friendly. He added in English, If you make any motions, Mondavi, my men are under orders to fire.
The tension increased as everyone both friend and foe realized exactly what situation we were in. Strangely enough, the same air of confidence surrounded both parties; they saw us as a handful of academics with a bodyguard or two. We knew better.
I tried not to give away Madam Rabinovichs vulnerabilities by not looking nervously at her. Once the bullets started flying, she would need to duck behind one of the rock outcroppings that lined the tunnel. In the meantime, Mister Ward had offered his magical protection. Sadly, my own magics tend more towards personal protection and active defenses, and arent quite a sure thing.
That would be a grave mistake, Auer, I replied, also switching to English. Weve done more with less. You should ask Requiem.
Requiem? He gave nervous glances at his men. Certainly you havent-
Looks of satisfaction crossed all of our faces.
Auer took a few steps back, and to the side, moving behind one of his men. Kill them. Kill them all.
The room filled with the deafening roar of automatic weaponry. I thrust one hand forward and the other downward and felt the crackle of electricity as the protective shield of the Mu came into effect. The others also hopped into action Victor dashed over to one side and one of the soldiers exploded in a spectacular fire ball; Rostov pointed at a spot on the ground between the Columnists and black tar spread from it, ensnaring their boots; Mister Ward had leapt in front of Madam Rabinovich, who was kneeling on the ground and rummaging through her bag. He held his palms out, and a wall of water the air suddenly felt even dryer than it was before sprang forth between him, the crouching woman and the soldiers.
I crossed the distance to the soldier at the very center with a single step. He reacted by trying to slam his rifle into my chest, but the red Mu lightning coalesced into a single point, absorbed the kinetic energy of his attack and redirected it to a retaliatory bolt of lightning. I lifted a palm and a small pool of liquid shadow appeared at the mans feet. From it, a series of black tentacles sprouted up and wrapped around him, quickly crushing the life out of him.
I turned to the next soldier, only to see him collapse to the ground, riddled with bullets. Beyond him, a swirling whirlpool of water had formed, tossing three soldiers about and slamming them into a rock wall. Victor took advantage of Mister Wards attack, bathing the three men in fire. A fourth ran over to help his comrades, only to get impaled from behind by the blade of my swordcane, which Madam Rabinovich (complete with bright yellow earplugs) welded deftly. Satisfied that they were being dealt with, I turned to the other direction.
Rostov Kushan had dropped for cover behind the remains of an ancient pillar and was clutching his blood soaked shoulder. I raised an eyebrow in silent query and he shrugged as good a response as I could expect. I turned my focus to the four soldiers that had pinned him down and made a series of intricate gestures, then thrust both hands forward. One of the 5th Columnists grunted for a moment, then flew apart as I ripped his soul from his body, then used its energy to generate an explosive wave of negative energy. The dark material slammed into the other Columnists, knocking them off of their feet.
One of the soldiers convulsed and went pale, a small trail of darkness connecting him to Rostov, who was back on his feet, his wounds healed by the stolen life energy of the Columnist. The other soldiers were getting back on their feet, so I took a few steps forward and began throwing Oranbegan and Mu based magics about, alternately draining the life force and electrocuting the soldiers.
Within moments, the roar of combat fell to silence and I span around, counting the bodies and looking for casualties. The Columnist soldiers were all dead or incapacitated, and our injuries seemed to have all been handled by the magics at our disposal Mister Ward and Victor Kushan had avoided any harm whatsoever, and Rostov had healed his own injury. My wards had successfully kept me safe, and Madam Rabinovich-
I took another look around the large chamber and saw that she was not present amongst the standing or the wounded. Neither was Herr Auer.
Wheres Auer? Rostov asked loudly.
Forget him, Mister Ward replied, his voice slightly tinged with worry. Wheres Sofia? Sofia!
I frowned. If Auer had managed to capture her, then we would need to be careful
Though I would not envy any person who made the mistake of trying to turn Madam Rabinovich into a damsel-in-distress; he would need far more sympathy than her.
Over here.
We all turned towards one of the corridors and Madam Rabinovich haltingly skipped into view, the blade once again confined within the cane and providing her with needed support. She beckoned with her free hand.
Auer ran this way.
Global @Diellan - 5M2M
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Virtue Server
Redside: Lorenzo Mondavi
Blueside: Alex Rabinovich
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[ QUOTE ]
Over here.
We all turned towards one of the corridors and Madam Rabinovich haltingly skipped into view, the blade once again confined within the cane and providing her with needed support. She beckoned with her free hand.
Auer ran this way.
[/ QUOTE ]
Oh... Thank goodness.
For a moment there, I was worried.
My Stories
Look at that. A full-grown woman pulling off pigtails. Her crazy is off the charts.
Chapter XXXIV
In Which We Get More Than We Bargained For
Come on, hurry. I tapped my foot impatiently on the dirt as the men gathered their wits. Auer had absconded through a small, but convoluted, series of passages, into the very heart of the temple. That in and of itself was seriously ominous; there were few good things in the hearts of ziggurats, and this was, so far, less than promising. To compound that bad feeling I had in the pit of my stomach fear takes me that way most of the time, making me nauseous the entirety of Auers not-insignificant army absconded with him.
That could only mean bad news for us, in my personal opinion.
Auer and his troops had gone down, all the way down, into what felt like the heart of the temple itself; the passages twisted around themselves, and all slowly converged upon the same spot. The labyrinthine little out branches and dead ends lessened, and the passage we were running along or stumbling, in my case grew slightly wider. Enough to accommodate two people side by side. With what I knew of abandoned temples, the room Auer has chosen as his refuge was simply bound to be the Room of Doom.
Apparently, the rest had come to the same conclusion, because the men quickened their pace, leaving me to shout directions from behind.
We ran down the passage, taking a left where I had dropped my umbrella, producing a convenient road sign and pointer. I picked up the plastic-sheathed handle and strapped it back onto my shoulder as we went, struggling with the light in my other hand. By the time I had finished, the passage ended, as well. In here.
We peered around the corner cautiously. As before, the room as rather full of 5th Column soldiers. Auer was standing in the center, in front of a slightly raised dais. When I left to retrieve the men, he had been extracting an object out of a case; now the object was held aloft in his hands. Through the dim light of the room, I examined its shape curiously. It was made of
some material I could not quite pinpoint, and I had to squint in order to look at it at all. Attempting to trace the direction of its curves, as well as the beginning and end of them, gave me a rapidly escalating headache. A non-Euclidean artifact.
The key!
Lorenzo was staring at Auer, aghast. It was not precisely fear, but, certainly, consternation, as though Auer were taking an action only a madman would. It made a certain amount of sense; the key was a magical item, but we had no real notion just what it activated. The notion of simply inserting part A into slot B, as Auer was wont to do, seemed utterly insane to anyone remotely familiar with anything magical, even if the familiarity was, as mine, purely theoretical.
Oh, hell, I groaned.
The room inside was dimly lit with two spotlights placed on the wall. In the middle, as the centerpiece of the room, was a large, square alter. The key in Auers hand, with its odd, evasive geometry, was meant to fit into the centre of the altar. Or so I assumed with the dim light and the strange nook that seemed to be its intended position.
We must prevent that. We have no real idea what these artifacts do, or are capable of
and in the hands of the
Garent waved his hand, and a thin trickle of water cascaded from it to the floor.
Lets see if we can get through to him before he gets his act together, Rostov declared, and pulled out his rifle, taking aim.
Careful, Garent cautioned. Dont blow the key to pieces.
Relax. Some of us can actually aim.
Rostov nudged his rifle gently a fraction of a centimeter to the right. Auer lifted his hand over his head and, with a triumphant grin, lodged the key squarely in its slot.
Oh no!
Lorenzo, Garent and I moved forward almost simultaneously. Victor gasped with horror, and tore off into the room so rapidly his contours blurred. He dodged through the soldiers who were turning this way and that, trying to figure out where the disturbance came from. Someone fired; Victor dodged neatly, but overshot the altar entirely, and appeared in a puff of fire on the other side of the room. Victor, come
The world began swimming.
I felt it at first as though the oxygen were drawn from my lungs, then violently stuffed back. I hissed and tried to scream while gasping for air, but failed miserably. It seemed like an uncannily placed attack of claustrophobia completely petrifying, and entirely personal because nobody else appeared to notice the effect. The sensation was recurring. Over and over again the world pulsed, as though someone were rapidly throwing and then just as rapidly removing a thick down blanket over me. I flung out my hand to fend the thing off, but it was no use.
The dizziness hit a fraction of a second later. The room was lifting off the ground, moving about in slow, graceful waves, each one coordinated with the pulse of the invisible blanket. I stumbled and fell to a knee as my vestibular apparatus fought a losing battle against the impending oddness and disorientation.
Madam, whats wrong? Lorenzo dropped next to me, grabbing me by the elbow. It didnt help.
Its all
swimming
That was when the others began to notice the changes too.
Uh oh, Garent was staring around warily, balancing against the tide of swirling chaos on the balls of his feet. Shes right. It really is swimming.
We must get to the Lorenzo was slowly making to get up, having let go of my head, reaching out with his hand, perhaps for a spot of levitation. Garent waved the commentary off, and sprinted for the key and the altar.
The earth dropped from under our feet.
The universe swam. A huge maelstrom of colours, voice and people. Stones ground off and moved with a shudder and the walls themselves appeared to turn into a swirling animation as the colour leaked off of them and spun separately. Garent was fighting for balance just a little ways off. I lost sight of Rostov and Victor entirely; they had been spun off to the side and vanished beyond the ability of my overwhelmed, nauseated head to track. I felt a crushing weight land on me, then lift, then land again. Ebb and flow, like a monstrous, unnatural tide
Timing the seconds, just as soon as the unbearable heaviness let off again, I twisted around, grabbing Lorenzos elbow with rubbery fingers, dragging him down again with as much force as I had. He tried to get loose, but I shook my head vehemently, pinning him down by hooking my elbow through the crook of his and snatching up the swordstick with the tips of my fingers. The headshake was sufficient to send me into a fit of dizzy dry-heaving; I swallowed back vomit and bile and whispered, Garent
What?
I gulped for air, Garent!!
He turned around. Struggling against the artificial gravity I stretched my hand out as far as it would go, and leaned forward. Garent reached out and grabbed. Then the maelstrom caught us, and lifted us up into impossible vertigo, tossing us around. I closed my eyes and grabbed desperately. For a second, we thudded against something hard, then we were picked up again and the forces that drove the spin forced us violently apart. I felt Garents hand slipping out of my own just as Lorenzo leaned in and locked his other arm around my waist. My entire world narrowed down to the spin, and to not letting go.
Then there was one last, violent jerk, and Garents fingers slipped out of mine. I opened my eyes a grievous mistake to a chaos of colour and form that looked nothing like the world, and then my head had enough.
Everything went black.
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
Chapter XXXV
In Which Absences Terrorize
I found myself laying on my back on a rough and uneven surface, opened my eyes and immediately regretted it. Bright light seared my vision and I turned my face away from the overhead glare and to my right, squinting while my eyes adjusted to the abrupt change from dimly lit underground tunnel to noon desert sun.
Midday sun? Was I unconscious that long? Or at all? I did not recall any loss. And how did I get out here? The swirling vortex that Auer had created must have been some kind of portal. To another place? Another time? Another dimension?
I pushed myself up to a sitting position, ignoring the stiffness of my neck and back muscles, and took stock of my surroundings. I lay in a small valley between several hills, all of them verdant with the green shrubbery and grasses that were common during the spring in the desert areas of Pales- Israel and Jordan, I corrected myself. A cold wind rustled the sparse trees that lined a small trail that wound through the base of the valley, and I quickly realized that between the cloud coverage and cool, lightly humid air, I was no longer in Iraq.
To my left, Madam Rabinovich stirred slightly, still apparently unconscious and, thankfully, uninjured.
I wiped the dirt off of my clothing, and tried to stand up, but I was rewarded for my effort with an unexpected sharp pain through my leg. I stared down in shock and dismay at the betrayal of my right knee. During the Great War, my platoon had the misfortune of passing through an unexpected minefield, killing many and injuring most. I survived a barrage of shrapnel with a lost kidney and a permanently bad knee. Every day I renew a small enchantment which removes the constant pain and bolsters the functionality of the joint. The enchantment had faded completely, without a trace.
In fact, all of my wards had disappeared. A side effect of the vortex, perhaps? I put my hands over my knee and murmured the ritual incantation, but felt no surge of power and saw no flows of energy. I tried a second time. Nothing. With desperation, I mentally reached for the nascent mana that flowed through the world, but felt nothing, saw nothing.
My mind raced and I could feel my heart pound in my chest. Ive been through anti-magic fields, had my power shackled by malevolent entities, and purposefully suppressed all magical connections in order to avoid attention, but in all cases, I could hear the pulse of the mana flow between the leylines and smell the energies in the air.
It was as if magic didnt exist at all.
Lorenzo! Whats wrong?!
I turned to Madam Rabinovich, startled that she was awake and surprised by the worry and concern in her voice. I swallowed slowly and attempted to regain my composure. I was tempted to tell her that nothing was wrong, that I had suffered worse, but that would be a foolish deception; the loss of my magic was mission critical knowledge. Many things, madam.
She was sitting up, wiping the dirt from her skirt and blouse and giving me a critical look. I know: that vortex has made me nauseous, and I might have a migraine coming up. Do you know where we are?
I shook my head, my worry about my own condition muted by her own. She is one of the poor souls who are plagued with chronic and debilitating migraines, and regardless of how much her husband and I reminded her, she regularly neglected to pack any medicines with her. Do you have any pills with you?
Thankfully, yes. She opened her bag and began to look for them.
I pulled out my watch and frowned. It said that it was 11:45 in the evening. Weve gone from midnight to midday in a matter of moments. And the flora is out of place for central Iraq.
Mm. It makes me think of the Shomron. She watched with no small measure of curiosity as I took off my trench coat and put the watch into the pocket of my trousers. The trench coat, like many pieces of my clothing that I wore on a regular basis, including my fedora, had been enchanted so many times over the years that it was a surprise that it had not spontaneously developed sentience. These enchantments included (but were not limited to) increased durability, resistance to dirt and stains, physical and magical protection for the wearer, weatherproofing, and assurance of proper stylish billowing in any wind. The enchantments had all disappeared.
The vortex seems to have had an unexpected side effect, I answered the unasked question, grimacing. My wards are gone and I am unable to perform even the simplest of magical conjurations. The coat no longer protects me from heat and cold
And it is rather heavy.
She blinked, then waved a finger, whispering to herself. Over the last year or so she had taken an interest in magic herself, though she has thus far limited herself to theoretical knowledge and a hodge-podge of minor spells of convenience (like how to summon a book from thin air instead of having to carry it in her shoulder bag). She frowned when nothing happened. Not just you. Maybe were trapped in an anti-magic field?
I find that oddly comforting, madam, I mused openly. I would be most distressed if something had happened to my sorcerous abilities.
Im sure. She gave me an ironic smile.
I do have to ask a small favor. She raised a querying eyebrow. Could you return my cane?
Of course! Silly man
She started to laugh, then caught herself and stared down at my knee. She was one of the few people aware of the injury; with the enchantment I was able to walk normally enough that most people did not catch the slight awkwardness of the joints movement. All of your enchantments are gone?
I nodded wearily and started to pull myself up on to my feet, when Madam Rabinovich made a small tsking sound and put a hand on my shoulder to stop me. She stood up, reached down, and helped me up.
I must apologize, madam. I shifted my weight around until I could comfortably lean on the cane. The pain is not really that bad, I am simply unused to it after so long. In a little while I will adjust.
Its not the pain that Im worried about, Lorenzo.
I sighed heavily. It is not painful, this loss of magic, but it is highly disconcerting, along the lines of being in pure silence or darkness the kind that sucks at the eyeballs and drowns you in the abyss. Highly disconcerting.
I see
she muttered darkly. I could see the thoughts running through her mind as she tried to build a psychiatric profile of what I was going through or would be going through shortly, once the impact of what was happening had time to sink in and the absence began to take its toll. Shes like that.
I shook my head. Do not worry about me on this, madam. I lived without magic for a long time, and I do believe I can ignore the distractions of this set back sufficiently for us to accomplish our task and find our way home.
She looked like she was about to say something in response, but decided not to, for which I was thankful. Instead, she changed the subject by reaching into her shoulderbag and pulling out a cell phone, then punctuating the movement with a sigh. No reception. Of course. And
She pressed a few buttons, waited a short bit, and added, And no signal from the GPS satellites. Its safe to say that were trapped here and have no way of knowing where here is.
Or when here is, I grumbled. We could be in the distant past or future, where Iraqs climate is different. Or we could be in an alternate dimension. Or we could just be on the other side of the planet. Or we could actually be in Israel. Or
I sighed. The possibilities are endless. We need to find more evidence.
Madam Rabinovich unstrapped her umbrella and opened it up, using it as a parasol. The hat she had received from Mister Kushans supplies was only barely sufficient to protect from the sun. What we need to find, first, is the others. Were here, but wheres Auer? Or Garent? Or Victor and Rostov?
It does seem odd that you and I would appear together, but the others would be out of sight.
I think we only remained together because you kept a firm grip. She gave a despondent look. I tried to keep a hold of Garent, but I wasnt strong enough
The winds of the vortex were tremendous, madam, I replied soothingly. She was always a rock of emotion stability, a beacon that everyone around her used to keep themselves oriented, but I was one of the few people who knew that this merely a public affair. Deep within her psyche, she was full of self doubt and was always quick to blame herself. Perhaps it simply scattered everyone over a large distance. We truly have two choices here: we can climb one of these hills to get a vantage point for our search
I pointed up, then towards the trail. Or we can follow this trail and see if it takes us to any sort of civilization. It is entirely possible that the others will do the same.
The trail isnt going anywhere, so as much as I hate to say it, we should scale one of these hills. She scrutinized the offending mounds for a short while before continuing: That one over there looks like the easiest. Neither of us is really capable of any serious mountaineering right now.
I glanced down at my cane and nodded.
It was a long, slow, and steady climb. Madam Rabinovich had chosen well, as the slope never got so steep that we were forced to stoop, and there was some evidence that this particular hill had been conquered many times before by herd animals of some kind, which kept the path smooth. I was silently thankful, for my cane would provide me with the traction that severely rocky terrain might have given, and without any of the treacherous steps that my knee could not afford.
About two-thirds of the way up the hill, Madam Rabinovich stopped.
Madam? I called out.
Its happening again, she choked out. Or something like it
I can feel it.
I was curious as to what she meant by being able to feel it, and was about to ask, when a sudden wave of nausea passed through me and the air shimmered. A black wind ripped across the side of the hill, and I saw that there was no way we could avoid it. Immediately, I grabbed Madam Rabinovichs wrist and she mine, in order that we might not get split up by wherever the vortex might decide to take us.
It passed through us without effect. We watched it travel for a few seconds, when the wave rippled and the sound of thunder echoed through the hillside. Out of the darkness, a figure appeared and fell to the ground, covered in wisps of obsidian mist. Moments later, the black wind was gone.
The figure groaned and rolled over.
Garent? Madam Rabinovich whispered. The mist fell away. Garent!
Mister Ward sat up on his knees and stared at the top of the hill, then up at the sky. She and I both called his name and began moving in his direction she in a stilting jog and me hobbling behind.
Is
Is somebody there? Mister Ward asked, his voice shaky and tremulous. Somebody?
We called out his name again.
Guys? Where are you? Its really dark
Madam Rabinovich froze. Oh god
Madam?
She looked back over her shoulder, her face completely drained of blood and filled with dread. You dont know
almost nobody else does. Garent was born blind and deaf. He uses magic to see. And now magic is
gone. She turned back and started running to him.
Suddenly, my worries seemed so minor and stupid; so I couldnt walk without a limp and a cane, and I couldnt ignore the heat and the sun. Here I was, making silly analogies to darkness, to blindness, but Mister Ward
I swallowed nervously, images flashing through my mind. Many friends and fellow soldiers had seen such injuries in the wars, sent home with a medical discharge and a small pension and a sorry you cant see anymore. I was always thankful that I had avoided such fate, had gotten off so easily with my own minor incapacitation.
Madonna mia
I murmured.
Mister Ward clutched his head between his hands, and screamed.
Global @Diellan - 5M2M
Mids' Hero/Villain Designer Lead
Virtue Server
Redside: Lorenzo Mondavi
Blueside: Alex Rabinovich
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My Stories
Look at that. A full-grown woman pulling off pigtails. Her crazy is off the charts.
Chapter XXXVI
In Which We Make Do With What We Have
I fought down the sheer, incapacitating terror that, justly, gripped Garent at this very moment. It was a difficult and bitter pill to swallow and it constantly attempted to rise again, together with the deep fear-nausea. I could hardly afford to fall apart now however. Most especially not now. And I had to play this carefully
carefully. For all Garent knew, he was still surrounded by enemies and that they had not killed him yet did he realize that he could be killed? might be entirely a trick to amuse their sick urge for sadism.
A few steps from Garent I stopped hesitantly. His initial panic had withered away quickly Garent was never the panicking kind and turned into a sort of limp despair tinged with a nervousness so high-strung that it was about to snap. He huddled in on himself, hands still covering his face, and an occasional, slow tear slipped down between his fingers. I gulped and, astonished, tasted salt in my own mouth.
By then, Lorenzo caught up with me and stood, leaning on his cane, staring down with an expression of deep sympathy and awkward embarrassment. What
He hesitated. Can I be of help in any way? Without my magic, alas, I am not much of a healer.
I confess, I bit my lip to keep my voice from trembling too obviously, I am altogether out of my depth. Here, hold my bag. I pulled the strap off my shoulder and handed it over. Then I knelt in front of Garent and, careful not to exert too much force, or startle him, I pulled one of his hands away from his face and into mine.
He tended nervously. Wh-whos that? his other hand moved forward tentatively. I tilted my head, draping my ponytail over my shoulder for him to find. Oh
Sofia? I
this is not very good
You could say that, I murmured, more for the benefit of my sanity than his.
Did we get caught? he frowned, looking around, squinting futilely at the captors he couldnt see. I shook my head, signaling a negative, and some of the tension ran out, only to be replaced by a deeper sort of depression. The change did not seem beneficial to me in the least. Almost anything rage, more tears was preferable to this despondency. I couldnt stand to watch.
I turned away momentarily, to see Lorenzo, a pitying expression which he entirely failed to hide on his face, looking away, still holding up my bag, twisting the cord helplessly. You can put that down now, I told him gently.
Oh. He dropped the heavy item down with a thud. Garent shuddered. Lorenzo put a hand on his shoulder in a gesture both of comfort and apology. I rather thought, madam, that, to save us time, I should continue up the hill, and take a look around. It was a more than understandable retreat; Lorenzo, like me, fled into action when all else failed. I could not begrudge him that. And I did not blame him. I nodded my understanding as well as my assent, and he trod off slowly.
I frowned in worry at his retreating back. There was another basketful of problems for me to sort, and this one required even more delicacy than Garents. I covertly examined the road, to ensure that it was not about to get rougher and make his climb
interesting. It seemed mellow enough no worse than it had been previously and he was, sensibly, taking his time about the climbing. Not, I smiled cynically to myself, necessarily because he took pity on himself but because he wanted to give me as much time alone with Garent as was possible and feasible.
I watched until he vanished behind a curve of the track.
I extracted some tissues out of one of my bags seemingly bottomless pockets, and carefully wiped off the tear streaks on Garents face. He sighed, and leaned his head on his knees. Im useless, you know, he mourned, his tone funereal. Completely useless. Im just going to tag around after you all, not knowing what is going on, until we all die. I winced, at a loss all the more because, to an extent, his fears were true. Nevertheless, it would do him no good to sink this way into a mental breakdown
I milled about uncertainly.
Useless, useless
he chanted under his breath.
I slapped him.
I did it very lightly; even a full blown slap of mine doesnt do any real damage, perhaps doesnt even hurt significantly. I dont have the upper body strength to deliver anything close to the sort of cinematic, ringing blow to the face which is remembered so fondly by the watchers of soap operas. In any case, what was the point? I was not interested in causing pain; I was merely interested in delivering a quick, unequivocal message. And I had no doubt that Garent would recognize it, and know what it means.
He hiccupped and stopped.
Oh
He rubbed his cheek, bemused. I know that one. That one goes stop this self-pity, Garent. You are not helping.
I chuckled softly because, of course, he was correct. And then, because he was still curled up and shivering and frightened I did something which I generally avoid doing at all costs; I wrapped my hands around him, and pulled his head to my shoulder.
Let me tell you this; pity is a horrible emotion. It is corrosive, destructive, it demolishes any good thing it touches, wreaks havoc upon any genuine affection, pollutes the kindest of relationships. Pity is the worst emotion in the world. It, and not the circumstances, makes a cripple. It, and not the universe, created condescending inequality. I have been pitied, and Ive sworn to myself that I would never do it to another person, ever again. But at that time I was struck by the realization that between the bravado and the guts and the bulky mage robes Id forgotten just how small Garent truly was.
Now, huddled in his slightly oversized t-shirt and jeans, head resting on my shoulder, I saw again that in reality he was barely taller than myself. Almost two decades my junior, and looking younger still.
I kept myself from bursting into tears only by the knowledge that, if I do, they will likely drip straight to the top of Garents head. And that, of course, would do either of us little good. I let him get it all or as much of it as one could under the circumstances out of the system. The timing was as good as some, and better than most; we were alone, no one was shooting at us, and the sum was not yet edging noon, keeping the weather from being sweltering. Garent sniffled for a little while longer, then went quiet.
Sofia, he said piteously after a while, please stop dodging me.
I blinked. What?
Youre doing your usual dodging thing
Well, you arent anymore I can hear you now but you were.
Oh
My jaw dropped. I am, officially, one of the worst telepaths the world has ever seen. Other peoples thoughts, for me, remain strictly in their proper place in the heads of other people. And I am content to leave them so. I am not, however, without defense in the face of the overwhelming number of psionicists and mind-readers about. I, as Garent so aptly termed it, dodge. Without noticing or conscious will.
Garent, on the other hand is a psionicist as well as a mage. And, while magic contributes the majority of his powers as well as the all-important compensation for birth defects that had now failed him so miserably there is a small minority that is, as such things can be considered, innate.
I had assumed, I said cautiously, that all powers were gone with the magic.
So thats what happened. Garent rubbed his eyes. That would explain
this. Everything is really fuzzy, he complained. Its like I hear you over a phone with really bad reception. Sometimes everything cuts out. Ugh.
I wont dodge you anymore, I promised.
Thanks. Uh
Just what happened to us, anyway?
I quickly reviewed the events for his benefit, the few of them that there were, leaving out to spare Lorenzos pride the description of the condition he was really in. Otherwise, I omitted nothing, though it might be said that I did not have much to omit. It seemed foolish, in any case, to attempt to sugarcoat anything for some obscure comfort or lack of stress. I do not believe in such measures in any case, and Garent was likely to have valuable insight to contribute.
We found out magic was gone fairly quickly, I sighed, But we did not think to check for anything else. Nor could we, really
I refrained from kicking myself mentally for the (relatively small) delay that caused Garent so much anguish. Even if I had known that telepathy, in some small measure, still was available, I could not have taken the initiative to establish that sort of link. Regardless of what was my fault and dragging Garent into a situation so frightfully dangerous to him surely had been this was not.
Its not just magic, Garent pinched the bridge of his nose with the effort of concentration. Magic is
gone. Just isnt there, like it never happened. Everything else is
sluggish. Like swimming through jelly or something.
A pity, I said sincerely. That incapacitates Victor at least partly as well as Lorenzo and you.
At least Vic can maybe make a
a fire ping-pong ball, Garent grumbled. Im completely useless.
I shook him slightly. I thought wed already had enough of that. You are not useless, I informed him firmly. You will just have to be useful in a different way.
You mean as cannon fodder? He inquired sweetly.
Won't work. You're much too short, I retorted, and the world was back in its regular axis.
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
So far, army life has its ups-and-downs. The only real issue are the restrictions of Basic Training - except for my weekends at home, I'm stuck there with very little time for myself. So writing is restricted to the weekend, hence our posting schedule. Hopefully, when Basic ends (or eases up), it'll be much better.
Side note: It's good to hear that people are enjoying this.
Anyways, here's the promised post:
Global @Diellan - 5M2M
Mids' Hero/Villain Designer Lead
Virtue Server
Redside: Lorenzo Mondavi
Blueside: Alex Rabinovich
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