Only just enough time. The moment she was up, something like a small green shell exploded beneath her. A noxious gas in an equally noxious shade of green rose up around her.
“Vento freddo!” Delilah cried, and an icy wind blew the gas back at its attacker.
Then, as she shouted the French infinitive ‘to fall’, Ruin shouted the infinitive ‘to crumble’ in the tongue of ancient Egypt. The effects of the two spells combined, and the ceiling beneath them exploded downwards.
Both fell into the main bar of the Nightlight. There were only a few patrons and the daytime bar tender. They all leapt back. The bartender was the first to reach for his Focus, and followed swiftly by the patrons.
Delilah and Ruin got to their feet and dusted themselves off
“Asbestos? Jesus...” Ruin complained
“I knew this place wasn’t up to code,” Delilah said sternly
Upon recognizing the dark sorceress and the necromancer, the bartender and patrons wisely decided to flee
Delilah quickly recast dark version of the feather spell, the spell that allowed her to leap from rooftop to rooftop on herself. As she leapt, she cast the ‘crumble’ spell on the floor, even as Ruin fired another gray particle at her
Delilah jumped back out to the roof.
Ruin ended up two floors below with a pyramid of ceiling on his head. A dozen leather-clad people stopped what they were doing to look
Delilah looked at her shoulder as her dress unraveled and the flesh beneath turned gray and dried and began to flake away. “Stare!” The Italian word froze the effect before it got too far, but her left arm was completely numb. She struggled with her other hand for a healing vial, but it had no further effect. Delilah swore and jumped from night to day
* * * *
Mary was busy fussing with a color palette. She loved red, but didn’t want her hair to look faded when she was in the room. She pointed her Focus, in single baton form, at the wall and it changed again. To yellow. She frowned. Much more yellow than she had intended. She focused on the picture in her head, and said the words again. The wall became a more rich, golden tone.
“Better...”
Mme. Rumella had cleared out the decaying hay immediately, and set some incense burning. Now she was downstairs disposing of the contents of the various stalls. Mary gave up on decorating for the moment and stepped off downstairs to join her.
“What are you going to about all these stalls dear?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” Mary said thoughtfully. “The upstairs is plenty enough living space for me. I was thinking just put the bathroom in down here, and wait to convert the other space as needed.”
Mme. Rumella nodded. “Well it’s relatively clean now.”
“Thank you so much, Mme. Rumella. If there’s anything I can do for you..?”
“Let’s just see how useful this little thing is,” Mme. Rumella replied, producing the cattle head carving, “and then we’ll decide,” she said with a wink
Mary nodded. The carving, whatever it contained, was definitely a sorcerous object. And while some people tried to be sneaky, many used the same words to activate and deactivate their sorcerous objects, for memory purposes. Mary made a fair attempt at repeating the word she heard the man speak earlier.
Sure enough it worked. A flash of light in a strange brownish color filled the room, and a spectral cow was born from the carving. Or at least, half of one. a pinched waist grew outward from it, expanding into life-size shoulders and horned head, all fluorescing in shades of brown and white. The spectral image hovered some feet above them, back to the ground, legs kicking bizarrely in the air
“Er, hello...” Mary greeted it
“Oy! ‘Ow are ye then?”
Mary and Mme. Rumella exchanged a look. The Jericho cattle spirit sounded rather... Australian.
“Fine,” Mme. Rumella attempted to assure both herself and the cow.
“Awright then! Who are ye?”
“I’m Mme. Rumella, and this is Mary, formerly Queen of Scots.”
Mary winced but remained silent
“Right. I’m Big Ollie.”
Mary and Mme. Rumella exchanged another look.
“Listen... Big Ollie... We’re in a bit of a spot involving something from your area of the world. We were wondering if you couldn’t help us out.”
“I’ll give it me best, but no guarantees. I’m kinda outta the loop, ye understand.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind,” said Mme. Rumella. “Our specific trouble is with the Standard of Uruk, you see-”
“Oh bleedin’ ‘ell!” Big Ollie interrupted. “I thought they got rid o’ that thing ages ago! I mean literally: ages of civilization!”
“It would appear to have disappeared, perhaps stolen, from its resting place. We had to do quite a bit of searching just to find mention of it, but we still haven’t the vaguest inkling of what it does. Could you chance to explain?”
“No trouble, miss, no trouble at all. The Standard was a sorcerous device that they carried round on a pole, all covered with pictures.”
“So it’s just another sorcerous object, so what?” Mary asked. “It doesn’t sound like anything we haven’tfm seen before.”
“No, no, you’re missing the point, miss. The pictures are glyphs. The Standard is covered in writing: in words.”
Mary and Mme. Rumella looked at each other.
“Well. We are officially idiots.”
“Of course,” Mme. Rumella muttered. “We’re sorry to have bothered you.”
“Oh, no problem, miss! Always glad to ‘elp. If you don’t mind my asking, though, how did you get your ‘ands on one of these carvings?”
“I, er, rather threatened it away from someone by the Jericho wall earlier.”
“Right, right. Would you mind giving back, then?”
“No,” said Mary. “I was going to,” she added, knowing how unconvincing she sounded.
“Alright, miss,” said Big Ollie. It was difficult to tell, with him being a bovine phantasm, but Mary could swear he winked at her. “Goodbye!”
“Goodbye,” said Mary and Mme. Rumella in unison. Then Mary said the word, and Big Ollie disappeared.
Manors
The city had its favorites. Buildings appeared from England to India, Australia to Argentina, from ten thousand years of human settlement. But not every century was equal. The number of villas and manor houses was suspiciously large, while, despite the booming population and construction of the world after the Second World War, there were relatively few newer buildings. The old theory was that as that the world’s population grew larger, proportionately more buildings would appear, but the twentieth century threw the breaks on the city’s expansion. The new theory was that the city did what it damn well pleased.
Either way, the manor houses were the favored residences of the city’s power players. Delilah Runestone owned one, though being more safety-oriented than most of the dark ones, she never told anyone about it. And now, Miguel Suerte owned one.
Actually, like most real estate transactions in the city, the phrase ‘staking claim’ rang truer. A horde of boxes swept in from down the street and set themselves down in front of a place once known as St. Vrain Manor, according to the words etched in stone over the doorway. Miguel Suerte, surrounded as ever by a half dozen of the largest men (each possessing of a neck of dwarfing thickness) that he could find, strode serenely up the street.
He passed through the gates to his new property, up the path to the door, and stopped. He looked up from the file folders he was flipping through. Suerte turned to his men. “Hang it,” he ordered, and went inside
Four bodyguards followed him. Two others remained outside. One opened one of the stacked boxes and produced a rolled banner from within. They stepped back outside the gates and unfurled it. With a simple piece of sorcery, the banner flew up and attached itself above the gate. ‘The proud home of SUERTE CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERS,’ it said
Across the street
a pair of dark eyes narrowed. Bad news all around
* * * *
It was night, mostly. An erstwhile vocational college from South Africa now housed the Mulhoy Institute for Extinct and Imaginary Languages. Most of its employees thought it was too unromantic a home for the Institute, but leadership of the institute insisted on moving every few centuries to keep close to the center of town
Clement Jones, known to those who would acquiesce to his requests to be called ‘Clem’ as ‘Clem’, removed his glasses and rubbed at his tired eyes. Affixing the glasses again to his face, he glanced at the clock. Midnight, city time. Four in the morning, local time. The others had left hours ago
He didn’t bother to pack up. He wouldn’t be working at home tonight, and he would be back in a few hours, so why bother?
Clem Jones departed his desk, and exited, setting the magical safeguards at the front doors. He stepped outside into the darkness. He started walking by rote. He only lived two blocks from the Institute. His feet knew the way.
Clem Jones failed to notice how impenetrable the darkness was. He failed to notice that he could not see any lights shining from windows, or street lamps. He didn’t even hear the hard step of someone sneaking up behind him.
“You. You’re a linguist here at the Mulhoy Institute?”
“Huh?” Clem turned around. Behind him was a tall man with sharp features and hair graying at the temples. Clem found himself wondering where the man came from. “Um, yeah, I am. Who are you?”
“We have something to discuss then,” Lionel said. “Perhaps you’d care to come with me?”
He didn’t wait for an answer
* * * *
The city was a big place. That didn’t bother Hunter Blue. He had found nearly a dozen abandoned platforms promoting Suerte for mayor, and numberless leaflets on numberless walls. He also roughed up a few passers-by for information, only partly because he needed the news, but mostly because he missed doing that sort of thing, and needed the city to know he was still the same old Hunter
Everyone he had threatened seemed to know about the Suerte campaign. None of them had any intention of voting however, and all seemed mystified that the candidate hadn’t been killed yet. One or two admitted they had been thinking about it, but it was difficult to fit into their busy schedules, so they planned to let someone else do the job.
There were a few things that Hunter Blue had yet to figure out. For instance, what specifically Suerte thought he was doing, and where he was now. They had some things to discuss.
Hunter rubbed a leather-gloved hand absently against his stubbly chin. Then the hand shot out, grabbed the nearest person, and proceeded to slam him against the wall. No-one nearby appeared to take notice
Hunter looked the man over and decided he was from north Africa, probably Morocco. Hunter was trying to recall his Arabic, when the man, who had made a similar inference as to Hunter’s own origins, spoke to him in English. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“There’s something I need to know,” replied Hunter, in a gravelly British accent.
“I’m sorry for your ignorance, but I will still have to demand that you unhand me right now.”
“I take it you don’t recognize me, or you’d probably be afraid enough to answer all my questions.”
“I have a difficult time being afraid of a man stupid enough to carry a gun in this city.”
“Really? You don’t remember ever hearing of a man who managed to put his gun to good use here?”
The realization spread over the man’s face from the top down. Once his jaw finished dropping, he managed, “You’re not... You... Hunter Blue? I heard that you disappeared years ago.”
“I thought it was a good time to make a reappearance. Now, what do you know about Miguel Suerte?”
The man was a bit busy trying not to panic, and his mind had become a bit muddled. He looked up and away, searching for the memory. “Wait,” he said, “you mean the man running for mayor?”
“That’s him,” Hunter said, in what he and he alone considered an encouraging tone
“I have seen him giving a speech or two around town. He does not sound very sincere. I had never heard of him before this.”
“Yeah, I hear that a lot. Don’t suppose you know where he’s living?”
“No. Wait! I did see a sign... It said that it was his campaign headquarters.” The last words were obviously foreign to the man
“Where was that?” Hunter pressed
“It, ah... It was in a manor house somewhere.”
“Not helpful,” said Hunter, and leaned a little harder on the man
“I know, I am sorry! It... It was one with a full yard.”
“Better,” said Hunter
“It... was old. I’d say no newer the twelfth. I... I saw it Wednesday. Where was I on Wednesday?” The man struggled to remember. “I was out in the Third Quarter!”
“Thanks,” said Hunter, and released him
* * * *
The next morning, after a good rush or two, saw Mme. Rumella and Mary sitting quietly opposite each other, sipping at tea, speaking very little. Thinking about what they had learned.
The door opened. It was Leila
“Leila, come, sit down.”
Leila frowned at Mme. Rumella’s subdued tone. “Is something wrong?”
“Just sit down, will you?”
“Alright,” said Leila slowly, but complied. “What is it?”
Mme. Rumella looked at Mary as she spoke. “We’ve discovered something new about the Standard of Uruk.”
“Oh! That’s great. What did you learn?” Leila looked expectantly back and forth between the pair
“Something I fear we should have realized much earlier. There are symbols on the Standard, like you suspected.”
“Yeah...”
“They’re early writing, pet.”
“Don’t follow,” said Leila
“Do you remember, when you first came here, and you were having trouble with your basic sorcery? Yes? And you asked me why there wasn’t a library where they write all this down so people don’t have to remember it all and teach it orally? What did I tell you?”
“Um... You said that,” Leila began, “it was dangerous, and that sorcerous books had lives of their own, and were impossible to control, and had the power,” she slowed as the realization took her, “the power... to change reality. Itself. Oh boy.”
“Right.”
“So the Standard...?” Leila paused. “Well, we can’t have too much to worry about. I mean, it’s been dormant so long that it’s obviously not out of control.”
Mme. Rumella and Mary relaxed slightly.
“That’s true, isn’t it?” Mme. Rumella commented.
“In fact,” Mary inferred, “since it has remained dormant, whoever has it probably couldn’t use the thing without know how to read it. And who would know how to read whatever symbols they used in ancient Uruk?”
“Oh no.”
Mary and Mme. Rumella looked at Leila. “Why did you say that, pet?”
“They put us all on guard at the Museum... Someone disappeared from the Mulhoy. The Mulhoy Institute for Extinct and Imaginary Languages,” Leila added after seeing the lost expressions on the others’ faces. “They said he was working late, but he does that a lot and he’s always in early the next morning. When he didn’t show up, they sent someone to his apartment, and he wasn’t there. They think he was abducted. They want everyone at the museum to be careful in case it wasn’t a random crime. I heard that everyone at the Dresden museum is on guard as well.”
“In case they were to come after someone of similar experience,” Mme. Rumella supplied, concerned.
They all sat quietly for a while.
* * * *
There were bushes below the window, and why shouldn’t there be? A woman crouched below the casement, listening intently, and trying not to snag her dress. Stupid bushes, she thought to herself in an accusatory tone. A high wrought-iron fe
nce separated the place from the street, which was relatively empty.
However, a man in black slacks and a long-sleeved black silk shirt noticed the woman in passing. “Delilah? Delilah Runestone,” the man called
“Would you be quiet!” Delilah hissed. “I am trying to eavesdrop here!”
“What? Why?” The man was no quieter.
Delilah bolted across the yard and vaulted the fence, out of view of the window. She looked the man in the face. He could almost be her brother, with his dark, handsome features. Of course his hair was a lot shorter than hers.
“Damon, what the hell is wrong with you? I say I’m trying to eavesdrop and you get all shouty?”
“Sorry, Delilah,” Damon replied
“That was painfully insincere. Get out of here Damon, and do it so quietly that you could be walking on someone’s face and they wouldn’t hear you, alright?”
“Fine, chase me away, then. We’re both after the same thing, you know?”
“I doubt that. I doubt that’s been true for a long time. Now you go do your dark sorcery, and leave me to mine, hmm?”
“Later, D.”
“Don’t call me ‘D’. You don’t get to call me that anymore.”
“Whatever you say, D.”
“Go. Away.”
* * * *
It was precariously slow at Mme. Rumella’s. She, Leila, and Mary still sat, staring at increasingly cold tea. After a round of audible exhalations, Leila spoke up
“The whole academic community is up in arms about this actually. Nobody believes it’s not a kidnapping.”
“Of course they don’t, pet. This is not the first time something like this has happened. When someone needs ancient knowledge for their evil scheme, they usually kidnap someone.”
“They must not feel sufficiently evil just asking,” Mary pondered aloud
“Oh fun. I’m going to start dressing like a janitor or something for the walk home.” Leila sighed. “This is bad. Real bad. We’ve got to do something. I mean, the Mulhoy people have set the Peelers onto it, but my confidence in them is not quite as high as it might be. We should do something,” she repeated