gaze.
And their capes’ hue was
familiar: the same shade as the cravats of the unnaturally synchronized team
who had caught the thief, and the clothing of the mysterious children by the
black lake in which Elva had been buried.
Once, a passing age-bent woman
muttered something about ‘Chaos-damned Blight’, but she broke off when
she noticed Tom’s regard, tugging her shawl up around her straggling white
locks, and shuffled away into a side runnel. By the time he had decided to
follow and question her, she was gone.
There were news pillars, whose
intricate embellished tricons were on display at major intersections, and
according to them the Aurineate Grand’aume’s prosperity was at an all-time
high, while social events were flourishing and the normally low crime rate had
dropped to zero.
During one of those walks, he
thought he saw a black-cowled figure watching him. But when he approached,
Nirilya turned away, and left.
He could have run after her, or
made his way to her home, but instead he returned to his own apartment, and
resumed his logosophical studies. Looking for any hint or clue which might lead
him to the location of that vision which he hoped was not a dream.
On
the eighth morning he jogged—slowly, wheezing—a little over five klicks. His
gait was awkward, almost stumbling, and his diaphragm was tight with pain.
Ninth day. Keeping the same
distance, Tom tried for a smoother motion, with controlled breathing. Over
short stretches, it almost came together.
It was very early, before
dawnshift, and the gallery was empty. The day before, there had been stares
from the few passers-by, and he wanted to remain anonymous. Whatever the
reasons for the realm’s change in atmosphere, Tom took a new accessory with him
on his workout: the bluemetal poignard, tagged to his waist.
As a message, its meaning was one
he could not decipher: he did not know who had sent it, and had no idea of its
significance unless its near duplication of a weapon he had lost was some
comment upon his current quest for the new, living Elva.
And if someone knew that much,
they ought to show themselves and help him. But it seemed that was not going to
happen.
In the evening, slowly, for the
first time in many days, he worked through a phi2dao fighting set, a beginner’s
form.
There
was an old woman who sold minrastic cakes and broth from a stall. Tom got into
the habit of buying a cake, mid-morning, as he strolled the busy length of
Arkinol Boulevard. One day, as Tom walked away munching, a man sidled up to
him, crystal in hand, and whispered: ‘Want to see the news?’
But there was something about his
expression which Tom did not like.
He moved away, close to a female
astymonia trooper who was standing beside a pillar. When he saw her uniform,
the furtive man started, then turned and slipped away into the crowd, leaving
Tom puzzled and uncertain.
Is the news a black-market
commodity now?
At the minrasta stall, the old
woman was determinedly staring the other way. It told Tom all that he needed to
know. The Aurineate Grand’aume was changing, undergoing one of those societal
phase transitions which happen seldom, but he was here to see it happen. He
could investigate ... Yet soon he would be moving on, and the political affairs
of one small though prosperous realm within the whole of Nulapeiron were hardly
his concern.
Day
forty.
‘Sir, can you ...’ A freedman,
asking for directions.
But Tom was hurtling past, legs
pumping, thrill-adrenaline coursing through his veins.
Sorry.
He hit the arched footbridge at
top acceleration, sprinted over the top, turned left and pushed down hard. He
raced along the redbrick footpath, black canal to his left, dark rounded
ceiling overhead.
Digging deep, he ran.
Laughter inside, the pure joy of
free athletic movement, once lost but now regained.
Bright silvery cargo
And their capes’ hue was
familiar: the same shade as the cravats of the unnaturally synchronized team
who had caught the thief, and the clothing of the mysterious children by the
black lake in which Elva had been buried.
Once, a passing age-bent woman
muttered something about ‘Chaos-damned Blight’, but she broke off when
she noticed Tom’s regard, tugging her shawl up around her straggling white
locks, and shuffled away into a side runnel. By the time he had decided to
follow and question her, she was gone.
There were news pillars, whose
intricate embellished tricons were on display at major intersections, and
according to them the Aurineate Grand’aume’s prosperity was at an all-time
high, while social events were flourishing and the normally low crime rate had
dropped to zero.
During one of those walks, he
thought he saw a black-cowled figure watching him. But when he approached,
Nirilya turned away, and left.
He could have run after her, or
made his way to her home, but instead he returned to his own apartment, and
resumed his logosophical studies. Looking for any hint or clue which might lead
him to the location of that vision which he hoped was not a dream.
On
the eighth morning he jogged—slowly, wheezing—a little over five klicks. His
gait was awkward, almost stumbling, and his diaphragm was tight with pain.
Ninth day. Keeping the same
distance, Tom tried for a smoother motion, with controlled breathing. Over
short stretches, it almost came together.
It was very early, before
dawnshift, and the gallery was empty. The day before, there had been stares
from the few passers-by, and he wanted to remain anonymous. Whatever the
reasons for the realm’s change in atmosphere, Tom took a new accessory with him
on his workout: the bluemetal poignard, tagged to his waist.
As a message, its meaning was one
he could not decipher: he did not know who had sent it, and had no idea of its
significance unless its near duplication of a weapon he had lost was some
comment upon his current quest for the new, living Elva.
And if someone knew that much,
they ought to show themselves and help him. But it seemed that was not going to
happen.
In the evening, slowly, for the
first time in many days, he worked through a phi2dao fighting set, a beginner’s
form.
There
was an old woman who sold minrastic cakes and broth from a stall. Tom got into
the habit of buying a cake, mid-morning, as he strolled the busy length of
Arkinol Boulevard. One day, as Tom walked away munching, a man sidled up to
him, crystal in hand, and whispered: ‘Want to see the news?’
But there was something about his
expression which Tom did not like.
He moved away, close to a female
astymonia trooper who was standing beside a pillar. When he saw her uniform,
the furtive man started, then turned and slipped away into the crowd, leaving
Tom puzzled and uncertain.
Is the news a black-market
commodity now?
At the minrasta stall, the old
woman was determinedly staring the other way. It told Tom all that he needed to
know. The Aurineate Grand’aume was changing, undergoing one of those societal
phase transitions which happen seldom, but he was here to see it happen. He
could investigate ... Yet soon he would be moving on, and the political affairs
of one small though prosperous realm within the whole of Nulapeiron were hardly
his concern.
Day
forty.
‘Sir, can you ...’ A freedman,
asking for directions.
But Tom was hurtling past, legs
pumping, thrill-adrenaline coursing through his veins.
Sorry.
He hit the arched footbridge at
top acceleration, sprinted over the top, turned left and pushed down hard. He
raced along the redbrick footpath, black canal to his left, dark rounded
ceiling overhead.
Digging deep, he ran.
Laughter inside, the pure joy of
free athletic movement, once lost but now regained.
Bright silvery cargo
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