Brainstretch

There’s a message that alludes to itself by making analogies in the way that similes are like metaphors; it’s an anomalous alligator that serves as an allegory for an allusion.

Mandate of the Refinement Society

Nature does nothing in vain, but is simple and delights not in superfluous causes of things. As we have no safe method of investigating any cause but by its known effects; it is therefore unphilosophical and henceforth unlawful, to assume the liberty of imagining that there really does exist more than one cause of an effect. In experimental philosophy, propositions collected from phenomena by induction, are to be deemed either exactly or very nearly true. More causes of natural things are not to be admitted than those acknowledged by the Refinement Society to be both true and sufficient to explain the phenomena.

Apprentice in extispicy

Kari was no stranger to hunting and cooking game, and had thought little of it when she traveled to study under the witch, Arathine. From what little she knew of reading the entrails of animals, it would be little more than looking for signs and portents in what was pulled from the beasts before they were cooked and eaten. Truthfully, that was all that most readings ever entailed.


Arathine was a specialist though, and was always experimenting and honing her skills. She had learned to read the future from far more than the inedible parts of her meal. Nestled far back in a wooded valley, her home was a mass of cages and pens, holding everything from common pigeons and rats to horses and monkeys. The witch studied what types of animals gave better answers to certain questions, killing them whenever it suited her rather than when she needed to eat. Fortunately, Arathine kept several carnivores as well, and the bodies of the slain creatures rarely went to waste.

In her studies, the witch had found that the more familiar she was with the creature, the better she was able to interpret the signs she saw when she slaughtered it. As part of Kari’s apprenticeship, Arathine had given her responsibility over two animals. A cat and a goat.

Pay attention to their moods and habits when you feed and exercise them, Arathine had told her. Kari did her best not to become attached to the animals as she cared for them, knowing what their eventual fate would be. She refrained from giving them names, and studiously kept notes on their behavior. Kari’s natural sensitivity to the thoughts and emotions of others worked against her though, and she came to know and understand her charges on more than just a clinical level. She still didn't give them real names, but the goat came to be called Goat and the cat was named Cat.

Kari thought she had resigned herself to their inevitable deaths. They would be killed, and Arathine would emotionlessly demonstrate the signs and possibilities that could be seen in their internal organs. Kari had never expected Arathine to make her kill her charges herself.

Thinking back, she realized that Arathine’s gruesome lessons in the preceding weeks had focused on goats and cats. Kari always did her best not to watch as Arathine lay a struggling animal out on the low table and wielded the gleaming knife. She would stand directly behind Arathine or watch the woman’s face, or just let her eyes unfocus and stare past the dying animal. She should have realized what the next step would be in her education. But it wasn’t until Arathine handed her the long, curved blade that Kari truely realized what the witch expected of her.

Vision blurred by unshed tears, she helped Goat up onto the table. Forcing him to lie down, she tied his hind legs with a stained strip of leather to keep him from kicking. With her left hand, Kari held his trembling forelegs and could feel Goat’s nervousness at the strange room and the smell of stale blood. Even though it was Kari who was holding him down, Goat was still waiting for her to let go and take him back to his pen. Mechanically, Kari grasped the knife blade-down in her right hand, just as she had watched Arathine do dozens of times before.

A part of Kari was amazed that her hand didn’t tremble at all as she slid the blade into Goat’s sternum and sliced downward. The rest of her was screaming at the hand to stop. Pain and terror stabbed through Kari up through her left hand and arm as blood flowed across the tabletop. Bleating weakly, Goat kicked only once before the shock and blood loss made him unable to move.

From somewhere far off, Arathine’s voice reached her. “What do you see?”

Staring at the tangle of white intestines and dark red organs, Kari listened to her own voice relating the information they gave. She listed far more than Arathine ever had during the demonstrations, detailing the weather in the valley well into the next month. It was only information though. What she saw was Goat’s heart beating slower until he lay still and the life faded from his dark eyes. When Kari had related all she could, she fell silent. Arathine and the rest of the room returned around her.

“Excellent,” Arathine said in a voice that sounded approving. Kari nodded, numbly accepting the compliment. The rest was a routine she knew well. She retrieved a shallow cart from the corner and slid the dead goat onto it from the table. One of her chores tonight would be to butcher it and either salt the meat for themselves or throw it to the other animals tomorrow. With a bucket of water and a brush, she washed the blood from the table and wiped it dry.

“Well done,” Arathine said when Kari had finished. “There’s still just enough sun left for the other one.”

Kari started and looked fearfully at the forgotten cage by the door. Still inside, Cat saw her looking at him and mewed his discomfort. Desperately, she tried to think of something. She could argue there wasn’t enough light left to see clearly. She could pretend to faint from exhaustion. She could grab the cage and Cat and run out of the room into the forest.

Arathine’s hand fell on her shoulder and the witch’s terrible calm flowed through Kari’s mind again, drowning her fear in tranquility. “Hurry now. The goat was just a warm-up. Cats are very difficult to interpret correctly, and I want you to show me how much you’ve learned.”

Calm suffocating her mind, Kari walked to the cage. Run! she thought at him as she opened the latch. Run away, Cat! Instead, Cat leapt out of the cage and into her arms. Bite! she pleaded silently. Claw out my eyes and get away! Didn’t you watch me kill Goat? she screamed in her head as she carried him back to the table.  I just killed Goat for a warm-up!

She couldn’t hold the tears back this time as she laid Cat down on the table where she had killed Goat. Purring, Cat rolled onto his back and stretched, happy to finally be freed from the confines of the cage. Get out of here! Run! I’M GOING TO KILL YOU IF YOU DON’T GET AWAY!

Kari picked up leather strap again, but Arathine immediately reached out and took it from her. “Pay attention, Kari,” she said in an admonishing voice. “You can’t tie down a cat like a goat. It would start struggling and probably get away before you even secured it.” Kari choked back a sob as Arathine pressed the knife into her hand.

Fade to Dust

Doomlord Pereid sat motionless in her sandstone throne. All but her eyes were concealed by the mask of her office, glaring at the air in front of her. Tiny rivulets of grey dust slid from her shoulders, down her back and chest with the almost imperceptible movements of her breathing, forming small hills in her lap. On the quasi-elemental plane of Dust the fine particles were nearly all-pervasive, making travel seem like swimming through an endless sea of grey-brown dust. But here in the Doomguard’s Citadel the effect was lessened so that the dust became only a constant presence, collecting on anything which remained motionless for more than a few minutes.


Beneath her fingers, the throne felt rough and gritty. It was fashioned from pure dust, cemented into the shape of an undecorated throne by magic. Even in the furthest depths of this plane of existence, the dust was not pure; other elements strayed from their own planes through conduits or vortexes, polluting this one. Pure dust, or any pure element for that matter, was a rare occurrence. The magic which had shaped the throne also connected it to the underlying ebbs and flows of power and energy within the plane, and her through it as well.

As her essence rode the pathways of power, drifting with the flows of raw elemental energy, a small corner of her mind wondered idly how long she had been sitting there. Time seemed meaningless when she meditated on the nature of entropy. It was truly beautiful, she mused. It was the resting place of existence, the final destination. Stone crumbles and erodes, metal corrodes and breaks, life dwindles and dies. When the last pebble finally disintegrates into nothing and releases its hold on existence, entropy’s purpose will at last have been fulfilled.

Suddenly an alien presence rippled across the fabric of the plane, causing Pereid’s muscles to jerk and sending up a cloud of disturbed dust. Her fingers gripped the arms of the throne with white knuckles. She convulsed again as pain ripped through her mind, cascading down her arms and legs. An involuntary cry escaped her unseen lips and she arched her back in agony, lifting her body away from the stone. If not for her death-grip on the arms of the throne, it seemed she might be thrown into the air by the force of her convulsions.

Something was pulling at the lines of power that crisscrossed the plane of Dust, dragging the entire plane of existence along with them. As the very nature of the plane was being altered, the intimate connection she shared with it through the throne forced her psyche to follow. Before, the throne had only given her a general sense of the plane’s nature and energies, but now she could now sense every nuance of the entire plane of existence. The infinite span of dust, spanning the bridge between the planes of Earth and Negative Energy, was forced into the narrow confines of her mind.

Even in all the pain, Pereid reveled in the sensation. She was confronted with the seamless perfection of the plane, the patterns hidden within the shifting dust. It was everything she had envisioned. This was why she had come to the Citadel of Dust, why she had become Doomlord. She loved the perfection of dust. The other citadels maintained by the Doomguard were useless. Salt, Vacuum, and Ash, none of them expressed entropy more succinctly than Dust. The universe would end in a climax of shapeless dust.

And as she beheld that beauty, enveloped in her own world of cold white pain, it was destroyed. Something was grasping those lines of power and pulling them. It seemed as if the very fabric of reality would be torn asunder. Patterns were broken apart and pieced back together. The endless network of conduits and vortexes was stretched nearly to the breaking point and forced into new shapes. The tiny corner of her mind which always remained lucid during her meditations realized that she was screaming.

Then as suddenly as it had come, the force withdrew its influence from the plane. As a taunt bowstring suddenly released, the foundations of reality snapped back into place. The changes, made in violation of the plane’s very nature, fell apart once the driving force behind them ceased. Similarly, the increased awareness which had been forced upon Pereid’s mind was no longer able to hold itself within the confines of her limited consciousness.

The Doomlord’s fingers lost their hold on the throne, and she fell forward to lay on the stone dais it rested upon. For several minutes she lay gasping for breath on the dust-covered floor. When she finally felt the strength return to her limbs, she slowly stood. Her throat felt raw from screaming. Every muscle was cramped, and she saw that her fingernails were bent back and bleeding from digging them into the throne.

Looking down to the concave floor before the dais of her throne, Pereid was surprised to see the eight Lesser Doomlords who served beneath her in the Citadel. They stood huddled together, their unsure eyes visible through their own masks. “How long?” she rasped at them.

After a long pause one of the eight stepped hesitantly forward. “You’ve been screaming for nearly six hours, Lord Pereid,” he said. From his voice, Pereid recognized him as Swieg. She made a mental note of the man’s courage.

Taking a quick inventory of her body’s condition, Pereid decided that six hours was a likely amount of time. As fast as she dared, she descended the steps to the floor, forcing her sore and weakened legs to move by sheer willpower. The eight masked figures parted for her as she walked through them.

“Expedition, you prepare,” she said, pointing to Swieg. She wanted to see if her estimation of the man was correct.

They were all familiar with her broken speech, and Swieg hesitated only a moment before asking, “What type of expedition, Lord Pereid?”

Pereid allowed her cracked lips to form a small smile beneath her mask. If she had asked any of the others they would have immediately agreed and made their best guess rather than questioning her. “Fully searching, provisions of a month.”

The swish of cloth behind her signaled his bow. “As you command, Doomlord.”

As the Lesser Doomlords silently filed out through the misshapen door of the throneroom. Pereid looked to one of the wide horizontal windows. The all-pervasive dust outside the citadel churned and blew in the aftermath of the assault on reality. The inumerable layered planes of existence had not escaped unscathed from their violation. In those last moments of her connection to the dust, she had felt something uncovered by the tumult. Something that had been hidden, lost, and now all but forgotten.
 
Apeiron.

power and intent

The cold September wind slipped under Duke Aridon’s fur cloak as he stepped down from his saddle, and he paused to curse the abysmal weather of the highlands again. When they’d arrived in late June, the mountain foothills had been a temperate relief from the sweltering heat of summer on the plains below. But the temperature had steadily dropped as the months wore on. Now he had to break through a layer of ice to get to the water in his wash basin each morning, and the snow that covered the craggy peaks high above them advanced daily down the mountainside toward their camp.


Captain Rydour, Aridon’s only escort, trudged up the frozen mountain turf behind him to take the reigns of the duke’s black stallion. The older man’s ears and nose were red with the cold morning air, but Rydour didn’t seem to notice. “They were expecting you half an hour ago, Sir,” he said gruffly, his breath visible as a white fog.

Aridon waved away the old veteran’s reproach. “Cameran and Gameson will lay into each other before they even sit down at the table. I doubt they’ll even notice we’re absent. After listening to them bicker for the past three months, we deserve a respite.” Rydour huffed, but Aridon knew his captain was as frustrated and annoyed by the two tribe leaders as he was.

Spanning hundreds of miles across the great continent, from a distance the aptly-named Broken Wall mountain range resembled nothing so much as a massive stone wall, broken and fragmented by time. North and West of the Wall was Emphera, filled with ancient forests and deep jungles, while to the East and South lay the fertile plains and island-dotted coastlines of Cornith. But while the Wall was an unchanging and essential buffer between the two ancient empires, the lines that divided the territories of the mountain tribes living in the mountains changed constantly.

Though small, the mountain communities had become rich off the trade between the old empires, and they were already putting the money to good use, buying steel from their neighbors. If the minor skirmishes escalated to full war, it wouldn’t be long before trade between the two empires began to suffer for it.

So now Aridon was in this God-forsaken mountain town, along with his Empherian counterpart, trying to convince the tribes to make peace. Cameran and Gameson were the chiefs of the two largest tribes, and had numerous allies who would join with them if it came to war. The two men each seemed to have each brought with them an endless list of past transgressions to bicker and argue over. Every time they sat down it was minutes before insults and threats were being hurled back and forth across the table.Aridon walked up the meager path toward the forge. It was modest by Imperial standards, but was twice as large as the small house it was connected to. Further up the hill beyond the small building lay several large stones in rough rows. Grave stones, standing in testament to the generations who had lived and died in the building.


Grey smoke puffed out of the chimney, and a dull red light shone under the door. The rhythmic clang of metal against metal could be heard from within. Eager to escape the cold, Aridon pushed the wooden door open and stepped into the dry heat of the forge. The small space was bathed in a dim orange glow that fought the cold white light coming in through the windows. The hammering stopped. “What d’ye want?” a harsh voice demanded from the ruddy darkness.

“I seek the master of the forge.”

“Ye’ve found ‘im,” the voice said. “Now bugger off! I’m busy!”

Aridon let the insult pass. He’d had more than enough time to become accustomed to the gruffness of the mountain men. He squinted into the darkness. As his eyes adjusted, he perceived a man standing in the shadows just next to the brightly glowing coals. He held a hammer in one hand and a glowing length of metal in the other. “I am Duke Aridon of the Cornith Empire,” Aridon said formally, bowing slightly. “I received your message, and I’ve come to see your sword.”

There was a long moment of silence before the glowing metal and hammer banged down on the anvil. The smith stepped fully out of the shadows and Aridon was surprised at how old he was. His face was leathery and wrinkled with the years of hot labor, and what little hair he had left was stark white. Despite the man’s age though, muscles bulged under the leather apron he wore, and he walked with sure steps across the dirt floor toward the duke. “Name’s Simon,” he said, holding out his hand. “Master smith an’ owner o’ the forge.”

Aridon took the offered hand. The grip was like a vice, and he could almost feel his callouses through his gloves. Simon’s grey eyes traveled slowly up and down the duke, taking him in. Finally, he nodded and turned. “Come on then.”

Aridon was led back to the far corner of the forge, where the shadows were deepest. Easily moving aside heavy barrels filled with raw ore and coal, Simon uncovered an unremarkable plank of wood laying across the dirt floor. Lifting it, he revealed a small furrow dug into the ground beneath. From that, he withdrew a long object wrapped tightly in oilcloth.

“Why d’ye want this sword, Duke?” Simon casually asked. Although Aridon had gotten used to deciphering the accents of the mountain-dwellers, the smith’s speech was thicker by far. Like most of the men of the mountain tribes, he also addressed Aridon informally by his title as if ‘Duke’ were his first name. After three months Aridon was used to it, and he was too interested in the concealed item Simon held to care anyway. As the Simon heaved the barrels back into place, he kept a firm grip on the shrouded blade.

“I’m a collector of magical blades and weapons,” Aridon said. “They fascinate me.”

“Have y’ever held an intelligent blade then?” He led Arnidon to a long work table set directly beneath a large window. All manner of metal-working tools were laid out across the scarred and scorched wood surface. The smith brushed them to the side and set down the cloth-wrapped sword.

“Yes, once.” A holy knight had rested himself for a night in Aridon’s keep. The duke had asked to hold the knight’s silver-wrought broadsword. It had felt light as thought in his hand, slicing through the air almost fluidly. The blessed sword had spoken to him, words of gratitude for his hospitality appearing in his mind.

Such blades were rare and valuable, and Aridon leaned forward eagerly. “Is this sword intelligent?”

Simon didn’t answer, instead asking, “How many men has yer sword slain, Duke?”

Aridon stood straight. “You needn’t worry about my skill, I’ve killed at least two dozen men and bested three times that, many of them skilled swordsmen.”

Simon shook his head, his eyes shadowed. “Not you, Duke. Yer sword.” He pointed to the longsword at Aridon’s hip. “How many lives has that blade taken?”

“I’ve never thought about it before,” Aridon said, looking down at the weapon. It was an old sword, forged with a steel guard and a gold inlaid grip. He had inherited it from his father along with the title of Duke. It was unlikely that it had ever been wielded in anything other than duels of honor. “Perhaps thirty men,” he said after a moments thought.

The smith indicated the door of the forge with a jerk of his chin. “Yer man out there? How many men has his sword sent t’the grave?”

Rydour’s blade was high quality, as the skilled captain deserved, but it was still from the same armory that the rank and file soldiers got their weapons. There was no telling how many captains had wielded it before Rydour. “Could be more than two hundred,” he replied.

Simon lifted the sword from the table and began unwrapping the cloth. “This sword, Duke, has killed millions.”

Aridon could not hide his amazement. “Is it so powerful?”

“It ain’t a matter o’ power, Duke. It’s age.” He finished unwrapping the blade and set it back down on the tabletop. The cold white light coming in through the window from outside reflected dully off the tarnished black surface of the blade. Aridon looked down on the crude weapon with distaste. It wasn’t even steel. The whole thing had been hammered out of a solid piece of iron, cross-guard and all. Worn and cracked leather wrapped tightly around the grip, not quite covering the thick counterbalance at the end of the pommel. The blades edge was badly nicked and so dull that it couldn’t have been sharp enough to cut through lard.

“You must be joking,” Aridon said, flushing angrily. “This blade couldn’t kill a man if he threw himself on it!”

In a blur of motion, Simon snatched up the sword. Aridon had barely taken a step backward before the smith swung the sword down at an anvil that occupied the far corner of the table. There was a flash of light and a sizzle of sparks, and the sword was back on the table. Dumbfounded, Aridon stared at the half of the anvil that thudded to the dirt floor, along with a chunk of the tabletop. The cut was so smooth and clean that the yellow-orange light of the forge reflected brightly off of the shorn metal.

The smith kept his eyes warily on the blade as he spoke. “Magicked blades’ve all got a story, Duke. Ye’ve heard o’ the broadsword Torret Col used t’cut down the five Dark Horsemen?” He hesitated for a moment. “When I was a young man, I forged Torret’s sword an’ sold it to him at the spring market in Merida.”

Aridon gaped openly, his growing impatience with the old man’s rambling momentarily forgotten. “You forged Karansath? The stone-cleaver?” He looked around again at the meager interior of the forge and his awe faded quickly. “I’ve seen artificers’ workshops. You’re no mage-smith,” he said darkly.

The smith’s back straightened suddenly and he turned to face him, looming over the smaller man. “Damn right, I ain’t!” he thundered darkly.

Aridon backed away from the sudden anger glowing in the smith’s grey eyes. Simon reached for the black sword, but stopped just short of grasping the hilt. Even as Rydour threw open the door at the sounds of shouting, the old man was already taking a deep breath and visibly forcing himself to relax. “Sorry, Duke. Ye ain’t spoke to a master smith ‘fore, have ye?”

Returning his gaze to the dented blade on the table, he ignored Rydour as Aridon silently waved the captain back outside. “Mage-smiths’re liars an’ fools that know nothin’ o’ true steel. They glue little knives together with magic an’ say it’s better’n a sword forged by a smith with a lifetime o’ hammerin’ steel?” Simon spit on the floor contemptuously.

Aridon stared incredulously. He’d heard dozens of tales in which the creator of a magical weapon was a master beyond measure. They were supposed to be able to coax strength and speed from the very ore itself. Simon was so scornful of magic that he seemed embarrassed to admit to having forged the blade wielded by Torret himself.

“I spent my life workin’ steel an’ know it better’n my own family. Weren’t nothin’ magic in that blade when I made it. Torret knew enough not to dishonor my work by havin’ someone else cast spells on it. Not ‘til I found this sword did I learn the truth of it.

“Great men an’ women, good or evil, have power in ‘em fer great things. When they’re killed that power is lost an’ the killin’ blade gets exposed to it. It absorbs some of it. Sucks it in an’ makes the power its own.”

Aridon looked again at the ancient blade. “And this blade has killed millions of such great men?”

Simon shook his head. “It ain’t killed any great men. See every man, woman an’ child has some small bit o’ power in ‘em. T’ain’t much by itself, but that’s why ye build armies, ain’t it Duke? So ye can forge a great power from thousands o’ smaller ones?

“This blade here’s killed enough men t’build a hundred armies.” The smith picked up the sword carefully and held it out for Aridon to see. “It ain’t no masterwork, but it’s well made. Probably been gettin’ found an’ used an’ lost again by soldiers since ‘fore the Wall broke.”

As Aridon reached for the hilt, Simon drew back. “Give me yer word that ye won’t kill me, Duke.”

The duke hesitated. He’d heard rumors of intelligent swords with personalities so forceful they could overwhelm their wielder’s mind. “Why? Does this sword hold some sort of grudge against you?”

Simon shrugged. “Fer hiding it all these years, maybe. This sword ain’t like any other. It don’t want to fight good or evil, just to fight. It’ll want you to kill me ‘cause it’s a sword, an’ swords kill people.”

“Very well, you have my word I will not kill you.” Arnidon took the sword from the smith. He stumbled for a moment under the unexpected weight of the thing and tried unsuccessfully to fit the cracked leather grip comfortably in his hand. It was definitely the sword of a foot soldier, probably just poured into a mold and sharpened.

Simon stood well clear as Arnidon swung it back and forth experimentally. The weight should have made the blade awkward, but somehow it added to the power of his strokes. Taking aim at the already ruined anvil, he effortlessly sliced another chunk from the solid slab of iron. He could almost feel the power of the weapon warming his hand and arm.

Deep within the blade, he sensed its mind. It didn’t speak to him as the holy blade had done, but Aridon could feel it lurking beneath the surface of the metal, eagerly combining its own skill and power with his own. The old man must be daft, he decided. The sword wanted only to serve, to aid him. Aridon flashed a glare at Simon. How dare he demand a duke’s word of honor as if he could not be trusted? He should have killed the smith right then for insulting him with such a request. He briefly considered killing him anyway, but he’d given his word and wouldn’t give weight to the old fool’s insults by breaking it now.

“All right,” Aridon growled angrily. “How much do you want for it?”

“Ye must put it down first,” Simon said calmly.

Aridon was instantly on guard, ready for any sign of treachery. “Why, so you can kill me now that you know I’ve got money?”

“There’s a scabbard for it. Ye don’t want it hanging loose on yer belt, do ye?”

“Maybe I do.” Aridon dropped the sword on the tabletop just the same, letting the blade carve a chunk out of the wood. “Well? Where is it?” he asked when Simon remained still.

“I lied,” the smith said. “To get ye t’ put the sword down.”

Aridon half reached to snatch up the sword again, but the dark anger had already faded from his mind. He looked at the blade in confusion. “What happened?”

Simon finally stepped forward and picked up the blade. “It tried to convince ye to kill me. Magic swords get intent from their actions. Dragonslayers want t’ kill dragons, an’ assassins’ blades want t’ assassinate. This sword’s killed nothin’ but people. It just wants t’ kill more people.” He glared at the blade. “It’s tryin’ to get me to kill ye for yer money, like ye said.”

Aridon’s hand moved toward the hilt of his own sword, but suddenly found himself looking down at the point of the scarred blade as Simon held it level with his nose. “Don’t do it no favors, Duke.” Aridon let his hand fall to his side again, and Simon laid the sword back down on the table.

“Ten thousand coins an’ a life somewhere else,” Simon said. “That’s what I want.”

Aridon chuckled. “No wonder your message didn’t give your price. I wouldn’t have bothered riding up here.”

“An’ now?”

Aridon was silent for a moment. “The money is not a problem, and I have a cousin who has a sizable barony along the coast. I’m sure I can convince him to accept the fealty of a master smith.”

The smith smiled and bowed. “Thank ye, Duke.”

“How long have you hidden this sword?”

“More’n ten winters, since I built this forge here myself. Figured I’d keep it safe, but with all the fightin’ an’ killin’ lately... An honorable man like yerself might do better t’ have it ‘stead o’ me.”

Aridon picked up the blade and wondered if it was worth all the trouble when it would be easy enough to just kill the old man now and leave. He pushed the thoughts away.

“Ye must only carry it in battle,” Simon said severely as Aridon tied the heavy blade to his belt. “Don’t draw it nowhere else, or ye’ll soon see liars an’ betrayers everywhere, all deservin’ death.”

“Don’t worry. It’ll more than likely just gather dust in my collection.” Aridon produced a heavy purse and handed it to the smith. “Five hundred is all I brought, but just send word if you need more before you leave. The rest will wait with my cousin.” He gathered his cloak around himself and ducked back out into the bitter cold. White snowflakes were just beginning to drift down as he and Rydour mounted their horses.

“I see you’ve managed to find another knife for your collection,” the captain said. He looked back up the path at the forge. The sound of hammering had resumed almost at once. “Let’s get out of here. That old man ought to know it’s bad luck to live so close to a graveyard.” He spurred his horse back down the path. “I hope it was worth the grief you’ll catch when we get back.”

Aridon grinned darkly as he followed. “Let them gripe. It’s not as if they would’ve done anything different if we’d been there listenin’ to ‘em.”

The Seller of Empty Space

Edgar Marrick paused in winding his pocket watch and blinked at the tall gentleman sitting across from him. Either Edgar had misheard, or the man had used a term he was unfamiliar with. They had shared a compartment on the train for more than an hour now, and had struck up quite a rapport. Perhaps the man had forgotten Edgar was not a local in the area. He finished winding the old watch and put it back in its place in his pocket. “I… see.”


Eventually he ventured a guess. “You… sell land?”

The man, who had introduced himself as William Horn, smiled. “Not quite, Mr. Marrick. When I say that I am a seller of empty space, I mean just that.” From his waistcoat pocket he pulled a flat copper case and withdrew a card. He passed it to Edgar, who read it curiously.

William S. Horn

Seller of Empty Space

Fully Licensed

“I’m afraid I still don’t understand,” Edgar confessed. “You are a licensed seller of empty space. Of…” he waved his hand vaguely in the air between them, “this?”

“Exactly!” William confirmed. “You understand perfectly, sir. Well done. Most men accuse me of being a seller of nothing at first, but you’ve hit it right off.” His expression darkened. “Selling nothing is an entirely different affair, and dangerous to boot.”

“But, licensed?” Edgar interjected nervously, trying to steer the conversation back into shallow waters before he lost sight of land altogether.

“Of course!” William sat up proudly. “Top marks. They keep asking me to take a training position and give up the legwork, but they’d have to nail my feet to the floor first.” He nodded happily at the barren countryside rolling by outside the window. “I’m heading out to the wasteland right now to close a deal for almost a square mile of wide open space. I’ll take it back to the Capital and give them some elbow room.

“Besides, who would take over for me if I did retire, some new recruit?” He snorted. “Ha! Make it five, and they might come close to being able to handle a full square mile. They’d make mistakes too; lose bits of it, probably take some of the wasteland back with them. Ever hear of Fiddler’s Green?”

Edgar thought for a moment. “I believe I may have overheard some crewmen on the ship saying something about it. Is it an island somewhere?”

William nodded sadly. “It used to be. It’s the whole reason re-certification is required every three years now. The most beautiful port of call this side of Heaven. Then some young fool got it into his head to make it a bit nearer by taking out a bit of the space between it and the shore.”

“Oh dear,” Edgar said. “Did something go wrong?”

“He overshot by a clacking league. Lost the whole island in only a few minutes.” He pulled a pipe and a small bag from another pocket and, after looking to Edgar for permission, tamped a pinch of tobacco into the bowl as he spoke. “When he realized what he’d done he tried to sort it out again, but he was already out of his depth. He hadn’t even bothered to store the space properly, you see. Just pushed it aside like it was in his way. In the end he only made it worse, until no one could find it.”

Opening the window a crack for ventilation, William lit the pipe with a struck match and sucked on it broodingly. “Believe me, Mr. Marrick,” he said with the stem clenched in his teeth. “We tried our best, but no one could find where Fiddler’s Green had gone. I hope it’s still out there on the ocean somewhere, in one of those blank spaces past the edges of the map, but it could have ended up stuck half-way to Hell for all I know.”

Edgar pulled a cigarette from his case and accepted a light from William. They sat smoking in somber silence for a moment, watching the scenery go by as they smoked.

“Bah!” William exclaimed suddenly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put us in such sour moods.” He pointed the stem of his pipe at Edgar. “Tell me, Edgar. What is your profession?”

Edgar fidgeted under the unexpected question, and took a moment to throw his cigarette butt out the window and rearrange his thoughts. “Well, I deal in wishes.”

William’s eyebrows lowered skeptically. “You answer peoples’ wishes?”

Fully prepared to deny accusations of being a genie, Edgar was taken aback by the question. “Er, not as such. I evaluate wishes and distribute grants accordingly.” He took out his pocket watch and started winding it again. “Of course, I only handle cases involving low- and medium-grade wishes.”

“I… see.”

The moon was smaller tonight

The Moon had never looked so small.  The sun lit it from far below the horizon, creating a crescent of mottled white.  The rest of the sphere lay in shadow, though it still glowed just barely brighter than the black space beyond, bathed in the dim blue earthlight reflected by our planet.  It hung suspended in the sky, so crystal clear in the still night air it seemed to be only a few feet above rather than thousands of miles.  Every crater was so clear and detailed that it appeared a delicate and fragile thing.  I worried that a careless bird or even a sudden wind might dislodge it and send it spinning away helplessly into the stars or worse, to fall and shatter on the ground.

The Moon remained silent, continuing on above heedless of the danger.  I stood in shivering vigil for several minutes both to assure myself of its safety and should disaster strike, to catch one last glimpse before it was lost forever.  Eventually I was forced by the cold to return home, leaving the Moon to whatever fate awaited it.