Legend of Ransera

The two surviving founders of Utopia were old, old with the accelerated aging that overtakes people sometimes when they spend too many years out of the realm that birthed them. Their legs, brittle, looked fragile in the harsh glare of reflected lamplight. They floated in the center of a painted jungle of rainbow foliage, a lurid communal mural that completely covered the interior of the spherical chamber. Ecith? Oren wondered. He didn't know. The air was thick with resinous smoke; he wanted a pull.

"Dancin' Blade," one said, acknowledging Ava as she drifted into the chamber. "Like unto a whoppin' stick."

"That is a story we have, sister," said the other, her Common educated. "A religious story. We are glad you came with Caelum."

"Why don't you speak the patois?" she asked. Oren had noticed the drawl and pidgin himself, but when he didn't understand Caelum, he just assumed it was the magic tricks stuffed into his head, or practicing with the ghostwine, or Len'Falas pulling some of his illusory bullshit.

"I came from Gel'Grandal," the old woman said. Her locs were like a matted tree whose branches were turning into steel. "Long time ago, through the Gate and out of Ransera. To lead the tribe to the Dragon King. Now my brother likens you to Dancing Blade."

Ava extended her right hand and whirled a stiletto obligingly in the smoky air. The other founder threw his head back and laughed.

"Soon come," he said, "soon come the final days... Voices... Voices cryin' inna wilderness, prophesyin' ruin unto Ransera..."

"Voices." The founder from the Gelerian Imperium was staring at Oren. "We listen to the voices of the ghosts. The angels and the devils. We always listen. Came a voice, out of the babel of tongues, speaking to us. It played us a mighty song."

"Call 'em Dou'ma," said the other, separating the two syllables, changing the beat from how Oren had heard it before. Nevertheless, he felt the skin on his arms crawl. "The Dou'ma talked to us. The Dou'ma said we are to help you."

"When was this?" Oren asked carefully, feeling sick.

"Thirty candlemark 'fore you dockin' Utopia."

"You ever hear this voice before?"

"No," said the woman from Gel'Grandal, "and we are uncertain of its meaning. If these are the final days, we must expect false prophets..."

"Listen," Oren said, "that's a demon, you know? Demon. The music it played you, it probably just... read your minds and... cooked up whatever it thought you'd like to—"

"Ransera," broke in the other founder, "mothers many demons, I know. Multitude horde!"

"What was that you called me, old man?" Ava asked.

"Dancin' Blade. And you bring a scourge on Ransera, sister, on its darkest heart..."

She was trying not to laugh, Oren could tell, but however they were translating demonic dealings into prophecy, he knew she was keeping score for anything that might keep her skin intact.

"What kinda message did the voice have?" Oren pressed.

"We were told to help you," the other said, "that you might serve as a tool of Final Days." Now as he said it, Oren could hear the capital letters. The old woman's lined face was troubled. "We were told to send Caelum with you, in his taxi, to Ransera's foothold here... Freeport... And this we shall do."

"Caelum's a rude boy," said the man, "an' an ace airship pilot."

"But we have decided to send another as well to watch over you."

An awkward silence filled the dome. Oren didn't like the idea that Douma and Galeas were more and more intertwined.

"That's it?" he asked. "You guys work for Galeas or something?"

"We rent you space," said the Gel'Grandal founder. "We have a certain involvement here with various traffics, and no regard for Ransera's law. Our law is the Word of Eikaen. But this time, it might be, we have been mistaken."

"Measure twice, cut once," said the other, softly.

"C'mon, Oren," Ava said, "let's get back before the man figures out we're gone."

"Caelum will take you. Eikaen's love, sister."


Aurin sighed. There was nothing to be done about it, but Torin's sheets no longer smelled like him. The man had been gone to Silfanore with his elven lover and business partner for the bulk of the season. Aurin could easily visit; he still had papers that ought to get him through customs at Limánia without too much fuss, but he did want to let him have his adventure and, hopefully, come back hungry for Aurin's presence.

He hadn't spent many nights in Torin's bed during his absence, but it was nice to know that he could when he was feeling lonely and didn't want to find a bed to share. Sometimes it was all right to revel in the loneliness.

But still, he might visit. He could look in on Castor; the half-elven lad usually had a few pearls to share, though he had been getting quite antsy to leave Silfanore. Aurin liked having an ear there, but if he played it right and was commiserating, he might be able to steer him toward some new home where he could still be useful to Aurin. The lad had an eye for Solunarium, but while he could be canny, he didn't seem to grasp that their zealous secret thought police might incarcerate him and bend his mind until it broke or, at least, worshiped the Gods of Bondage.

Torin or no Torin, he rubbed one out, then slid out of the enchanting smith's bed. Restless, he raided the kitchen, but it had been cleared out of perishables since even Timon and the fur ball were sojourning with the Leukos twins in their modest palace on the Promenade.

He pulled on his clothes, secreted away his knives and his garotte wire. He vaulted to the ceiling of the Jade Crane, corbie crouching like a gargoyle as he looked over the district where he spent most of his time when in Kalzasi.

It was possible if he kept vaulting, physically and magically, from rooftop to rooftop, he might run into Rivin. He could track Rivin down, though, or call him to his side if he really wanted to. He wondered if Rivin was curled up in Sivan's bed, trying to catch a whiff of his friend. He didn't know that they were fucking, but he knew a trauma bond when he saw one.

Running along a stone balustrade, he launched himself in the air. Just as gravity began to claim him, he vaulted to where he wanted to end up, landing lightly as anything since he hadn't allowed downward momentum to gather. Sometimes when he played rooftop tag with Rivin, there were rules against using magic. It was good to practice with handicaps. Just now, he didn't care.

He was restless.

Arry underground in Solunarium. Torin in an elven townhouse in Silfanore. Castor likely slumming around in the Alienage. Rivin doing what he was trained to do. Dhruv charming people in Nora's tap house. Eshar managing mischief in the Market. Carina likely passed out in a pool of her own vomit from too much fun in the Imperial capital. There were people he could get to quite easily, all things considered.

From his new perch, he looked like a dark spider in the night. His web wove across this continent, and even over the sea. Perhaps that was what he had been doing all this time, setting tripwires and alarums lest the past catch up with him. He didn't even know if his parents were still alive. Douma was done with him, though he didn't know the name of Rivin's demonic friend.

Aurin could go anywhere, be anyone, and yet tonight he was stuck where he was and with himself. Oh, perhaps he ought to drop down into the Midden, find Elwes and ask whether she felt any rumblings from the deep. No Mad King was allowed to usurp him in this city. Or, perhaps he ought to fly into Ashoka's bower. The clever fox had a winged patron now, but would never turn Aurin away.

"Fuck it," he muttered, and disappeared.

He appeared, disappeared, and reappeared several times, climbing ever and ever higher until he was perched on a bit of the Cloudhaven district that was private and unwarded. His ears felt funny, ready to pop.

Aurin pushed off the floating island, and fell. He closed his eyes and calmly allowed his body react, feeling, for a moment, at peace.

Perhaps he would vault once more before he touched ground.