Nightlord: Orb (59 page)

“Dad,” Amber said. 

“Oh, all right.  I’m listening,” I replied, seriously.

“She’s a goddess.  She has an ego big enough to eclipse mountains.  But don’t tell Her I said that.”

“I won’t.”

“Thank you.  You do have to admit—would you, please?—you came into that conversation with an attitude other than gentle persuasion.”

“Fine,” I agreed, because she was right.  And my daughter.  Probably mostly because she’s my daughter.  “I wasn’t in the best of moods.  I admit it.  She still could have—”

“And you could have been more polite,” Amber interrupted.  I sighed.  Yes, she had a point.  I didn’t have to like it.

“I could have,” I agreed, wearily.  “Yes.”

“She’s being…” Amber groped for a word.  “Understanding?  No.  She’s trying amazingly hard—for a goddess—to be conciliatory.  I think She really does care what you think of Her.”

My reply was one word and involved fertilizer production.  Amber’s fiery visage smiled.

“That’s my opinion, of course,” she consoled, tolerantly, “as a priestess.  And as a fiery avatar.”

Damn it, she’s definitely my daughter.  She has a genetic predisposition for knowing what to say to me.

“Okay.  I acknowledge your superior expertise.  But before you finish telling me what happened to Beryl, answer me this.  Since you were only a baby, yourself, did Sparky tell you what happened?  Or did Tamara?”

“I heard it from the Mother, first, when I was young.  I spoke to my mother, Tamara, about it.  She confirmed it.”

“Damn.”

“Damn?  Why?”

“I may have to believe you,” I clarified.  “It’s not that I don’t want to believe
you.
I’m hesitant and resistant to the idea of believing anything Sparky has to say.  This might be one of the few times.”

“Hmm.  I cannot say I am pleased by your attitude, Father, but I suppose, from your point of view, it is not unwarranted.  I can see things from your perspective; She cannot.  That is one of the things about the gods that mortals cannot comprehend.”

“They’re a bunch of self-centered energy-state beings that pretend to godhood and have zero empathy?” I asked.  The fiery figure shrugged.  She seemed amused.

“Next time we talk, I will happily discuss it with you.”

“Yeah, we’re out of wood.  I’ll be better prepared, next time.”

“Until then… Dad.”

“See you later… kiddo.”

The fire flared and fell to ashes.

Bronze brought Mary back while I was assembling a gate spell.  Mary’s hair was more than windblown, it was windblasted.  Her grin was wide enough to threaten her ears and her fangs were showing.  Bronze seemed pretty pleased, as well; smoke came from her ears and fire from her mouth.  She was in need of a new paint job.  The heat of her hide started it peeling and the high-speed winds finished the job.  Only a few patches of horse-colors remained; the majority of her was the gleaming golden-bronze color of her own hide.

“Good run?” I asked.  Bronze nodded enthusiastically and pawed at the ground, digging a small trench.  Mary leaped down with a bounce and hugged Bronze’s neck; Bronze lifted her head to avoid setting Mary’s hair on fire.  Then Mary turned to me and hugged me.

“This is the most spectacularly fantastic horse!” she gushed.

“Well, I certainly agree, and Bronze thanks you for the compliment.” I hugged Mary.  Bronze thought Mary was a good rider and a fun one.

“We chased all over the desert,” Mary went on, “and Bronze can jump like nothing I’ve ever seen!  Motocross racers don’t get to ride like that!

“You should see her with a gravity-distorting spell and a low hill for a ramp,” I chuckled.  Mary let go of me and I nodded toward the trailer.  “Want to finish peeling the paint off her?”

“With pleasure.  But is it normal—well, usual—for her to get so hot?”

“Fire-breathing metal golem horse,” I reminded her.

“Yes, but is she supposed to get so hot?  I mean, I’m dead at the moment so it’s not a big deal.  I was just wondering.”

“Yes, it’s normal.  During the day, I spend a lot of time riding like a jockey—standing in the stirrups—if we’re going somewhere in a hurry.  The air usually cools her enough to tolerate.  I also try to keep a blanket or something handy for insulation.”

“And oven mitt for your butt?” she asked.  Bronze snorted laughter and flame.

“Not how I’d put it.”

The two went back to the vehicle and I continued working on my spell.  For this, I didn’t want anything large.  Smaller is better for the power requirements, and I wouldn’t need anything big for a message portal.  What I selected was a length of four-inch plastic pipe.  It was about three feet long, which gave me room to write symbols on it.  It also let me fine-tune the focus a bit.  At “my” end, I used the magical alphabet of this universe.  At the other, I used the original alphabet of Zirafel.  Each ring of symbols evolved toward the other as I added more of the spell in between.

I could have scratched them into the plastic, but I wanted to be able to erase and re-write them.  It might work perfectly on the first try, but I could also use it as the starting point for experiments for looking into other universes.  It might be helpful in gathering data on what defined any one universe from every other universe.

If I had a phone with the appropriate symbols, could I make it send messages to anyone in any universe?  Not merely universal roaming, but cosmological roaming?  Stop it, Eric; that’s silly.

Or is it?

I deeply regretted the lack of iridium.  If I could coat one end of the pipe in a layer of that metal, would it change the amount of energy required to open a gate?  On the other hand, it would already cost far less than a person-sized gate—or a Bronze-sized gate—by virtue of being so much smaller.  A little quick math regarding surface area put a regular gate at about four or five hundred times larger than the pipe-gate.  I could try it, get it working correctly, then add an iridium layer later and see if it made a perceptible difference.  Assuming of course, I could find some iridium and figure out how to apply it.  It’s not an easy metal to work with.

Mary finished grooming Bronze and Bronze cooled down enough to stop breathing fire and smoke.  They came over to watch what I was doing.  Mary didn’t ask questions; she wasn’t sure how much concentration I needed.  She did watch closely, though, and I could feel her presence as her attention and focus moved through the emerging spell structure with me.

When I finished, I set the tube aside and she let out a whistle.

“I hope that’s not a simple spell,” she quipped.  “If it is, I can quit studying right now.”

“It’s one of the most complicated spells I know,” I assured her.  “You won’t be tackling that until much later.”

“Good, because I followed it about as well as I cook.”

“You cook?”

“Servants for such chores,” she jibed, waving a hand.  “At least, back when I was human.  I haven’t had to poison anyone—excuse me, I meant ‘try to cook’—since then.  For safety purposes, I don’t cook; I unwrap.”

“I don’t cook too well, myself.  Relax.  At your stage of training, you’ve barely learned how to properly apply a bandage.  Now you’ve walked in on the guy doing genetic engineering.  We’ll get there, but we’ll take our time doing it.  It’ll all make sense by the time you reach this point.”

“Maybe,” she allowed, dubiously.  “I’ll take your word for it.  So, what’s it do?”

I explained about the inter-universal portal I hoped to create.  Then I prepared a message spell and showed her how that worked.  It was still a long way above her current training, but, while she had no hope of doing it, she could follow along and see how it was done.  She’d understand it later and have one of those
Aha!
moments I so love.

She held the spell for me as though holding a camera while I spoke to T’yl.

“Hello, T’yl.  This is my test of a new gateway spell.  If you get this, I’d appreciate a similar message spell in return.  Please put it… how about under my bed, in my quarters?  In Karvalen, of course.  Have it wait until it senses an open portal.  Then it can duck through and I’ll get it.  You might want to put something under there with it, about this big around,” I held up my hands, “for me to lock on to.

“On another note, I think you missed.  I’m not where I expected to be.  Remember the carnivorous ivy and the ants I don’t want to talk about?  No sign of them around here.  Lots of people though, so that’s kind of a good thing.  Were you aiming for the place I told you about?  Or did you aim elsewhere deliberately?  It’s been on my mind.

“With that out of the way, we get to the important part:  Tort was not in the Black Ball.  I want to know where she is.  If you don’t know,
start looking
!”  I checked myself and lightened my tone.  “Please.

“And, finally, thank you for your help.  I’m overjoyed to not be actively pursued by religious zealots.  I still have some issues to resolve in Rethven and Karvalen, I think, but at least I’m not fighting off daily attacks.  If you can, please let me know how things are going over there.  I’m considering a visit.”

I signaled Mary.  She closed the loop of the message spell, sealing it.  I accepted the immaterial construct of the spell from her, checked it for internal integrity, and nodded.  She was pleased to have done it right.

She paid close attention as I dumped huge amounts of power into a plastic tube.  It wasn’t complicated; it was a simple power-channeling exercise.  It was important for her to see how it was done.  Once the tube opened, I tossed the message spell through it and let Mary look through.  The tube’s other end connected to one of the air shaft openings in Karvalen—they’re generally holes in the ceiling, about the same diameter as the pipe.  We gazed down into what I recognized as the royal chambers.  We could see a surprising amount.  Rather than looking through a three-foot tube, it was as though the opening was right there at our end of the tube.  It was more like looking through a four-inch-wide window.

I liked the furniture: Heavy, durable, presumably carved out of single pieces of wood.  I thought the low couch and the chair could use some padding, though.

The bed was a little different.  Instead of a niche in the wall, half the room’s floor was raised to about bed height and covered in soft things—furs, pillows, and the like.  The thing was big enough for a ping-pong table and a row of arcade machines.  Despite its size, it still had a storage space underneath. I thought the arrangement might work out if I ever moved into it.

We only peeked for a few seconds before I closed the portal.  Opening it took most of the magic I’d managed to accumulate.  It was proportionally less than a full-sized gate, so my math was right on point.  Inter-universal portals, though, are always expensive.  On the other hand, how small can I make one?  Is there a lower limit?  How small can it be and still send a message spell through?

“That’s the kingdom of the living stone?” Mary asked.

“My pet rock,” I agreed.

“It’s big.”

“I’m overcompensating,” I kidded.  Mary smacked me on the rump and squeezed.

“No, you’re not.”

“Oh, good.  I feel much more confident and self-assured.”

“Have I mentioned you’re impossible?”

“Yes,” I agreed, “but I take exception to that.  I’m merely highly improbable.”

“Where you aren’t miraculous.  Fine.  But that’s the magic kingdom?”

“I have to say no, it isn’t, on the grounds it might be a trademark infringement.  Never mess with the Mouse,” I cautioned.  She made a face.

“That’s the
magical
kingdom?”

“Yes.”

“And that spell can open up a magical gateway between here and there?”

“Yes.”

“And you can make a bigger one?  One we could actually step through?”

“Yes.  But a bigger gate takes more power in a geometric progression.  I’m pretty sure it’s a surface area thing.”

“But we could go there?” she persisted.

“Yes.  Eventually.  There are political and social issues to consider.”

“But you
will
take me to fantasy land and show me around?” she pressed/pleaded.  “Please?”

“If you like, yes.  It may take a while, though.”

“I’m immortal.  I can be patient.”

“Now that,” I told her, “is an important skill.”

Wednesday, December 2
nd

Living in an RV seems strange, yet strangely satisfying.  It’s weird in that it’s different.  For one thing, I’m accustomed to having more than one room.  If I want to work on different things, I’m used to having the option to leave a project sitting there, ready to be resumed, while I divert my attention to something else.  That doesn’t work in here.  If I want to do something different, I have to put something else away.

Then there’s the scenery.  I’m about as aesthetically inclined as a parade-ground flagpole, but I know enough to agree with Mary and Bronze when they tell me the view is fantastic.  Mary likes looking at it; Bronze wants to run through it.  All I know is it’s the southwestern United States.  Scenery isn’t my thing.  I really don’t have an opinion of my own on it.

Somehow, though, I seem to like the situation.  The shower is too small, the water isn’t hot, the living space is cramped, the headroom questionable, the mattress too thin, the air conditioning too wimpy, and the lighting potentially fatal.  It’s an oversized coffin on wheels with just enough comfort additions to disguise it.

At least the kitchen suits me; there’s a microwave and an electric burner for a stove.  Since I cook like a career bachelor, that’s about all I could ever need.  Mary has already established she doesn’t cook.  We’ve agreed if we don’t have anywhere to stop for food, it’ll be my job to hold starvation at bay.

Why I like this nomadic lifestyle, I can’t quite figure out.  Maybe it’s the freedom to blow wherever the wind takes us.  I am a leaf on the wind.  Watch how I—no, on second thought, let’s not go there.  It doesn’t end well.  As for why I’m enjoying this, not having a territory to defend might have something to do with it.  I don’t have a yard to mow, trespassers to throw out, or assassins to kill.  What I do have is time, a relative sense of security, and Bronze, Firebrand, and Mary.

Firebrand suggested we name the RV something.  I’ve got no idea; I used up all my powers of naming things when I created Bronze.  Mary’s thinking about it.

We’re moving every day, sometimes all day, and I’ve been keeping an eye out for less-than-mundane methods of tracking.  I’m pretty sure we’re not being traced with magic.  Technology may be doing it, but Mary says we’ve minimized our traceable footprints.  Unless a major intelligence agency is actively hunting us, or someone with a private spy satellite has us under constant observation, we’re tough to find.

As for anyone actually following us, physically keeping an eye on us, I’m pretty sure we would have noticed.  It’s hard to avoid being spotted by a golem, a psychic sword, and
two
vampires.  I’m not saying it can’t be done, but that level of sneakiness is the sort of thing people write songs about—or would, if they ever found out about it.  It’s high-level ninja work.

Mary has a taste for the night life.  She liked our evening out in Flagstaff with dancing, shows, and all that stuff.  She wants to do it more often.  I’m not objecting; what she wants to do, we’ll do.  I’ll pretend to dance.  I’ll cheerfully chat with her about people in the crowd and who would be the more entertaining dinner.  I’ll even go to loud, flashy clubs and grit my teeth through the senses-pounding madness.  It’s not that I enjoy much of it, but Mary does, and I enjoy seeing her happy.

We should be pulling into Las Vegas this afternoon.  A five-star hotel—even a four, or a three; a three-star hotel would do fine—isn’t exactly something I’m going to argue over.  Full-sized bathroom.  Room service.  A big bed.  I could get behind that idea.  We could spend a few days taking in the life of Vegas.

Maybe we can see a magician’s show.  I’ve always wondered how they do their illusions.  Maybe now I can spot the tricks!

Mary has been here before, I think.  She knows things.  I’m a little afraid to ask what she broke into, much less what she stole.  Maybe that’s unfair; she might have visited strictly as a tourist… but I doubt it.

For example, she insisted we go to the casino before checking into the hotel, and that I should follow her lead.  I planned to do our usual bit in the casino.  Throw away some money on the games, win some, lose some, and so on, then finish with a profit.  A clear case of a man who knows to quit when he’s ahead, right?

Not Mary.  Her tactic was to lose a couple of hands of blackjack, then start winning.  When you know what the dealer has and what the next cards are going to be, you can do that.  It’s not as much a sure thing as my trick with the roulette ball, but Mary can scan the cards quickly, almost casually.  I can’t.  She practically pages through the whole shoe like riffling through a deck of cards by hand.  It doesn’t guarantee she’ll win, but the odds move so drastically in her favor that over the course of an hour or so, she was walled in behind a pile of chips and surrounded by spectators.

Everyone loves a winner.

Then, when she decided she was done, she took three losses in a row and used them as her excuse to call it quits.  It was still quite a pile of chips, though.  She gave a high-value chip to the dealer as a tip, scooped the rest into a bucket—thoughtfully and helpfully provided by the management—and went to cash out.  Then we went up to our room, also courtesy of the management.  Something called the “high-roller’s suite.”

I’ve died and gone to a movie set.  There are places where they really do have mirrored ceilings, hot tubs in the bathroom, champagne on ice by the bed, all of it.  The concierge showed us around the suite and I was glad he did; I almost asked him for a map.  I don’t know how much of the hotel floor it occupied, but it was more than the usual suite of rooms. And then there were all the gadgets and conveniences and just plain
things
built into the suite…

At what point do conveniences become annoyances?  Answer: when they take more effort to learn how to use than they save by being used.  The suite should come not only with a map but a
manual
.

Fortunately for me, Mary knew how most of it worked.  Admittedly, the multi-directional, concert-hall water jets in the shower room—I can’t call something that size a shower stall—took both of us by surprise, but it was a good surprise.  We died in the shower, cleaned up, touched up the makeup, and went out.

Mary wanted dancing.  I went dancing.  I still don’t really have any sense of rhythm, but I try.  We also went to see shows—a comedian who was actually pretty funny, an amazing Elvis impersonator, a pop star of some sort, and, yes, a magician.

I have eyes sharp enough to read newsprint from the back row of the lounge.  I could count the petals on his carnation.  I spotted the hangnail on the ring finger of the right hand.  And yet, I
still
didn’t see how he did the thing with the doves.  I didn’t detect any magic, but if he’s sold his soul to a demonic Thing, I might not.  It’s the only way he could possibly have done it.  The dove simply could not survive being in there.  And it would have tickled the lady volunteer dreadfully.

Maybe we’ll come back tomorrow night and I’ll cheat, checking by tendril-braille and using a spell for x-ray vision.  The only thing is… I’m not sure it will help.  How
did
he do that?  There’s irony for you.  I’m a semi-professional wizard and a Vegas magician’s tricks are going to bother me.

We also did some walking around.  Las Vegas is a tourist town and knows it.  It has so much to see and do it has a hard time telling the tourists what there is to see and do.  Doubtless, Mary and I missed out on lots of things we would love, but there’s something to be said for taking your time and rubbernecking as you walk down Las Vegas Boulevard.  I highly recommend it to anyone who plans to go.

Okay, yes, we also siphoned off little bits of spiritual essence from people around us.  Trifling amounts of vitality from each person adds up over time.  Our main reason for being in Vegas was to enjoy it, not hunt it.  And, to be fair, Vegas was nice to us.  Nobody asked us to hand over our money; nobody even asked us for a handout.  Maybe it’s only on the boulevard, but Vegas did a terrific job of making itself hospitable and welcoming.

If there’s one thing I disliked about the place, it’s strictly a personal preference.  I brought my sunglasses.  I needed them.  They don’t need streetlights; Las Vegas is the land of neon sunshine.  The signs illuminate the world.  My eyes and ears—heck, all my senses—are supernaturally sharp at night.  I prefer quiet, not-very-well-lit places.  Las Vegas is neither of those things.  But, as I say, that’s my personal preference.  No one else seemed to mind.