From: hutch@ibeam.intel.com (Steve Hutchison) Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn Subject: [MG] Murder and War as a Way of Life Date: 22 Mar 93 06:48:50 GMT The ratty fellow in the greasy olive-drab trenchcoat was going to be very wet, in mere moments. Two thugs were coming up behind him, rope in hand, ready to tie him up and, after some fun, toss him off the pier. The two were not large for thugs, and looked kind of worn themselves, thinned out by hunger and by too many kinds of addiction. They did this several times a night, generally picking out a harmless bag lady, or a wino or tramp or old down-on-his-luck sailor, knocking them out or tying and gagging them, then (after taking whatever bits of valuable they could find) hauling their victim to the piers, and then tossing them off into the water. And each time, the god would come, and feed them with the warm taste of fresh death and the spicy wine of the senseless murder. Then they would crawl back into their secret place in the sewers, and whisper urgently to each other in the dark as they frantically remembered each second of their murder, playing it over in their minds, again and again, until the pleasure was all gone and they were dead to the world ... then they woke up and the craving came again. They did it for the thrills, they kept telling each other. Nothing wrong with geeking a few worthless weirdos for thrills. Not as if anyone would miss them, nobody cared anyway. They had done this for five days, now, and the growing closeness of their bond, the deaths they had caused, the power it gave them, had begun to change them in ways they couldn't guess. The ratty fellow didn't even know they were there. They moved without a sound, even breathing in time with their victim, so he wouldn't suspect that they were coming. But, impossibly, he turned, and looked straight at them. His eyes, cold, like ice, the red ember of his cigarette shiny in the freezing depths of those eyes, held them locked in a sort of hot and cold hell. "Hello, fellows." His voice was nasal, soft, kind of ingratiating, but carried a sense of menace and insanity behind it - they might have felt fear at that threat in the past, but now it was nothing compared to the thrill of listening to a person thrashing, strangling in the mud and the shallow water, being chewed on by the sharks and the crocodiles... The lovely vivid images flashed by, death and misery, murder and menace, the thugs were frozen by his gaze, trapped in a loop of memory that was agonizing and vivid, by some vile magical accident the memories shared with the ratty man the way the thugs shared everything but their secret mutual hate. All their tawdry secrets were exposed by that stare, their games and pastimes, business and pleasure: they were master and slave, they were bully and victim, they were thief and fence, they were petty-lord and grovelling sycophant, and they were torturers and lovers and each despised the other for it. The constant intensity of the scrutiny was unbearable and horrible and unending. Something snapped inside. Too much, too deep, self-knowledge that was unbearable and shouldn't be shared. The ratty man walked closer to them, holding them trapped in his gaze, and smiled an evil little smirk. "You wouldn't know anything about murder, would you, boys? I think you might be good at it. I think all you need is some sharpening up, ahenh." He laughed a sick sort of chuckle, then blinked, slowly, taking a deep drag on the nasty-smelling cloveweed cigarette between his lips. The compelling hold loosened for a moment, the thugs exchanged glances with each other - run, or grovel, or try to kill him? Kill him, of course. They looked back at the ratty man - but he suddenly held a pair of small hand-sized crossbows, and the metal of the sharp, barbed heads of the quarrels glowed wetly with a viscous green poison that all of the many Low Town low scum recognized - Green Sally, the favorite blade venom used by the assassins who worked for the Prince. They knew all about Green Sally. She burned the skin where she touched, but if she got inside the skin, she was worse, she made her lovers break out into painful yellow boils, spreading under the skin, moving inward, until there was nothing but a mass of yellow goo in a skin sack. And the only cure was to eat powdered rubies or ground sapphires, at least a pound of them, or to go and grovel to the priests of Ilmater, who never healed murderers. And then the ratty man's cold stare was back, each glance tearing secrets loose, snapping off bits of their frozen souls - but it was strange, like the bits were numb, like they were dead branches being snapped off a tree, no pain, child and mother snapped away, father and teacher and friend, all gone but it didn't matter, businessman and student and musician and artist and storyteller and ... the thugs felt curiously light. Unencumbered. The left-hand crossbow jerked threateningly. "Put the ropes down, boys." They complied, throwing the ropes down with a jerk like they were asps. "Good. Now, sit down, and listen to me. I want you to do a little job for me. If you do it right, you'll be paid well, money to buy all the ropes and whips and all those things that your little hearts desire." He giggled, an unpleasant sound. "You, the one with the red teeth, what's your name?" The thug thought for a minute - he had a name, didn't he? Those cold eyes, made it hard to think. He didn't have a name? Oh yes, he did, of course. Before he met the god, they called him Red Teeth. "Redtooth Hork." "Good. Tell me, Mr. Hork, do you know how to drive a cart?" "I think so. Yes, I can drive a cart." "Good. You, the other one, with the feathers in your hair." "Stimsen. They're very nice feathers. I got them from pigeons I killed all by myself," the second thug began to drool. The first thug slapped him, embarrassed, and muttered to himself. This wasn't fun any more, they were going to have a nice little murder but this geek in the trenchcoat wasn't cooperating and now they'd have to find a new victim. "Listen to me, boys. You two are going to take a little walk now." The ratty man's voice was a compelling sort of sing-song, and the thugs found themselves nodding in time, moving their lips with each syllable. All other thoughts fled screaming, and they listened eagerly. "You're going to walk all the way back down the pier to the street, and then you'll take a left, and keep walking until you come to a yellow cart. You're going to get in the cart, and drive it into town, across the Crow bridge, and then you're going to find the Rameshand embassy building. Do you know where that is?" They nodded, jaws slack and flapping. "Good boys. After you get there, take the scroll from under the seat and hand it to the guard, and he will let you inside. Once you get inside, tell the guard at the door that you want to see Amaan, that you have a delivery for him. When he comes, you will know him because he smells like fear. Do you understand?" They nodded, grinning vacuously, remembering the smell of their victims, the old ladies and the crippled sailor and the kid and the drunk whore, all the same coppery tang, falling, bleeding ... "Good. When you see Amaan, show him the thing under the tarp in the back of the cart. Make him look at it. After he stops squirming, he will start saying a name. You two say the name with him. After that, you can kill him and then you can come back here and get your rewards. OK, boys?" They nodded dumbly. "Good. Go now." The two thugs stumbled off, back towards the shore, feet slapping faster and faster. Behind them, the ratty man shrugged his olive-drab trenchcoat up a bit tighter, and smiled, tossing the stub of his cigarette into the waters below. He lit another. Idiots, already more than three-fourths of their measly souls already killed by that wormwood god of theirs, but sending them would save killing any innocents. Two more stupid deaths, maybe three if somehow Amaan died, but they were necessary. The assassination plot was set. The bait, the balefires bomb, the hooks and traps all in place. If this "dar-i-el" creature was what the signs suggested, then there would be an end to all this nonsense very soon. ------------- 'Raelf was sitting in a white room with no walls. The room had fuzzy edges. This was normal. All twenty of the rooms in the Anamorphic section of the Lighthouse had fuzzy edges unless they were set to an environment. He stretched back, leaning on the hypothetical chair, and silently thanked his daughter again for the House module. It was kind of expensive, but House Arafael was fairly wealthy - Terhaec had contributed a wild sense of fun, and a knack for invention, and Maribel had contributed her foresight and her gift for knowing what people needed, and when 'Raelf and ar'Elya had joined them as their first offspring, they created from the fusion the greatest event-artist the 'kan had known in centuries. Silver Cat Enterprises was even a success in the Unchanging Lands away from sS'chS'ck'kan - and they were doing a fine job of marketing the games 'Raelf had adapted. 'Raelf had been grateful for the House module - it was beyond his means, after buying the Warpfield generator, and he had been looking at Raye living with him in his "Winnebago" - but that was just a five room vehicle like a cross between a Volkswagen van, a motor home, and a cut-rate TARDIS. It had barely enough room for him, his portable shop, and a few amenities. Raye had been even worse - all she had was a "tent", a single room, albeit a big one, where she could stash her trade goods and keep a small nest. But now, they had the Winny locked down in the garage, and with the House unit they could even have two Gamerooms. ar'Elya had suggested wryly that maybe the Gamerooms were to keep him working - Arafael made quite a profit on their cut from anything 'Raelf provided. He made a mental note to get going on the fourth Dragon Spirit environment. He looked at the display hanging in the air in front of him. Nothing. He strummed his fingers in annoyance. His MageFam 5^x was docked with the house's Pensare' system, and the interfaces were still arguing about who should be doing what. <> <<*accessing. please wait for decrypt. decrypt complete. please wait for decompression. decompression complete. please specify display mode.>> <> <> The room unblurred. He was seated in an amphitheatre carved from living stone (it still had a pulse) and below at the podium was the Guest Lector for the day, a gentle creature of the Ascetic caste. Having never taken living food, the Lector wore its original form, a tree shape with eleven branches, each branch terminating with a nearly circular spray of leaves, on which other archetypic shorthands danced - the phoenix at the root, the ankh at the heart, enlightenment at the crown... The Lector began to speak, and 'Raelf watched with pleasure and delight as its words shaped themselves to the nature of each listener. There was a pause. He blinked, bringing his attention back to the content of the lecture. :"Five there are of the person-nature who coalesce for Good, Five who for representation are the living embodiment at their Places, for the first Five great powers of Good": Over head, the sun writhed and twisted, a benign shower of gentle warm changing, projecting down on the places below a flux of meanings. The Lector gave a brief grace, and spread its leaves to absorb the flow. 'Raelf shuddered, trying to absorb what he could, but there was just not enough Life behind the solar wind, and he ended up letting it pool around him and sink into the rock. As the stargift subsided, the Lector returned to his topic. :"Faith first there is, which relates to Truth and is the stone that moves not, she forms her servants from those who will believe, and against her is set the Nayseer, the one who rose from the dark side of Truth to deny meaning. Her servants true form bear wings of flawless crystal": The Lector paused a moment, allowing the students to consolidate notes. :"Hope there is, who relates to Change and is the fire that lights the hearts of the living. He fires a beacon and builds of himself servants, whose wings are the power of what could be. Against him is set the Reaver, the one who from the depths of Change discovered only the end of Change. Their War is perilous and vast, beware lest you be caught in it and destroyed.": Another pause. <> - that was the whisper from two rows down and one seat over, a youngster from a family 'Raelf hadn't met at the time, an otter with deep blue eyes. :"Charity third is, who relates to Freedom, she is the rain on the parched earth, the gift of gentle healing given without thought to cost. From her wellsprings draws She servants who in their true form bear wings which are rushing torrents. Fearsome is she. Her enemy is the Scapegrace, the lord of greed and envy who found in freedom only the power to take from others. The War she fights is a subtle one, her servants are few, but each has great power and are not defeated, even in destruction": <> <> :"Justice fourth is, her other face is Mercy, relating to that controversial and feared archetype Righteousness. Justice is blind, and Mercy sees, and so they are at once at odds and striving together. They are the winds that move across the spirit, and their servants are many, their wings are the hurricane. Justice and Mercy contend against the Taker of Vengeance, and the Giver of Retribution . Their War is never subtle, but their servants are so: they are unseen, never easily named, for they move like air into the spirits of others, and depart when their influence is done.": The Lector paused a moment. The class began whispering, then stopped as the silence became more profound. :"Some of you percieve this as a farce. You are young and impatient, you have learned the lore of our race, the laws of magic and technology, the secrets and rumors and the common thought. You think that there is no value in abstrusion, in the musings of us few who were your first fathers' forefathers. You may never have to know these things I tell you. If you choose, like most of your generation have done, to remain in our own world, or never to go beyond the dozen dozen worlds of our neighbors, then you can never be in those places where the Wars rage hottest, you will not see the lands where our esoteric, useless philosophies are the rules of life. If you find no value in what I have said til now, if you wish to go, then I bid you leave now and may peace follow you forever.": A half dozen of the thousand, then more, and then over half the class had risen, flown, melted, flowed, strode, or skittered out the exits, leaving behind those who were either embarrassed, or truly interested. 'Raelf remained, as did two of his siblings. :"The last of the Five is hardest to tell. No one form, no one gender or body has it, its Place is all Places, and it is called Creation. It relates to the archetype of Will. The servants of Creation are all who exist, all beings which have choice. Creation is in constant conflict with its opponent, that which unnames and has no name, which is expressed in destruction. Many beings are servants of both. As you live you will serve the one or the other, and your life will be the struggle to choose which you serve. When you serve creation you will find that destruction still uses you, and you will have to learn to destroy only what must be destroyed to further creation. If you choose the other, then you will be unable to create except that which engenders greater destruction. Creation grows in the Void that is source to thought, will, and deed.": :"Finally, a warning. The Wars between the Five and their enemies happen at all Places and at all Times, even here in our own homeworld. The others, who left, may never understand this. The Wars are such a deep thing, so much a part of that which is Real, that no scrying, no future sight, no divination, not even the arts of the Great Diviners, can see the presence of any of these servants. They can only see the results of their actions. If any of you should go on to study at the Traveller college, or even to be fully trained as a Traveller, then you will be given the indicators to look for, those things which will tell you if the Place you are in will be endangered by the Wars. From then, it is your own responsibility which will guide your actions. We have no laws, no codes, no traditions, which can tell you what to do." The Lector froze in place, then faded. 'Raelf sat in midair, thinking over the lesson. It had been the reason he went on to Traveller College, the reason he had chosen to be an Artificer. Behind him, a door opened from nowhere. A figure in a greasy olive-drab trenchcoat stepped into the room, and gazed at him with ice-blue eyes. "Raye! Hey, what's up? You're still doing your Peter Lorre impersonation. Did you find out anything yet about the creature Amaan captured?" "Not yet. I have a plan in place which should reveal it." "Cool. Hmm. YOU have a plan? Who's going to die from it?" "Oh, just two thugs who were mostly dead already. I had a light snack, there wasn't much left after their god was done ... playing with them." "Another one?" "God of senseless murder and violent death. Not there physically, but it was watching them. It would have interfered but it found out my plan." "The balefire bomb? They won't be protected? I thought you were going to shield them." "Only Amaan. These two, their spirits are dead, nothing left worth keeping." "Felch. Raye, will you please change to a different face, you're making me feel like Mortimer Brewster talking to Doctor Einstein." The ratty man flickered and was replaced by a woman with red-brown hair, still wearing the trenchcoat. "You have a full archive recall setup here. What were you remembering just now?" "Last of the Fundamentals lecture series, did you take it?" "Of course, before I went on to College, it was required. You too, eh?" She looked at the cigarette in her hand with distaste, and with a flick of her wrist sent it out of existance. "Me too what, Carmen?" "You think this is a War?" "Fer shur. But, who are the sides?" ---