Chapter 17
Walking in public with Thjorn was enough to make Merid regret the deal. It wasn't the possibility that he'd be recognised as much as not knowing what he might do from one moment to the next. He'd always been unpredictable, even when she thought she'd understood him, and he could decide to do something stupid and visible on the spur of the moment. Public spectacle was not a survival technique for glyphpunks.
He thrived on chaos and conflict, which irritated her. He was the most gifted natural glyphist she'd ever known, able to comprehend with a glance what others had to learn by rote. He could easily have joined the Alliance, or even the Society, had he wished. Yet he'd chosen to oppose them, for reasons she'd never fully understood.
His infamy in Idstil – well-earned from a youth of rebellion against the guilds – didn't help. Even being mostly absent the last few winters he'd drawn a few glances of recognition. Fewer since they'd crossed to the western half of the city.
Idstil lay on the southern coast of Dadfnir, where the river Kjar met the ocean. The country's largest port, the city was split in two by the river. Merid lived in the east, the poorer district.
Unlike the solid ground of the west, the eastern side was a collection of small islands on which buildings had been erected – with some floating domiciles among them – all interlaced by canals.
The western side was more traditional and stable, and housed most of the warehouses along the road leading inland. It also played host to the unofficial headquarters of the Alliance, so many senior Alliance members called Idstil home. Their presence was the reason most glyphpunks restricted their activities to the eastern side. And why Merid was always on edge visiting the west, especially with Thjorn accompanying her.
The two sides of the city were not directly linked – although a bridge offered a connection on foot a short way inland. The bridge was mainly there to allow cargo to be transported east from the warehouses. Most travel between east and west of the city was by boat, which was how they’d travelled.
As their passage through the cleaner west of the city passed without incident, her concerns returned to what Thjorn would do when introduced to Timaron.
'Please don't embarrass me,' she said as they turned onto the quiet street where Timaron's shop was situated.
'How could I possibly embarrass you?'
She glared, uncertain whether he was serious. Sometime in their teens she’d lost the ability to tell how much was an inability or unwillingness to understand others, and how much was the mask he chose to wear. That had probably contributed to her ending their relationship. Not that he'd seemed to notice, acting as if they were still friends and oblivious to the effect his presence had on her.
'Just... He likes to chat,' she said. 'So try and make small talk before getting down to business. And you've probably got nothing he'd want to deal for, so if you want answers you'll need to engage him in conversation. Basically you need to try acting like a normal person. Can you?'
He frowned, with a sliver of distaste. 'I don't see why not. Never had the need before, but if normal people can do it, it can't be that hard.'
Rolling her eyes, Merid was fairly certain that had been intended as a joke. Sighing, and with the shop before them, she saw little option other than to sail ahead.
The front was a relatively large window – not as large as some of the more prestigious shops – displaying the clocks arrayed within. A bell above the door rang as she opened it, accompanied by a faint squeaking from the door itself. Shelves down both sides displayed an uncluttered array of finely crafted timepieces. A couple had subdued ticks, while others were silent, the intricate glyphs inlaid in their faces providing their motive force.
Down the far end Timaron was at work behind a small table. He glanced up as they entered, and smiled. Sturdily built, if slightly hunched with age, he had some grey hair behind his balding head, and faded eyes which must once have been a brilliant shade of blue.
'Merid, dear girl. Always a pleasure.' His smile remained as he inspected Thjorn. 'And this would be the friend you told me about.'
'Acquaintance,' she said with a half-smile, which turned to a half-glare as it settled on Thjorn. 'Timaron, this is Thjorn.'
'A pleasure to meet you,' said Timaron.
'The pleasure is mine,' Thjorn said with an unaccustomed elegance as he glanced up from examining a clock.
Merid laid a case on the table. 'The new tincture I told you about,' she said. 'Too high a power could ignite it, but at low levels it lasts longer, and cools faster.'
Timaron smiled and glanced at its contents. 'Excellent. I'll let you know how it fares. Please, sit.' He waved them to a couple of stools at the end of the table.
Merid did as indicated, but Thjorn examined the glyph on a clock. 'Some kind of light show?' he asked. 'I presume the arms need to align and slip in to trigger the glyph.'
Timaron nodded. 'When both arms are upright they retract, closing the lines and activating it so a rain of glittering dust shoots out. Then the arms extend again.'
'Interesting,' said Thjorn. 'I assume the powering glyph is inside?'
'Yes. A simpler design, but most prefer glyphs on display. That one is a bit crasser than I'd normally do, but it was commissioned and is soon to be collected. I'll be glad to see it go.'
'It does seem ostentatious compared to the others,' said Thjorn. 'You prefer functionality?'
'Ostentation and experimentation are for the young,' said Timaron. 'At my age it's all about honing your craft.'
'You didn't always do clocks?'
'No, but time has become my obsession. I can't honestly remember the last glyph I did which wasn't on a clock. Have you a specialty, or are you still experimenting?'
'I still see too many new ideas to linger on one application.'
'I recall that excitement,' said Timaron. 'Some never leave it. I don't regret specializing, though. There's a calmness – a focus – to having a narrower field of study, from being able to see the limits of your domain. Don't you agree, Merid?'
'Yes,' she said. 'But I doubt Thjorn will ever be able to limit his vision in that way. Not without going completely crazy. Or crazier.'
'It could well be physically painful,' agreed Thjorn.
'I understand you wished to pick my brains,' said Timaron.
'If you're amenable,' said Thjorn, finally sitting.
'What was it you wanted to know?'
'I'm hoping to understand the politics between the Society and the Alliance. I know the public impression is of hostility, and was wondering how true that was.'
'I don't know I'd class them as hostile, as much as competitive,' said Timaron. 'It varies between members, but generally it only matters to the senior members. They have a formal structure in place to guide how the guilds interact. As the areas they deal in tend not to overlap, business hostilities are rare. It's more likely to be members of the same guild who engage in confrontations, forcing the seniors to calm tensions.'
'So is there much interaction between the members of each?' asked Thjorn.
Timaron shrugged. 'Again it depends on the individuals. A few militant types – both the young firebrands and the older types who've grown through the more fraught periods – can be less than open, shall we say, to interacting with those they see as the enemy. Most can't be bothered, though. Those who're inclined to share with other glyphists – generally those whose love of glyphs outweigh commercial tendencies – don't concern themselves with such boundaries.'
'Except when it comes to glyphpunks,' said Merid. While Thjorn might remain blissfully oblivious to their hostility, she – like every other glyphpunk – had had occasion to experience the disdain of official glyphmasons over the years.
'That's true,' said Timaron, shaking his head sadly. 'Many still see glyphpunks as disreputable, with little to offer.'
'I can't imagine where the disreputability comes from.' Merid stared at Thjorn.
He, of course, ignored it. 'It probably works both
ways. I know glyphpunks who see anyone in the Society or Alliance as a threat.'
'Yes,' said Timaron. 'That seems to be where the hostility between glyphists is centred. And I don't foresee it changing anytime soon.'
'Is there much trading of glyphs between the guilds?' asked Thjorn.
'That's a different matter,' said Timaron. 'Glyphs are business. Unless they’re proprietary knowledge of an individual, which few are, they're guild property and will not be traded.'
New glyphs were seldom discovered by individuals, but by research groups set up by the guilds. Individuals may tweak aspects in personal experimentation – which they'd be expected to report – but guidelines on what constituted a glyph were detailed in the laws of the lands. This let the guilds police the usage of glyphs which were officially theirs. Merid’s work on materials wasn’t covered, and she kept a low profile for fear of them remedying that oversight.
'The guilds don't sell to each other?' asked Thjorn.
'Seldom,' said Timaron, laughing faintly. 'The rare occasions they do require significant negotiation, and usually end up costing more than researching a new method of achieving the same result. Why do you ask?'
Thjorn met his gaze a moment before responding. 'I've noticed some glyphs from both sources have similar junk lines. Too similar to be naturally occurring.'
'Junk lines?' said Timaron, the scepticism in his tone matched his face. 'That may be circumstance, or artistic flair. I don't see it being too important. If it were, they'd police it.'
Merid disliked junk lines: the artistic expressions in the lines connecting the points on a glyph. Glyphs didn't require more than a straight line from one point to the next, but artistic inspiration had seen them travel twisted paths since the earliest days. Many were created with elaborate designs to minimise the chance of theft, hiding the true glyph from those not skilled at reading them, and making them more distinctive.
She didn’t like cluttering her designs, although for tattoos where the glyph alone was what was wanted she'd use them so the design wasn't too bland. She couldn't see that it mattered if junk lines were mimicked, though.
'What if they're not junk?' asked Thjorn.
Merid felt the confusion on Timaron's face mirrored on hers.
'Are you talking about the old tale of a second glyph pasted over the first?' asked Timaron. 'I've heard it, but no one who's ever looked at it has found anything.'
'Just because they haven't found it doesn't mean it isn't there.'
'And have you managed it?' asked Merid, a touch aggressive.
'Not yet. I've wondered whether drawing the two glyphs with distinct substances may keep them separate.'
'More likely the substances will cut the lines,' said Merid. 'Or weaken them so they burn out faster.'
'Not impossible, though,' said Timaron, brow creased in thought. 'I assume, since you're inquiring as to the interactions between the guilds, you believe someone in one or both knows how to use junk lines?'
'Actually the double glyph was just an idea,' said Thjorn. He took a moment before continuing, as though considering how much to say. Such reticence wasn’t normal, and Merid dreaded what he’d say next. 'The duplication of junk lines got me thinking. The organizations have carved up clearly defined territories, allowing control of pretty much all trade.'
'You believe they're working together more closely than they appear?' asked Timaron, equal parts incredulity and consideration in his voice.
'Playing at enemies so the monarchies don't think they're being taken over by a single entity. It lets them play one off against the other.'
'That's ridiculous,' said Merid.
'Yes,' said Timaron. 'But not unbelievable.'
She stared at him a moment, before glaring at Thjorn. 'I knew I shouldn't have introduced you. You can turn anyone senile.'
Timaron laughed. 'Not quite yet, dear girl. While it's the first time I've heard the idea, it wouldn't be beyond the realm of possibility.'
'Don't encourage him, please,' said Merid. 'You have no idea how far the idiot will go.'
Timaron smiled, although she'd only been half joking. 'It is ultimately what the game it about. Business, I mean. It's another path of conquest, with ownership of everything being the ultimate goal. Have you found evidence to support the idea?'
'Define evidence,' said Thjorn.
'So it's just a delusion,' said Merid.
'A theory,' said Thjorn.
'One which could be difficult to prove or disprove,' said Timaron.
'Yes,' said Thjorn.
'All that from junk lines?' asked Merid, suppressing a sigh.
'Musing on junk lines led to thinking about that,' said Thjorn. 'I'm not claiming a logical causation between them.'
'Well, that's all right then.'
'There's no need to be snippy. It's not as though I'm saying the junk lines imply there are other power wells we're unfamiliar with.'
The fact he'd considered it was bad enough. She was about to tell him so when Timaron spoke.
'You wouldn't be the first to speculate on other power wells either,' said the old man. 'I think there're even a few books regarding earlier examinations.'
'There are?' said Merid. She was coming to the conclusion that she might be the insane one.
'A few. Copies are hard to find. Ognolf's Experiments is probably the most coherent, from what I recall, although the details in my mind are too vague to be of use. I believe the library in Kodgreid has a copy, although gaining access may be difficult. I'm not sure where else has a decent copy.'
'I know some people,' said Thjorn. 'I may be able to talk my way into getting a look.'
'Most people you know don't like you,' said Merid. Irnskyl wasn’t welcoming to glyphmasons – guild ones, anyway – so she was dubious how likely he’d be to get at the book in a legal manner. This wasn’t the place to call him on it, though.
'Doesn't mean they won't help me.'
She glared, before glancing between the pair of them. 'You're actually entertaining his delusions, aren't you?' she said to Timaron.
'I'm an old man,' he pointed out. 'You wouldn't begrudge me a little harmless intrigue, would you?'
She sighed, giving up. Well, at least Thjorn didn't seem to have offended Timaron. Not that this might not be worse.
There wasn't much she could do about it, anyway. There'd never been much she could do about him. Not without coming up with a way to stop Thjorn thinking. That'd always been his problem: that he never stopped. She'd wondered what would happen if he did stop thinking. He might actually feel something.