Ryzhan

  I did not need to sleep, anymore.

  I had not for a while, in truth. Remembered vitality, made reality through my Gift, could stave off exhaustion, starvation and thirst with equal ease. I had not fallen asleep out of tiredness often, in the past (it would've felt like too much of a lapse in judgement, given the danger I'd believed myself in and the ones I'd actually been in), but now, I didn't think I could have if I tried.

  Mana was starting to seep into my constitution, and not just that of my flesh. I had heard legends of spellslingers so suffused with their Gifts that they had become more godlike than mortals, shedding the weaknesses of the bodies they'd been born with. I told myself that would be a welcome change, if it came, and that helped ease my mind.

  Falling asleep was more of an effort of will than anything, nowadays. I could make myself rest, while still aware of the world around me, and it was easier when I was at peace, with myself and the world.

  Unsurprisingly, it happened rarely. But when it did, I was, more often than not, aware that I was dreaming, and able to shape the world around me.

  Not unlike my waking life. Sometimes, I wondered if we were all shards of this being Ib said dreamed our worlds and all its kindred into beings, and that was why we could make something of the lucid dreamscape that was existence.

  We could perceive it, or at least, fractions of it. The early layers we inhabited. And in those, we could mould the substances in our reach in order to carve out our own place in the world.

  And that was what I needed to do. And would, after I shook this damnable grogginess off.

  I didn't think I'd woken up confused in years, nor had I felt dazed much since my magic had awakened. Not without foreign forces attempting to tamped with my being. As such, I'd have wagered I felt so out of sort more out of unfamiliarity than how dizzy I felt in of itself.

  My room's small window could be covered with a flexible metal shutter at will; the ship's will, of course. At the moment, it was so, for reasons I could not discern right away. If we'd been caught in some awful weather that could destroy the steel-like glass used for windows here, I'd have felt it. Perhaps the ship would deign to inform me.

  It tended to treat orders as suggestions and vice versa, in that it took the liberty to interpret the former, but presuming to command it ticked it off, even if it was Mharra doing it. Unlike most smug hypocrites, however, the steamer was very much a danger to me, even from what little I knew of its capabilities.

  Considering how foul-tempered the fraction of it that had conveyed me to Serene Rest had been, I wasn't eager to pry.

  Not that there was much need, to be honest, I told myself as I remembered my day clothes, letting them settle over me as my sleeping ones disappeared, then began making my bed. Neither of my crewmates would have given a damn if they'd seen me naked and daubed with mud and plant juices, as some eccentric mages liked to, but when it was so easy, there was no need to drag it out.

  My bed could've also been arranged with a thought, but, while my casting wouldn't have been overly hampered by the fact my head felt like a misshapen bucket full of rowdy fish, physical activity would help centre me, allowing the parts of my being to realign.

  There were some reasons the archetypal cryptic teacher of magic gave ridiculous, demanding tasks to their students. Not because it built character, obviously - that had always been and would always be a bald-faced lie spouted by lazy dotards -, but because most mages needed to be at peace with their bodies to use their Gifts.

  By the time I was done, my head no longer felt heavy and awkward, but the memory of that would likely put me off sleep for months to come, if not years. Nothing gained, except some half-remembered dreams about being caught in an endless, becalmed ocean, with every motion of my oar sending my boat backwards. That was such an obvious metaphor for our situation it was probably a trap. Must've meant something else.

  ...Or maybe the usual mages' tendency to look for mysteries where there were none was talking, and there really was no more to the dream than frustration expressed by my sleeping mind.

  With a last nod at my bed, I twirled my cane a few times, then left, with it slung over one shoulder, like the officers of some fleets' marines bore their symbols of office. I hummed as I walked - I could not whistle to save my life, although I could certainly justify my execution to anyone who listened, without using my magic - and ran a hand along the edge of the leatherbound, half-started account of my latest journey I'd left on my desk.

  I'd need to find a better title. The working one, A Mage's Memoirs, was not inaccurate, but I could not help but think it might turn some Ungifted away. After all, it wasn't that I could cast that really mattered, was it?

  * * *

  The air was charged with that sensation that often preceded rainstorms, which I'd learned to spot in the years of my late boyhood. I was bemused, though, seeing how the sky was clear of clouds. Midworld's weather could be unpredictable, especially at sea, and occasionally throw out a disaster no sailor had seen before or would see after, but most of the time, storms, blizzards and such could be predicted with some accuracy.

  What made the air so heavy had nothing to do with an incoming storm, though, except in a metaphorical sense. As I would learn.

  Ib and the captain were nowhere I could see, and the latter must've been making some effort to hide the endless well of its power. The steamer, meanwhile was making no such effort, and the manifestation of its might was much more visible than the grey giant.

  The deck seemed to waver and writhe like a living thing, yet where I stepped, it felt as solid as ever. More real, somehow, than any mundane metal, yet flexible as a reed, which was not an inaccurate way to describe the ship as a whole.

  Its movement reminded me of the way hunters' horses and hounds would pace in place before the call was sounded. The boisterous thing was eager, and that did not put me at ease: while I'd thought Ib was easily as casual about violence as I'd ever been as early as our first meeting, the steamer actually took great joy not just in combat, but violence as a whole. During our voyage, it had sometimes bemoaned the lack of enemy vessels to sink, but had confessed it'd make do with an island, as well.

  That had made me smile. Not the fact we had an unhinged living weapons as our main means of conveyance, though Vhaarn knew some Midworlders would've been reassured at that, even ecstatic. No, because I knew that was its way of saying it loved us, though it was too proud, of its aloof image in particular, to say so outright.

  The pleasure fleet had not been sunk by it, though their treatment of Mharra had greatly incensed the steamer; nor had we sailed to Serene Rest to turn it into floating gravel, even after what it had put me through. Admittedly, it would've set upon both with great joy, as it would have upon any acceptable target; and, likely, a part of the outrage was less affection and more the Burst being annoyed that people it associated with could be treated as if it didn't exist.

  But, fondness or possessiveness, the end result was the same.

  With that in mind, and its impatience - for Vhaarn knew what - plain, I asked, 'Whatever's got you in such a tizzy, Burst? Could it be whatever you covered my room window for? The weather's not so awful I'd rather have it hidden from my sight.'

  The ship, being its usual prickly self, quickly made its displeasure known - but it did so in a humanlike manner, obviously for my benefit. It had told me, repeatedly, that it had no admiration for the form of upjumped, upright apes, any more than it had for slugs or other disgusting creatures.

  Which had, if nothing else, confirmed some of the Vhaarnist legends I'd heard, which spoke of the kindly god placing various beasts in the trials that were their daily lives, until they evolved into thinking beings. In most of the versions, mankind's ancestors, though lacking the divine spark that was true intelligence, along with the various powers we sometimes gained, were portrayed as clever, large monkeys with no tails (most of the storytellers had never seen apes, or if they'd had, had not heard them called that).

  That was to say, prodding the steamer could get you some kernels of wisdom alongside the usual insults.

  So, insides churning with disgust (I imagined) at its currently manlike shape, the steamer approached me. I'd have been lucky to reach the bottom of its barrel chest if I'd stood on tiptoe, and it seemed almost as wide as it was tall, with thick arms that ended in hands larger than my head, with fingers like sickle blades.

  Briefly, I wondered if it bulky form was a statement addressed to Ib, in some way, but, wisely, I kept that to myself.

  The Burst said, 'Measure your words, mage. I am a vessel of exploration and slaughter. I don't get into tizzies.'

  'As you say,' I lied to make it shut up. If it felt it had to protect its dignity, this was never going to end. Seeming mollified by my agreement, or at least the appearance of it, it went on, unprompted.

  'It is fortuitous that you would wake up here.' It sounded regretful, though, and I learned why when it added, 'For you. Had you slept in, just a moment, I would've had the chance to rouse you myself.'

  'That would've marked out relationship forever,' I said blindly, hiding a wince as I imagined klaxons blaring in my ears, or some other loathsome contraption being used to wake me. 'But what do you mean? I see nothing.' That brought a series of deep chuckles, like lead weights falling down a well. Peevishly, I pointed out, 'The Clockwork Court and the Loom are legendary for being obvious, when one knows how to look.'

  Its laughter was seldom not sardonic, but I'd learned to differentiate contempt from genuine amusement, after a handful of discussions. 'Maybe. Maybe. But what are their rulers legendary for, fleshbag?'

  I inwardly rolled my eyes at the last part, but did not rise to the bait. It was a step up from "meat pile with sparkles", at least. What were the Twin Monarchs legendary for? For making peace with and marrying each other, after their strife destroyed their world of origin? Once, I would've added an "allegedly", but I'd seen and learned enough not to doubt pointlessly.

  Their marriage...did people really think of that first, or of their inventions, their knowledge? The legions of automata, carved out of flesh and steel and stone and a myriad other things?

  Damn me. For the first time I could recall, I actually wished we'd met more people along the way, to talk. If only to bring this up. The steamer was insufferable enough without something to hold over your head. When it did, it liked to make a mountain...out of a molehill...

  'They don't do small things,' I ventured, in response to its question. 'Their works mark Midworld, or at least those who know of them.'

  The construct's smile was like shattered swords on a field of brass. 'Aye. And you know how they start things? With, I'd wager...'

  At the first word, the water rippled slightly, all the way to the horizon. At the second, the ship swayed, and I almost did the same, only keeping my footing with remembered steadiness. The steamer's avatar still towered over me, as immovable as any god.

  The sky darkened and heavy drops fell, but this was no storm. At the same time as the ship grew strangely-jointed limbs to part and ward away the rising tides, the monolith that had raised to the sky cleared it. A burst of colourless light I only noticed because it blinded me had removed the clouds stirred up by the movements of the wrought city that now hovered above us.

  My vision had already begun recovering before I remembered it clear.

  The rain began falling, then, out of the clear sky. The clouds, I thought, somehow unmade, turned into water by whatever device the Clockwork Court had deployed.

  As my eyes finally recovered, I was tempted to roll them.

  Almost all stories that described the Clockwork King using humanlike characteristics painted him as a dour, blunt sort with little patience or desire for metaphor, theatre and things of that sort. That he loved his wife's living art, though he did not truly understand it, was attributed to the depths of their bond more than any whimsical inclination on the King's part.

  Had that changed? Because this visual metaphor was out of place, otherwise.

  A fabled realm, wrought by a tinkerer's hand, arising out of what looked like empty ocean (for worthwhile things are often more than they seem at first glance); said realm clearing the sky with one of the contraptions built by its ruler; said clearing of clouds prompting a fierce if brief rainstorm, and rising tides.

  It was as much of a statement as one could make without actually speaking. There was the King's efficiency I'd heard about, I supposed.

  I was sure the steamer would've appreciated such mechanical theatre, on most occasions, but being throw about like a toy boat in a bathtub was likely to sour its mood.

  While I was thinking this, the ship's puppet had enough time to turn so that, instead of facing - well, looking down on - me, it instead stared up at the Clockwork Court. And, while I wouldn't have said this to its metaphorical face, I thought it folded its arms under its chest with forced insouciance.

  This might well have been the first time it had been in the presence of superior machinery. Since it had started truly thinking, at least, though I was not sure how advanced the Free Fleet truly was. On that note, Ib had to be excluded from the comparison, of course. Not that calling the grey giant a machine was truly accurate.

  In any case, this entrance had put the steamer's back up. Positioning the Court so its avatar would have no alternative except to literally look up at it had likely helped it put its pride before anything else. Something more subdued would've likely had it more careful, ironically.

  I wondered whether I'd have to shake the King's hand or show him the back of mine. The steamer could get plenty prickly without feeling like it had something to prove...

  I turned, cane in hand and ready to come apart into sword and staff, as I felt a slight thump behind and above me. I doubted I'd have picked ut up without my remembered senses: Ib's weight and speed had little to do with the force of its impacts, and that was when it wanted to play lip service to the laws of nature.

  The giant hung from the top of the mainmast, one hand gripping the edge of the crow's nest and both feet pressed against the mast. Rather than a solid beam, it was a metallic latticework, as if someone had woven sword blades together to create the skeleton of a tower.

  Ib let go and landed casually, legs unbent, though most people's would've snapped. Its approach was soundless, though I could've picked up the disturbed air, and its smile, even with my back turned.

  Like I noticed the ship's avatar melting into the deck, grumbling darkly. Most likely, it didn't want to give Ib the impression it was being emulated, though it likely would've said it didn't want to make the giant feel second-rate, if asked.

  'Ryzhan,' Ib greeted, 'my friend. Did you ever dream of waking up to this?'

  Belatedly noticing I was still holding my cane as if to pull my weapons free, I relaxed, and answered, 'I didn't wake up to it. I was already on deck when this came up.' Hah. 'Not that I could've missed it inside. Even with the bared window.'

  Ib made a sound like boulders rolling down a gravelly hill. 'Shuttered, was it? The Clockwork King might not be the only contraption with airs here, I say.' It stoically ignored the bubbling, warping deck under its heavy feet, which would've melted me to steaming ooze or launched me past the moon.

  At least the steamer had learned to focus its attention. Somehow, I was not optimistic enough to believe it had been for my sake (though that might've just been self-preservation talking; it could probably tell when people were thinking it was softhearted); more likely, it had been to have better chances of surpassing Ib, and maybe avoiding Mharra's complaints for disturbing the crew.

  It did keep such things in mind. Usually, the louder it pretended not to care, the truer the opposite was. And that was endearing, in a way few of its mannerisms were (provided one managed to survive long enough to get used to them).

  The steamer's avatar turned to me, dipped what passed for its chin slightly. 'Witchling,' it grated, 'you ought to go in second, after the captain, I say.'

  'So you know what to dodge after our gruesome demise?' I asked blandly.

  'Obviously. But finding new crewmembers would be easier than creating a new body, so remember all the times I've suffered your presence and do me a favour.'

  It moved away, hunching, before melting into the deck. Doubtlessly, it would tag along, in some way or another. A flying boat wouldn't have surprised me, at this point. It could've worked with its own airs.

  Ib clapped one of my shoulders. 'It's not wrong, Ryz. It just talks like it's stuck in a thornbush. Or perhaps the other way around.' I could feel its laugh as it squeezed my shoulder reassuringly, and nodded.

  It was not wrong. As far as the world was concerned, I was one of the main reasons we were even here, alongside Mharra. Ib had followed dutifully, and the Burst had acted as our conveyance, but it didn't hold much love for any specific destination. To gather luck, the best order to enter would be Mharra first (being the captain, and also driven to find a solution to his problem here), then me, then Ib, with the ship's incarnation being last.

  There was worth to be found, in such patterns. And, Ib insisted, in the ship's avatar, as it said, 'Do not let its grumblings dismay you, friend. In truth, Burst is not much different from those dogs who'd never let you touch them, but would gladly die for you.'

  I held back a scoff, not wanting to spoil the moment Ib was going for. I'd never been able to understood idiots who thought wasting your time pretending not to care was worth anything. As if the illusion of aloofness would result in anything except people being unable to stand you. I'd much rather deal with a simpering sort with their heart on their sleeve than a walking brick who had nothing but insults to share until it was time for dramatic action.

  Rich, coming from me, I knew. But I'd never acted the opposite of how I felt. Not out of principle, not entirely, but because there had been no need. Regardless of the name I'd went by, I'd never pretended to be less acerbic or aggressive than I was. I'd even played it up, on occasion. Hadn't been difficult, or unpleasant.

  I shared none of these thoughts with Ib, not even the less personal one about the pattern our order of entrance would form. It must've known, otherwise it wouldn't have all but confirmed what the steamer had hinted at. But something niggled at me, a thought about the giant's presence here. It...stuck out. It was not incongruous, for it had arrived as part of the crew, specifically one of our frontline fighters, but...

  'Ib,' I began, deliberately casual as we began rising. The ship hadn't grown wings, as I'd expected. Instead, we were being borne aloft by hidden engines that worked with flame and caged lightning and the ship's sheer will, which it had brought up before, but never used. To my knowledge. 'I wonder: many would give their fortunes and lives to enter the Court or its mirror. Do you hope to see anything here?'

  The grey being was being pensive, I could tell - by the lack of features. When its emotions held sway, its shell usually seethed, constantly warped. 'The ends of my friends' quests.'

  I smiled, shook my head. Not enough, not good enough; and I suspected Ib knew it. But its lies weren't always meant to convince people: sometimes, keeping them from asking further ones was enough. 'That's not the whole truth, is it?' I asked quietly, cane tapping against the deep brown deck. 'You could do that from anywhere, anywhen. You are here to see our quests end, aye. And to stand watch over us so we may succeed, I'd wager. But that's not really what you care about, I think.'

  Ib was more callous than heartless: it took no pleasure in what it had to do, in the pursuit of its goals, though it didn't agonise over said choices much, either. Not enough to become sloppy, in any case. Ib's regret, I thought, was a detached thing, more like hearing about another's grief than feeling any yourself. When the grey giant felt anything, I believed it was after deliberation, after choosing to be angry or happy or remorseful.

  Out of us all, it was the closest to the Clockwork King, in both temperament and ultimate nature. Even the Burst, being of gears and pistons that it was, was not so matter of fact when it came to the world. No, its passions blazed like the furnaces it often filled itself with, though it didn't always show that.

  'I will not argue with you, Ryzhan.'

  It didn't, I noticed, actually disagree.

  I shook my head with a smirk, walked forward. We were almost level with a pair of gates taller and wider than most mountains - Vhaarn, but the Court was even larger than it had looked from sea level. Or had it grown? -, which felt proper, given the steamer was currently bigger than most hills. The only reason it didn't grow to the point of filling the entrance was likely a desire to prove to the King that it didn't need to compensate for anything through sheer size, unlike other people.

  I expected impassioned tirades about needlessly large machinery in the future, about how a true sage would prove their genius by making things as small and unobtrusive, but no less efficient. Advice the steamer would gladly give but never follow.

  * * *

  Mharra woke up feeling as it his head were full of water, which was an improvement over it feeling like it was full of gravel, as it usually did when they stopped somewhere.

  It was, Mharra believed, some sort of otherworldly sensitivity at play. When he woke up at sea, he felt like someone had poured a pocket down one of his ears, for the first few moments. When he woke up on or close to an island, that bastard with the bucket switched the water with rubble.

  Mharra blinked once, twice. The water was awfully light now, though still there.

  'Must be a hole in the bucket,' he mumbled, noticing he had an audience. 'Stupid bastard.'

  'What-'

  But Mharra waved the ship's puppet off, for it would've understood nothing of such things and was likely in league with the bucket man besides. Why? Because his head always felt off at first, when he woke up on the ship. The fact that he slept there most of the time warranted no consideration.

  No, there wasn't actually any water this time, didn't feel like it. In fact, everything was so clear inside he could all but hear his thoughts. Or was that a headache.

  Mharra glared dimly into the gloom of his room, trying to see if the construct's fists were clenched, especially around a weapon (of attempted murder!). Finding none, he hissed, 'Wind-'

  And barely caught the hat that flew at his head. Strange, it usually flew away.

  Putting it on to show he had turned the tables, he said, 'We are in the sky. That's why I feel full of air.'

  A snort. 'Airs, yes.' The puppet shook its head. 'Come on, captain. Put that on. It's important.'

  'No, it's three-cornered.' Stupid ship. Did it really think it could trick him? It hadn't even thrown something heavy enough to be deadly.

  Mharra was rising to his feet moments later (the benefits of sleeping clothed and booted, to always be ready) when a second missile flew, this time at his chest.

  Faster than the hat, it unravelled on contact, into strands so fine it slipped straight through Mharra's shirt, then his skin. Before his knew it, he was clad in a silvery-grey armour he could see through from the inside, though it showed nothing. As flexible as flesh, it even covered his clothes and did not restrict their movements.

  'From that bloated thin lump,' the steamer groaned, by way of explanation. 'Should show some solidarity, it said.'

  As it slipped into the room's wall, Mharra caught a glimpse of its brown-bronze form, now gleaming with silver highlights. Felt his eyebrows rise. And here he'd thought the steamer would only suffer Ib being inside its greater form.

  Mharra began thinking about running his fingers through his beard, his hair, but the fraction of Ib caught the thought and responded, smoothing both. Damned convenient, if intrusive, the captain decided as he made his way out, the wall warping open to admit his passage, before closing behind him, seamless as before. He had not bothered to go for the door.

  He understood what Ib meant. This part of it, this gift of armour, was more than proof of being on the same crew. It was not an uniform, not that Mharra had ever bothered with any. His crew had never been big enough, and they'd always known how to recognise each other if needed.

  This was the grey giant's power, the substance of its being, shared for the benefits of its fellows. This mattered, to the hidden laws of the world. It could augment the abilities one already possessed, if used properly.

  Mharra frowned, faintly embarrassed at the state he'd woken up in. That sort of befuddlement would not do, here. He had to be focused, purposeful.

  The "armour" slid out of view, so that he looked like he had before. But it was by no means gone. It was still there, ready to come to his aid, to bolster his resolve.

  How appropriate, for a shard of Ib.

  * * *

  Ryhzan

  I had not expected the Court.

  I had hoped we would reach it, of course. Perhaps, on some primal level, so deep it had been hidden even from my conscious mind, I had known we would; I would have to consult my magic later. But I had not, for a moment, thought it would be so...whimsical.

  It wasn't just that the place had a will of its own, though that was obvious to anyone with half a brain. It was a grand thinking machine, containing (made of?) countless lesser thinking machines. Dimly, at the edge of my perception, I felt something that might've been its spirit, though it was a cold, alien thing if so, all grinding gears and purpose.

  I had expected a place of cold logic, a monument to reason and the baffling science of the Clockwork King. And though his Court was definitely one of his great works, it was not as dry and sterile as I'd imagined it.

  For one, instead of the walls being bare metal, or covered in pipes and gears and unknowable contraptions, they were made of faceted glass, which shone from within as if every colour in the world had come to life and been trapped inside. Every pane reflected me and my crew in the same position, which I knew was impossible - how could we have the same reflections on the floor and ceiling as on the walls? Said reflections looked thoughtful but tense, as if deliberating whether to make a momentous choice.

  Whenever they thought I wasn't looking at them, they looked at me, unblinking gazes burning into my back or sides.

  I tried not to show my discomfort. Those things in the glass were, at best, some constructs of the King, though I could not discern a purpose beyond putting visitors off-balance (not an uncommon way to use ornaments, admittedly). I could not shake the feeling that they were not wrought things, however, but something else, something caged in the glass.

  In every facet. Else why would our "reflections" be identical whatever the angle?

  A deep grunt came from the back of our party. 'Colourful.'

  I did not disagree with the steamer. One could've even called it garish, and that was without whatever eerie artifice had gone into making the glass mirrored. 'His wife's influence, I'd wager.'

  Another grunt. 'Always knew your job makes the best spouse.'

  Whatever could one reply to that? I said nothing more to the ship's avatar, and instead reached backwards, to tap the side of Ib's leg with my cane. 'Took a look around yet?'

  'Oh, aye.' There was an eagerness in the giant's voice, but I doubt it had to do with seeing more decorations like that. 'Stained glass. Did you know you can make it show you, Ryzhan?'

  The emphasis on "stained" killed any curiosity I might've had about the process. A good thing too, maybe: the corridor was coming to an end, but more than that, I had the feeling this was the sort of art that might...capture unwary viewers.

  As we entered a large, circular chamber, I belatedly realised Ib had also emphasised "make,' bringing to mind not manufacturing, but the act of forcing someone to go your way.

  Or something.

  Like a corridor? part of my mind wondered. A path. This room - the way we came goes nowhere else. Is being closed even now. Indeed, behind us, the entrance melted into the wall with nary a ripple. It was like the surface of a pond settling after being broken by a thrown stone.

  No way back, that part of me supplied, gleeful and not at all helpful.

  The room's domed ceiling seemed to be higher every time I blinked, and it had seemed as distant as any cloud to start with. Not for the first time, I was glad for the fraction of itself Ib had lent me. 'A sword and shield, in one,' I had said to it. 'Or a spear.'

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  But it had frowned, shook its head. 'Those are only weapons. There are things that can both remove and provide. Axes, hammers. Picks.'

  I'd have said something about how it was upset about not being called a tool, but it would've been in poor taste: there were few things Ib abhorred more, and I was not eager to see what it looked at when it lost its patience.

  Not that up close, anyway.

  The stout things waiting for us were roughly humanlike, though broader than any human their height could be: for a moment, they almost looked as wide as they were tall, then my eyes moved from one to another and they were merely bulky.

  Dressed in what looked like pale grey plate, but seamless, nothing of their appearance hinted at what they were. Neither did their voices, which could've been male, female or something elemental imitating persons.

  'We see you and we accept you, visitors', the creatures spoke at once, though there was no overlapping of voices. And not just because they sounded identical - there would've been a depth to it even so, the mark of a group talking at once. It was like one giant talking, rather than a handful of...whatever they were.

  Just as I was thinking it was good not to receive false welcomes, I noticed they were limbless, yet somehow stood. Then I focused my senses on them, and both they and my magic, not to mention the piece of Ib, agreed that they had always had stubby legs and arms, the latter crossed behind their backs, what looked almost like human hands clasped.

  As if reading my mind (and who was to say they weren't?), they added, 'We would welcome you properly, for you have much to offer and gain, but we know you are not here to dawdle.' In perfect synchronisation, they held out their right arms, gesturing behind them, where the wall, of the same glassy, mirrored material as the corridor, flowed into four doors. Mine opened in a way that reminded me of a book, with countless thin layers blurring, before settling against the door's thicker "main" ones.

  I could not concentrate on the others, not properly. As I would realise in short order, this was...intended. And proper, in any case. I knew each of the three doors that opened for my crewmates would reflect their inclinations, in some way. The steamer's would doubtlessly be the the mouth of a fmaling garbage chute, for example.

  With a glance that took all my crewmates in and a nod, I turned, slinging my cane over one shoulder. Magic flowed around it, like an extension of my grasp: in case of danger, I could pull it apart in moments. Speaking of...

  'We just keep getting separated,' I muttered in my beard, not caring whether the armoured creature behind me heard or whatever it made of my words. This pattern needed to end. We were a crew, after all. Even discounting the tangible benefits of working together, it felt wrong to be apart.

  And wasn't that bloody hilarious to hear coming from me? How long had it been since I'd seen other people as anything except a millstone about my neck?

  For lack of a better thing to talk about (not that I was in the mood for such, truly), and not wanting to brood all the way to...wherever I was going, I asked the being following me, 'Shouldn't you be up front? I know not this place-'

  'It is a hallway, mage Yldii,' it cut me off, its voice no different from the chorus in the round room, for all it was alone now. 'And not one that branches. You could not miss the end if you tried.'

  That did not sound ominous. At all.

  'Even so,' I went on, 'surely you should be showing a guest the way? Out of courtesy.'

  'Are you?' it asked. 'A guest? You are not here to stay for leisure. You are a visitor, and we accept you.'

  I could tell how any conversation was going to go, so I dropped the attempts, and instead focused on Aina.

  It felt selfish to fret over an unpaid childhood debt while Mharra was alone with his own fiends, but I knew turning around and going after him was only going to distract us both and get nothing done. Otherwise, we would still have been together. Ib could've forced the issue, doubtlessly, and would not have stood for the crew getting split up for no reason.

  If I didn't know better, I'd have thought there had been some conversation between it and the Twin Monarchs at some point, maybe right before we entered the Court. But separating us would've served no purpose. The King was open to giving us what we wanted, because he (or, more likely, his creations, those curious and bound by time) would get to observe us in action.

  Once again, I thought how unlike the stories of the Clockwork Court this whole fanciful "welcome" was. It resembled, well, actual stories dealing with legendary kings, down to crystal chambers and otherworldly courtiers.

  He was definitely indulging his wife. Despite prizing curiosity and adaptation, the King wasn't one for randomly making such changes to his demesne. I wondered if it was one of those marriages, and if yes, what he was expecting in return. But enough people agreed that they actually loved each other.

  That had worked out better than the enmity they had previously shared. Who knew? Maybe love really was the way, though in my case, I couldn't say it was the sole reason for wanting to reunite with Aina. Coming here to look for a way to get Three back was obviously the main one - for once in as long as I could remember, my life and desires were not the most important things in my mind.

  This wasn't just about the girl I'd had a crush on and left before not seeing her for so many years. It was about making amends, settling things. Had I stayed to face my people, would things truly have went as badly as I'd imagined? Maybe, with a more controlled Aina by my side, I'd have been able to hold them off enough to make them change their minds.

  Whenever I ran from uncertain threats, disaster followed, sometimes not just for me. It was almost...funny.

  Maybe after this, I could ask the Weaver Queen to give me a backbone.

  She could use a challenge. Besides trying not to throttle her husband, that is.

  I have found the real reason the Clockwork King shed his mortal flesh, I thought wryly. Self-defence.

  Seeing how this hallway (how many of them was I going to walk today? I felt like when the steamer decided to be "funny" and turned its interior into mazes that defied the laws of nature, "as a surprise present") kept going, with literally no end in sight, I decided to risk being stonewalled and tried to strike up a conversation with my guide once more.

  It worked. Somewhat.

  'May I ask how you knew what my crew and I intended even before we entered to talk? To my knowledge, we had not communicated until that point.'

  'Yes, you may ask,' was its clipped response. I couldn't have called it an answer at my most generous, not that I could recall what such a state even was like, if it had ever existed.

  'Droll. How did you know, then?'

  Silence, save for the thumping of heavy, armoured boots. I told myself they must've had sensing machines, and reckoning ones for predicting the future. I'd heard the Clockwork King had access to power and insight that had naught to do with his artifice, and who could guess the truth of that? Certainly no one who had not spoken to him or one of his mouthpieces.

  As if compelled by that thought, for an instant (and that gave credence to my idea, for at the speed I perceived the world, sound stretched in the air like amber, yet the words that followed seemed as fast as if I were an Ungifted human), the armoured creature's bland voice became deeper, rougher. The voice of an older man, an aging man, who said, 'Did you know, Ryzhan Yldii - do not fake confusion; I have been told your name and more besides -did you know that machines, being things of reason, cannot be created without reason? With no logic, or motive, you cannot make even a moving ornament. Such is my experience'

  It was as if the corridor darkened then, compressed, for though I could see my legs moving, I did not feel as if I was going anywhere. And, is the the laws of the world had been bent, the King's words kept coming just as fast, faster than sound had any right to be, as he spoke through his creation. 'And did you you know, mage of memories,' there was an odd weight to those three words, though the voice in of itself hadn't changed, hadn't deepened, 'that such things can be grasped, harnessed? Made into extensions of one's will? The intent...to learn, for example. The components matter less, when one can infuse the truths of creation into vessels. There needn't be any components, working or otherwise, inside such a shell, as long as it is properly shaped. The will is the way. It cuts out the middlemen.'

  I hadn't heard or felt the creature approach, but I knew it was now looming behind me, as towering as Ib, its presence just as heavy as one of the giant's hands on my back. 'But you do not truly care about my artifice, do you Yldii? You are a scholar, yes, but a historian. Recording the deeds of others. Smacks of shameless parasitism, to me, but it is your life to ruin.'

  I licked my lips, which, I noticed then, felt as parched as if I'd run across a desert. 'No wonder no one's written much about you.'

  His laugh was a hair less menacing than the steamer's. If I had not spent most of my life among surly bastards, I'd have likely missed the nuance. 'Quite. Despite my wife's assertions, I waste no time bragging about myself, nor have I ever liked others doing it. My deeds are claim enough.'

  I almost said that must've meant he liked being disparaged by the Queen, but I didn't hate living that much. Yet. Still, I could feel a sharply amused regard on my back, like a hatchet resting between my shoulder blades. 'You were saying...' I prompted, because for all his assertions, he sure didn't mind theatrics.

  'You do not truly care about my works. I would like to say such is the result of ignorance, but I have met enough sagely folk who didn't give a Seaworm's egg about my artifice, either. Tasteless. If stupidity hurt, this world would be barren, not...' the regard behind me shifted. 'Not that such is of any concern to you, is it? Ryzhan Yldii, I believe you are nervous about being reunited with your childhood crush. You regret that you ran, fit to burst with cowardice and paranoia. You regret that she went mad and broke your people and oh, you wonder, does she share that? Or has she hardened her heart to such things? And here that fear trailing you like a cloak closes about your neck again, for you dread the thought of her displeasure.'

  Perhaps it was the fact I had so rarely spoken of my past except recently, but I did not like being picked apart like one of his damned cogs. If he had been wrong, I'd have at least been able to laugh it off, but... 'Do you have a point?'

  'It is not physical revenge that has your legs turning to water,' he continued as if I hadn't spoken, 'for you have spent too long at sea to fear such things, have you? Even if she were to geld you, twist your limbs, flay you alive, gut you and hang you by your entrails, left a carcass to be used for incubating the eggs of the monster she is half the time, you would not feel such trepidation.' I almost chanced a glance behind me, almost saw the edge of a smile. 'That lunatic thing, it thinks out loud, sometimes. I do not believe it can think quietly...in any case, fret not. Should it come to that, you will be dead soon in. It shares enough of Aina's fondness for you not to keep you alive, like she would most people.'

  'I am bloody flattered.'

  His laugh, like bladed wheels grinding against each other, was as dry as my voice. 'I can tell. But, as I was saying, that is not what you fear, Ryzhan. A shrieking monster gnashing its teeth is easy to dismiss as insane, but human rejection? That is a sharper pain, no?'

  With how the Weaver Queen used to laugh in his face before their war started, and during as well, he must've known all about that.

  'So what if it is? Are you going to give me some fatherly talk an a pat on the back?' I spread my arms slightly, though I still did not face him. My gut said that would've done more harm than good. 'Whether we succeed here or not, we will be out of your hair one way or another, and nothing will change for you.'

  'Everything could.' His breath next to my ear was like standing with my back to an open furnace. 'Everything could change, by becoming nothing. You think your giant is the only one who can see the Dream closing in of itself? You think I wish to cease?' There was a ponderous movement - the shaking of a head?- and he added, 'Ryzhan Yldii, I know you have been told of your role in what is to come. Think you we can afford distraction on your part? Nay. not at all.'

  I smirked mirthlessly, knowing he could sense it. 'What a coincidence. I was beginning to have some thought about helping people.'

  The furnace air lessened, cooled. Was he backing away? He still felt close, an immovable thing weighing me down without even a touch. 'Aye,' the King said, 'even before your captain's mapmaking fantasies filled his mind. You wanted to jot down your knowledge, so that it might be remembered. Not for gain - for who would pay you?- but for history's sake.' He grunted a laugh. 'I wonder how much of this is your instincts talking, not that you understand them for all you hear. Those who never lifted a finger for their fellow man's sake often turn altruistic, when they feel death bearing down on them.'

  With how certain he sounded, he must've faced death at some point. Nobody could be naturally this cocksure.

  'I do hope you won't try to talk me into or out of that,' I admitted. 'If only because you lack the experience. I would not want you to strain yourself.'

  The furnace heat did not return; instead, the air felt as full of power as if someone had caged lightning right behind me, and my body was uncannily tense, as if wracked by spasms too small to see but more than enough to be felt, to lock me in place.

  I felt an emptying behind me, then said absence being filled. It was less like a breath being drawn and more like falling down a seemingly endless abyss before solid ground suddenly appeared. Once again, the Clockwork King, dreadfully solid even when manifesting through his puppet, weighted me down with his mere presence. 'Taking full advantage of your importance to spit in my eye, aren't you? Never thought to help anyone, have I?' I had the sensation of a grand thing, towering but by no means ponderous, pacing; the spokes of a great wheel spinning. 'Do you believe your friend is the first wanderer, the first waif, the first outcast to happen upon my doorstep, or my wife? Think you we kept her only to ascertain her nature? As if my wife and I don't watch this world from beyond, beneath, above endless layers of spheres within spheres? There is naught we can bear or do we have not, already.'

  I did not speak. I believed I could have - the pressure had lessened - but it would have felt wrong.

  Pacing. Pacing.

  'I know what you're going to say next,' he claimed, sounding thoroughly unimpressed, but happy to correct my mistake. I'd never been able to stand that kind of person. Given how deeply people wanted to beat me up when I got like that, it seemed a widespread sentiment. 'But wouldn't we have turned her aside if she'd had nothing to offer? Ryzhan Yldii...you see me overtaking the being of my wrought child here, and you think my Queen and I make no living, thinking beings. You are mistaken. For their sake, experiments unfold. So that...' he stopped, shook his head. 'What would you care of the future? You've only cared about the futures of others, and their pasts. Yours, too, but what is that except selfish, paranoid obsession? And idiocy...'

  The King sniffed. 'One would expect a would-be historian to be able to look behind themselves and see the truth. I suppose not. We are not so foolish as that, Ryzhan Yldii. We knew, also, what a Lunatic like her could grow into, with nothing but the moon's lingering touch to guide her. Believe we did it for Midworld's sake, if you wish, or that we nipped a future threat to our holdings in the bud. The intent matters less than the result; were it otherwise, why, societies would need to scourge their members for improper thoughts.'

  He lowered himself - and it did not bring a crouching motion to mind, but the act of an unknowable being projecting themselves into a lower layer of existence, a sensation I sometimes felt around Ib - and said into my ear, 'Oh, but we'll toss any old human out on their behind, won't we? We've naught to teach with them as examples. Mage, you cannot believe anyone unexceptional could find their way here, even if they only stood out by the shape of their thoughts.'

  He paused, turned. Not around the corridor, but in place, as if the substance of his being were reshaping itself around without care for a spine or the shape of his body, as flexible as any boneless thing.

  For a few moments, it was quiet. I could hear my heartbeat, in the silence, for all that it wasn't frantic - and that wasn't my extraordinary bravery at work. I was simply remembering calmness, to avoid setting the King off, somehow. For all I knew, he was one of those half-feral people who saw signs of weakness as invitations to attack, and not just metaphorically.

  'Have you finished?' I asked, as mildly as I could. 'Not that listening to you isn't-' Careful, careful... '-unique, but I'd rather not keep my friend waiting overlong. You know how we ought to treat the women in our lives.'

  There was, admittedly, a fairly high chance he'd take that as me implying he neglected his wife as I'd done Aina, or that he and the Weaver Queen weren't close, but Vhaarn, it looked like the best way to get through to him. If the legends were right (and for once, I almost wanted to be less cynical), the King was more sentimental when his Queen was involved, though who bloody knew what that entailed in reality?

  A deep, hissing breath. 'Aye. That woman couldn't even let go of me back when we fought. Got offended if I didn't show up at the exact time and place agreed upon. Asked why I couldn't keep my promises if she always kept hers.'

  'Did she?'

  'Oh, yes. Once threatened me I'd never get rid of her, and look at us now.' He sniggered. 'Ahh...if only we hadn't been so blind, we'd still have a perfectly serviceable, logical cosmos, not this mess outside. If you knew how the sea really worked here, you'd never set...'

  He paused, changed tack. 'Our ideological conflict looks ridiculous in retrospect. Mechanisms, or living apparatuses. Did you know, Ryzhan Yldii, that in microcosm - I'm not even talking about its most fundamental states - in microcosm, mechanisms are more or less the same, whatever their composition? The similarities, they are as unto those between the deeper aspects of existence, the subtler ones.'

  He sighed. Wistfully? 'We could not, did not want to admit how similar we were. It would have implied we were evenly matched, not that we weren't. Otherwise, we wouldn't have fought for...do you know, Ryzhan Yldii, how long an universe can persist if its protons don't decay? In most cosmoses, they don't.'

  As if taking my befuddlement for curiosity, he added, 'Eons and eons, Ryzhan Yldii. Ten to the power of...I'm losing you, aren't I?' I got the impression of a sour scowl, the trademark of the snubbed snobbish eccentric. 'Oh, be that way.' A heavy appendage with bladed, needle-tipped fingers rested on my shoulder between heartbeats, which made me skip the next one. The touch left me freezing on the inside whilst sweating, like one of those two-faced fevers people sometimes got on winter isles.

  'I do not know what you mean,' I admitted.

  'Clearly.' He sounded like he wanted to sniff disdainfully, but abstained. Probably to not confuse the visiting yokel again. 'The point, mage, is that, had we been able to put our differences aside - not many, not drastic -, we might've done better. At least, we wouldn't have lost our home to...' the next words weren't all audible, though I caught the Clockwork King muttering darkly about "that sleeping cretin", "scourged us", "stifled growth, what growth?". He continued without missing a beat. 'Ah, but that is past. What can we do now? Railing against the unchangeable would only leave us like that unhinged pervert in the sun crown. In the end, we were able to see eye to eye and entwine our eternities.' I guessed that he was smiling. 'Although, some days, I still think she was too egocentric to go for anything else. Only the best man, and one so much like her - she loves herself - would do.'

  'Indeed?' I risked.

  The smile was gone, if it had ever existed. Likely, it would bump into my childhood innocence at some point. 'Don't even begin thinking about telling her that. If I end up sleeping on the roof again, I'll be dragging you with me.'

  I didn't even want to guess whether that was a joke or not. People like the King had senses of humour mostly hazardous to the health of others. 'I would never.'

  'Begin thinking? Yes, the face could help you sell that.' Before I could even frown, that sharp touch was back, at the base of my spine. 'Move.'

  I did, spurred on by that gentle encouragement. The King spoke as we resumed advancing, and I once more began thinking about an old belief of mine.

  Calling it an idea would have seemed too little; I was almost convinced. According to Ib, in the space above Midworld's seas, other laws of nature held sway, so that when things reached a certain weight, they collapsed into voids that devoured every physical thing, even light. That the ocean did not despite its infinite mass - and a fairly dense one at that, for it was water, after all, not gas or energy or something more esoteric - meant that space and weight worked differently down here.

  In certain areas, distance seemed to be dictated by necessity and intent more than anything physical. That is, no matter how fast one moved or or by what means, some destinations could only be reached at the proper time. Everyone had heard stories about magical rooms and sacred groves that could only be entered from one direction, on this day or that night.

  That was where things got murkier, but I believed I'd grasped the shape of things. People could change reality through their will. There were obvious cases, like toolmaking and magic, but the former was not as literal as what I meant. Ib had once told me that some things, such as life, death, location and speed could only be truly known when observed, and that the observer made it so that something was the way it was.

  Did everyone's will unknowingly strain against the world, resulting in those powers shaped by beliefs one sometimes heard of priests? I'd never crafted with my faith alone, had not met anyone who could, to my knowledge, but it seemed possible. If all existence was the dream of some slumbering, unknowing god, perhaps our minds' influence on it were like its power in microcosm.

  Maybe that explained why this walk was taking so long. The Clockwork King was no laggard: he'd likely have dragged me to Aina by the ankles if it had been up to him, and so fast I wouldn't have noticed it happening until after the fact. No, we were not getting anywhere, physically, because we were not getting anywhere in our conversation either.

  We had not spoken what mattered, not about Aina. We had to. And whilst I was not that kind of thinker, I wondered if this was how the legend of supernatural words and incantations had started. Green mages sometimes spoke or chanted, but as a means of focusing themselves. The words were not powerful in of themselves unless invested.

  '...listening? Ryzhan Yldii!'

  I smiled guiltily. 'Apologies. I was thinking about...'

  After I told him, he seemed pleased, mollified. 'Ah, the observed observers effect. You are not far from the truth. Extrapolating that without truly understanding about the mechanics of quanta, which the effect builds on, in a sense, is not unimpressive, although you do have your magical model of thinking likely nudging you along, even though you did not notice...'

  'Perhaps.'

  He dipped his chin, seemingly satisfied with that, and went on. 'Your friend. She has not been a bothersome guest, save for when she goes out of her mind, and we cannot hold that against her, now can we? Blaming the mad for their impulses is how you end up with a screaming mob ripping the insane limb from limb. They'd rather kill than cure, because that's the only solution they see while baying for blood.' A series of clicks, then something like knives being rubbed against each other. He must have been lacing his fingers. 'Not a bothersome guest. The moments of calm, they are getting longer, more frequent, do you understand? And the episodes of Lunacy shorter, rarer.'

  'Sounds like a step in the right direction,' I admitted.

  'Indeed. Now, it might all be undone once she sees you and the monster remembers the night you left, vividly...ah! Here we are!'

  I blinked at the doors suddenly towering above me. I'd senses nothing suggesting an incoming change in my surroundings.

  Glancing behind, I saw the armoured creature fold its arms. Behind it, there was nothing but a sheer wall, nothing to indicate it would've been possible to arrive here as we had. 'The guest Aina is waiting for you, Ryzhan Yldii. Proceed.'

  Not feeling like a condemned at the gallows, at all, I flashed it a bland smile, telling it to kiss my behind. The doors, predictably dramatic, opened right before my raised hands could touch the handles.

  They creaked atrociously as they slowly slammed close behind me, for all they'd opened as silently as they'd appeared. The boom at the end shook the chamber, as spacious as any interior I'd ever seen, though the lack of windows and the high ceiling fading into shadows created a feeling of everything closing down on you.

  In the middle, Aina stood with her back to me, back slightly bent. Her hair, which I remembered as a colourful blue, closer to dark than not, was almost grey, as if something had drained it of colour, and hung slackly.

  'Aina? It's Ryzhan Yldii, from Copper's Cradle. We grew up together. I...' Was your first kiss. Bloody gods, but is it really the time to bring that up? '...did not believe we would meet-'

  Thick tendrils, the colour of slate, blurred out of her back without tearing her dress - as ragged and dull-looking as her hair -, twisting around me before wrapping around the door handles and ripping them off.

  '-again.' I immediately cast out my arcane sense, looking for gaps in this cage of a room, while my eyes darted across it. Nothing. I could barely focus on anything besides the roiling, living storm in front of me.

  '...Oh? But I knew we would, Ryzhan.'

  Aina's back cracked as she straightened, running taloned hands through her hair. As her head twisted all the way around, her features changed so quickly I could not tell how she looked, like paint in a whirlpool. The only constant was the smile, like rows of crescent moons under a starless sky.

  'Come to us. What is it you fear? There is no one who might wish to hurt you. We slaughtered them, remember?'

  I will not lie: as she spread her arms, I'd never wanted to walk away from a hug more.

  The smirk I managed was so thin I could've cut myself on it. 'Well, you were always the optimist...I wouldn't have had faith in me.'

  Hopefully, she'd remember breaking me all the way would mean she'd lose the chance to upbraid me, if that was was she wanted.

  Unless she'd found ways to put me back together. That smile said she'd thought of them, at the very least.

  * * *

  Mharra could not recall the last time he'd been this close to a ruler, his parents aside, but after this, he couldn't say he'd miss the experience.

  There was the matter of legends, for certain. Only fools believed the Weaver Queen was a myth, but few people actually expected to see her demesne from a distance, much less her. Meeting her was as remote a chance as meeting their gods outside a vision, in the minds of most.

  Then there was the Queen herself. The body she'd chosen for this occasion (her words) neither looked nor sounded particularly feminine; it was barely humanoid, and there seemed to be a certain tilt to it that reminded the captain of some insects.

  The Queen was shrouded. The garment, whatever it was crafted from, clung to her body like a second skin, but there was nothing remotely sensual about it. Stitches and patches of all and no colours (for they changed every heartbeat) showed up on and flowed back into the yellowish-white cloth (or perhaps it was skin, after all, a living skin; she'd crafted stranger things, everyone agreed) as it swirled about its wearer's body, as if it were liquid, or as if the Queen's flesh was changing right under his eyes.

  There were dark pits that resembled eyes, the way some animals had eyelike markings on the backs of their heads to deter predators. Mharra would've doubted they were meant for seeing even if they'd blinked, and how could they do that without lids? The jagged rent of a mouth under them, with no nose between, looked more genuine, and it swirled on the skin like oil on water.

  Mharra had seen creatures built like this, a few time. Monsters that could eat but not feed, for their false mouth led nowhere, connected to nothing. They were little more than voids stuck onto their bodies. Such beings were mindlessly ravenous more often than not, as if the world wanted to make a statement about the pointlessness of greed.

  The similarity did not help his peace of mind.

  The captain coughed, as delicately as he could given his deep voice. He could've pitched it higher, might've, in a show, but this did not seem the time. 'Are we close? I cannot tell how quick our passage is,' he added with a smile, gesturing at the blank walls. They were covered in small facets, like the eyes of flies, that shone with every colour for all there was no light to catch.

  The Queen's voice was both muffled, as if she were speaking through water, or phlegm (or the blood of her enemies, who was he to guess) and painfully sharp at the same time, somehow, though it was shrill without being high. More otherworldliness. 'We will arrive,' she replied, 'as we ought to. No sooner, no later.'

  'Everyone knows haste is as unseemly as tardiness,' Mharra opined, out of a morbid curiosity to see if this being could make small talk.

  'Quite,' the Queen agreed, the veil falling from the back of her hairless head (or was it a hood like a cobra's?) swaying in a nonexistent wind. She certainly hadn't moved.

  Such exchanges had been par for the course since she'd arrived to escort him (which had prompted a question about whether her husband was escorting one of his crewmembers; he had changed the subject to make her stop smiling): the Queen did not speak without being prompted and was curt when she did. Not that she was morose - she'd sounded almost exuberant when talking about some of her creations -but she kept to herself unless cajoled.

  Considering how much the Clockwork King loved rambling in some stories, they probably made a great pair.

  'So,' the Queen began, almost making Mharra jump out of his boots. It wasn't just that she'd suddenly moved several paces, turned and was now crouching down so she could meet his eyes; she'd broken the silence. 'What are you going to do here, captain?'

  Bemusement washed some of the hesitation away. 'What do you...? That is, I thought you had figured it out, given the way you welcomed us.'

  'We know why you are here,' the Weaver Queen agreed smoothly. 'But what are you going to do? Intent is not action.'

  Ah. He thought he understood where she was going. 'Well, uncertainty is no reason to become demoralised. Whether we succeed or not, there is no point in not trying.'

  The Queen bobbed her head. 'Quite. Obviously. But captain, are you prepared for the event of failure?'

  He plastered a smile on his face, unsure and uncaring of how genuine it looked. 'Why, Your Majesty, I never knew you worried so about others.'

  Her laugh was about as sincere as his smile. He'd never wished more to be deaf. What had she even woven into her flesh to sound like...? 'Consider it a question put forward in the spirit of...scientific curiosity.'

  The sort of spirit that made one send for an exorcist, by that laugh. 'I see. We will, of course, thank you for your time, then leave and resume our search for a solution.'

  'Of course.' Her head twisted around. 'Captain Mharra, you do not truly believe that will happen. Or even that it could. I appreciate your realism, though you yet choose not to express it.'

  He was already missing her silence. Likely taking his as a suggestion to go on, the Queen added, 'You must see, even with your hobbled subtle senses, the shape of this story. Captain, you will not even get hints of a solution anywhere else.'

  'You're saying I'm either walking out of here with Three, or never getting closer to finding him.'

  "Oh, captain.' Her eyes, hooded not by lids but by something like liquid darkness that flowed from the inside of her, were almost pitying. 'This isn't that sort of tale. I could make you a simulacrum, or my husband could. He does love his imitations, has scores and scores based on me.' Some warmth entered her voice as she held a clawed hand over her heart, if she had one. 'They look more flattering than they ought to be, but he's charming when he gets like that, so I indulge him. But, captain Mharra, however reminiscent of the original the replica is, you will always know it's not the same.' She checked her claws, in which swirled wheels of light wrought from millions of millions of stars, ripped from their moorings in the airless void above Midworld's waters. Mharra knew, thanks to the sense for props and decoration his Gift gave him, that if not for the Queen's artifices, the mass would've warped the world for untold distances. As it was, the weight was only concentrated on her, and she was more than strong enough to bear such burdens.

  'Except, of course,' she went on, 'unless you allowed me to work on you, too. That could help you avoid noticing, but nothing would drive your crew away from you faster - and I have no interest in trying to browbeat the Idea of Freedom, much less confront it more directly. We would only frustrate each other. In any case, captain, if you wanted to live in a haze of ignorant, manufactured pleasure, you'd have sought other, simpler means long ago. But oh, you are an exacting man, are you not?' She loomed over him, even crouched as she was, though he had a feeling she'd have loomed even if he'd dwarfed any mountain, no matter her own size. 'You do not yet realise the purpose of your presence here.'

  'What?' he asked sardonically. 'To prepare me for disappointment?'

  The Weaver Queen inclined her head, and in that moment, her judging gaze was heavy enough no crown was needed to accentuate it. If one had ever been required. 'Not an entirely wrong way to look at it. Although I would rather say you are here to be tempered, for the next steps in the journey of life.'

  'Indeed?'

  'Oh, aye,' she admitted. 'The optimist in me could allow no other perspective.'

  They shared smirks.

  And, between blinks, something changed.

  Mharra found himself in a room that differed from the corridor only in shape, not in manufacture. He was facing the door, for all he could not remember walking or being moved inside. Obviously, the Queen or one of her underlings or creations (but he was repeating himself) had pushed him inside in a way that'd evaded his perception, but why? To make a statement that he couldn't prevent her from doing what she wanted? He hardly needed proof of that.

  Pretending to smooth his hair, Mharra rubbed his head slightly. Was this one of those isolation rooms meant for solitary meditation? He hoped it didn't come with sensory deprivation too - some people thought you could only find the truth while all but blacking out due to whatever dubious herbs or manmade substances they'd smoked or infused themselves with.

  Casting an unimpressed look around him (and not needing to fake much), Mharra asked, 'And what am I supposed to do? Sit in a corner and brood over Three?'

  'Obviously not, captain,' came the Queen's reply, 'it's a round room.'

  Bloody. Hilarious. But, he might as well make a go at it, since he was here. For once, he wouldn't be distracted by anything, including thoughts about what he would do once he arrived at their destination. No, the future unfolding in his thoughts was a murky thing, one he would face when it arrived. He could not accomplish anything by worrying about it before that time. And with no one around him-

  'Oh, captain?' Not waiting for a response, the Queen went on, 'When you are done moping about the unchangeable, do try do unfold that power coiled up inside you, would you? There are certain parties who would be disappointed if you kept that ability of yours bundled up and hidden even from your mind's eyes.'

  'And when have I ever been one to disappoint my audience?' he replied drily. Unfold? What more could he get out of his powers? Had any of his crewmembers ever brought that up? He could not recall.

  And was that not a callous thing to ask of a troubled man? At least most Midworlders, uncaring at heart as they were, had the decency to simply not bother with you rather than ask you to caper for their amusement.

  By the time Mharra stopped pacing - more so she'd read the room and leave, since there was nothing to differentiate one spot from any other - and sat down to fold his legs, hat on his knees, he felt as weary as he'd ever been, for all he'd walked far greater distances while bearing burdens as well.

  But not this sort of burden, were they?

  With some luck, he'd sit here alone until he was bored out of his skull. Trouble was, loneliness of that sort often led to one no longer being alone, at some point - at least, in their heads.

  * * *

  Ib had always known the Rainbow Burst disliked it.

  Before the ship had started speaking its mind to the giant, through avatars or directly into Ib's mind, before it had started jostling and trying to prank it, aye, before, even, it awoke to true sapience.

  The true reason was debatable, or rather, there was a variety of reasons, competing for prominence. Ib doubted the steamer itself knew why it couldn't stand the grey being, though it could definitely rattle off several explanations.

  One might've thought Ib's stunts, moving across the ship as if it did not care for the constant alteratins, nearly capsizing it when jumping, and so forth, was what caused that irritation. It was certainly part of it.

  There was also the fact Ib barely reacted to the ship's attempts to vex it, ignoring them more often than not, unlike Mharra or Ryzhan might have. That was not wrong, either - being dismissed was not to the steamer's liking.

  But, Ib believed, the heart of the matter was that the steamer loathed the thought, even the possibility, of being abandoned.

  That was understandable. For all that it was a singular being, in every sense (and Ib thanked whatever had made sure of that; the ship could already clone itself), it was a social creature, and wanted to make sure those in its charge remained attached to it (literally if needed). It was why it needled them, alongside its nature, for the ship was very much a gadfly. If they were mad enough, surely they wouldn't walk away from it?

  Ib was almost an existential threat, then, for it represented an alternative means of transportation, on top of offering sustenance and protection. Never mind that Ryzhan also did and Mharra could. The grey being believed that the ship subconsciously singled it out because they (Ib's shell in this realm,, at least) were both artificial. Its tendency to brush off the steamer's outbursts also contributed to that, doubtlessly.

  Shrieking void, Ib despaired of insecure people who couldn't even glimpse their problem, much less admit it - and who had the power to silence those who would drive them too. How many tyrannies had started that way?

  'You are gloating,' the ship's avatar explained, 'by being silent whilst I speak. Your smug aura mocks me.'

  Ib lowered its head, drew its knees to its chest, wrapped its lower arms around them and sat like that, the rest of its hands laced. 'Deepest apologies.'

  'Now you mock me overtly, with that scolded girl posture!'

  You just couldn't please some people... 'Don't worry,' Ib gave it as friendly a smile as it could, even morphing electric blue eyes for effect, 'No one is going to abandon you for a shinier alternative, Burst.'

  'As if they could,' it sneered. 'Everyone knows I am irreplaceable, unequalled. Unique.'

  To the relief of many. 'Exactly. So you can relax and take your pleasures as they come, no?'

  'What makes you think I don't, already?' the steamer's construct leered.

  'Well, you hardly seem joyful to me,' Ib admitted, 'or even content.'

  'So I have to shriek about how bloody blissful I am in order to prove I'm not sad? Why? Because that's how you think happiness looks?' Flames glinted behind the avatar's teeth, square but serrated, like small, chipped cleavers.

  'Of course I know that's not how happiness looks,' Ib replied calmly. 'It can take any form. But you are plainly discontent, Burst. Anyone can see that.' And the giant told it where it thought its rage came from.

  And the ship's puppet laughed, an angry sound. 'You glorified quicksteel lump! You're truly so enamoured with your damned dreams you can't even see what's under your nose?' It shook its head with a grinding sound, of brass on brass. 'I always knew you were eyeless, but not this blind.'

  'Enlighten me, then,' Ib said casually. People like this were often all too glad to prove their superiority, in any arena.

  'Libertas,' it drew out the word in a hiss. 'So void-damned free everything not fitting your views slips off like mud off a swamp snake. The Idea of Freedom, and where's the fact, hm?' It spread its arms. 'You manage your crewmates like they're walking houseplants, but it's all justified, no? It's all going to pay off in the end. Who gives a dung heap about whether they can even truly live, by that point? You've pushed them into every crucible needed to keep the wheels spinning.'

  'And I would do it again,' the grey being admitted. 'And again, and again.'

  'Oh, aye, however many times is necessary to push your ag-'

  'To maintain creation,' Ib cut in. 'The one they call Mendax, in this cosmos, understands. You cannot let so many lives, so much knowledge, the potential of everything, be snuffed out as if it has mever been for the sake of two people's feelings.'

  '...I thought you loved them,' the steamer said, sounding more disappointed than anything.

  Ib's smile was sad. 'That is immaterial. My feelings matter not compared to the whole of existence, either.'

  'I'd say they're damned worthless in general,' the ship opined.

  'They may be,' the giant conceded. 'Burst-'

  'No!' it snapped. 'Very well. It's about quantity, then? I would not say I agree on pain of scrapping - why should I care about folks I've never met and never will? "People" more senselessly and knowingly destructive than any animal, who'd cut their mothers for the novelty of seeing them bleed?'

  'Your cynicism-'

  'Realism,' it growled. 'Man has never cared about anything but filling his stomach and voiding his bowels, and the forms his other appetites take. And do not even try to lie to me about the inherent goodness of thinking beings. Species who are not utter bastards due to their conscience rather than fear of punishment are the exception, not the rule.'

  'You were talking about quantity,' Ib reminded it coolly.

  'Aye, I was at that,' Burst agreed sullenly. 'Explain to me why, if you want to preserve the most good out of creation, you are scheming for the sake of strangers instead of nurturing the potential of your fellows.'

  Everyone everywhere is a fellow of mine, Burst, Ib thought but did not say. 'What do you think their lone quests were about? Taking the scenic route?'

  Burst scoffed. 'Whoever let you imagine you have a sense of humour might be the greatest monster in history. Do you expect me to believe there was no other way but putting them through those living nightmares?'

  'By all means,' Ib said, not at all tartly, 'provide one.'

  Talk like that was usually one step removed from a fight, but the grey giant refused to believe its comment would be the cause, rather than the ship's temper. Was there some arrogance intertwined with that thought?

  If there was, did it matter?

  'Provide,' the steamer muttered. 'Ryzhan's magic alone, at its full potential, is worth more than the faceless hordes you simper over. Mharra's scene setting is hardly lesser. So why-'

  'Do you believe that, unless everyone was necessary for salvation, I would account for them into my plans?' Ib asked, almost curious.

  'Yes,' Burst answered. 'Because you still believe every upright ape, squid and lizard deserved freedom, including from one form and limited power.'

  Ib waited, sat nothing.

  Burst slumped. 'But you wouldn't push my crew like this,' it ground out, 'because there would be no point. And callous as you are, you're not cruel. Not in that way.'

  Ib would've had to make them face their demons at some point, actually, for freedom's sake, but admitting that would've done nothing but aggravate the steamer.

  They sat in silence, for a while, Ib watching Burst as it paced across the large, round crystal chamber, the ship's construct not meeting the giant's gaze.

  'I still despise you, with every cog of my being.'

  Ib had expected nothing less.

  ?* * *

  In my boundless, characteristic optimism, I'd dared believe that, if I ever ended up on my back on Aina's presence, the view would be altogether more pleasant than the collection of reflections smirking down on me from the faceted crystal ceiling.

  'Vhaarn,' I thought out loud with a groan, 'I need to smile less.'

  The sound was borne through that immaterial substance-realm some call the aether, which exists both within and without Midworld, for my throat had been slashed open and my vocal cords severed.

  Well. Perhaps that was too gory a way to put it (as I had thought, also, of the positioning of Aina's talons). Aina had clawed me open as cleanly and clinically as a skilled sawbones.

  A casual observer could not have discerned by what criteria the woman had removed some of my organs and bones. I could see trails of guts from the corner of one eye, and what might've been my ribcage; more than half my skin had been removed, though in what seemed like random patches rather than a neat manner. My head, too, had been broken open, baring my brain to the world.

  The pain, needless to say, would've been unbearable but for my gift. Not to mention it was plainly unnatural, for I missed too many nerves to feel much of anything, leaving aside the fact I'd have likely been dead without by magic.

  According to Aina, this was something of a purification ritual, with the removal of certain insides being meant to symbolically unburden me of worldly thoughts - and symbols blazed powerfully, in the proper light.

  My intestines were not needed, for sustaining my flesh was a mortal worry, not one the man I needed to become would entertain; my heart had been bared to the world and would be opened further, and so had my mind; the kidneys and liver and everything that purified foulness within the body had remained, so I would be able to cleanse myself.

  But Pit, it felt like being worked over by Fhaalqi or one of his lackeys, those that took too much pleasure in their work.

  Not to mention that Aina was humming, as cheerful as if picking...ah, the scalps of her enemies, I suppose. I believed she'd outgrown flowers for a while now.

  'Good thing I didn't bring any,' I gurgled, before croaking out a laugh.

  Aina gave me an indulgent smile, but said nothing.

  It was probably just hysteria, anyway.

  Gods, what had Ib (for I did not believe it hadn't had a hand in this) been thinking? Forget being pulled open like an apothecary's mannequin, I probably deserved that, but the giant knew how I got around cheerful people.

  'Are you judging us, Ryzhan? Aina asked sweetly, and I could see myself in every fang. On them, too, with just a little imagination.

  'I'd never dream of that, my, uh, dears,' I lied shamelessly. Aye, because that would only happen in my nightmares, followed by a messier version of what I'd been through. 'I was just thinking...' And I shared what had been on my mind.

  No, not Aina's fingers.

  'You needn't worry about the Mirrored, our friend,' Aina replied when I was done. 'That they are merely staring at you instead of drawing you in, even now, is proof of your strength of will.'

  'Indeed? And do our hosts lay out these ornaments for everyone?'

  Aina rolled her eyes. 'Anyone weak enough to be taken in has no business being here, Ryzhan. Only those so twisted they are unable to see and better themselves would be.'

  I still did not like the sound of the whole business, which Aina remarked upon. 'Call me a bleeding heart,' I quipped in response, with a twitch of my chest. The chuckle that earned, I told myself insistently, had nothing hungry in it. 'Growing kind in my old age, I suppose.'

  'Are you calling us a hag?' Aina asked smilingly, reminding me we were of an age, or so close as to make no difference.

  'I was being, uhm, metaphorical.'

  'Careless.'

  'I've seen it spelled that way too,' I confessed.

  'Kind,' she repeated, tilting her head as she stared down at me, the ringed tendrils that had replaced her feet close to my head. 'Would you be kind to me, Ryzhan?'

  Oh, I knew where this was going. Most stories like this ended with the immobilisided person truly immobile, or at least badly worn out, and I was hardly in good shape to begin with.

  At my nod, Aina reached out, space flowing around her wrist as if its fabric was water. The grey, pulsing thing she retrieved was shapeless and oily, covered in slits that opened to reveal milky things which might've been sightless eyes. It was at least the size of my head. 'Eat this.'

  'Huh?' I said, characteristically eloquent. What I blurted out next was, perhaps, not uncharacteristic of less refined men. In my defence, I had a head injury. 'Does it somehow taste as bad as it looks?'

  'Worse, actually.'

  'Figures.' I sighed. Glared at it. 'Must be some sort of medicine, then.'

  'You could see it that way!'

  It, meanwhile, could likely see me whichever way it was turned, provided those eyes were not as blind as they looked. My glare intensified. No one could've said if the dozens of lazy blinks that followed had been prompted by that.

  'Are you at least going to tell me what's the point of eating that?' I asked desperately.

  Aina ran nimble fingers along the thing's side. Not a drop of my blood, or anything else, marred her hand's leathery skin. Her Lunacy was hungry, it looked liked. 'Your body will need protection while we journey, Ryzhan. I'd rather it was one of my projects providing it.'

  My eyes did not bug out, for I was too controlled for that. Aina flicked my brow. 'What, did you think I was twiddling my thumbs and knitting while waiting for you?'

  'By no means,' I managed. 'You've never been able to even patch your own clothes.'

  'You know you're helpless at the moment, right?'

  Ah, but I'd never been anything else before her, and I told her as much.

  'Flatterer.' Aina did not sound displeased, though. 'Come on, then.'

  'Are you sure you don't have an alternative?' I asked, hoping against hope.

  'Oh, certainly. Let me turn you over...'

  '...As I've always said, new experiences are to be treasured!'

  I chose to spare anyone hearing of my journey this one, however.

  Soon enough (though it felt like an eternity later), I was hovering above my not-so-mortal coil, which stared up, unseeing. It had to be said that, as a mage, I'd always been leery of out of body experiences. I knew what any halfway decent caster could accomplish unopposed. Due to this, I could not say I disapproved of Aina's measures, though that certainly didn't mean I had to like the taste - which had stuck, despite my incorporeality.

  'Follow me.' Aina's grasp was as solid as ever, though I knew I could've passed through a league of stone unimpeded. 'Tell me of what you faced on the way here, Ryzhan, but do not le me out of your sight.'

  A task I could not say I disliked, especially with Aina leading. I obliged her, too, and we spoke of and debated my experiences and insights. I even managed to untangle myself from the trap I laid by accident, if barely.

  'Indeed,' I said when we reached the part about Serene Rest. 'The simulacrum looked exactly like you, Aina.'

  'Oh?' the woman said casually. 'Was she beautiful?'

  '...' I opened my mouth, closed it.

  I'd set myself up to that, hadn't I?

  But there was more to be said of our discussion, before and after said exchange.

  * * *

  'Well?' the Clockwork King prompted.

  The Weaver Queen sighed, fingers darting across the solid light screen, arranging and rearranging data. 'The experiment is not a complete failure, dear.'

  'Oh, don't gush now. You know I get embarrassed.'

  'Imagine how being married to you feels,' she muttered.

  'You weren't saying ?that? last millennium,' the King leered.

  'We hardly did anything but each other last millennium.'

  He placed a bladed hand over his core. 'You are saying you want me to be more of a stallion.'

  'Settle down, old man. And don't let me catch you swapping parts with a horse, or I shall be cross.'

  'You mean cross-eyed-' He ducked at her look, smiled. 'My, I said that out loud? You're as distracting as ever.'

  The feeling, she thought, was mutual.