Nightlord: Orb (24 page)

“That’s true,” Larry added.  “You should see her watercolors.”

There ensued a small family argument about whether or not they were good enough to show visitors.  I didn’t mind; it let me eat a fourth burger.  I also got to watch my fries disappear in a ketchup-gore massacre.  I eventually found myself promising if Susan would bring some of her watercolors with her when she came to see my own work, I wouldn’t laugh.

Of course, now I have to do something artistic and geometric.  I wonder… when I ate every soul in Zirafel, were any of them artists?  Surely some of them were.  If I can play instruments I’ve never seen before, surely I can draw!

Since the noon was turning into afternoon, I made an attempt to escape gracefully.  I was hampered in this by Olivia, who seemed to think I was much more fun than plastic dinosaurs and other inanimate toys.  Eventually, I shook hands with Fred and Larry, assured Larry that his grilling was top-notch, thanked Susan for the invitation, lied to Myrna about it being a pleasure to see her again, and got dried ketchup on my face from Olivia.  I once had an easier time escaping a dungeon, although the dungeon was considerably less pleasant.

The rest of the day was a trip into the city, some more hunting for the SCA—which shouldn’t be so much of a problem; they’re not a
secret
society!—and a hotel stay for the privacy of a bathroom and shower.

It saves me so much time and effort to die in the shower.  I don’t think I can overstate how much more convenient and easy it is than doing it with magic.  Here, I mean.  The worth of a civilization can be gauged at least partly by its plumbing.

I spent the evening walking through hospitals and under bridges.  It’s not that I was especially hungry, but there are always so
many
people who don’t want to live any more.  I don’t mean the ones wailing and bemoaning their fate.  I mean the ones whose souls are weary.

True, I could take some ancient derelict from his cardboard box, get him a hot meal, a bath, and a fresh change of clothes.  The ones I’m looking for won’t be helped thereby.  They’re the ones who, even when raised up and made comfortable, have a weariness inside them that transcends the flesh.  Their race is run; their time is up.  They want to rest.

If you’re not a fan of euthanasia, that’s okay.  I can respect that.  I won’t help you along; you can die after as long a wait as possible.  Since I respect your right to live in agony, respect my right to fill my ecological niche.  Until I’ve turned you into a vampire and you’ve seen into the souls of men, don’t presume to judge me.

Better yet, don’t judge me at all.  I might return the favor.

Sunday, October 25
th

I spent most of the day in fistfights and swordfights.  Well, not really, but the practice is the thing.  Apparently, they don’t have an SCA here; they have the MA—Medieval Anachronisms.  The kingdoms are different, the borders are different, the fighting is pretty much the same.  At least this finally confirms my suspicion I’m in another universe.  It’s not a new name for an old organization; it’s always been called that!  Ha!

Unless this is a timeline altered by previous interventions in the past…

Shut up, me.

Anyway, I was graciously loaned some wood and aluminum—sword and armor—and allowed to play.  Quite a few of them are good; it was fun.  Since I wasn’t in danger of getting eviscerated, I took it as an opportunity to experiment with… how to put this?  Not simple parries and counters, but maneuvers more… unusual?  More flamboyant?  Non-standard replies, I suppose.  Rather than a simple parry-and-attack routine, I experimented with more fanciful things, like rolling around the thrust of an enemy, advancing along the outside of his blade as I turned, and catching his arm.  Simply getting to that point was sufficient.

Some of the fighters didn’t appreciate my lack of seriousness.  There are always Those People, the ones who take every fun thing far too seriously.  Specifically, Ed, Lewis, and Gardner—excuse me “Sir Aragon,” “Sir Æthelwight,” and “Sir Cormorant.”  They hated it when people used their “mundane names,” and they weren’t too fond of my style of combat.

I did try to explain.  It’s not all about standing toe-to-toe with someone and being faster, or stronger, or more skilled.  It’s also about doing unexpected things, or doing mundane things in unexpected ways.  The goal is to make the other guy have to
think
about what he’s doing, rather than rely on his reflexes.

Trust me, I know how that works.  If I didn’t have superconductors for nerves, I’d have been dead—permanently dead—a long time ago.

After Ed, Lewis, and Gardner were suitably disgusted, I found Don and Richard.  Technically, “Sir Byron,” and “Sir Percy,” but after the initial introductions it was, “Call me Don.”  “I’m Richard—please don’t call me ‘Dick.’”

“Don and Richard,” I repeated.  “I’m Vlad.  No titles.”

Firebrand was at my hip as part of my costume.  It snorted, psychically—a trick I don’t have.  I got the point and mentally whispered to it to keep quiet.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Don told me.  “I get the impression you’ve been fighting for a while.”

“Yep.  Sadly, I move around a lot.  I’ve never been in one place long enough for a belt, or a brassard, or whatever it is.”

“I like how you keep dancing around,” Richard observed.  “You’re a hard target.  I don’t recall the last time Lewis had to work that hard to hit someone.  And you without a shield, too.”

“I never got the hang of sword-and-shield,” I lied.  “When I have a shield, it’s kind of a wall I wave around.”

“Would you like to work with a shield?” Don asked.  “Richard and I are pretty good, but two-on-one is way different from duels.”

“I would be delighted to be beaten up by such distinguished company.  If you don’t mind me being not-serious and a bunch of other nasty phrases.”

Don smiled.  Richard laughed aloud.

“Don’t worry about it,” Don advised.  “Those three think they’re on a fencing strip.  I haven’t seen them at a war, ever.”

“If they ever do get out on the field,” Richard grumbled, “they’ll square off against an opponent and be blindsided instantly.”

“High technical skill, low competence?” I guessed.

“Pretty much.”

“No wonder they get all offended when I don’t do what they expect.”

“Don and I,” Richard pointed out, “would love to find a third with imagination.”

“Let’s see how imaginative I am.”

Some things stay the same, no matter what universe I’m in.  Don, Richard, and I had a lovely time, dancing around, working on footwork, drilling me with a shield, tumbling in armor, and trying to use mixed martial arts in the middle of a swordfight.

I think we broke some rules—a lot of rules—but no bones.  You’re not supposed to use judo on your opponent, for example.  Don took the fall gracefully, though, even in aluminum-plate armor, and later proved he knew more about throws than I did.  I acknowledged this by wheezing my verbal yield and considering what a lovely sky it was today.

Against someone skilled at throws, the heavier you are, the worse it is.  I left a lovely dirt-angel and had to lie there a minute while my breath wandered around without me.  When it came back, Don helped me to my feet—I did my best not to let him know how much I weigh—and I had him show me that throw again.  Slower, this time, and without the pain.  He didn’t say anything about how much I weigh, so maybe he didn’t notice.  If he did notice, he didn’t say anything, and I appreciated his discretion.

Come to that, I appreciated those two.  They were good guys.  I was tempted to find out if they wanted to move to a magical world.  Good guys are often in short supply.  They might enjoy being knights as a full-time thing.  Or Heroes.

One of the things I noticed during our practice was my overdrive thing.  At night, I can go into a sort of overdrive where I think and react at the speed of dark.  It’s like watching everything in slow motion—including me—but I can consider what’s going on, how I want to move, all that.  Sometimes it borders on a pause, rather than merely slow-motion.

It happens during the day, too.  Not to the same degree, of course, but when the excitement starts, the world begins to slow down.  Is it an effect of a superconductive nervous system?  Suitably stimulated, can quasi-mortal neurons reach an excited, ultra-high-speed state that overclocks my brain?  How far can this go?  And is it damaging?  It’s certainly draining; I was hungry afterward.

While I’m curious, let’s class that with the whole bone-strength testing idea.  I don’t really want to conduct extensive trials to determine what it takes to hurt me and how long it takes to recover.  Yes, I’m a crybaby.  I’m okay with that.

I made it home slightly ahead of the sunset.  I was a bit worried, but my overnight bag has a roll of heavy-duty plastic trash bags in it.  They’re for emergencies, but I keep them on hand because you never know when they’ll be useful.  I haven’t yet had to wrap a body in them, but it might not be my body that needs to be wrapped.

Suitably showered and changed, I got to work again on my interdimensional bench model.

Monday, October 26
th

I’ve got a bench model that should work.  I built it and immediately had to go catch a plane.  By the time I get home, I should have enough charge in the basement to test it!

The flight out to California was uneventful.  I wonder… does Google have anything to do with flight scheduling, these days?  Or in this universe?  They even managed to keep my luggage with me.  In this case, my luggage included a transport case for Firebrand.  Bronze stayed home to keep an eye on the place.

That was a unique experience, Boss.

Since I was alone in the cab, I answered aloud.

“I hope it wasn’t a bad one.”

Different, at least.  I thought this place was low on magic?

“It is.”

But people fly?

“It’s complicated.  I’ll give you a basic rundown on how that works, if you like.”

If it’s too complicated, skip it, Boss.

“Just the basics.”

I didn’t quite get the psychic mutter, but I think it was something about “once a teacher.”

We checked into a hotel. I put away my luggage but brought Firebrand along in its case.  It wasn’t that I was terribly worried about needing a sword, but Firebrand is excellent at spotting when someone tries to put a spell on my mind.

And, yes, I might need a sword.  You never know.  If not, then it was a vital part of the ritual.  I could fake that.

The cab hummed to a stop in the hills, outside an estate.  I could already feel a change in the air.  This place was a power center, at least for this world.  It wasn’t even close to the norm for Rethven, but it was a perceptible increase over the usual background level.  When the gate opened and the cab hummed up the drive toward the house, the sense of power continued to rise.  It leveled off—and this is only a subjective feeling, little more than a guess—at about half the strength of the magical field of Rethven, maybe a little less.  Of course, my perception might be off; it’s been a while since I’ve been in Rethven, after all.

A polite man in sunglasses, suit, and earpiece greeted me.  He did so with formality, deference, and a complete lack of warmth.  He escorted me into the house and I met Johann Fries—pronounced “Frees,” but don’t ask me why.  He was an elderly fellow, not at all spry, but seemed good-humored.  An oxygen bottle and mask stood beside his chair, ready but not in active use.  At his other side was a tea trolley with one china cup and a paper cup with pills.  He didn’t get up to greet me, but I didn’t mind.  The lap-blanket and cane, liver spots on his bony hands, and other clues told me getting up might be less of a gesture and more of a project.

There were two other gentlemen in the room, keeping out of the way and quiet.  Somehow, they did not seem to match the stereotype of a geriatric nurse.  From the crew cuts, suits, and earpieces, they might have been products of the Acme Clone-A-Tron Home Bodyguard Kit.

“You’re the young man with the revolutionary new ritual, eh?” he asked, without preamble.  His voice was clear and crisp, although soft.

“I am, sir.”

“My grandson seems to think we need one.  You’re rather expensively here.  Tell me why you think we need one.”  Although direct, he didn’t seem upset about it.  I thought he was at least slightly amused and maybe a little curious.

“Have you ever had a moment when you wished you could put more push behind a spell?”

“Naturally.”

“This will only work once, but there, you get your wish,” I told him.  Johann’s bushy eyebrows—the majority of the hair on his head—rose markedly.

“So if I spend the time and energy to get that house-preserving ritual fired off, this will make it work longer?”

“I would presume so,” I agreed, carefully.  “I don’t know that ritual, specifically.  Mine will enhance any ritual you perform in it in some way.  Turn more lead into gold, restore more youth, or move a bigger mountain—provided you use
all
of the power inside the circle.  That brings down the circle and allows the effect of your spell to manifest outside.  The effects should be enhanced as though you were drawing power from a nexus.  Or so I’m told; I haven’t had much experience with nexuses.  Nexii?  Nexae?  Whatever.”

At this point, a much younger man entered the room.  He appeared to be in his mid-thirties and smiled constantly.  He immediately approached, hand outstretched.

“Master Smith, I presume!” he declared, shaking my hand with both of his.  “I’m so sorry I wasn’t available to greet you—all sorts of things being difficult, today.  I trust my grandfather hasn’t been chewing your ear too hard.”

“Not at all.  It’s been a pleasure to chat with him.”  I turned to the elder Fries.  “Who is this?” I asked.  Johann chuckled, almost cackled.

“I like him, Jason.  He has a sense of humor.  Master Smith, this is my eldest grandson, Jason Fries.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I offered, smiling.  Jason shook his head in mock sadness.

“Forgive me again, please.  It’s been that sort of day.  Grandfather, if you’ll excuse us?  I’d like to show Master Smith what I have in mind.”

“You youngsters run along,” Johann agreed.  “I’ll either go mountain climbing or continue to sit here.”

As we walked out, I told Jason to call me Vlad.  He reciprocated while we picked up a new pair of well-dressed guards.

What were they worried about?  Me?  They weren’t concerned about an assault on the place; that would call for men in body armor, helmets—the whole tactical getup.  Suits and concealed weapons implied they were more concerned about individual people sneaking in.  Maybe they were cautious about allowing visitors near members of the family.  Did they lose someone, recently?  Or was this a type of family paranoia?  Or was it more general to magi as a whole?

I decided it would be rude to ask.  Tempting, but still rude.

We toured the garden area of the house while we discussed what he wanted.  He was already informed of the general limitations of the spell.  That helped in working out where to put it.  The largest open space available was desirable, but I pointed out it didn’t need to be empty space.  As long as we could draw a circle, it didn’t matter if there were flowers or trees inside it.

There were three gardeners on the payroll; they started work rearranging the landscaping.  Jason promised more help would be on the job before the day was out and they’d work through the night.  This told me a great deal about how he felt regarding my spell.  Was it because the spell was unknown?  Or because of what it did?

He gave orders to a servant and turned back to me.

“Is there a specific time of day when you have to start this?” he asked.

“Not as such.  After either sunset or sunrise, usually.  Since this is going to be a big circle, I’d probably like to start a little after sunrise.  But don’t unnecessarily chew up the garden to make that deadline; I don’t mind waiting until the day after tomorrow.  Besides, they have to figure out how to put it all back together.”

“Good point, good point,” he agreed, nodding.  “I’ll have a guest room prepared.”

“Oh, no,” I protested, thinking of the potential disaster of being a guest in a house of magi while going through multiple undead transformations.  There was no telling what sort of magical things were lurking, waiting to go crazy at the presence of a vampire.  “I’ve got a hotel room already—I’m all unpacked and comfortable.  I’ll be back tomorrow, though, to help plan the layout.”

“Well, if you’re sure?”

“Positive.  I’ll be useless during this part.  I’m no gardener.  These gentlemen appear to have the situation well in hand.  I’ll have dinner and then straight to bed to rest up for the job.”

“Very well,” he agreed, and insisted on sending me to my hotel with his own car and driver, rather than permit me to call a cab.  I thanked him and made my exit.

I stayed in my room that evening and explained about aircraft to Firebrand.  It seemed more interested in rocketry than in airplanes, but that’s understandable.  The hotel shower wasn’t as hot as mine, but they probably wanted to avoid lawsuits; it was still perfectly adequate for my death.  Then we watched some cybertelevision while I lay on the bed.

Beds are a real problem.  It’s one thing to weigh five hundred pounds or so; it’s another thing to weigh that much in a package the size of regular guy.  The dent in the mattress is like an impact crater.  Maybe I should get a water bed and see if that works.  I may want to take a nap, someday.

I remembered Fred and thought to check under the bed.  Turns out the hotel bed didn’t have an “under” portion.  It was some sort of solid mounting.  Ah, well.

Uh, Boss?

“Hmm?”

Do you still care about damsels in distress?

“Generally, yes.”

There’s one about a floor up that’s hurt and crying and stuff.  She’s alone, though.

“So much for my pleasant evening,” I muttered.  I put Firebrand back on the foam, closed the case and latched it.  “Walk me through this,” I told it.

Got it, Boss.

We went up the elevator and down the hall, Firebrand guiding me.

This one, Boss,
it told me. 
She’s behind that door.

My supernatural hearing agreed, so dark, invisible tendrils felt around through the door and the room beyond, confirming Firebrand’s evaluation.  I knocked.  The crying choked, then stopped.

“Who is it?” I heard through the door.

“First aid,” I replied.  “Bandages, ice packs, painkillers—you name it.  Complimentary service, ma’am.”

There was a long silence, then the clicks and thunks of a door coming unlocked.  She opened it a crack and peeked out at me.

“You don’t work for the hotel.”

“I didn’t say I did.  I said it was a complimentary service.  Do you need stitches?”

She stood there for a while, obviously thinking about it.  Then she stepped back and opened the door.

She didn’t need stitches.  She did need quite a number of bandages, though.  Nothing on the face, but quite a bit on her body, ranging down to her elbows and ankles.  Long, shallow cuts—deep scratches, really—interspersed with long, thin bruises and the occasional small, circular burn.

It’s marvelous how helpful a major hotel chain will be.  Call down to the concierge and ask for a first-aid kit and they
give
you one.  No questions asked. Remarkably helpful.  It’s almost as though they want to avoid a lawsuit by being able to deny any knowledge of the incident.  I resolved to leave the maid service a healthy tip and the hotel an excellent customer review.

We didn’t talk much while I applied the sprays—the first to disinfect, the second to coagulate, and the third to cover it all in a layer of pseudo-skin. I love this high-tech medicine.  She changed position when instructed, held still, and let me work.

I noticed there was no luggage, nothing put away in drawers, not even a toothbrush—just some scattered articles of female clothing on the floor.  Even the robe was a hotel robe.  The bed was a mess, though, and the scents in the air were not all hers.  My guess was she was a working girl and her customer had been less vanilla than she hoped.

Finally, I packed the remains of the kit together and put it in the closet.  I picked up Firebrand’s case and unlocked the door.

“Hey,” she called, still sitting on the bed.

“Hmm?”

“Is that it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is there a bill?  Or something?” she asked, half-afraid of the answer.

“Complimentary,” I reminded her.

“Yeah, but you don’t work for the hotel.”

“True.  I work for me.”

“And that’s what you do?” she asked, puzzled.  “You wander around and bandage people?”

“I do lots of things.  I’m complicated.”

“Don’t you even want to know what happened?”

“Nope.  It’s your business.”

She stared at me for several seconds.

“You’re weird.”

“But a nice weird, I hope.”

“There aren’t any nice weirdos,” she stated, flatly, coldly.

“Then you may safely ignore me as a figment of your imagination.”

The door bleeped as the electronic lock came open.  I stepped back as the door swung inward and a man came in.

“Leaving?” he asked.  “Nice.”  He looked past me, at the woman.  “Did he pay?”

“No, he’s not—”

The guy, a short man with an expensive-looking “fashionable” outfit—don’t ask me; I don’t understand fashion—chose that moment to grab me by the shirtfront and push me back into the room.  I let him.

“You don’t go nowhere until you pay for this,” he snapped, and slapped me.  I was glad of the high-grade makeup.  It doesn’t rub off; you have to use alcohol and scrub a bit.

I felt an urge to see how tough the window glass was.  How hard would I have to throw a pimp to send him to the parking lot by the express route?

I didn’t.  I wanted to, but I didn’t.  That would cause trouble for me and for the nice prostitute.  Likewise, cracking his skull against the floor would cause long-term trouble for her.  Pimps don’t like it when their merchandise has muscle on their side.