“I had to take it in trade,” says Dulap, “he said Mistress always did before, and if I didn’t he’d stop bringing me his custom. I can’t afford to lose customers when half the city has fled to the hills!”
“Nor can anyone,” says Yael softly.
“But it wasn’t his to give?” says Silhouine, still trying to work this out.
“I don’t even know what it is, or why these other people want it,” says Dulap, rubbing his face. “Could you store it? Just until I can unload it?”
“What did he call the stuff?” says Silhouine.
“Ferrous alumen,” he says.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Crucible and the other dungeonbots burst into a room, surprising eight kobolds. They attack first, their hammers and flamethrowers damaging four of the kobolds. Then the kobolds attack and damage them. Then the dungeonbots kill two kobolds. Then the remaining kobolds attack. Then the dungeonbots kill four kobolds. Then the last two kobolds attack but don’t do very much. The dungeonbots kill them.
“Healing?” says the clericbot, holding up a steel plate and some rivets.
“I’m fine,” says the thiefbot, picking through kobold brains for pennies.
“Ah,” says Crucible, as tiny rubber blades wipe the blood from his optical sensors. “Adventure!”
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
The rule for solving a maze is this: put your shoulder to a wall and walk. This works less well for a maze with doors in it, but Aldous knows better than to try mapmaking. The rooms here don’t play fair.
The library, for instance, is stalking her. She keeps smelling it behind her, dust and wood acid and the cruel alchemy of glue. She doesn’t trust it, but it must be trying to tell her something.
She enters, finally, and pulls a book down expecting blank pages. Instead it’s full of handwritten names: Cording, Cordovan, Corey, Corinna, Corinne, Corwin, Cosette.
Friday, December 11, 2009
The occupation, such as it is, drags on into the rainy season. Master Isaam isn’t back yet, and Silhouine begins to suspect incidents on the mountain pass. It worries her: she liked Isaam, and doesn’t want him dead or destitute. Will an heir or a creditor show up to claim the shop? Will he keep the old apprentice around?
“You know you’re running out of inventory,” says Yael, at last.
“Yes,” snaps Silhouine, who doesn’t have the capital to restock. “I’m working on it.”
Dulap shows up the next day, with a wheelbarrow and white all the way around his eyes.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
“Fear not, citizen,” declares Simon bar Kokhba when they bring the mutilated man before him. “Though your attackers have taken speech and writing from you, yea, they will be found–for you can still answer yes or no!”
The man nods weakly.
“First–were they Israelites?”
He shakes his head.
“Foreigners,” spits the prince. “Armed with knife or sword?”
The man hesitates.
“Oh, right. Nod once for a knife, twice for a sword.”
He nods twice.
“Cool,” says Simon bar Kokhba. “Wait. Was that just one nod with two motions?”
Longinus resigns himself to just growing his hands and tongue back.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Defusing a time bomb is tricky business even if the many-worlds interpretation doesn’t hold, and Mario isn’t helping.
“Have you ever done this before?” he asks, trying to get a better look.
“In simulations,” mutters Girard. Sweat accretes under his ears and armpits.
“Which wire do you think you should cut?”
“Ask me in thirty seconds,” says Girard, cutters poised.
Mario twists his watch and jumps forward. “Which wire do you think you should cut?” he asks again.
Girard lolls at him, skinless, his jaw across the room somewhere.
“Well?” says Girard when he returns.
“Not that one,” Mario says.
Pennies don’t go bad from mere
Exposure to the air;
They need immersion–turbid, warm–
And gentle, cruel care.
Don’t let their tarnish verdigrize.
Don’t keep it bright or clean,
But mold it, topiarylike,
Into a thing of green
And verdant, fertile, grasping hands
Impossible to sate.
Then turn them loose in pocket change
And watch them propagate:
Each zinced-out copper currencette
Will sow discord and strife
And reap a feast of misery
From someone’s ruined life.
Don’t act surprised to see it work,
You who set loose the flood.
There’s a reason, after all,
That pennies taste of blood.