Distance

Alehanurhad: VI

2012-02-17T23:59:00.000-05:00

Gios called a halt. His soldiers sat before him in a semicircle; with their spears it looked like Gios was being cradled by a blue-and-white hedgehog.

“The fires are out,” Gios said, glancing at the city. “That could be a good sign or a bad one. We’ll cross the north bridge and enter the city through the Watchersgate. We’re heading for the Watcher’s Fort. Stay with me.” The kortaen Sohil had always kept Aos as his god, and Gios feared that the lack of fire was an omen, so he added, “assume everyone wants to kill you. With me.”

They were still about two miles from the city, and it took the better part of an hour to reach the bridge. Behind them the ground was scruff, but to the north the fields spread along the coastline into the horizon. To the south was the bridge, a broad, stone bridge that made a graceful arc across the river, and beyond that the city.

The crossing went without incident, the scuff of feet and sandals on the stone their only announcers. Night had fallen properly, and the eastward winds were cool to the touch. The river flowed peacefully, and the city was quiet.

On the corner facing the group, the Watcher’s Fort stood tall and grim. It was a gloomy block of mortared stone, with a huge, slope-walled tower on the near corner and tall buttressed walls stretching to smaller towers on the fort’s corners. There were lights in some of the rooms, but Gios could not make out any banners, or those on the Harbor’s Fort across the city.

The walls extended east and south from the fort, but west of the walls was the merchant’s town, freestanding buildings outside the city’s protection. Many looked abandoned, now, or burnt; charred beams stuck out where roofs and walls had disappeared. Gios’s men gave the town suspicious looks as they passed it.

The Watcher’s Fort was built very near to the shore, with only a thin path crossing the pebbly ground between it and the steep slope to the river. Gios’s army passed it two-abreast, as quickly as they could but also quietly. The gravel crunched under their feet, and the moonlight caught the tips of their spears.

They regrouped beyond the fort, just north of the Watchersgate, where the wall was farther off from the shore. The gate was a small thing, barely big enough for three people to pass through at once, flanked by fat, D-shaped towers, but importantly, it was open. Two guards stood when Gios approached, but they wore Iasilu colors, three white circles on black. He killed one. Three of his men set upon the other.

“Within the walls, I claim first blood,” Gios said. He left his spear in the dead man and drew his sword as he passed under the gate. There were voices in the city, hidden around the corners and curves of the streets, but the people they belonged to were elsewhere. Somewhere a hammer was ringing. It was almost an hour after the sun had set; who would be hammering? Darkness covered the streets, the footfalls of Gios’s sixty-four men padded quietly on the cobbles.

As they approached the Watcher’s Fort, the voices drifting through the city became clearer. Someone was yelling about timber. Hammering rang louder, a clanging nuisance in the otherwise calm night. Some rooms were lit in the buildings they passed, but there were no faces in the windows or people in the streets. Everyone was either hiding or with the group that was producing the sound.

They took a left at the baths, a right past a bakery that made wonderfully crusty bread, went under a building that crossed over the path in a fortified archway, the Watcher’s Fort always looming ahead of them, now bigger, now bigger, until it almost blocked out the stars before them. Then they turned a corner and found the noise makers.

Outside the walls of the Watcher’s Fort, there was a gap wherein it was illegal to build, so that attackers would have to be exposed on their way to the walls. In that gap was a fairly large force, thousands in strength, with workers hammering away at half-finished siege engines and moving stones and timber. The army was awake, soldiers standing with slender spears of sharpened wood or slumped around tables and crates throwing dice. Banners stood every twenty or thirty feet, each a series of white circles on a black field.

For a mere second, Gios was frozen, but then he was moving, running, flying. Someone in the hadataen’s army called “barataen,” and the spearmen advanced on Gios. The first man within his range found a sword in his chest, but he grabbed the crossguard as he fell and wrenched the sword from Gios’s hand.

A second man reached Gios, shoving his spear forward. Gios grabbed the spear without thinking, pulled it from the man’s hands and spun it back into his chest. The man fell as a third fell upon Gios, missing; Gios pulled the man close with his left hand and cut his throat with his right. He turned to see a spear reaching for him. There was no time to move, but a blue-and-white shadow slammed into the spear’s owner, tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs, spears, and a knife.

Gios’s soldiers swarmed past him, jabbing their spears into the crowd before them, giving him a short respite. He wiped his dagger on a dead man’s tunic and sheathed it, then pulled his sword from the corpse that had taken it.

One of his men passed him slowly, his spear pointed downwards, nudging the dead with his foot to make sure they were dead. “You are blessed, Gios. To kill three men with three different weapons! The Emperor is with us, barataen.”

Gios had no answer. His heart was racing, his palms sweat. He shut his eyes hard and saw spots. When he opened them, he was in control again. “We are outmatched, whether the gods are with us or no,” he said, then yelled, “Rally! To me!”

Men in blue-and-white fell back from the mass of Iasilu soldiers, many injured, and more than a few missing, still lying on the cobbles. They had had the fortune of hitting the very end of the enemy siege lines; though there were thousands of soldiers, only a fraction could reach them without walking down the lines. Nonetheless, that fraction was great in number. Gios and his men retreated to the nearest alley between buildings, spears forward and jabbing at anyone that got too close.

The alley they formed up in was still wide, perhaps fifteen feet in width, but narrow enough for a line of spears to hold it, and for more than one line to form up. Gios arranged three lines of seven, with a fourth line facing backwards in case the enemy wrapped around, and the rest of his army in reserve.

Only then did it hit him; his reserve was too few. Even with a few losses, this maneuver should have left forty men waiting, but only twenty or so stood between the two spear lines. Surprise had been theirs, but it had not saved them.

Slowly, carefully, the enemy pressed forward, testing the line of spears. Two men got too close and were struck, the first in the belly, the second just below the shoulder. When others tried to exploit the momentary gap, the spearmen further back harassed them. The stalemate solidified.

Gios cursed in his head, but said, “We cannot be trapped here, it will be the death of us. We must hold the line, but retreat. On my order. Step!”

The group shuffled backwards one step, and the enemy advanced one step. Then an arrow hit one of the reserve soldiers in the chest, and as he fell, hell broke loose. Many of the reserve soldiers began sprinting for the gate, and the rear spear line broke and ran with them. Some of the forward lines jumped forward into the attack, some held the line, and some ran with the reserves.

“Hold! Hold! Get back here!” He yelled until he was hoarse, but his men ran heedless, dying on enemy spears in front or disappearing into the city behind. Gios was alone. His sword felt heavy in his hand. Everything he had was gone. He was abandoned.

Even so, his soldiers were not without training, and those that had charged the enemy were slowly gaining ground. For every one that died, three or four foes fell. They pressed on, until they had gone too far; Iasilu’s men surrounded them and made for the reserves that remained, and for Gios. He tightened the grip on his sword and watched their steps. Closer, closer, closer, they came, and just before he swung his sword, a horn rang out from the Watcher’s Fort.

The sword hit home. Gios was yelling, growling, snarling, his sword was dancing streams of red and torn threads as the spearmen in their cloth garments fell. The reserves that had stayed, frozen perhaps by fear, were emboldened and ran to their barataen, spears thrusting into the black-tunic soldiers. A tumult had sounded from the far end of the field. There was another battle going on somewhere else, but to Gios it seemed another world. His world existed within the range of his blade, a world of blood and sweat.

Slowly his guard was falling. One of his men was hit in the leg, and dragged away when he fell. Another broke his spear and jumped forward with a dagger, slashing haphazardly until he found a new spear in his gut. Two men were wrestling, spears and blades forgotten, Alehanur’s man slamming the other’s head into the cobbles until they were red. Gios was swinging wildly. Martas was designed to be fought against Martas, and he was far beyond that. His arms and his victims were screaming.

Then suddenly one of Iasilu’s men was stabbed from behind, and the men fighting over the bodies were wearing yellow and red. These were Arimiu’s men; with them came a few exhausted spearmen in blue and white, and some in other colors, but they were all barataen’s soldiers. Some wore yellow and black, and sported broad shields and broad, short spears.

They were Tadza men, and their barataen was with them. He smiled when he saw Gios. “We’re leaving the city,” he said. And so they did, Tadza limping quickly beside his men. The hadataen’s army did not follow them.

Lilia

2012-02-14T09:00:00.000-05:00

The city of Lilia rests upon the shores of a great sea, its whitewashed buildings shining in the midmorning sun. Roofs of brass and copper shine in the day and glitter at night, and in the wee hours of the morning men climb up on ladders and polish them, each one, until they could be used as mirrors.

Of the buildings, the greatest is without a doubt the library. Some claim it to hold all the knowledge of the world. The truth of the matter is shrouded, but the great shelved halls are large enough that if they do not contain all the world’s information, a great many of them must be empty. A host of stern librarians in white gowns bustles about the place, soft shoes flapping against the polished tile floor. It is the center of the city.

It is no wonder therefore that geniuses and intellectuals are drawn to the city as moths are to a flame. You can find them in the fields, working with hoes and shovels, their fingers caked with dirt and baked by the sun, or in the mines, pulling up amethyst and emerald and metals for new roofs.

Each of them in turn came to the city, bringing books and papers and research notes to present to the librarians, but were all turned away. Their notes were all redundant, they were told; the library had already acquired that knowledge.

So now the rocket scientist carries coal for the glassblowers, and the biologist cleans chimneys, and the physicist shines shoes on the streets. They all felt called to this city, felt compelled to undertake this pilgrimage of knowledge, but now they are forbidden from the library. They cannot remember why they came and cannot tell you why they do not leave.

They no longer know – but the library does.

* * *

I hope you've enjoyed this Valentine's Day digression. For whoever actually reads this (all one of you), the Alehanurhad will continue on Saturday as usual.

Alehanurhad: V

2012-02-10T23:59:00.000-05:00

Shevien’s eyes were hard between his furrowed brow and the frown he wore like stone. “Someone must have planted it.”

“Yes,” Gios said, “but as a diversion. They were seen, they planted it, they made sure that our kortaen Sohil had word of them, and then they left. There is no-one here. My scouts confirm it. We should go east, back to Avinum. There we will find this southern army.”

“You were young when you first fled Dariya, so I will forgive you the fire in your heart. You must not know what happened to those who went the opposite way, those lords who brought with them their soldiers and ran toward the burning city. They are dead. Dead! And you see a fire and would push us into it. Fire burns, young barataen.”

Gios fought the urge to hit him. Any strike would be a challenge of swords, and he had no intention of killing the other barataen. “So you would wait here and abandon our kortaen to the southerners?”

“I would fulfill the orders given me. I was told to look for our enemies as far west as the first split, and I intend to do as I was commanded. When I return to my kortaen, he will be glad to see I have not short-handed him.”

The two sat for what felt a long time in silence, then Gios stood. “You will fulfill your duty on your own, barataen. I and my tennet are returning to Avinum.”

“My kortaen will be angry when he sees you,” Shevien warned him, standing as well. “He will say, ‘have you done as I bid?’ and you must tell him, ‘no, I have failed you.’”

For an instand Gios’ anger boiled over. “At least I will not say, ‘I used my duty as a shield for my cowardice.’ Good hunting, barataen.” He left the tent quickly and made for where his men were camped, just north of Shevien’s plot.

It was barely afternoon and hot as hell on the brown, scruffy ground. The grass was greener on the southern shore, but that was swampland, and would drown you sooner than it would carry you. Drowning in the heat was little better than living in it, and Gios had switched his blue-and-white komaena for his chainmail one willingly, so he had no right to complain.

His camp was smaller than Shevien’s, though he had as many soldiers. Shevien had brought more ifta and more oxen – and more tents and chairs and wine as well, though they were still packed on the pack animals’ backs. Gios had only brought what was necessary; enough food to feed seventy-five for five days, and tents. He himself slept on a mat as his men did, under a thick blanket; Shevien had brought a full mattress.

Gios almost ran into Modos, having been lost in thought. The hadai’s grin faded as he looked at Gios’s face. “It went badly?”

“Yes. I think it wise to be gone soon. We are going to Avinum.”

“Then you were successful? Why are you upset?”

“I said we are going to Avinum. He and his men are continuing west, to the first split, as ordered.” He undid his belt and shouldered out of his mail. “Get the komaena in my colors.”

Modos sent an ifta after the komaena. “Then you’re right, we should get going.”

“We go separately, you and I. You take the ifta and the oxen north of the city and wait for us there. If you think it safe to enter the city, do so. If you think we are lost, leave us and travel north to Alem.”

“Isn’t Tereha closer?”

Gios shook his head. “Alem. It is further, but that only keeps it safer from these southern hadataen.” He thanked the ifta and pulled on his heraldic komaena. “I am leaving you the better part of our gear, including our tents and my armor. We need speed now. How many of the ifta brought bows?”

“Three or four.”

“Take enough of our spare spears for the rest. I want every man in your party armed. I’m going to muster the men. See that you’re gone soon after I am.”

“I will be, barataen.”

Gios hugged his friend. “If the gods are good, I’ll see you again in the city,” he said, and went to where his soldiers were waiting, telling every ifta he crossed to seek Modos. Gios’s soldiers were well-trained, and still stood and milled around more-or-less in marching order. For that, Gios muttered a quick prayer of thanks.

“What orders, barataen?”

“We’re marching east. Each of you get two days of food in a pack and an extra spear. There will be no tents and no cows, we’re moving on foot. You may bring your bedroll if you want it. Meet back here as soon as you’re prepared.” Gios grabbed one of his spearmen as he walked by. “Get me a spear and a pack as well.” The soldier nodded and hustled toward Modos’ crowd of ifta and oxen.

It did not take them long, and once everyone was gathered they turned and began walking. The day was waxing hot and the grass crunched beneath the feet of Gios’s tennet. Sixty-five in strength they marched, spears in hand and slung over shoulders under shields, a small stream of blue-and-white amid the drab colors of the world.

Afternoon lost its scalding bite slowly, and then its colors as the sun set carefully behind them. Quickly enough, it seemed, the group was trudging in starlight and darkness. Avinum lit part of the horizon when Gios called a stop for the night, commanded eight-man hourly watches, and picked a patch of crisp, dead grass to sit on.

He closed his eyes and breathed in slowly, feeling the breath in his nose. His eyes were shut, and against them he saw Avinum.

The city was an island where the river split, the last split, and could only be accessed by bridges north and south of the city itself. Because they were on the northern shore, Gios’s army would have to travel the northern bridge, and the closest entry would be the northern gate, the Watchersgate. That way went past the Sojeldamorei, the Watcher’s Fort, on the northwestern corner of the city proper.

It was said that besieging Avinum was a strategist’s nightmare, but Gios had his plans for that. A few siege engines on the northern shore could harry them effectively, and troops could be sent around the city or across the river to block both of the supply lines by land. The problem was getting in the city without being attacked. It would be simple enough to go into the Watchersgate if that part of the city had not fallen, but if it had then that way would be violently blocked. The path north of the Watcher’s Fort was barely more than a trail; they could not enter that way if it was held against them.

Still, it would be the quickest entrance to reach and the closest to defenses if the Watcher’s Fort wasn’t yet taken. The plan was far from ideal, but if the gods favored Gios, it could go well.

Satisfied that he would do no good by keeping himself up any longer, Gios leaned back on the grass and stretched out. He could refine the plan when he woke.

The night passed quickly. Gios slept poorly and woke early, practicing his martas forms as the sun rose. Then he and the last watch woke the men, took an uncooked breakfast of flatbread and cheese, and began marching. Gios always enjoyed a long walk; they allowed him to slip into his thoughts and let his legs wander as they would. He mulled over the plan of attack in his mind, but for all his trying he could not find any better way than to slip past the Watcher’s Fort.

Avinum had been used a staging point for the attack on the south when the Empire was first being founded, and had been greatly strengthened in those days. Posterns were bricked shut, gates were fortified, and new gatehouses were built to reinforce them. In the over-400 years since, the city’s walls had become old but no less sturdy, and the two gates left by the Imperial fortification were the only ones in common use. The Watchersgate was the only easy way into the city...if the Watcher’s Fort hadn’t fallen. If not, it was a deathtrap.

That day was as hot as the one before it, under a cloudless sky the color of a robin’s broken egg, but the sunset came with cooler winds from the west and the sight of Avinum on the horizon. The walls still stood, brick and whitewash and crenels, and thin vines of smoke snaked upward into the sky near the harbor. As pristine as it looked, something was wrong about the city, something was missing. It took Gios a moment to put the issue into words, and then he began walking faster.

The fires had been put out.

* * *

Avinum

In the middle is the Watcher's Fort; the market town is to the right, the harbor town to the left. In the background you can see the Harbor's Fort as well. The picture is not necessarily a good, scale representation of the city, more a rough idea of how it looks.

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Alehanurhad: IV

2012-02-03T23:59:00.000-05:00

Breakfast was some rashers of bacon fried with sliced onion, served alongside sweet, buttery flatbread. They took dark beer with it, and then Gios dismissed his ifta to begin breaking down the tent.

“Short rangings are much better than longer trips,” Modos said between slices of bacon. “The food is much better.”

Gios smiled. “Food should be taken hot and fresh, and with a dark, strong drink.”

“True enough. Cooked food has been touched by fire.”

“Modos, you are a hadai of Giyos, are you not? If you keep talking thus, I’ll think you’ve defected to the Firekeeper.”

“One can’t defect from the gods, Gios. Yes, Giyos the Emperor is my main aspect, but there are twelve gods and I serve them all. Would you say I had defected for serving you?”

“Of course not,” Gios answered, “I am Gios, after all.”

Crumbs dribbled down Modos’s chin as he fought to stifle his laughter. “Well said, well said.” He paused and swallowed. “We’re going further west again today?”

“Shevien has the lead of this outing. I need to speak with him about the fire in the East before we go. I thought it best to wait until I had eaten.”

“The man is long-winded,” Modos agreed. “And stubborn. I had not thought him so against you dispatching your own men as scouts.”

“It is understandable to want to keep your force together, but two men are not like to make or break a battle. The old Tadza who taught us claimed he never once split his soldiers.”

“Yea, but they were all tadzamehn. Tadza is a different sort of creature than the rest of us. I would not think for a moment to play by his rules.”

Gios had finished eating, and took a final swig of his beer. The camp was slowly being disassembled by soldiers and ifta. “I must go speak with Shevien. Handle anything you need here. Send someone after me if my scouts return.”

“Yes, my barataen.” Modos inclined his head, then went off around the side of the tent.

Gios went inside to change. He took off his komaena, but left the tunic on and pulled a finely-oiled leather breastplate on over it. It was made of strips of boiled leather overlaid from his collar bones to his hip, with buckles on the right side closing it and softer leather on the shoulders to hold it. From the bottom, the overlay pattern continued in four loose panels that covered half of his thighs. Then he replaced his komaena over it, tightening his sash and swordbelt, and went to see Shevien.

Shevien was tall, even sitting as he was on a camp chair before his tent while his ifta took it down. His shoulders were broad and his face was solemn. Some claimed that he had studied as both a hadai and a barataen, and Gios could believe it. Shevien simply knew too much, more than any storied career soldier should.

“Young barataen,” Shevien said in greeting, his voice deep and rumbling. “I have been waiting for you since I woke and looked eastward.”

“I had no intention of making you wait,” Gios replied, ‘but I wanted to take my food and drink and think on what to say.”

Shevien gestured and an ifta unfolded a second chair for Gios. “And now you have your piece. Speak.”

“Avinum is burning. I believe we should turn back. Our kortaen needs us there, not out here.”

“You thought well on what to say. Brevity is an art. We will still go west, because if the city is burning, our kortaen will need to know that there is not another army hiding elsewhere. Our kortaen has the power to defeat a threat to his city, but if the city is burning within and another enemy is without, then he is ruined.

“So we will go west, to fight the enemy or find them imaginary, and then we will turn back eastward to help our kortaen. In The Arts Militant, the hadai Aren states that knowledge is worth more than gold. To know that the only threat is within the city will be worth much more than having us on hand for two days, young barataen.

“You are young and your blood is hot. Cool yourself; there is time yet. So long as there is fire, there is conflict – and conflict means there are two sides fighting. The threat is only that the fire that goes out is the kortaen’s, and ours is too shrewd to let that happen. We will go west along the river.”

Gios stood. “I understand. Forgive me.”

Shevien did not smile, but said, “there is nothing to forgive.”

The sun was rising higher beyond Avinum, and the clouds were breaking as the morning advanced. Gios returned to his plot to find his tent disassembled and his things packed onto an ox that was lowing and pawing at the ground. Modos was speaking with some of Gios’s soldiers.

“– are with us.” Modos finished. “Gios! What do you have from Shevien?”

Only about ten of his soldiers were there, but word would disseminate quickly. Word always traveled fast in a camp. “We’re going south, and then west along the river to the swamp woods. If our enemy is not there, then they are gone. Pack up all the tents and make ready; I suspect Shevien will want to move quickly.”

But Shevien was nothing if not methodical, and Gios’s camp was packed up and ready to move long before his leader’s. The morning cool had been replaced by an early heat, the last vestiges of the summer asserting their dominance before the leaves turned and began to fall. Gios began to regret wearing his thicker tunic, but an irregular breeze from the southwest was his relief, cool on his legs and arms.

It got hot. Most of the farms and fields that serviced Avinum were east of the city, terraced along the riverside near the coast or on the coast itself. West of the city the ground was scruffy and tough in the autumn oven, and the land was flat except where it sloped down to reach the river. The clouds in the east had all but vanished as they walked southwest to the river.

Here the river was broad, slow, and green. Flecks of algae and other plants drifted lazily downstream, having released their hold on the swamps at the insistent tugging of the current. Bugs began to harry the host as they turned and marched west-northwest along the river. Gios had never liked the swampland and he liked it less in the heat. It was heralded by half-dead trees and a smell of rot and stagnant water, but the marshy land was largely on the southern side of the river where the land was lower.

The small copse of woods that they were looking for, the water-bound trees of the northern shore, were on the horizon when they stopped to eat. The sun was high in the air and there were little shadows to be had; many soldiers stripped off their padding and packed it away, replacing it with lighter tunics. Despite his sweating, Gios kept his on. If the enemy was waiting in the trees, he would want the padding more than he would need to stay cool.

It was not to be. Gios was working on a piece of salted ham when one of the watchmen approached him. He was wearing green and yellow – one of Shevien’s.

“Barataen, there are men approaching from the west, in your colors.”

Gios bolted upright. “How many? Is it both of them?”

“It looks like three, barataen, but they’re carrying one.”

“Is he also in my colors?”

“No, barataen.”

Gios grabbed six of his men and went to the western edge of the camp, his nerves tense. The watcher reported it right. Three men were approaching, two of them in blue and white, the other in mostly black being hoisted by one of Gios’s men. Something was wrong, though, the man being carried was too stiff, even at this distance that was obvious. Men were like sacks of grain; they tended to smother whatever was carrying them. This one was straight as a pole, and his hair was blond, something not seen among...

“Gods, no,” Gios whispered. “Men, with me, we’re going out to meet them.”

When the small party reached the scouts, Gios’s fears were confirmed. The two scouts, tired and muddied up to their knees, dropped the third man – a scarecrow wearing Iasilu colors.

* * *

Gios's Armor

The Scouts

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Alehanurhad: III

2012-01-27T23:59:00.000-05:00

CHAPTER I
4 Years Later, West of Avinum

Gios’ eyes snapped open, but he did not move. The tent was dark, except for a glow where a fire outside shone against the canvas. Darker against the dark stood a Bezhan man.

The man was tall but broad after the fashion of Bezhan men. The plates on his skin were craggy, dark marks against his already silhouetted form. His mouth was moving, but no sound was coming out. Gios could see the whites of his eyes.

His mouth was moving.

He was not holding a weapon, but the Bezh were tough and heavy and did not need one. He stood right next to the bed. When Gios moved, everything would happen at once. Gios dared not reach for his sword handle.

The Bezhan man’s eyes flicked to the side and found Gios’. The man knew he was awake. Gios threw his covers toward the man and rolled to the other side, grabbing his sword and standing, one hand on the scabbard, one on the handle, but the sword still sheathed. The covers fell slowly to the floor, empty.

There was nobody there.

Gios sighed and loosened his grip on the sword. He was awake, now; he felt that his racing heart would wake half the army, so he breathed slowly, measuring each breath, until he felt calm. He pulled on a padded tunic against the cool pre-dawn air, and his blue-and-white komaena, and belted his sword on his waist.

Outside, Modos Iasilu was sitting next to the fire and a pile of sticks. Gios sat opposite him. Modos looked up, unsurprised. “The ghost again?”

Gios nodded. “I had thought to see the last of him, but I was wrong.”

Modos shrugged. “The Bezhan men are sons of Aos as well. Perhaps he is a sign from the gods.”

“I would sooner he wasn’t. No omen is ever fully good. Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Worry. These men are from the south, they are my father’s men, and those from Dariya. What if they find me?”

Gios didn’t answer, but adjusted himself and stretched his hands out to the fire. They were two days out from the city, following a scout’s report of soldiers from the Secession, but none of the farmers in the area had heard of the soldiers. What’s more, scouts hadn’t found any sign of them north of the river. The only hope Gios had was that the Secessionists were hiding in a small copse of woods about a half-day’s march ahead. He had dispatched scouts to check, since a couple of men lightly provisioned could travel much faster than almost two-hundred with oxen, food, and tents.

“If they find you, we will have found them, Modos. Then all will be set right.” Gios turned to the east, looking for the dawn. “What hour is it?”

Modos shrugged. “The moon set, I cannot say. Less than an hour to dawn, I think.”

“That’s not dawn, then.”

“What?” Modos asked, turning. Behind him, on the horizon, was an orange glow. “No, dawn begins with gray. There are clouds in the east, so the sun will be hidden even after it rises.”

They sat a moment in silence, and then Gios said, “I want my scouts to return.”

“Patience. They will be back. I’m glad you sent them. Shevien would never have scouted ahead so far.”

“And we may need to turn back,” Gios muttered. “This reminds me of Dariya.”

Modos mulled it over. “Let it rest, until the scouts return. Best not air our doubt to the gods. One must be careful what one says.”

“True enough, my hadai.”

Gios looked around. The camp was still sleeping, the guards wandering about the outskirts on their watch. Only a few were stirring, including some of the ifta, who were accustomed to waking early. One went to tend to the oxen. A couple of oxen lowed and pawed the ground as the morning mist thickened. The fire was crackling, hissing, sputtering.

Gios had brought two of his own ifta, and they stopped short on the way to the tent. They wore linen tunics, over thicker ones for warmth, and linen caps on their hair. “We had not thought you would awaken so early, barataen.”

“Neither had I. See about breakfast.”

“Certainly, barataen.” They disappeared back the way they had come.

“I had a wonderful dream,” Modos said, smiling. The smile fell off his face as he looked at Gios. “Why must you stare?”

“It is...” Gios paused, looking for the word, and tore his eyes from the fiery horizon, “haunting. I fear it.”

“I told you, let it rest. We will know when we know.”

“You know that I, of all people, would want to ignore it. I cannot.”

Modos eyed him for a moment. “I would read the stars for you, but it is too cloudy in the east.”

“I will simply trust in Aos, then. The Firekeeper surely would not burn such a thing for no purpose.”

“Yes, there is trust well-placed. The gods have plans, Gios. Plans for you. I dreamed it.”

But Gios was still looking eastward, and Modos joined him, watching the dawn unfold pale and gray behind the clouds and the fire on the horizon.

* * *

A Brief Note on Vehadai, and Veifta

The hadai are one of the two religious castes of the people, and the higher ranked of the two. They administer to people through the wills of the gods, helping people understand the world around them. To this end, the hadai are also the keepers of knowledge in the world; they study the stars above and the world below, medicine, all the sciences, alchemy, languages and history, mathematics, everything.

There are twelve gods, but only five are important for the moment. The Five Powers, they are called: There is Aos the Firekeeper, who gave life and fire to the world, Giyos the Emperor, who guided that life into civilization and wisdom, Alalai the World, who held that life on her body, Mayaros the Liar, who stretches the shadows and guards secrets, and Kazai, who leads the dead into the afterlife and watches over those whose deceit has purpose, protecting them from Mayaros.

These Powers have astronomical equivalents, as well; Aos is the sun, and Giyos the moon. Alalai is the world itself, and Mayaros and Kazai are smaller planets, Mayaros further from the sun and Kazai closer.

The hadai must be taken in tandem with the ifta, the servant class. They wear linen caps and robes as their outer layer as a sign of their service. These people are not ‘free’ men, but they are so low in rank that the gods do not notice them. Therefore they commit their services to another, so that the other person may bring their case to the gods and find them favor.

This is the last Brief Note, since the story has begun in earnest now. The Brief Note on Vekorta has been updated to include artwork as well.

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Alehanurhad: II

2012-01-20T23:59:00.000-05:00

In Avinum

Gios woke with the dawn. His back was sore from standing. It was the day before he turned sixteen, the day he became a barataen in full.

It was believed that a man should never live a day in which he was not a member of his caste. Since a man came of age at sixteen, he was raised into his caste the day before. That way, nobody could ever claim that he had ever lived below his proper station.

The night before, however, the young barataen-to-be was made to stand in the sandy courtyard holding his sword. Gios was lucky; he had been born in the late spring, and the night was cool but not cold. He wore a long muslin tunic, with a shorter one of wool over it, and a rough, threadbare cloak of wool as well. They were not thick, since Avinum was too far south for thick wool, but still warm enough to keep him against the remnants of the winter winds.

Even standing, Gios had dozed. He only discovered that he had fallen asleep upon waking, standing, the sword still gripped – loosely, but still gripped – and the point digging at the flagstone floor beneath the sand.

Tadza came limping with the dawn as well, carrying a tray of breakfast for two. He sat before Gios, and indicated that the youth should do the same. The breakfast was quite simple, really, apples and bread and a bit of sharp cheese. They ate in silence, with their hands.

When the food was done, Tadza set the tray aside. They still sat, legs crossed, facing one another. “It has been great to teach you, young Alehanur. Your house was ever in Dariya, and I had always wanted to train an Alehanur.”

“Thank you,” Gios replied. “I had never thought to be taught by a Tadza, from so far north.”

Tadza laughed. “Our lands are far, and I was injured in the south. The walk back would have been torturous, but the kortaen here gave me a place. That was long ago, long ago. I am still unused to the sword, I admit. My people set more stock by heavy weapons.”

Gios nodded. “And large shields.” The families of Tadza were the most unusual in the Six Cities, and fought with mass weapons and broad, square shields. Their common soldiers even fought strangely, with short, broad spears and those big, square shields. They were reckless, so reckless in fact that there was an adjective, tadzamehn, that they had earned through centuries of service to the emperor.

A tadzamehn person would risk their life for the thrill of it. Many of the barataen from Tadza died before they were thirty. Old Tadza the instructor had gotten away lucky, with a shattered knee.

“Yes,” Tadza agreed, “and large shields. A shame I couldn’t impart that to you. The emperor’s shield has never borne a shield, it seems. I blame your blood.”

They sat in silence for a moment, as the sun rose to illuminate the stone columns bragging strips of carnelian, the copper roof with its green, dull edges, the wide arch that opened the courtyard to the street.

“Are you ready to speak with the kortaen?” Tadza asked.

“I am,” Gios answered. They sat longer in silence, until a shadow darkened the arch and a man stepped through. Others lined the archway, and that was how Gios knew it was the kortaen. He, of all the people in the city, must needs have a guard with him.

The kortaen was a short man, which surprised Gios. He wore a rich komaena of copper scales edged in scarlet trim, over a scarlet tunic. His face was lined with age and cares, but he did not look so old, and his hair was not yet graying. He was carrying something wrapped in a cloth of blue and white.

“Stand, barataen Anil Aedeviu of Tadza, barataenniven Gios Alehanur of Dariya.” They stood, and the kortaen turned to Tadza. “I have only just come from the smith, and from the tailor. Your instructions perplexed them, but they were very clear.” He handed the parcel to Tadza. “Dispatch these as you see fit, barataen.”

Tadza unwrapped the blue and white fabric, revealing a sword. Its design was elegantly simple; it had a handle wrapped in leather with steel bands near the middle, and a straight, plain guard and pommel. The scabbard was also wrapped in leather, with steel bands near the mouth, and a belt wrapper around that.

Tadza gave the sword back to the kortaen, then turned to Gios and unfurled the blue and white cloth; a komaena, in the colors of Alehanur. “Give me your left side, Alehanur.” Gios turned, and Tadza fitted the komaena over his shoulders. He then took the sword back from the kortaen, and belted it about Gios’s waist. “If it pleases the kortaen, let no man here out call you less than a barataen.”

The kortaen nodded. “I am well pleased.”

Gios drew his sword and presented it to the kortaen. “I am yours to command, kortaen.”

The kortaen took the sword and held it as Gios had during his vigil, then smiled. “And I am proud to have an Alehanur in my service. Enough formality; you are my man, and I am Sohil Vadiu, who was the left hand of his predecessor. What would you have of me?”

“I...” Gios was stumped. He had expected orders to be given, not asked. “I would have you command me.”

Sohil sighed. “Wouldn’t they all.” Then he drew himself up, and said, “Your family has never owned fields, and I shall give you none, but a korta within my city, and common soldiers to command. The emperor has his own bodyguard, in the east, and he has said he shall claim you when he has worked his way to the mainland. Until then, I intend to use you as best I can. Does that meet your needs, barataen?”

“Yes, kortaen.”

Sohil presented the sword back to Gios. “I expect honest, loyal service, but do this and you shall be greatly rewarded. When the emperor comes, you will be lifted far above service to me. Until then, I would hope you will distinguish yourself. I expect nothing less, from such a stories name.”

“I will, kortaen.”

“Ah, one last detail.” Sohil smiled. “I have one of Elenin Iasilu’s nephews in the city, and I would have him serve you. He is a few months older than you, and has already been named a hadai. It would please me that you take him into your service.”

“Elenin Iasilu...the traitor in the south? Why me?”

“You came of age at the right time, and in the right place. You will see his worth, I am sure. Those are my terms; you may take them or leave my service and my lands. Do you?”

“I will take those terms, kortaen.”

Sohil nodded. “I expected as much. Come, I will show you to your korta.” He nodded a farewell to Tadza, and left the training yard behind.

A Brief Note on Vekorta

I will begin by explaining that plurals in Iskalin are formed by the prefix "ve-," and therefore "vekorta" is the plural of "korta."

The boring linguistics out of the way, the word korta has two meanings.

The first is "a building with a courtyard," such as the training yard. Most buildings in the Six Cities are in fact vekorta, though they more often have gardens or statues or fountains in the courtyard than sand.

The second is more vague, and refers to the people one trusts; loyal followers, or good friends. In a sense, these are the people you could turn your back to in a coup - the people who "have your back," as it were. The term derives from the fact that many a barataen will house his korta within his korta, and so the word has over time evolved to mean not only the building but also those living within it.

The concept is somewhat similar to the medieval "court," except it evokes a relationship of trust and reliance rather than fellowship through nobility.

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Alehanurhad: I

2012-01-13T23:59:00.000-05:00

In Avinum

Gios exhaled slowly. Sand was in the edges of his toenails and under his feet, thick enough to sink under his weight but too thin to hamper his movements. He was used to the sand, now. He breathed in and felt the air in his nose, his lungs filling against his ribs and padded tunic. In his hands was a sword, a wooden thing with a knot near the guard. Gios wrapped his right little finger around the pommel and tightened his grip. It was a good sword. The grain of the wood ran lengthwise down the blade, and almost a third of its length was handle. With the slightest of movements, Gios found the sword heavy and weighted toward the tip. Then he came back into his eyes, and looked at his foe.

The other was a student like him, a young son-of-a-barataen whose father could afford to send him to the city’s court for training. His name was Mathos Arimiu, and he was from the south. They had faced off before, many times. Gios was better with a sword alone, but Mathos could best him when they had shields. Neither one had a shield.

For a long moment they stood, each strategizing, and then Mathos took a step and the stillness broke. Gios was a better practitioner of martas, but Mathos was fast, even with the heavy practice sword.

Mathos swung downward from the left, and Gios slapped the attacking blade to the right, so that it bypassed his shoulder and fell next to him. Mathos recoiled from his failed attack like a whip, and Gios was surprised to see that his own swing was blocked, but pleased to see it was not deflected. Blocking outright makes the defender tired, but deflecting tires the attacker.

Gios made to step behind Mathos, who took the opportunity to aim for Gios’ back. Gios knocked the sword upward and ducked. Mathos’ sword passed over his head, so that it was in front of Gios. Gios grabbed his opponent’s sword handle with his right hand, and at the same time lifted his sword to Mathos’ neck with his left.

To the onlookers, it would have just been a quick flurry of motion and then them standing there, done. The master-at-arms, a man with a limp from Tadza, nodded. “Well done as usual, Alehanur. Get shields and go again. You may be good at swordplay, but there are times a man needs a shield.”

Gios sighed and went to get a shield. Mathos always won when they had shields.

A Brief Note on the Barataen

Barataen are the noble-warrior caste, similar to knights, but almost never mounted since there are no horses in the region. There are three main symbols of their rank: the way they wear their hair, the komaena, and the baramartai.

The komaena is a garment that covers the shield-arm side of the body. When a barataen wears armor, he traditionally wears an armored komaena over a padded tunic, rather than a full hauberk or shirt of scales like our knights (and plate armor is unheard of at this point in history).

The baramartai is their sword - "the sword of martas" (from bara, sword, and martas, the martial art of the barataen). The sword is designed to be used two-handed, and many barataen don't use these swords, preferring other weapons; for formal occasions, however, they will always wear one.

Gios and Mathos and the other students are considered barataeniniven, or "barataen's sons" (niven being "son").

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Alehanurhad: Background

2012-01-07T23:59:00.001-05:00

This is the background for my next story, the Alehanurhad. It is going to be...long. First, a map:

As the header states, this map describes a crumbling empire (referred to as the "ex-Dariyan Empire," seeing as how Dariya is no longer part of it).

A very abridged history would tell you that the Empire was founded in the year 0, since the years are counted from the Empire's foundation. It was the Atrelian Empire, and it began in the islands. It took a long time moving westward, reaching the mainland in the late 100s and sweeping across. The Empire was completed just before the year 300, with the addition of Dariya, which the Emperor honored by moving his capital there. In response, the Empire was renamed "the Dariyan Empire." In 451, Dariya seceded from the Empire quite violently, resulting in the death of the Emperor and all his heirs; his highest-ranked steward, who was in Velum at the time, officially took the office.

The Empire could have been recreated, but Leyum seceded shortly thereafter, and before a troop muster could be fully finished the wastern island (the Pontum/Anthum island) seceded. The new Emperor decided to work his way west, the way the Empire was originally created, and so brought war against the Islandic Secession rather than the Dariyan Secession.

The Secession itself was a religious affair; the hadai, "philosophers" and priests of the old order, determined that a secular, military rule was improper, and deposed the Emperor and those that ruled his cities, the kortaen. They created a new caste - the hadataen, who ruled the cities and owed no fealty to any man. The rumors that travel with the wind are that the north is next, and will fall from the Empire as well, given time.

Our story is a had-tale, the story of a familial name, which traditionally begins from the time a noble family is given their name and rank (in many cases, this means the story begins with legend or myth), and ends at the death of the last holder of that name. In our case, we are beginning at the end of the story, in 453; the Alehanurhad in full would last from 313 to the late 470s.

It begins in Avinum, a city situated on the largest island of a river delta, protected from the south by a vast swampland, now the southernmost of the Empire's mainland holdings. Our protagonist is the son of a barataen, the caste of warrior-nobles, who is not quite sixteen. The patriarch of each generation of his family, Alehanur, has served as the Emperor's bodyguard...

Weatherman

2011-12-16T23:59:00.000-05:00

Weatherman ran weekly from November 4th until December 16th. It's almost 11,000 words long, the longest story I'd written in a while, and the first one I finished in as long. The individual posts are separated by bold markers, like the one below, and in order they read: Prelude, Long Memory, Thunderclouds, The Color Green, Interlude, Hell and High Water, Heat Lightning, The Color Green Part Two, and Postlude. The original posts are all retained online (as drafts, for myself); if this single post is too cumbersome, let me know if the comments and I'll re-post the separate posts as they were originally.

###

WEATHERMAN:Prelude

The radio crackled for a moment before a warm voicecame across. “I’mold,” it said.

Night was fallingover the tower-city of Alturm. The tower, a smooth wing that stretched ***stories into the sky, that reached farther than any other building on theplanet, stood among skyscrapers and dwarfed them. Glistening lights flickeredon as the darkness deepened. No stars were shining.

“But I remember. The world was once green,” the voice continued.

Dim evening lightshone down the narrow, crooked streets, illuminating grey-brown pavement where,occasionally, small tufts of dying, dry scruff pushed through the cracks.

“The sky was brightest blue!”

But here, the skiesslowly dimming, there was neither blue, nor red, nor yellow; there was onlygray and black. The sky had lost its color. It hung over the land, a drab blankspace far above the people below.

“And the people in it cared.”

Two city securityofficers stood outside the door to a radio station, guns drawn. One had a cell phonein his other hand, and was asking, “Is the power shut off yet?”

“I’m old. I have a long memor—”

Somewhere in thecity, a man staring at a computer said, “The power’s off now.”

Two muffledgunshots sounded from inside a radio station.

WEATHERMAN: Long Memory

At the very top of Alturm tower wasthe Alturm Weather Bureau building, a squat rectangle resting in the clouds.The only man-made structures above the Bureau were antennas. The Bureau itselfwas a small room lined with computers. The only entrance was an elevator downto the hundredth floor, but there was a maintenance exit onto the tower top.Two chairs sat askew in the room, one occupied by a thin, dark-haired youth,and the other by a larger, balding man. It was the larger man that spoke.

“Hey, new kid, you heard about thatgang killing?”

The darker haired employee, Matias,shrugged. “Heard what?”

“They killed some radio guy.”

“Who?”

“Can’t say, I’m still looking for aname.” The room fell into silence as Bryan went back to trolling the Internet.

It was Matias’ first day at theBureau, having recently graduated from Alturm’s prestigious Tower StateUniversity with a degree in environmental engineering. Unfortunately, theexciting weather work happened higher up the pay scale; the so-called Monitorsjust ensured that things proceeded as programmed, and were only particularlybusy if a preset weather change didn’t go according to plan or a customer hadquestions.

Matias glanced at his watch. It wasnine o’clock, and the only weather change on his shift was from overcast to alight rain at four. He sighed and settled in to his chair, leafing through anemergency situation procedures guide and daydreaming.

It was not to be.

At ten o’clock, Matias’ computerlit up. A customer was on the hundredth floor, using the Bureau’s local servicephone to call in an inquiry. Matias gave Bryan a sideways glance. Bryan wassmiling wryly. “Pick it up newbie, I’ll jump in if you need me. I doubt youwill.”

The screen flickered to video whenhe hit the button. A pretty girl was standing on the other end. Matias was hitby a wave of déjà-vu, he was sure he’d seen her before, but the lens was highand slightly fish-eyed, and the image was skewed. He cleared his throat.

“This is uh, the Alturm WeatherBureau. I’m Matias, how can I—?”

“These clouds are killing myflowers.”

“Sorry, killing your what?”

“You’re new, aren’t you? They’rekilling my flowers.”

Matias was stumped and startedcasting about for a pen and paper. “Let me get a pen, how do you spell‘flours?’” She was gone.

Bryan was laughing as Matias turnedoff the videocall. “She comes through every morning. We’ve no idea who she is.I’m still trying to figure out what it is she’s complaining about.”

“Flour something? Does she bake?”

“Like I said, I don’t have a clue.One of the older workers here might’ve known, but he quit after she startedcoming around.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, she only started coming byabout three years ago. Best settle in for the long haul now, new guy. That’sall the excitement we’ll see all day.”

Matias returned to his computer andheard the soft tapping of Bryan’s keyboard. A girl’s voice started blaring,then the sound of headphones being jacked in and a quiet returned to the room.

What they never mention is that inthe Bureau, when it is quiet, one can always hear the whistling of the wind.Occasionally the windows rattle in their panes, and the sky outside is gray andempty; there is no skyline to be seen from so far above all the buildings.Matias made a mental note that headphones were required for the job, checkedhis email and social networks briefly, and then began skimming the Internet foranything of note.

Flour: Noun: A powder obtainedby grinding grain, typically wheat, and used to make bread, cakes, and pastry.Verb: Sprinkle with a thin layer of flour.

Two hours had passed, and Matias’last search was left untouched on the computer. He was rifling through theservice records, scratching his head. Most of her complaints weren’tregistered, but the first few were written down in a couple of different hands.One included a number of scratched-through alternatives for “flour” that endedin a question mark. The other, recorded in a stronger hand, said, “Complaint:killing flowers.”

No results found for “flowers.”

Matias scratched his head. “Thehell?”

“What’s up, recruit?” Bryan hadturned around, holding one headphone out from his ear. Pop music was filteringinto the room.

“I’ve checked the records. I stillhave no idea what she said.”

“Me neither, kid, and half of thoserecords are my doing. Give it a rest. Nobody’s figured it out yet and betterminds have tried. Why not take a quick break, and run down to the store forme?”

Matias answered with a shrug. “Whatdo you want?”

“Grab me some cookies. Doublechocolate chunk.”

“It’ll be expensive.” Chocolate hadto be imported. Most food did, except for bread and dairy.

“Yeah, but a man can’t ever settlewhen it comes to the important details. Here’re some coupons, they ought to beenough.”

Matias stood and summoned theelevator. “Back in a bit, then.”

“I’ll be holding down the fort whenyou get back.”

The two elevator rides down to thesurface were not long on their own right, but tedious; the elevator took awhile to speed up and slow down. Once he had left, Matias was glad to be out ofthe tower and walk at his own pace. He walked briskly past other pedestrians,his hands in his pockets. It was warm at ground level, and the honking of carsand background conversation were welcome after the white noise of the Bureau.

Alturm was both a city and a state,and it had been standing since long before skyscrapers and cars. The streetswere variously narrow and broad, straight and curved, and the buildings thathad been squeezed between them were as often architectural marvels as hideouslymisshapen in order to fit their lots. Everything in the city looked tired anddim. The sky was always gray.

Matias had a local grocer he likedto frequent, which was just outside of the central core of skyscrapers, calledHieressen. It was the only one in Alturm that had aged cheese. The store wassmall and had an open front rather than a door, with specials laid out onwooden shelves at the very front for passers-by to see. Fresh bread and cheesewere placed together, under a stretch of wall with the word ‘deli’ painted atthe top, but the cookies required a more skilled eye. National brands were hardto find in Hieressen and expensive, but Matias managed to pick out a box ofAvast’s double chocolate chunk on a single, small shelf, between Ray’s potatochips and Linnena pasta products. That shelf was itself hidden between shelvesof beans, nuts, and jars of milk, all local.

He went to pay and was remindedquite abruptly of the girl who had asked about flowers, because she was rightthere behind the register, looking rather bored. She had her arms crossed infront of her and was staring into space with a slight frown. It struck Matiasall at once that she was about his age, had curly dark-blonde hair, and wasprobably daydreaming. She looked at him abruptly and smiled. She had freckles.

“Hey, Weatherman.”

“Hi.”

This was followed by a pause inwhich Matias pretended to be looking around the store to avoid looking at her,while she watched him with a certain intensity or curiosity. “Are you going topay?”

“What? Oh,” Matias put the productson the counter.

“These will cost three,” she said.

He handed her his crumpled State FamineCoupons. “Um, about earlier. I can’t help if I don’t know what your complaintis.”

She closed the cash drawer andlaughed. “Nobody ever knows. Here’s your change.”

“I paid exact,” Matias began toprotest, but was silenced with a look.

“Don’t show anyone. It’s calledtrefoil.”

“Trefoil?”

“It’s a flower.”

He opened his hand and looked at asmall, laminated plant of three circular leaves. The vibrant green was a starkcontrast against the skin of his palm.

“It’s a what?”

She smiled. “What’s a what?”

“You know what I mean,” he groaned.

“I have no idea. Have a nice day!”

He frowned, stashed the trefoil inhis pocket, grabbed his food, and left. The streets were just as packed, andthe elevators just a dull, but it struck him that he felt like he was watchinghimself walk back to the Bureau rather than actually doing it.

“– remember. The world was oncegreen.”

The elevator doors rattled open andMatias was flooded by a recorded voice as he stepped into the Bureau office.Bryan was leaning over, his head propped on his hand, headphones unplugged. Hejumped as though startled when the door opened and paused the audio.

“Your cookies,” Matias offered ashe put the box on Bryan’s desk.

“I need these. Remember I wastelling you about that guy that died?”

“Yeah.”

“He used to work here. He’s the guythat quit when that girl started coming around.”

“I knew that guy. What the fuck washe doing in radio?” Any further queries Bryan might have had were stifled bychocolate cookies, the box rustling as he plucked them out.

Matias’ mind was elsewhere. He feltthe laminated plant in his pocket. The leaves left a marked indentation againstthe plastic, and his fingers were following the outline. He had not touched hisbread by the end of his shift, and he walked home through the slow drizzle, onehand still tracing the clover leaf.

WEATHERMAN: Thunderclouds

“The clouds are killing my flowers.”

Matias smiled at the screen, alittle exasperated. “I’ll make a note,” he told her. She thanked him and wasgone.

Bryan chortled. “You’ve gotten goodat dealing with her.”

“You really meant it. Every day?”

“For three years or so, yeah. Noclue what she’s on about.”

Matias shrugged and then they bothreturned to whatever they were doing. They had grown accustomed to workingtogether over the past week. Daily, Matias double-checked all the algorithms inplace for weather determination and inevitably complained about some decisionby the higher-ups. Bryan jammed out to pop music and was lost for the betterpart of eight hours. The wind still whistled outside.

Today, however, at half-pasteleven, Matias stood, stretched, and declared, “I’m going for food. Wantanything?”

Bryan smiled. “Didn’t bring a lunchtoday, new guy?”

“It was too early,” Matiasexplained.

After digging in his pockets for amoment, Bryan produced some coupons. “Get me some cookies, then. It’s a bitmuch, twice in a week, but I think I’ve deserved it.”

“See you shortly,” and Matias left.

He was quickly in Hieressen.Nothing had changed in Alturm. The sky was still gray, the streets were stillcrowded and loud, the buildings still unnerving, like square pegs stuck intriangular holes. Hieressen was empty except for a couple of people diggingthrough the discount bins at the front of the store. Matias grabbed his foodand Bryan’s cookies and went to pay.

“Are there any other cashiers?”

The girl smiled without an answer.“That’s five coupons.”

As Matias paid, he asked, “Hey,what’s your name?”

Again, she gave him no answer butmirth. She handed him his bag, which he took and began toward the street,rolling his eyes.

“Weatherman!”

A flash of irritation passed overhim at being stopped. “What?”

“Are you working tomorrow?” She wasbouncing softly up and down, as if on the balls of her feet.

“What? No, why?”

“Do you know where the ArcadeStation is?”

“The metro? Yeah.”

“Meet me there tomorrow at noon.”

He waited a moment for anexplanation, unsure. Was she teasing him? He couldn’t figure why she wouldignore his questions and then turn around and ask him on what could have been adate. It became clear that she had no plans to say more, and when Matias openedhis mouth to ask, she said, “Have a nice day!”

Her intentions were lost to Matias.She always seemed happy, even when she was showing up for her daily ‘complaint’to the Bureau. Perhaps she always smiled that much, or was having a good week. Itwas easy to slip into thinking it was because of him. Their impending meetingmade it harder for him to avoid adding significance to her happiness, but atthe same time he couldn’t imagine her asking him on a date. She just didn’tseem like a very aggressive girl. That, too, might have been a side effect ofher smile.

Matias shook his head as he waitedfor the tower elevator to descend from floor seventy-eight. He couldn’t getattached. He couldn’t think about the freckles on her nose, or how her haircurled delicately inwards at the end, so he looked around.

The tower was not a new place forhim; he’d visited it more days than not for the past four years, and lived init for one of them. It still struck him with a faint sense of awe when hethought about it. The tower’s base was huge, almost as long as it was tall anda quarter as wide. There was an atrium that extended thirty floors up, linedwith balconies where daring children looked down. These were only connected bythe faceted glass tubes that carried the twelve elevators on either side up totheir destinations. Matias was glad that one of the elevators was for staffexclusively. A mall occupied the bottom few floors and was almost alwayscrowded, and the university above drew more crowds, causing the ground floor tobe a cacophony of conversation and elevator space to be more precious thangold.

The one he had called reached thefloor and he stepped in, watching the scenery fall away as he rose up to thethirtieth floor and then the elevator shaft shoot by as he continued up thenext seventy. He transferred into the Bureau elevator and went higher.

His shift passed slowly, withoutanything to distract him from the unusual conflict he was having deciding howto feel about the girl’s invitation. Bryan was no help; he was lost in hiscookies and music, and there was still the howling of the wind.

It was raining when Matias left theBureau, and his wait at the local bus stop was dull and damp. He rode to thecity outskirts, where he lived. Here, there was more space, and the buildingswere less awkwardly situated, but it took almost an hour to get there.

His apartment was poorly furnished– the apartment of a single guy recently graduated from college. His miniaturefridge sat squat next to his stove, with a sink in the opposite counter andisland counters separating it from his room at large. Off-white carpet coveredthe floor. Nearer the door was a couch facing a small, flat TV and stereo.Behind the couch was the door to the bathroom and a bookcase. Beyond it stood abed, next to a window.

Matias flicked on the lights andchecked the fridge listlessly. He was not hungry, but restless, so he retreatedwithout anything to eat and flipped through channels for a few hours beforegiving up and going to bed.

Noon was dull. Matias had skippedbreakfast, showered, and napped on the bus into the city. He got off outsidethe tower and headed down to the city arcade that stretched forward from wherethe tower’s front side curved into the ground. It was Saturday, and the placewas bustling. The metro was set up at the end of the arcade before it reachedthe tower. Matias realized with a start that he didn’t know where in the metro she expected him, but hehad no time to mull it over.

“Weatherman!” she cried, wavingfrom outside a nearby store.

He smiled in spite of himself andwalked over. “I’m Matias, you know.”

She smiled, her eyes bright. “Iknow, Weatherman.”

“And your name is?”

“Anna,” she told him. He had notexpected such a blunt answer, and it took him a moment to realize she hadgrabbed his hand and was leading him to the metro.

“Where’re we going?”

“To the silver lining.” When shesaw that he didn’t register the place, she explained, “The clouds can’t go onforever, can they?”

It struck him as an odd thing tothink. He’d never considered it, but it was inherently true: the cloudscouldn’t go on forever. There had to be an end to them. The world outside felta little colder in the realization, but not for long, as hot air billowed upfrom the subway lines below the city.

“The metro goes that far?”

She laughed. “Don’t you have acollege degree? We’re taking a train after.” They were at the turnstiles andMatias went for his money, but Anna grabbed his arm. “No. You don’t want yourname on this.”

Something cold in her eyes told himnot to ask.

The metro ride was quiet and long.It only took three-quarters of an hour to reach the farthest edge of the cityunderground, but they talked little on the ride. Matias watched the lightsbehind him reflected in the windows across the train, after they had gone morestops than any other passengers. Anna seemed consumed by her own thoughts andthe ice in her eyes.

Then they were at the end of theline and moving up escalators, across streets, down sidewalks. The trainstation wasn’t far, but in the openness of the city fringes it felt as thoughit should have been closer. They could see the station when they left themetro, but it still took them a convoluted journey of road crossings to getthere. Somewhere along the way Matias realized that Anna still had his hand.

She led him into the station andpast the ticket booths. He began to ask, when she walked up to a stranger in ahat too big for him. “Here,” she said, shoving crumpled bills his way.

He grinned and took them, tradingthe two tickets he held. “Pleasure doin’ business wit’ ye,” he managed, andthen booked away, walking stilted like one of his knees was damaged.

“What are you doing?” Matias asked.She pulled his hand but he stood still. “Not till you tell me why you’re bribingpeople to buy tickets for you.”

“You don’t want your name on this,”she answered dryly.

“What do you mean?”

“They don’t like people who know ofthe silver lining. They tend to disappear.”

“Anna—” He was stopped by a suddenkiss.

“Just come with me, please.” Shewas pleading. “I can’t go alone, but, you don’t want your name on this.”

Matias huffed, but saw she couldn’tbe convinced, so he let it go. “Where’d the smiles go?”

That made her grin, just barely. “Ileave them in the city, Weatherman.”

He did not let himself be led, butwalked with her through the station, now keenly aware that they were holdinghands. The departing platforms were not busy, not in Alturm, where allattention was focused inward toward the tower, but new arrivals flooded inevery so often as trains pulled in. The station was neither great nor small,but the ceiling was a broad cover of gently curving glass, completelytransparent except for the crisscrossing supports that held it up. A light rainhad begun, and in the valleys between the hills of glass, small streams pouredaway.

The ride was quiet like the subway,and like the subway they remained on the train as the few other passengers thathad initially boarded slowly filtered off, one by one, until it was just them. Hourspassed.

At last the train had reached theend of its line, and they got out at a station that looked like it was alone inthe world. There was no town there, no buildings at all, in fact, only thesmall platform, a sign, and a thin strip of road that disappeared over thehills.

The sun’s light was casting amidafternoon glow from the west, and semi-long shadows stretched along theground from Matias’s and Anna’s feet. Beyond the road there was a field ofgreen, and what a green! It stretched on and on, rising slowly through hillsthat peaked each higher than the one before it, like green waves trying tosurpass their neighbors. This ended in a faint line of mountains in thehorizon, orange and yellow and green in the late summer heat. Back toward thetower the ground was green, at first, but quickly browned as it went, until atthe very end of his vision Matias thought it became gray and bland, as thoughthe grass itself were the steel and concrete of the city. He looked up.

Matias had to squint and cover hiseyes – the sun! It was hot, absolutely hot, and bright as ice. It sat lazilyabove the mountains, behind a thin wisp of cloud that had broken free of themass that stopped above their heads in a line of bright shadow. That must havebeen the silver lining, there where the cloud stopped and met the clear bluesky. These clouds were white, but as they followed the browning grass they,too, became darker, until they were nothing more than that dim gray above thetower in the distance, too far away to see.

Anna broke the silence. “Everycloud has its silver lining,” she said, but her voice sounded off. Matiasglanced at her. She was blinking often, and her eyes were red.

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s been three years,” a pause,blinking, “three years since I was last here.”

Lightning forked to the ground inthe distance. They were too far away to hear the thunder. Matias jumped a bitin surprise. “There weren’t any storms scheduled. Are they seeding clouds againalready?”

“They’re killing it all, Weatherman.”Her voice had changed again, this time it was a shade too high, as if ahalf-note sharp. “Don’t you see how the grass turns brown under the clouds?”

“Yes, but—”

“And don’t you think that, if thefamine were so bad for so long, they would try changing the weather to fix it?”

That was something he’d alwayswondered about. “Surely they know what they’re doing.”

“You studied it, so you tell me,Matias. What are they doing?”

Lightning flashed again and againin the distance, cracks in the darkness of the permanent clouds. Matias lookedup again, enthralled by the pale blue and the tiny wisp of white fire at theedge of the clouds. His answer sounded dull in his ears. “I don’t know. Makingclouds.”

Anna stamped her feet. “But why?”

Something seemed to break aroundMatias. All the old answers fell away. To stop the famine? Then why was therestill a famine? Because all the equations pointed to overcast? Yes, but thatstill left the question: why? Because some old man somewhere in Alturm declaredthat there would be clouds? Yes, again, and again that left the questionunanswered. He knew the equations, he could have told her them on the spot, buthe began to realize that he had no idea why they were the equations.

Slowly he realized that he had noanswer. All he had were numbers, lines and rows and columns of numbers, and noidea how he got them. “Why the hell arethey doing it?”

WEATHERMAN: The Color Green

Matias shook his head infrustration. He’d dug up all of his old textbooks, and worked his way backthrough every equation he knew. The problem wasn’t in the equations themselves,but in a constant that was the foundation of every one of them, the Wolkeconstant. Matias had traced that, too. It had been a long, dull week, and the answerswere far from satisfying.

Environmental engineering had beenan idea for decades before it was created. The engineers and mathematicians hadbeen frustrated by the fact that all of their weather models required anexternal constant to operate. It was Alexander Wolke’s work that unearthed thisconstant, but Wolke’s work seemed to have no scientific basis. No matter howfar Matias searched, there was no background on the Wolke constant’sfoundation. The Wolke constant was always described in terms of what wascreated using it, rather than how it was created.

Matias had called his friends andasked, and none could tell him how the Wolke constant had been derived. He’d emailedhis professors, but of them only a couple replied. The first told him he shouldask theoreticians, if he wanted, but all the weather control functions workedperfectly well as it was without them knowing. The second told him that Wolkehadn’t kept accurate notes, and that the constant worked and had been acceptedas standard for so long that his line of questioning was simply young absurdityand his desire for an answer would fade in time. Finally, desperate foranswers, Matias had called his parents and asked them, which was a long shot,but he got no answers.

It was early afternoon, and Matiaswas poring over his texts again in the tiny Bureau building. The quietrepeating of high-pitched notes filtered through the room from behind him;Bryan was lost, as usual, on the Internet. Or was he?

“Didn’t you already graduate?”

Matias turned around abruptly.Bryan’s headphones were around his neck. “Yeah.”

“So why’re you poring over yourbooks?”

“To figure out Wolke.”

Bryan grimaced. “You lost me at ‘tofigure out.’ In English, this time.”

“You don’t know Wolke’s constant?”He’d known Bryan wasn’t big into environmental engineering, and certainly notas an academic, but to not know Wolke’s constant meant Bryan had no knowledgeof the basics.

“Nope. What is it?”

“The basic element of weathercontrol. Didn’t they teach you?”

“Nah, why would they? I’ve neverneeded it. Not everyone gets into the industry of their dreams, new guy. Mydegree’s in philosophy, not this. But you don’t need a degree to do this work. You do, but that’s only because you wantto get promoted, right?”

Matias hesitated and Bryan,dissatisfied but tired of pursuing the matter, replaced his headphones. Matiasreturned to his book, but was lost in thought. Originally, the answer wouldhave been a definite ‘yes, I want to be promoted,’ but now it was uncertain. Itstruck him as weird to think he’d only held the job for two weeks and that inthat time had ruined three years of education. So he wrote a reply to oneprofessor, requesting directions to find Wolke’s notes, and began to look upprominent environmental engineering theorists.

At the end of his shift, he walkedto Hieressen to find Anna. As usual, she was there, smiling to herself behindthe register.

“I think I believe you,” he said.

“You think?” The smile was gone.Ever since the silver lining, it had vanished when they talked, but Matias wasfairly certain that that had to do with his insistence that there was a reason.Nobody would create clouds that killed the plants – if it was the clouds thatkilled them – without a good enough idea of why they were doing it.

“Yes. Unless you can explain theWolke constant.”

“Wolke? Like Alexander Wolke, theguy that founded weather control?”

For the briefest moment, Matiasthought it was weird that Anna knew about him and Bryan didn’t. “Yeah, him.”

“Hm. Well, he’s killing myflowers.”

“I get it, you tell me every day.”

She glared at him. “Are you goingto buy anything, or just stand there?”

Something had lodged itself in histhroat. Hadn’t she kissed him, a week ago? She seemed a different person. “No,”he replied slowly. “I’ll go.”

But before he was gone, he heardher say, “Weatherman,” so he turned around. “I’m sorry,” she continued, “I’mturning twenty-one next week.” There was still no smile, but what had replacedher new, cross look was harder to define.

“Um, congrats?”

“You won’t forget me, will you?”

“Won’t – because of your birthday?Why would I?”

She shook her head and barelysmiled. It was not a happy smile. “No reason.”

“What’s happening?”

“Nothing.” Then she added, “Really,nothing,” when she saw his look.

“Okay.” He shrugged. He was nevergoing to understand her. “I’ll see you around.”

She nodded, and mumbled, “Yeah.”

Matias left.

Next week rolled around, and asusual she showed up. “The clouds are killing my flowers,” she complained, “Theclouds are killing my flowers.” Matias had put their last, awkward conversationaway in his mind; he was too busy trying to contact theoreticians. None wouldanswer his emails. His professor had replied, but only to tell him that Wolke’snotes were lost and he should stop asking.

Then Wednesday came around, and atten o’clock Matias turned to his computer, ready to answer Anna’s call. Therewas none. At five after, Matias switched his screen to the customer servicefeed. Maybe the downstairs phone was broken, he thought. There was nobodythere. Pretty soon it became clear that she wasn’t going to stop by.

“Huh,” Bryan mused, “I deal withher for three years. You work here three weeks, and she stops. Maybe you suckat customer service, man.”

Matias wasn’t listening. He wasflipping through the service records, looking for the first time she stoppedby, three years earlier. It was August the tenth, recorded in the finehandwriting of the old radio DJ.

He pulled out his cell phone andchecked the date. It was August the tenth. If it was her birthday, then threeyears ago today she’d turned eighteen.

“Bryan, is there anything otherthan vote and drink that you can do at twenty-one but not eighteen?”

Bryan shrugged as he lowered hisheadphones. “That’s about it, I think. The only other distinction is going frombeing an adult to an all-rights-granted citizen. Why? Aren’t you twenty-two?”

“Yeah, it’s nothing.”

At noon, despite Bryan’s proteststhat he had already brought a lunch with him, Matias went to Hieressen.Passers-by seemed unfazed by the closed store, but Matias stood in front of itfor a while. The wide, arched opening had been replaced by metal shutters and a“store closed” sign. As he stood there he caught hints of people aroundmentioning it in passing. “Horrible economy,” they’d say, or, “another oneclosed.” “Grocery stores keep closing.” “Must be the famine.”

“Theydon’t like people who know of the silver lining. They tend to disappear.”

None of the passers-by knew. Theyall just assumed it had gone under, and none were curious about the cashier.

The skies were dark gray, and rainwas threatening as Matias returned to the Bureau. Bryan didn’t mention the factthat he’d brought no food back, and Matias quickly noticed that he wasn’tplaying any music, because the wind outside seemed to be whistling louder thannormal.

Matias almost jumped out of hisskin when the door burst open, and Bryan went to close it, looking awfully paleand shaky. “Early maintenance team must’ve not closed it all the way,” hestammered. The inspiration hit Matias like a rock: he knew how to stop theBureau.

He signed up for weather antennamaintenance classes before the end of his shift.

WEATHERMAN: Interlude

Three dossiers were displayed on atable, with a man sitting on either side of them.

“Who are they?” The first manasked.

“Well, this one did it.” The secondman slid the dossier over to the first, who flipped through it.

“Disgruntled?”

“Can’t say, yet. We’ll get motivesafter we take him in, but the security feed shows it was him.”

“The others?”

“This one,” he slid another dossieracross, “Anfisa. We took her in yesterday.”

“Oh, another Virag. She’s their daughter.”

“What should we do with her?”

“War criminal...hmm. It’s been awhile, let’s hold on to her and pass that decision upstairs.”

The second man made a note. “Okay.And here, this one.”

“Matias von Falke?”

“Another Bureau employee. CitySecDirector Falke’s kid.”

“That’s not good. What’s he done?‘Irregular Searches’ and ‘Conspiracy’ are hefty claims, and if we’re going toget this past the Falcon we’ll need specifics.”

“The search history goes intodetail on the next few pages, along with a few email excerpts. ‘Conspiracy’ isbecause we got footage of him with Anfisa at the edge, and a few other places.”

“Yeah, the pictures here, I see. Andhe’s signed up for maintenance. That explains the charge of ‘AttemptedTerrorism?’”

“Yessir. He would’ve, too, I’msure, it that other guy hadn’t beat him to it.”

“Try not to let Director Falke hearabout this one. We’ll take him in for questioning for now.”

The second man made another note. “Considerit done.”

WEATHERMAN: Hell and High Water

Matias woke before his alarm. Thinslits of light were painted across his room through the cracked blinds, and onehad found its way into his eyes. He blinked groggily and shuffled to thewindow. The clock on the windowsill read 6:57 as Matias opened the blinds.Broken cloud cover scattered its way across the sky, islands of gray against acold, pale blue. The ground was splashed with blotchy spots of shadow inamongst the light.

Shadow in amongst the light. Matiassquinted. Something wasn’t right.

The light. Sunlight?

His mouth fell open as he stood,dumbly looking out the window. The clouds were broken; sunlight was pouringdown on Alturm. What had happened to the Bureau? Matias grabbed the cord andpulled the blinds up from his window. Pedestrians were walking slowly, lookingaround at this strange, colorful world. Children were playing in the shade,trying to avoid stepping in sunlight. Some were making shadow puppets on awall.

His radio started suddenly. “—unusualday of sunlight as the Bureau celebrates its one-hundredth birthday byinstalling new system upgrades. We’d like to remind you all that prolongedexposure to sunlight can result in burning, and encourage you to enjoy todaysafely.

“If you’re just tuning in, today’sbreaking news is disastrous flooding throughout the world, which has causedmillions of dollars of damage in the Low Countries and along the Mediterraneancoast. Hundreds of thousands have been displaced, and landlocked nations arerushing to help support their coastal neighbors. The cause of the flooding is,as yet, undetermined. Stay tuned in and we’ll keep you up-to-date on the latestdevelopments.

“In celebrity news—” Matias turnedoff his alarm.

He was certain of two things.First, the Bureau was not one-hundred years old, in fact being a couple yearsshort of that landmark. Second, there were no updates planned for the Bureausystems. That meant that the first news item was a blatant lie to cover up forsomething. Perhaps the antenna had malfunctioned, which would prevent cloudseeding and lead to the clouds dispersing. He had no idea how the antenna couldhave malfunctioned, considering the fact it was maintained daily in themorning, but there was no other explanation unless someone had intentionallyaltered the station’s weather management algorithms. That would require someonehigh-up to be involved, and could have been easily repaired, whereas theantenna itself could not be repaired until replacement parts were shipped in orfabricated.

So it must have been that the antennahad failed.

The shower was hot, but Matias’mind was still churning. He could understand the Bureau wanting to cover up afailure on their part, but if the antenna was broken it would likely be acouple of weeks before it could be repaired, and eventually people wouldquestion the ‘scheduled updates’ story. After all, if the updates werescheduled, the parts would have been in before they began, and there would beno delay in the repairs. Matias almost forgot to wash his hair.

Except for the day that he had goneto the silver lining with Anna, Matias had never seen the sun. Sunlight wasalmost a myth. He reflected, as he put on his shirt, that the Bureau’s logo – astylized sun with eight triangular rays – was a bit incorrect. A more accuratelogo would have been a plain, gray square.

He left the house at eight, pullinghis jacket on as the door shut behind him, and made for the bus stop. The sunwas just like it had been at the silver lining. It felt warm, and made himsquint at the pavement below. What was usually a dreary shade of gray-brownseemed glaringly bright in such stark lighting.

The bus ride took longer thannormal. Drivers, it seemed, were unprepared for the extreme light. In manycases they waited too long at stop lights, because they were too dim to be seenagainst the sun’s light. Traffic still seemed somewhat lighter than normal.Matias imagined a lot of people had taken off to avoid having to travel on thenow-precarious roads.

On the bus’s small TVs the news wasplaying, all of it stories of the floods. They showed images of water pouringover levees and rooftops barely exposed, and then maps with global floodwarnings marked in red on most of the world’s coasts.

It was a horrible day, but theweather in Alturm was beautiful.

Since most people either took thesubway or walked to the tower, it was busier than the rest of the city. Thosethat wanted to avoid driving had all gone to there to shop, chat, or eat aquick breakfast. Matias was glad to have an exclusive elevator for employees ashe whizzed to the top.

He stepped out into a room wherefour men in black suits waited. They were squeezed together in the crampedBureau office, and Bryan was conspicuously absent.

“Are you Matias von Falke?” the mannearest the elevator asked. Matias nodded cautiously and the man flashed abadge. “City Security. Please come with us.” He gestured to the elevator, andMatias stepped back in with the police escorting him.

The room was small and plain, withoff-white tiling on the walls and floor. The only furnishings were a singletable and three chairs and the fluorescent lights. A city security officerstood by the door with a submachine gun.

Matias wasn’t sure how long he’dbeen there. It was certainly not long, but the chair was uncomfortable and hedidn’t want to fidget. There was just something about being alone in a roomwith an armed officer that made him want to sit still. He was tired, but didn’twant to rest, so he spent his time trying to figure out why he was there.

The door opened and shut with asnap as a City Security officer walked into the room and took a seat. “My nameis—”

“Nicholas Vendetta, I know,” Matiassaid apprehensively. His father didn’t like Vendetta, who, at a glance, lookedsharp. He imagined it would be painful to sit in a room with him.

“Yes, I see you are the Falcon’sson after all,” Vendetta spoke delicately. Each word was fragile, deadly.“Well, you can rest assured he has no idea you’re here, so he won’t be swoopingin to save you. Now, where were we? Oh, yes. Why did you do it?”

Matias blinked. “What did I do?”

“Oh? You’ve forgotten. Perhaps younoticed the unusual weather today? It seems someone broke the antenna. Wherewere you yesterday at noon?”

“I took a break to get food.”

“Where?”

“Hieressen.”

Vendetta pulled out a notepad andflipped through it. “Did you really go there to buy food?”

“Yes.”

“I only ask because that particularstore is owned by someone we both know you’re familiar with.” Vendetta pausedpolitely, but Matias didn’t say anything, so he continued, “Well, it wasn’thers originally, but it passed to her when her parents died. Does the nameVirag ring a bell?”

“No.”

“No? If you’re going to be rude andlie, we’ll just move on. Why did you sign up for antenna maintenance classes?”

“I wanted to know how it worked.”

“Truly, you are a scholar. Why didyou want to know?”

“I spent four years learningformulas. I have to know how the antenna works to really understand theBureau.”

“More lies. Why didn’t you just askBryan, your affable co-worker?”

“Ask him what?”

“Oh, you didn’t know? He was thebest technician we had on staff. A pity.”

Matias felt like there wassomething disconnected in the questions. Vendetta was avoiding somethingimportant, leaving Matias just deep enough in the dark.

Vendetta smiled. “Confused? It’swritten on your face, plain as day. I’ll explain in a moment, but first, tellme: how did you enjoy the edge?”

“The edge?”

“Oh, right, the Virags always useda different term, what was it? Silver lining, I think. Did you like it?”

If Vendetta was asking it meantthey already knew he was there. Matias only had a moment to decide how togamble. He could admit to it, since there was nothing directly illegal aboutbeing there, but Anna had warned him that they didn’t like people who knew ofit. Matias sighed. “It was nice,” he admitted.

“Ah, finally, the truth. Let metell you a truth, one I believe you are not familiar with. Bryan is the onethat—”

The door slammed open and a man ina suit – not a Security uniform – entered. On his shoulder was the starburst ofthe Bureau, and in his hand a sheet of cream-colored paper, which he presentedto the guard at the door. The man turned and seemed to notice Vendetta for thefirst time. Vendetta was staring at him icily.

“You’re Nicholas Vendetta?”Compared to Vendetta’s spidery voice, the Bureau man’s sounded warm and honest.“I’ve got orders from Director Falke. You can read them, but you’ll have to doit outside.”

Vendetta stood angrily, but his voicewas as calm as ever. “You’re ordering me around, then?”

“No, Director Falke is. Read yourorders. Outside – that’s part of the order.”

With a glare, Vendetta swept pastthe guard and slammed the door shut.

The Bureau man sat down. “I reallydo hate that man. Matias, is it?”

WEATHERMAN: Heat Lightning

“Do you know who I am?”

Matias wasn’t sure what washappening, but his intuition told him that anyone who didn’t like Vendettacounted as a friend. Still, he had no idea who the man was, so he said, “No,sorry.”

“I figured as much. Many peopleknow my name, but not so many recognize me. I’m Thomas Faint, if that helps.”

The name sparked recognition. Faintwas the director of the Bureau. “It – I’m sorry, sir.”

Faint only smiled. “For what?”

“I’m assuming the reason I’m hereis related to the Bureau.”

“So it is, but you’re far and againnot the first.”

“What am I here for?”

“Conspiracy, I believe.” He said itas though he were commenting on the weather. “Again, not the first.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy,really. We hire the best and brightest at the Bureau, and of course the bestand brightest are the most likely to be curious. The biggest problem is thatthey never seem to think to ask their managers.”

Matias was confused. Being in aninterrogation room naturally scared him and made his brain look for ulteriormotives. Was Faint really on his side, or was he the good cop to Vendetta’s badcop? The situation didn’t sit well with him, so Matias, his initial curiosityand relief abated, was silent.

“Well, you’re a talkative one.”

Matias said nothing, resolutelystaring at a point on the table between himself and Faint.

“I’m not here to rescue you orcondemn you, if that’s what you’re worried about, so you can relax. That’s allout of my jurisdiction, and if Vendetta followed your father’s orders, we’renot being recorded.” Faint only continued when Matias met his eyes. “Better.Your father sent me your recorded email and search history. I owed him a favor,and I think you deserve an explanation.”

“Thank you.”

Faint shook his head. “Thank yourfather. You’re lucky; if it hadn’t been for him, you would’ve ended up like theothers.”

“The others?”

“Yes,” Faint sighed. “You’re notthe first to notice the Wolke constant’s hidden past, you know. You’recertainly the fastest. Have you figured out the purpose of the Bureau, yet?”

“What do you mean?” Matias wasleaning forward in his chair.

“You tell me. What are clouds?”

Matias hesitated briefly.“Condensation. Water.”

“You’ve heard the news today,right?” Matias nodded. “Aren’t there two storiesabout water?”

“You mean the flooding?”

Faint was pleased. “You’re quick,it’s no wonder—”

The door burst open, and Vendettawalked in, another City Security officer on his heels. Matias didn’t recognizethis one.

“—doing my job!” Vendetta waspractically hissing. “Director Falke is biased in this case and should beremoved from it.”

“Vendetta, you’re to do as you’vebeen told. The decision is final.” The other officer noticed Faint and nodded.“Director.”

“Do I need to leave?” Faint asked.

The officer nodded briefly. “Thatwould be best. We appreciate your looking after the suspect in our absence.”They shook hands, and Faint left. With the door closed, Vendetta and the newofficer took seats and the room became surprisingly quiet.

“It has been decided,” Vendettagrowled, “that given the circumstances, the suspect—”

“He means you, Matias von Falke,”the other officer interjected.

“Yes, thank you.” Vendetta’s teethwere grinding. “The suspect will be given two options. He may either remain inAlturm and await a proper trial on charges of conspiracy, or elect to beexpelled and barred from the country for the remainder of his natural life.”

There followed silence for a beat,and then the other officer leaned forward. “I’m Officer Christian Hegdahl, andI was in charge of organizing the evidence, Matias. I would strongly recommendyou take the second option. It’s the best you’ll get.”

Matias inhaled slowly, and equallyslowly assembled his question. “Do I have to decide now?”

“Yes, unfortunately,” Hegdahlanswered.

“Before I do, the Virag you werereferring to, is that Anna?” Matias asked Vendetta. “What’ll happen to her?”

Vendetta opened his mouth toanswer, but Hegdahl cut him off with a quick hand gesture. “Anna is Anfisa, theVirag girl? Why do you care what happens to her?”

“It just seems wrong to be arrestedfor being right.”

Vendetta snorted. Hegdahl seemedtaken aback for a moment, then stood, said something quickly to the guard, andleft. A smile crawled back across Vendetta’s face.

“Your friend, it seems, is gone. Nomatter; you can tell me your decision. I think they’re being soft on you,little Falcon.”

“No,” Matias answered. “Thisdecision requires two witnesses.” In the course of a single day, he had beengrateful that his father was Security Director more times than he had hisentire life.

“We’ll let the door guard count, mybright little suspect.”

“Sorry, two non-enlisted witnesses.”

Vendetta seemed beat, so they satin the room silently for a while. Matias began to wonder how long he’d beenthere. He was getting thirsty from all the talking, but his hunger hadn’t cometo a point yet, so it was probably still an hour or so from noon. Waiting insilence made the discomfort of the chair more obvious, and added an edge to hishunger and thirst. Vendetta kept fidgeting in his chair, and once or twice gotup to mumble to the guard.

Matias and Vendetta were sitting,each ignoring the other, when Hegdahl returned. He sat next to Vendetta,whispered something to the other officer, and then faced Matias. “Matias vonFalke.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I am presenting your revisedoptions. You may either elect to remain in the country and be tried forconspiracy, or be expelled and barred from the country along with one AnfisaVirag for the remainder of your natural lives.

“This was the decision of theVice-Director of City Security,” Hegdahl angled his head toward Vendetta as hesaid it, “and these options are your final ones. There will be no morenegotiation. Will you stay or leave, Matias?”

“If I stay?”

“You’ll certainly be convicted,”Hegdahl answered.

“It’s not really a choice, is it?”Matias sighed. “I’ll go. I choose exile.”

Hegdahl looked relieved as he toldMatias that he would go make the arrangements. Vendetta was changing to abrighter red every moment. They left, and Matias thought he heard yelling fromoutside.

They had a coach to themselves onthe train out. Matias was sitting across from Anna, and they were each joinedby two CitySec guards. Hegdahl was the officer in charge, and sat in his ownbooth with a newspaper and coffee. The scenery outside was slowly switched tomore rural terrain as the tower shrunk on the horizon. The clouds were back,but not fully so; they were spiraling out from the tower in the distance, butlarge chunks of blue sky could be seen in the gaps. Nobody spoke, and Annalooked shut off from the world.

Matias was surprised to discoverthat they were headed to the station where he had been to see the SilverLining. They got off first, Matias and his escorts, followed by Anna and lastlyHegdahl. He said something to Anna, and she nodded, and then he gave hersomething and walked over to Matias.

“Matias.”

“Officer.”

“We’ll wait with you until thedelegation comes to pick you up. Will you be alright?”

“I’ll be fine, I guess. I don’tknow much about the rest of the world.”

“I’m sure you’ll do okay, thedelegation knows your situation and will help,” Hegdahl told him. “Two things,first, some money for clothes and sundries. The country you’re going to doesn’tuse our coupons, so you’ll need it. We’ve already arranged a job for you, soyou won’t have to worry about money later.”

Matias accepted the small stack ofbills; they were colorful, red and green and blue bills with faces and buildingson them. It was a little absurd, after Alturm’s minimal beige coupons.

“Second, this is for you. Yourfather told me it was not to be read while you’re still in the country.” It wasa letter, in a plain, cream-colored envelope with the word Matias written on the back in his father’s powerful handwriting.Matias took it carefully, like it would break if handled wrong.

Gravel crunched as a polished blackcar pulled in next to the station. Two men got out, talked to Hegdahl for amoment, and then went to Anna and Matias. “We’re from Région. Please get in thecar so we can be on our way.” They were wearing dark suits and hats, and bothwore carefully cropped facial hair.

The men ushered them into the car’sback seat and closed the doors, then started the rough drive back to thenearest paved road. They were separated from the passengers by a divider, andthough it seemed they were talking, Matias couldn’t hear them. He settled onwatching the scenery outside.

Anna grabbed his arm suddenly. “You– I never asked, you know. For this. I didn’t.” Then she let go, and withdrewto her side of the car.

Matias didn’t have anything to sayto that, so he said nothing. He returned his view to the window and carefullyopened his letter.

WEATHERMAN: The Color Green, Part Two

Time slipped by. A week became amonth, a month became a year. One year became two, and in no time, six yearshad passed. Those six years had not been spent idly, and at twenty-eight,Matias von Falke had become globally famous. He was so well-known that he wasgiven an audience at the Global Alliance of Nations.

He was sitting in his office, thesecond bedroom in his apartment in Région. It had not been his decision to livein a two-bedroom apartment, but he had taken advantage of the situation as besthe could. The room had a desk behind which was a window that looked over thecity, four bookshelves lined with academic texts, hand-bound essays, andbinders of notes, and a clock ticking softly next to the door, where Matias’sthree degrees were framed. A few books were strewn across the desktop, half ofthem propped open, some in French, some in German, and more than a couple inLatin. Matias, however, had turned his seat around and was looking outside,speech notes loosely gripped in his hand.

His apartment was next to a park –again, not his decision. The Green Party had owned the apartment and had beenlooking to rent it to one of their representatives, since it was convenientlyclose to their global headquarters. Matias didn’t much mind; it was cheaper,since the Party subsidized it, and the view was nothing to be scoffed at.

Dark trees formed a roughforeground to the rest of the city, and the streetlamps in the park shone liketiny stars in a leafy sky. The city behind the woods was full of low,irregularly-shaped buildings with red-tile roofs and stucco walls, which at nightwere illuminated from inside and from the warm streetlights on the ground.Because the buildings were low, the city extended to the horizon; all rooftopsand lights and the bustle of a large town.

Above all this was the night sky,where stars were spread out like droplets of rain that had frozen in place, soplentiful and randomly arranged. The sky was so full of lights that even if allthe power went out over the city, one would be able to see. Matias was alwaysfascinated by the night sky. It was a luxury he had not been afforded inAlturm.

The stars made Matias feelincredibly lonely, too. At first he had been thrilled to see the sun every day,but the mere thought that the sun was only one star was breathtaking. It waswarm and bright and wonderful, but only one among a multitude, and that thoughtmade the world seem very alone.

Besides, it had been six yearssince he’d seen Anfisa, and he didn’t know what had become of her.

He was going to catch a planetomorrow to his speech. It would be the first time he’d ever flown, and he wasanxious. He was also anxious about his speech, and the thought made him griphis notes tighter. Although he was well-prepared, it was a daunting commitment.

It was four a.m., and Matias knewhe wasn’t going to get any sleep.

“Are you ready?”

Matias shook his head to clear it.“It’s now or never, so yes.” He was waiting to be announced, fidgeting in hissuit. He didn’t much like the jacket, since he was more used to wearing shirtswithout it. He had to admit that he cut a more impressive figure in it, though,and in an event like this where impressions were everything, the edge helped.

The room was all dark wood andplush carpets, with stage seating for all the state officials. At the frontwere two, tiered semi-circle podiums, the lower for speakers and the higher forthe moderators. Matias was sitting in a guest area on the front left of theroom, next to a higher official of the Green Party.

He didn’t much remember beingcalled to the stage, but he did remember the sense that looking back at a crowdof very important people was surprisingly not terrifying. Perhaps it wasbecause he had made a number of speeches in the past few years, or because hewas prepared, or even because after the exhilaration of flying – actuallyflying! – nothing compared.

Whatever the reason, Matias tookthe stage, cleared his throat, and began.

“I’m going to tell you twohistories today.

“According to the first, at the endof the last century climate change was destroying the world. To combat this,brilliant scientists from all over the planet were brought together. Theydevised a system that could control the weather from a perch high atop a tower.The tower would have to be the tallest building in the planet.

“These scientists, these heroes,created the Alturm Weather Bureau in order to combat the looming famine. Theplants simply could not keep up with the changing environment, so the tower wasput in place to recreate the weather of the past and spur crop growth.

“Since its inception, the Bureauhas only been able to begin undoing the famine caused by the scars of centuriesof global neglect.

“That’s what I was taught.

“The truth is very different. Itbegins the same, with a planet being rendered slowly inhospitable by themistakes of generations. This time, however, the fear was not famine butflooding.

“At the turn of the century theworld was watching itself drown. Sea levels were rising slowly but regularly,and coastal cities counted down to their destruction. What the people neededwas simply more time, and so these scientists were brought together to createit.

“They used a work-in-progressweather control system in concert with models created by Alexander Wolke, oneof the leading mathematicians at the time.

“There was a problem, though. Hismodels would have required an entire continent to be covered in clouds. Heredid his work and provided a new constant, the Wolke constant, that wouldreduce the cloud cover to one-sixth its original size.

“The Global Alliance argued, buttime was short. The Wolke-Bureau system was voted in, with one tower to beinstalled in each continent. These towers would have weather control systemsdesigned to function for thirty years, during which time the coastal populacewould move inland. At the end of thirty years, the bureaus were to have beenshut down.

“Somewhere along the line, it wasdiscovered that the new clouds reflected enough sunlight to slow down theplanetary heating in addition to absorbing enough water to staunch theflooding. Coastal evacuations that were slow to start off lost momentum andstopped.

“Thirty years passed, and thesystem was too effective to be shut off.

“It has now been one-hundred years,two months, and twelve days since the towers were completed and the continentalweather bureaus christened.

“As an ex-resident of Alturm, twoarguments against the bureau strike me as being absurd. The first claims thatthe lack of sunlight causes health problems. I lived for twenty-two yearsunderneath clouds and I am as healthy as any of you. Yes, we all had to getsome vitamins in different ways than you do, but we thrived.

“Second, many claim that theeconomy makes it difficult for residents to survive. The truth here is one ofnormalcy and complacence. The economy of famine has been in place for so longthat nobody minds it. After you live for twenty years with prices the way theyare, you get used to it.

“Yet I still ask that the sixglobal bureaus be shut off.

“In one-hundred years, overthree-hundred people have ‘disappeared’ in Alturm alone. At least four timesthat number have been wrongly arrested or held without charges. Every piece ofinformation in Alturm has been checked and censored, and travel out of thetower-state is almost impossible at best and illegal at worst.

“These towers are committing crimesthat would not be tolerable even in war, and the world does nothing.

“After I left Alturm, I was forcedto get two new degrees in history and political science. I literally had torelearn world history because the history I was taught was intentionallyfalsified. The tower-states create a breeding ground for despotism, and theyneed to be stopped.

“I have records of these actionsfrom the director of Alturm City Security himself, and additional references toback up claims against the five other bureaus. My associate and I will now behanding out documentation with links to all my sources for your perusal.

“Thank you for your time.” Thestatement was greeted with silence, but Matias had expected as much. Globalleaders don’t applaud at the end of speeches, especially not ones that stir updormant political nightmares. Matias’s movements seemed automatic as he handedout pamphlets documenting the crimes committed by tower-states and their proof.

The day felt like a dream, and hedidn’t wake up until he was in his office again, a drink in his hand, lookingat the stars. His laptop was open on his desk, and a news anchor was faintlynarrating a story about the Global Alliance’s new push toward reexamining thebureau project. It was a step in the right direction, but the Alliance wasstill only debating whether or not to begin debating. The anchor seemed tofavor letting it rest. “Opposition to the globally successful bureau projecthas flared up recently,” she said, her voice chipper. “The Global Alliance is unsure if theseallegations against the independent tower-states are of a priority that wouldmerit further examination.”

But it was done. Matias would continueto lobby and politic his way around the world. If nothing else, the Green Partywould always be pushing to get more of its own members in Alliance seats andnational positions of power. They were pushing Matias to begin promoting otherGreen causes, and with his own issue brought before the highest possibleauthority, he saw no good reason to keep stalling. He took a sip from hisdrink, placed the glass on his desk, and picked up A History of Europaean Energy Policy.

It was four a.m., and Matiassuspected he wasn’t going to get any sleep again.

WEATHERMAN: Postlude

The tower glittered in the sun asAnfisa stepped out of the subway at its base. The last forty years had beenkind to her, but forty years is still forty years. Her hair had gotten lighterfrom streaks of gray, and her posture was slightly stooped. She was carrying adozen yellow roses.

Alturm looked different in thesunlight. It had only been a few years since the weather bureaus had been movedto the oceans, and the city hadn’t completely found its place yet. Many of theawkward buildings that had inhabited the place were being renovated, and thenewer buildings sported clean lines and mirrored glass that shone like quartzspikes in the day, and flooded the place with incandescent light at night.

Anfisa was not there for thebuildings, though. She walked through the arcade, the walkway now lined withflowers and small trees, to a small patch of grass at the far end, where astatue and a tombstone stood in defiance of the tower behind her. They wereboth made of white marble and were blinding.

She had always thought this statuewas a very good likeness of Matias. With a sad smile, she deposited theflowers, and then strolled back through the arcade.

Matias stood where he was, frozen,staring happily at the tower, as though it were a task he had just finished.

At the foot of the gravestone, inamong the yellow roses, there was a four-leaf clover.

TheEnd

Amelia

2011-10-31T02:50:00.000-04:00

You can only see the city of X from the air and at night. Those requisites fulfilled, it sparkles like a cracking explosion across the face of the earth. The lit streets are veins of warm incandescents and bright flourescents. Trees obscure the scene as you pass by, and the lights twinkle. Still, you can only see it for a moment - after the wing passes it - and thereafter it is a memory, something remembered a long time ago by the plane itself.

In the light of the sun, nobody can find it. Its quiet, jewel-like beauty is lost somewhere among bleak roofs and gray cobwebs of streets. Similarly, no one has ever visited it. People wonder whether or not anyone lives in X, or if being on the ground or in the day changes the experience of that city so that it is no longer X. There are no answers; all the scholars only see it in passing on their way to somewhere else, from far away, through a window crossed by frost.

The Monster

2011-10-15T00:40:00.000-04:00

First Movement

Nobody noticed when an extra wire was added to the telephone poles that ran along the city streets. Some may have noticed when the wires jumped over the sidewalk to run down the tram lines, but they thought nothing of it. The city wasn’t particularly well wired, and the Bureau of Electrical Management quite often reorganized wires.

Sometimes people noticed the young boy climbing the telephone poles, but he was an orphan living with his crazy grandfather, and they accepted his eccentricities. The women in the city would often coax him down when they saw him, but all-in-all he went unnoticed, a giant smile plastered across his face.

At night he sat and stared into the darkness of the sky. In the hours between ten p.m. and six a.m., the Bureau of Electrical Management shut off power to the city. Despite the pitch darkness of the earth, there were no stars to be seen. The sky was as black as the new asphalt. Still, he would lie down and stare into the sky, seeing no more than any blind man.

“There used to be stars,” his grandfather would tell him as he sat, enthralled. “They covered the sky, you know. They lit the streets at night!” Passers-by would throw coins into his hat or open hand as he sat, muttering to himself, and only his grandson listened.

Second Movement

The municipal government was housed in a tower, the only building over three stories in the city. It stretched eighty floors into the sky, a giant concrete and glass wing turned on its side that bridged the earth and the clouds. The Bureau of Electrical Management was on the seventy-fifth floor, and it kept its lights on from precisely six a.m. to ten p.m. When the lights switched off in the Bureau, the lights switched off in the city.

Nine years had passed, and the once-child who had made no connections and had no friends was now stuck cleaning the windows of the government tower. Every day as he walked to work, his bucket and squeegee held close, he smiled. His face was thinner, and lined already, but he could not or would not frown even as he broke his back to earn a piddling salary.

All those wires that he’d put up years ago still hung between the telephone poles and the tram lines, no longer even considered by the populace or the governmental workers. They had always been there, hadn’t they? And so life went on, but his smile grew a bit brighter every time he saw one of his own wires.

Now, when he stared up at the night sky, he did it from the cemetery. Sitting next to his grandfather’s grave, the stars were still invisible, but somehow the night sky seemed less foreboding. Then at six a.m., the lights would flicker on one by one, and he would return home to prepare for another day far above the city.

Third Movement

Dr. James Armstrong was the head of the Bureau of Electrical Management. He’d gotten his doctorate from the Municipal Tower University, floors five through ten. He’d risen through the ranks from a rookie pawn-pusher to the man who quite literally flipped the switch to turn the city’s power on and off. Today he was wearing a bright yellow blazer with dark black pants, his official uniform, as the man who controlled both the day and the night. His hair was combed neatly to one side, and his steps were measured. Small marks had found their ways onto the floor where his feet landed every time he walked from his office to his penthouse apartment.

Tonight they hit all the old, familiar places, and he reached his be-ringed hand to flick the city’s switch. He smiled slightly, said, “one three-hundred-sixty-fifth of my salary this year,” and snapped the switch. Everything outside winked into pitch darkness.

But then the windows began to glow, and he saw his shadow at ten oh one p.m. for the first time in his life. The whole tower was alight with hundreds of thousands of strands of white Christmas tree lights draped across and around it. All around the city people stepped outside to look at the tower, which glittered as it stretched into the heights.

From the city graveyard, an old man was laughing.

Chloe

2011-10-13T13:28:00.000-04:00

A couple is sitting in a train. The metal wheels are clattering across the gaps in the tracks, and the trees and graffitied walls outside are slow blurs.

“Do you remember,” the guy asks, looking up from his unfocused contemplation of the passing world, “do you remember when we first met?”

She smiles. “Yes.” She doesn’t elaborate.

“I told myself that I would never believe in love at first sight,” he tells her. She doesn’t reply.

They are in a compartment, with the door shut. Someone shuffles past outside, creaking through the narrow passageway. The man begins to sniffle. He wipes his nose with a tissue, and then a moment later his eyes with his sleeve.

Some hours pass. Time is no burden to him; all he fears is that the train will come to a screeching halt, and that the sign on the station will read Chloe. That is her stop. He knows it will be soon.

Finally, there it is. She stands, and then he. They fit awkwardly between the two benches and the half-table, and he has to dab at his eyes once more.

They embrace. “Do you remember,” he asks quietly, “do you remember when we first kissed?”

She releases him, and for a beat they stand there.

“The rest of the world just...vanished,” he says, with a nervous laugh.

“Goodbye.” She smiles, and closes the door of the compartment behind her.

He is sitting in his study. There is a bottle half-full of amber liquid standing on his desk. Resting in his hand is the glass. A thin residue adheres to the bottom, but he makes no move to refill it.

He cannot remember her name.

edited 2/14/12

Shift

2010-12-30T02:01:00.000-05:00

The city of Mysie is a wonderful place, and quite popular in fact. When you arrive, however, you will observe the locals looking around as though lost. At every corner a few of them will be gathered, pointing at the signs and murmuring amongst themselves. Nobody exactly can articulate what it is that confuses them; they will absolutely try, since you will inevitably ask them, but each person provides a slightly different and equally enigmatic answer.

“It’s changed,” one might say. “This city wasn’t like this, yesterday.”

“The signs are lying to us, my dear boy,” another will explain.

“Well, this street was downtown last week,” the third will add, endeavoring to clarify the other two. You will look around to find suburbs, quiet rows of houses amid carefully tended lawns and trimmed trees.

Eventually, of course, you make your way into the city. Perhaps you are hungry, and find a bistro only to be stopped by the crowd hanging about its front. “Do you know where the record store is?” Seeing your confused face, the man will add, “It was here last Tuesday, you know.”

The library of Mysie is famed; and in the restaurant you might ensnare a young waiter in an attempt to get directions.

“Easy ‘nuff,” he’ll tell you, “just go left on Main – it’s Belvidere now but it was Main up until last month. You’ll go ‘till you hit Fifth Street, which is just past Cobham Hall Circle and before Twelfth Street. Begging your pardon, but Fifth used to be Eleventh so that’s why, about June it became Fifth. Oh, and there’s another Fifth down by the metro station at Washington Avenue, so don’t take that one. There’s a bank on that corner, I think, so if that’s where you are you’ve gone too far and turn around. Anyway the library’s on North Street, which runs west off of Fifth – the Fifth that comes off Main, which is Belvidere I mean – so just get to North Street and you’ll be fine. Actually it might be Jefferson Boulevard now, I think I heard it changed today…well ask someone on Fifth and they should be able to tell you. Anyway and the Library’s right there, you can’t miss it!” He smiles and walks back to the kitchen, proud of the clarity of his exposition.

And this is the city of Mysie. Even the white-haired men who have lived there since they were youths don’t know it, not completely; you may stay and try your luck with the place, but when you leave it will remain as mysterious as when you arrived. You may love it, or you may hate it, but it is a place where the signs cannot be trusted, those soft nudges and faint signals must be ignored, where you may feel right at home one moment and be left lost the next without having moved at all.

Many people hate this city, the Maze. And equally many love it – but though they live their lives and make their livelihoods there, they do not trust a single sign.

Chisel

2010-12-28T02:57:00.000-05:00

There is a city named Nossort which can be found on the very edge of the east coast; so close is it to the edge that they say it was built too close and that the eastern district fell into the sea and became the harbor. The city itself is renowned for its beauty – traders and merchants will fight for the opportunity to travel there, leaving their brethren to suffer through less attractive ports – but the people for their wit. Scholars and artisans from all nations flock to its schools, artists migrate there slowly but surely, as though drawn by some insistent pull. Because of this variety, almost every language is spoken there! Two people at a bistro, conversing in soft French, might hear two men walking by and discussing engineering in German, or a man complimenting his wife in Russian. This is the sort of city that Nossort is; a very center of the world, a place to which every person’s internal compass points.

It is very popular among tourists, yourself included, but you always seem to make it there late. Each year you determine to turn over a new leaf, to make sure you arrive in time to see the sights! “This year,” you tell yourself, “this year I will take the most beautiful pictures of the most beautiful city in the world.” Then, of course, you fail to follow through.

It begins in the spring with the flowers. You absolutely must go! And yet they need you at work to help repair the mistakes that occurred due to a shortage of staff on the holidays. Finally able to take a week off, you cannot travel and must spend it with your parents, who have realized that you found time and insisted that you spend it with them. This is not entirely un-enjoyable, but when you find yourself at last free from all commitments some other catastrophe occurs – your car breaks down, you get dumped, work calls at the very last moment. Perhaps even your flight is canceled, and you are snowed in at the airport.

Yet you still make it to Nossort, but in the summer. The flowers have all gone, and in the medians between brick-paved roads there is only starched grass, yellow and dry. Rose-walled buildings built of faintly brown stones do not lose their majesty, but the trees that were so recently bright green are now crispy with heat and dehydration. Assuredly it is still a nice visit, and the city is still very appealing, but you determine that it will be better when you visit in the fall to see the leaves.

School holds you up, or perhaps work gearing up to prepare for the holidays (full knowing, of course, that they will still have a shortage of labor and need you to come in and help in the spring): either way, you are late again, and when you arrive the leaves have fallen and the bare trees claw their way upwards into the gray skies. Yes, yes, the old stone buildings with the brown, shingled roofs are exactly the right ones for the mood, but you wanted to see the trees! Now it is just damp, rain pouring over every eave and cold winds preparing for the months to come. You’ve made up your mind – you will return home, and then, in the winter, when the first snow quietly lays itself to rest, you will be back with film!

Ice, however, has become a factor and the planes just cannot fly. They’re terribly sorry – or so they assure you – but the cold weather both here and in Nossort has completely ruined travel. You wait, always for the “next” flight, and after four or five you finally take to the skies in the pursuit of that old dream. The snow has all but melted, leaving only traces of gray sludge that splashes as commuters drive over it, and cold winds that haunt the streets and sidewalks.

Once, of course, you made it on time – since then you’ve lived in pursuit of that single day, so many years ago. Now you live in the past, hunting an idyllic day almost forgotten. Until the day you abandon that dream, you will declare on the first of January that you will be there at the perfect moment, and each year…

Distance, Part II

2010-07-19T19:43:00.000-04:00

The wind began to whip at his coat. He pulled it closer and pressed onwards; the snow grew gradually thinner at his feet until it was a sheet of thick ice and at its edge was the sea. It roared louder and louder as he grew nearer, until he stood at the threshold between ice and sea.

The waves were rough; whitecaps crested and broke in the air, sending flecks of foam and wrath into the impatient wind. Some of them slammed against the shoreline as though trying to batter it down, and as one of these crashed into that barrier it yelled,

"Why are you here?"

He hesitated before asking in response, "Who are you?"

"I am the sea!" It roared. "Why are you here?"

After pondering, he said, "Because I kept walking."

"Where are you going?"

"I don't know," he whispered; a realization for himself as much as the sea.

"Why go there?" The sea took a deep breath and sent a huge wave against the shore; "I can bring you anywhere! Where do you want to go?"

"I don't know."

The sea ran into the shore and splashed him. "Fool! I can take you! Tell me!"

"I was simply going forward," he earnestly told the sea. "I had no destination, except to go wherever I went."

"Fool!" The sea cried out again, "I will take you!" It took time to gather its force, and then in another booming wave bellowed, "Faster than your feet, anywhere; I can take you!"

He stood for some time on the point of the decision, there between the ice and the sea, but then a chill wind flared and the flustered snow swirled around before hitting the water and melting and he decided.

"Forgive me, sea, but I would rather walk." Then he turned and began to walk away.

Behind him he could hear the sea, yelling, "Fool! Fool!" as it crashed into the icy shore, but he paid it no mind. "Fool!" Fainter and fainter it was, until all he heard was the whipping of the wind and the crunch of his feet on the ice and snow.

Distance, Part I

2010-06-04T20:39:00.000-04:00

The snow was blinding; everywhere, white. Even his breath was white, crystallizing in the frigid air. He had stopped walking next to the place where someone had built a snowman, which stood tall and alone, breaking the monotony of the flat, blank landscape.

But as he looked around, he realized that the snowman wasn't alone. The little black flecks that dotted the landscape were top hats; he was standing on the edge of a field of snowmen. He pulled his parka closer and pushed onward, toward the center, kicking up furrows in the snow behind him.

Soon, he was surrounded. The farther he walked, the closer together the snowmen were built, until near the center they were only perhaps five feet apart. And in the very center stood a snowman unlike the others; while they were all perfectly smooth, it was coarse, and had the clear marks of a human hand in its sculpting.

He shrugged, and continued onward, and the snowmen grew slowly more sparse. At last, as he neared the edge of the field, he saw something next to a half-finished snowman.

"What are you?" He asked.

"I am a robot."

"What are you doing?"

"Building snowmen," the robot replied.

He paused, and then, "And snow-women?"

The robot - which had been diligently continuing its work despite the conversation - halted to look at him. As the robot stopped, he noticed how neglected it looked. Its eyes glowed faintly, but they were ringed with dark stains.

"How would I differentiate them?"

"Snow-women wear skirts."

The robot returned to its work. "Then no. No snow-women."

"They must be lonely, then. The snowmen."

"Probably, yes," the robot said, quieter.

The robot finished smoothing the second sphere, and placed three black buttons perfectly down the center.

"Why build them?"

"It is what I am programmed to do."

"Why?"

The robot stopped again, and if its face could have shown emotion, he imagined it must have been irritated. "I do not know. Presumably they served a purpose for the creator."

"Who created you?"

"A man, like you," the robot answered, sizing him up, "but taller, and older. Dead, now." And then it returned to its work, scooping snow for the snowman's head.

"You must be lonely, then."

The robot dumped snow on the body and scooped some more. "Probably, yes."

He stood there for some time, watching the robot pile more and more snow to create the snowman's head, and then a chill wind blew, and he decided to continue walking.

Schrodinger's Fortune

2010-01-12T17:14:00.000-05:00

On the table sat a fortune cookie. It was still wrapped in plastic, and sat there quite innocently. There would have been nothing unusual about it save that it was covered in as much dust as the rest of the desk - that is to say, not much, but enough to show that it had been lying there for some time. The fortune cookie had clearly been there longer than any fortune cookie is meant to be anywhere, insofar as fortune cookies are meant to be anywhere.

His friend, once, had noticed this fortune cookie. "Why," the friend asked, his face wrinkled with the question, "on earth do you have a fortune cookie on your desk?"

He smiled before he answered, and looked fondly upon the article in question. "You see," he explained, his voice quiet but warm, "within that cookie there is a fortune. I do not know what it is; it could be anything. When I want to meet someone, I think to myself that perhaps it is telling me I shall meet someone. When I would like money, I hope that it wishes riches for me. When I want success and fame, I wonder if that is what it brings. But I shall never know, and therefore I can always assume it foretells what I most desire.

"So even when I am poor, lonely, and forgotten, I can still look at this and see a good fortune. So long as I never open the fortune cookie, it could well be anything, and therefore is everything. It is a reason to believe that every venture, no matter how slim the chances, may meet success.

"And," he paused and mulled over his words for a second, and then said, "I must concede, I'm not particularly fond of the taste of fortune cookies."

edited 2/14/12

Bonfire Night

2009-12-23T21:22:00.000-05:00

There is a city - I cannot recall its name just now - that you will leave burdened with memories. You will remember the girl that you fell in love with, there. You will remember the feeling of the sunlight falling through the windows.

But you'll forget the details: her face, her voice, the heat of the sunlight and the little specks of dust that floated around. Try though you might, you won't be able to bring them back up! So you will remember the city in words, in ideas. You will remember “the girl you fell in love with” and “the brightness of the sunlight,” but when you close your eyes there will be nothing there.

And when you return to the city, you will discover that you neglected to remember a large number of things! You will return looking to find "the girl you fell in love with," only to realize you forgot a girl with whom you shared a greater, unmentioned love. You'll find friends whose memories had hidden in the dusty corners of your mind, and places, and colors, and the coldness of the sunlight on a winter's day.

And when you leave, perhaps, you will remember these things; but you will forget the girl's face, and her voice, and the blue tint of the sunlight over a soft, snow-muffled landscape. If you return, ever, you will find that there was a girl you once fell in love with, and forgot; that the clouds give the city a delightful scent after a rain, while the trees are still black and green with damp.

It is the type of city you remember this way, in broad swaths of thought, but you seem to have misplaced its name, somewhere in your mind...

What's in a Name?

2009-12-12T21:57:00.000-05:00

I once travelled to a city called Кисея. There, the buildings are tall and thin, the streets neither broad nor narrow. The people are tall, and attractive, and they walk as though they never touched the ground.

In Кисея, one spends more time than he intended. Time seemed to slip by within its walls. When I arrived, I sought a long weekend of rest. I didn’t leave until two years had passed! But this is not the curse of Кисея.

“There is nothing better in the world,” I said to myself upon leaving, “than in the city of Кисея.”

Since then, I have been to many cities. In every city, the buildings are tall – but not so fine as in Кисея. The people are beautiful – but not so graceful as in Кисея. The food is delicious – but not so rich as in Кисея. In everything I see shadows of that city, and nothing is ever as good as its shadow.

This is the curse of Кисея, the city that ruins all others: that you must be careful what you say of it, lest it be the truth.

Falls the Shadow

2009-12-03T00:32:00.001-05:00

There is a city, tucked away where the desert meets an aquamarine coast. The buildings are simple but ornate, of marble and gold. The walls are thick and tall, the gates cast and sculpted iron, as beautiful as they are strong. It is a city without peer.

But the architects of the city hate it. At each intersection, they will point to their buildings, and say, "I had not intended for this!" or "there should have been so-and-so here." Their idea of what the city should be is not what the city is. On every brick, their thoughts contradict reality.

And nobody else lives within its walls! It is an empty city, but for those to whom it is only the reminder of failure. All who pass it in their journeys stop in awe, and the architects will tell them: "here, I had not intended so much marble," and "in my plans, the building interacted more with the coast."

Each traveler asks, "Why are there not people here?" The architects tell them that the city is imperfect. It is unfinished. It demands more work, more inspection. They must take more time to find its flaws and correct them. But, when they correct the flaws, they find their corrections wanting…

Once, long ago, I asked one of the architects why he hates his city so. He said, "I do not hate it. I love the idea of this city. The implementation is merely imperfect." And when I left that place, I wondered how they could hate a city so stunningly crafted.

I will pass through the city again, before I die, and see that it has been changed. The gates will no longer be iron, but bronze, with copper edges. The buildings will be not marble, but brick and wood. I imagine I will not much like the city. I will, I concede, have fallen in love with the idea of what it was.