c/o Master Joe Yurteling

L.E.L. Horse & Beast Company
6 Thistle Avenue
Freybourne

Mssrs. Yurteling and Hazelbottom,

It is my sad duty to inform you that your property and employee, which my traveling companion and I rented for passage to Dale-Town for the price of thirty-six gold, have been destroyed by highwaymen. The carriage was held up on the customary route southwest from Freybourne to Corcoran. My company and I fought back, driving two of the brigands off, wounding three, and taking prisoner their ringleader. In the course of the battle, this unsavory get unleashed a magical attack and burnt your carriage to cinders. The horses were utterly consumed by his lightning, and that is all. I do not know the name of your driver. His body, being in such a state that it would not have survived the damp trip to Corcoran, lies in a grave near the roadside. Should his family or friends seek out his remains, tell them that they are about thirty leagues northeast of Corcoran. The grave is marked by a short pile of stones and the black bricks that remain of your lovely carriage No. 3458, which was a particular fine conveyance. I was sad to do without it for the remainder of the trip to Corcoran, which we made on foot, and I will continue to miss it for the remainder of the journey to Dale-Town. On the authority of the Sheriff of Corcoran, final justice has been meted out to one Horace Dunkel, the leader of the bandits.

Cordially,
Salbadore Cane
Subdom Wolfgramm, Genomancer

Peer Counseling

Orthos collegially pats Salbadore’s shoulder. Such friendliness was not unusual for the young man from the College of High Summoning. But, to Salbadore, it has always seemed to contrast with Orthos’ overall appearance. The wild, black hair radiating from his crown like quills and boughs to shade his dark eyes seemed to belong to a savage, a goblin, or a performer. The pallid skin bespoke a childhood spent in frailty – or a life spent in the alcoves of the College, plumbing for secrets forgotten or uncared-for. None of it indicated an especially gregarious man. Yet Orthos was that – and a flirt and a gallant; a dashing adventurer and a bookish scholar.

Catching Salbadore's attention for a moment, Orthos rocks his head towards the smoking carriage. The two step behind it, and he hushedly asks Salbadore, "Dorey, are we sure this is the right course of action? I have a doubt."

"What is it, man?"

"Several things. We are going to escort four men for three days or more, while we eat, drink and sleep. All the while at least two of their compatriots could be following us, and if they bemoan their fate the entire time, what will that do to the morale of our companions? Not to mention, no one seems to be stepping forward to tie a decent knot."

Such worry strikes Salbadore as atypical of Orthos' customary, if wildly swinging, range of moods. Yet, he is not disturbed by it. Instead, Salbadore is relieved to hear the summoner's doubts. Orthos' uncertainty is something that Salbadore understands. "Frankly, the latter concern seems to be the only significant trouble," Salbadore says, "for between my extra rations and those fantastic berries that Varel always seems to have, we can no doubt care for the quartet 'til we reach Corcoran. Does Markus not know how to tie a knot? Or the pip?"

"Haven't a clue."

"I fear we will have to make these men march with their britches around their knees!" Salbadore pats the summoner on the back and smiles broadly. It is a hearty, though markedly insufficient, attempt to play the role of Orthos-for-Orthos.

"But what of when we arrive? There will be talk of elves and magic, and not to mention they said they were to rob us, but we struck first. Then there is the driver. What do we do with his body, bury it here, away from his family?" Orthos crouches behind the wreck slightly. He scans the roadside. "I've never dealt with this type of situation, Dorey. I find myself wanting in conviction."

"Aye. I ken." Orthos in a fret - it is unprecedented and Salbadore is determined to act wisely and lawfully under the circumstances. "But surely, it is our duty. As Varel said, no sense saving eggs from snakes. We have nothing to fear from talk of elves – Laurie is the pet of Virgis now and bears his mark, as we know. And these men's crimes are made all the more egregious by their impersonation of the Imperial foe. You are right however: Varel's magics are likely unlicensed."

"What if," Orthos suggests, "we but bind and gag the leader, carry him back to stand trial for murder – send the rest on their way, with a strong warning?"

"We shall take the leader to Corcoran, then, for is he not a disgrace to our common profession? These dogs will not be nearly as effective without their artillery, as it were."

"Should we try and take the body of the driver for proper burial?" asks Orthos, who settles his uneasy gaze upon the charred remains of the servant, steaming from the heat and drizzle. "And – well, for evidence I suppose? It seems cold to bury him in the wilderness." Both wizards breath deeply and look towards the ground. "Although to have the bandits bury the murdered man seems a start to penance."

"Let it begin with that. We will relieve them of their armor and weapons, which we might pawn in Corcoran. They’ll lay this man to rest. After that, we let the ignorant of the lot out into the woods and wish them luck among the wolves and bears, defenseless." Salbadore wags a finger to punctuate their defenselessness. "And – we take this filth in," he adds, with a nod to the spellcaster. "I will personally see to his feeding as we travel."

"By your lead then, Dorey. You're strong on conviction today," declares Orthos.

Salbadore owes his life to this man: his only friend among his traveling companions. It occurs to him that, adrift in the world as they are, the two wizards – by virtue of their shared struggles, and the duties they now have to one another – are now peers in a sense that transcends the walls of the academies. "I'm pleased to see the universe work the way it should. Snakes and eggs, Orthos!: I think she meant that this is our chance to be the hand of nature, mate."

(text also by fil)

A Rat

During a pit stop on the second day, while the others are stretching their legs or relieving their natural urges, Markus - who, indeed, has bathed - hops up next to Salbadore in the coach's cabin. He leans back as he crosses his legs, stretches, then crosses his arms about his chest. He turns to Salbadore. He smiles. "Got a tick, mate? 'Ave a few 'quiries fo' ya brain box, I do."

Pleased to have a receptive ear for his ministrations, Salbadore can only respond, "Aye, Markus! What would you ask?"

"Roit then," Markus says, smiling while he shifts in his seat. He reaches into his cloak and takes a dagger from somewhere. He uses it to pick his fingernails. "Ya smart bloke, that," he says, "Ya ken me gutterspeak. Ya know wo' we mean by rat, do ya that?"

Salbadore throws up his hands. "Oh on a tied, blue tongue -" He shakes his head and sighs with melodramatic resignation. "Of course I do. What is your point going to be?"

Markus laughs, "Roit good answer," he says, waving his dagger in the air. He nods toward it. "Na' think thisa work, that," he says as he replaces the dagger back into the folds of his cloak.

He smiles. "I jus' wanna light th' dark fo' yeh. I go' no beefa 'Is Emperor. I na' traitora throne, nor any that dog jizz." He pauses dramatically to look around and leans closer to Salbadore, "Bu' sometime wot need doin I do. Sometime wot need doin bes' na' chatterbout, ken me?"

Salbadore is clearly impressed by the rogue's confidence. He swallows and nods.

Markus leans back, laughing, "Tha' na a concern then, izzat? We mates an' all, foit tha good foit againsa bogeys and 'aunts annat, roit?"

*swish*tunk*

Before Salbadore can speak, the wood next to his head splinters. The tip of a dagger is buried in the wood near his temple; its blade vibrates near the genomancer's ear, and its handle wags vigorous a few inches past his cheek. Salbadore's eyes bulge and Mayna leaps in surprise, spitting and cawing. She crackles angrily.

Mercurio glares. Taking a serious - ominous even - tone, he states his meaning carefully. "If you rat me out like you did Laurie, I will kill you." He does not break eye contact as he pulls the dagger from the wall and replaces it into his cloak. He relaxes in his seat, but continues to speak with uncharacteristic clarity. "You understand me . . . gub'nah?"

Salbadore: "Sh-sh-sheiss- yeh. Kenned."


(text also by colin)

Miraculum Mundanum

Walking or riding a horse is so much more intimate a means of traversing the countryside; the four walls of the carriage obscures many of the natural features of interest, and insulate the passenger from the trip. Besides the view offered by the tiny, dusty windows, the experience of traveling is compacted into a constant jarring motion, the sounds of hooves, breeze, and the odors of other travelers.

It is this insulated view that Salbadore seems to most enjoy. The first two days see a beamingly happy Salbadore. He hums. He smokes a simple pipe that he has bought in the market. From the vantage of his window seat, he enjoys the luxury of breezes upon his face and cushions upon his ass.

For most of the first days of the trip, the carriage is conducted along the roads between farming centers - from village to castle to village to castle. The landscape is dominated by patches of deciduous woods and expansive golden pools of grain. There is much of it, and those used to the woodlands or the cities might grow bored before the first few hours of boxed travel are over. Those who can appreciate agriculture and the bounties of fertile lands - and who have access to a window or the bravery to ride with the luggage - understand the monumental work that has been invested in these soils. Miles of tilled fields unfold along the road. Under Duke Ivor Youngblood and his predecessors, Kauhedl's peasants had bred well and worked well. And so, happy with their safety and encouraged by the prospect of surplus food, they tilled the land well too, transforming it into a source of pride for the Youngblood line and the Kauhedl nobility.

For those first two days, Salbadore precedes to school Orthos on the miracles of the human will to shape nature that have been manifested in the great farmlands of Kauhedl. Yet, Salbadore's tone - and the darting glances he casts across the carriage - betray his motive (to those paying attention to such things): that, despite his nominal audience, his exhortations of the human hand's effects on the landscape are meant to be of educational value to Laurie. By the third morning, however, his excitement has duly worn off, and he sinks into boredom with the others. Faced with the tedious vista, Salbadore's eyes begin to glaze, and he even gives up his seat by the window if asked.

Studies

Abstract
In contrast to the grandiose spires high atop the main hall, the students’ alcoves are Spartan. They are little more than an arcade of stone cells in a sunken hallway, chambers designed to so submerge the student in isolation that meditation – if not utter boredom – is unavoidable. The ability to adapt to alcove life is what separates the chaff from the wheat at the College of High Summoning, for only those students with the will, collectedness of mind, and sanity to persevere through life in a subterranean slot will get through the first year of school. After the completion of this feat of solitude, the mages in training are relocated into the ground level dormitories and allowed more privileges away from the campus. It is the same at each of Tyritrius’ flagship colleges: a sunken hallway, rows of slots in the walls, one year of seclusion.

One might think that, after a harrowing evening delivering the grand summoner’s birthday present, surviving an assassination attempt meant for Lord Virgis Grimrune, and witnessing the most surprising resolution of the whole, lethal affair, Salbadore might be afforded slightly more comfortable accommodations than these. But he had asked for them, and at any rate there were many more-notable guests on the premises than him.

Sketches
In the old days, the folklore of the colleges held that the students’ years in the cellar are indelibly impressed upon their magical styles. Inductees residing on the East side – those students whose cells, by virtue of the hall’s architecture, receive the most light as the sun sets – were said to be ‘sunset’ mages. Conversely, students quartered in rooms on the West side receive the most light when the sun is in the east; they are the ‘daybreak’ mages.

Perhaps they were the vogue of earlier generations, but tales of sunset and daybreak mages do not circulate much among the students these days. Salbadore learned about them accidentally while reading the diary of Meisterin Doma Magan Abendroth Bezold, an innovator among Lebenskrafters whose theoretically elegant variations of the Facies Transtulis operation fascinated the younger genomancer. The Lady of Facies, remembered in legend as the Bane of Sondergarten, was naturally of the opposite constitution as the young Subdom of Wolfgramm, but her memoirs of traveling with nomads through the steppes of northwestern Qulaun – not to mention her tales of glory in cunning during the two Coastal Wars of four centuries past – stirred Salbadore’s imagination and inspired his studies during that first lonely year.

Salbadore retires to an alcove on the West side of the hall. It is cool and quiet, and nearly dark inside. Salbadore strips down to his pantaloons and slides into the sleeping nook, which is nothing more than another stone slot. He wraps the harsh wool blanket around his shoulders and drifts into a dream about slots within slots:

In a clockwork universe, the heavens turn on a metal dial conducted along by a cosmic gear. As brass teeth rotate with the teeth of smaller and smaller gears yet, the planets snap into place. Metal balls dropping into the world through slots opened by the constellation of the evening, human lives are oriented to the world by the polarities that exist between the planets, and which are modulated by their positions in the sky. Salbadore fell out when a tooth ticked on the daybreak gear.

Gravity works; he slams his shoulder into the ground, but the fall is not far, and he lands on the pile of Orthos’ clothes, which he must remember to return. His stomach convulsed fiercely, a brief artifact of the antivenin – or, perhaps, of betrayal. He had rolled over in his sleep and fallen completely out of the sleeping nook. He refuses to dignify it as a bed. It’s very early morning: he stretches his face, opens his mouth wide, massages his cheeks – anything to crack the crust from his eyes without actually exposing the tender pupils to the bright yellow glow all around him.

Architectural Notes
The sunbeam is bright. He cracks his eyes and immediately takes to a squint. On the floor: that is Sinchi’s genolith and that is his wrecked kreisbuch. There, on the desk, is Stefane’s book and genolith. What here is Salbadore’s? In the sleeping slot, under the pillow, there is a book. Around his waist is a fine chain; a yellow jewel decorates the scoop of his ilium. This book, this stone, this body.

It must be dark now in the chamber across the hall. During the darkest periods in the eastward chambers a singularly dense ray of light passes overhead from a vent in the outside wall to one in the interior wall. From there, the light beams across the hallway ceiling and through yet another vent on the opposite side; here, it opens into and illuminates a westward, or daybreak, alcove. The chambers, though cramped, are quite tall and their tops protrude above ground level. The vents, then, are fifteen feet above the floor, and the morningtime light beams were usually out of reach for the sunset student. This time of morning, when the sunset novices are learning to cope with the problem of dressing themselves in the dark, light as bright as day and as exquisite as a banquet is pouring into the westward chambers.

Of course, it works the other way around, too. Sunset mages did most of their studying in the rich orange light of sunset, which lit their chambers like warm fire. It is no accident that, as the novices graduate from their subterranean alcoves and gain more social privileges, the sundown mages always seemed to know how to dress for nighttime social affairs. (In contrast the westward mages tended to always look like they were dressing for work and many had tastes bordering on the militaristic, if not downright imperial.)

Template
Salbadore opens his eyes, and groans. There is a quill going to waste in the light vent – its shadow looms large on the wall. He retrieves it by sleepily drawing a Zauberkreis: “suffragium!” Dipping the quill in a miniature bottle of ink that he keeps secure in the spinal compartment of his kreisbuch, Salbadore begins to pour over Stefane Flavius’ notes. He carefully sketches the more complex kreise in his own notes, and takes careful stock of Faney’s methods and findings.

In the back of the kreisbuch, two columns are scribbled in lead. Are they notes to an operation that he had just been learning to master? Are they philosophical in nature? Salbadore had a sense of what they could be, but it seemed unlikely that Stefane would have been the kind of fellow to deposit astrological folklore in his kreisbuch.

Brightness + Dim light
Apparency + Never obtuse
Out loudness + Often unspoken
Lawfulness + Unarticulated
Faciality + Admixture
Sunlight + Sensual
Illusion + Cover and clouds
Revelation + Dissimulation and covering tracks
Manipulation + Tactile operations and depth
Chauvinism + Nepotism
Differentiation + Death

Ideals and Reals

As he takes in Laurie's pleas, Salbadore wipes the first hints of tears away. Dabbing his sleeve in the corners of his eyes, he bends over and picks up his gains. "Thank you, Master Devil." He dons the ring immediately, and tucks the other items inside his shirt.

"Good evening to you - if anyone should need to find me, I will be retiring to a chamber on the sunlight side of the hallway." He turns to depart. "Mayna: guard," he commands, and the raven hops onto his shoulder, facing the party as Salbadore walks away.

His departing words are for Laurie: "Make haste, girl."

Mayna murmurs something at the imp as her master and vehicle leaves the dormitory. There is someone standing in that cramped little room, who has only just now noticed Mayna's responsiveness to the commands of the young Subdom Wolfgramm. It is inescapable now. "Guard," he has said, and true enough: the last things that the other party members see as the troubled young mage rounds the door-frame are the raven's suspicious eyes, her open bill, and her thick, black tongue. Clearly, she is warding her master, yet whatever strange avian intellect might be submerged in those dark orbs and in that oddly muscular tongue remains as unfathomable as any other animals'.



Salbadore's fierce indignance resonates as his boots strike the stone hallway.

Dedication

Salbadore and one of the imperial soldiers approach the prison wagon. The soldier lowers its gate, grabs a pair of feet, and pulls the –"Ah, sheiss!" Salbadore recoils from the stench coming off from the now-putrid body of the junior mage. Wrapping Orthos' wet cloak around his face, Salbadore laments, "Poor Sinchi!" He sobs, "And to think that you and ol' Faney would have been enemies excepting for Hungred and myself! And now the two of you here in quiet repose, side-by-side. Aw! All but for that bonny fat Mags – all but for the smithy's loose little lass!" His bawling begins to wind down, and he gathers a bit of dignity. "Pardon me, brother," he begs. "It's time to see your things back to the Guild."

A gaping wound in the mage's skull marks the point through which the fatal bolt entered – his toeless foot protrudes from a blown-out boot, marking the bolt's exit. Little more than a topography of blisters, the charred skin on his face retains no readable features, but his purple sash identifies Sinchiran as a mage of the Lebenskraft Guildhouse. Salbadore begins to paw at the corpse in the dim light of the trailer, searching through its cloak and clothing. As he does so, he cannot help but to notice the elderly gnome, dressed in the drab tunic of a prisoner, and locked in the belly of a skraftbiest. The little man worries Salbadore, and this worry consumes him. Lo, Salbadore coaches himself, Stephane and Sinchi died seeing this get off to his destination. Take him in, boy. Lay your eyes on that pip and do not forget.


("Thou imprisoned!" He speaks hushedly through the wet cloak, but not as a matter of privacy for he immediately realizes that he is breaking protocol by communicating with the prisoner through living bars, through fenestrae in the body of an officer in His Excellency's military. Salbadore thinks better of it only after the words have escaped his lips. But they have passed, and the lieutenant has not spoken. Salbadore decides that he will find out the name of the threat that his classmates died fighting. "Old man. Who are you?"
(He mutters something that sounds like, "Traveling, I been going."
("Of what crime are you accused?" Does the mimik shift a little, is it moving?
(The gnome shrugs.
("Two of my friends have died transporting you." Salbadore tries to sound insistent without speaking too loudly. "With all respect, you’ll please see the sincerity of my curiosity, sir, and satisfy it:")


– but what would Salbadore really want to know?

Aye, he thinks, and wants to say (but he cannot bring himself to muster this kindness) to the caged gnome, I ken the pip’s interest in the welfare of his kith. And Salbadore would feel even more understanding towards Nibben if he could believe that the mossback’s imprisonment is a matter of politics - or perhaps for the purpose of extracting information about a greater threat. But, no: no matter what Orthos claims, Salbadore is sure that Nibben was no more responsible for the rescue at Lakewood than he himself was. Nay. We each have been dragged down this path in the name of something else – but, oh, in whose name do you toil so, master gnome? To what end to you seek the company of imperial prisoners?

It will be a whipping for Nibben. Salbadore passes his gaze over the faces of the dead; one-by-one, he takes them in. "Everyone has been on a trip, but no one has yet gotten to where they are going." He winces in sympathy for pitiful, half-crazed Nibben and wonders if the afflicted soul would even be capable of understanding why he was being beaten? And – why, yes, of course – Laurie too had endured a beating at the hands of the lieutenant. What do they want to know? –


("Why are they all so interested in you?" he snaps at the old gnome.
(The frail man leans forward and taps his forehead. "The mindmelters put a bomb in my brain to keep me quiet.
("Anyway, I don't think you're allowed to be talking to me.")


And I won’t dare!, is Salbadore's immediate mental protest, for I know my place! With the auto-indignation of this sudden affirmation, Salbadore returns from his dream and soon locates his friend's genolith. It is nearly encased in the mass of melted metal jewelry around the young corpse’s neck. With some effort, Salbadore bends it free and pulls it over his friend's charred face – Oh no, oh poor Sinchi, Salbadore chants and bites his lip. He tries his best to shear off as little of Sinchi’s flaky skin as possible.

Not entirely happily, but with no small amount of relief, Salbadore succeeds in keeping the melted and burnt face of Sinchiran Balaban Ran mostly intact.