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Somebody is planning trouble in the dark streets of Plailly - like messing with time. |
The Haunted Streets Beire Street was easily the dullest of all streets in Plailly: ancient townhouses, worn down café and abandoned cottages. But then, it rarely occurred for most peoples to look deeper into Beire Street, such as a curious wooden door between two finely brushed five storey townhouses. The large man sitting nearby on a bench along the pedestrian sidewalk gave the wooden door a sidelong glance. His obsidian stare shifted to the old toy shop opposite. Satisfied that there was no other people around, he looked at the yellowing parchment in his hands. The black letters writhed1, what normally could have alarmed any other person, especially a non-Plaillian. Words formed, and a picture settled. The caption wrote: Uranium Whisky On the Rocks2. A sharp eye could have sworn that under the unyielding mask of the man a corner of his lips lifted. The man sighed happily. It was too much to hope for another war, he thought, but conflicts were something he liked as much as war. Like the Cold War. Look at the creativity, an expedition to the moon, a space race. Now that was interesting. Try comparing a rocket to a petty submarine. The man rolled the parchment away when he finished reading. He took he deep breath of the night air and stood, emerging into the vicinity of the dim street light. It was worth noting the man was usually called the Figurehead. And he looked like one as well, even more so under the yellow light, such that his body had an eerie bronze tint. His face was unyielding, and the contours strangely metallic, because it was in fact a mask to hide worst of his scars nobody dared mentioning. Even so, what was left a quarter of his face was as bronzed as the mask. It was a face that had survived and conquered. For about a minute the Figurehead whistled a simple tune, checking his watch at intervals. Then, abruptly, he stopped whistling and stood. The same time, in one movement, he stepped aside as a bullet pierced the air inches from his face. His eyes followed the bullet a splint second later, where it was now buried halfway in the wooden door. The door was quite hard, the Figurehead noted, before turning back to the sniper. "Good Evening, Matron," said the Figurehead evenly. He glanced at the sniper - a woman dressed in midnight gown, with a sniper rifle hoisted over one shoulder - and raised an eyebrow, half of which was under the mask. "I see your new toy." "Not very good at short range, unfortunately," said the Matron, sounding genuinely disappointed. "Just a novelty, a plaything. It has even less use in our new mission." "But a rifle, Matron, the assassins would get nervous," said the Figurehead. The Matron rolled her eyes. "What, there are no rules stating that thieves can't use rifles! We can't use a silly pen knife all the time, can we?" "A butter knife works as well for me," said the Figurehead. "Just a novelty, Fig, just a novelty," said the Matron. She latched on the safety of the rifle and stuffed it into a long bag. The bag did not quite match her dress at first, but she muttered something, blue colour glowed, and the bag turned into a satin clutch bag. "Less hurry," the Matron said. "If all goes well quickly I may still be able to continue the dance." In large strides she moved closer to the wooden door, which now had a bullet in it. She produced a paper from her clutch, and held it against the door. "Eb Drei, Null Spell of Vert," the Matron intoned, and the paper glowed along the drawn lines in bright green, at first at its spell circle, and then the circumference circle. The lines spread out beyond the small square paper, and soon webbed the door with it. When the light faded, there was a click and the door creaked open. "We do have to work on the bright green," the Figurehead muttered as he stepped into the narrow corridor. "It is turning this door into a light house, with that amount of glow." The Matron frowned. "There is nobody in Beire Street. Beire is a dead - almost dead street." "A street is never dead," said the Figurehead. He did not want to continue elaborating. There were some things even the vilest of man refrained to mention.3 As the two moved along the corridor, the green markings relighted, snaking its way across the wooden wall from one end to the other. Where the light passed, the space shifted ever so slightly, attuning itself to new set of rules and tweaking the fabrics of sound and sight. The spell of privacy was at work. There was little chance of anyone finding out about the door, but some extra caution worth enough. The corridor came to an end, into a large squarish hall. A mahogany table stood at the centre, occupying most of the space, and the rest of the space was taken up by the seven chairs. The Figurehead sat on one, and the Matron followed. They waited as the green symbols etched themselves to the wall, applying the effect, to fade into nothing. When only a marking of the original sprite remained glowing in green, the Matron turned to the Figurehead. "What was the preposition?" The Figurehead crossed his fingers on the table. "A client came to me. I believe you have heard of Sir Wrighton." "The troublemaker he is, why am I not surprised," said the Matron. "The last time he came Innes got quite angry and nearly burnt his whole house down." "In fact that is the reason he came," said the Figurehead. "For something that was burnt away few years ago. I can bet he is going to avoid Innes at all costs. But stories aside," he licked his lips in excitement, "Sir Wrighton is unhappy at the results of... a non-war. The countries are getting restless, and he remembered something, a notebook from Hitler that was burnt away by Innes in a careless fit of rage." The Matron sighed. "Was it you who had slyly reminded him of that burnt job?" The Figurehead smiled sheepishly. "I merely agreed with him." "So if you have agreed with him, it meant that you have ideas in mind on how to retrieve something that does not exist anymore." "A few ideas. Though each trickier than the last." The Matron nodded. "Like a Mr Bliss?" "The trickiest - not, the second trickiest of all," said the Figurehead. "Sir Wrighton made it clear he does not want the services of the Bliss. I believe he had heard the rumours already." "That's a pity, The Bliss are excellent in their job." "Still, even if Sir Wrighton allows us to use a Mr Bliss, I doubt a Mr Bliss would have allowed himself to be used," said the Figurehead. "They have their own agenda, and it is best for us not to involve them." And neither was insane enough to consider the trickiest of all. The first choice was by far too risky to take. The Gods were powerful, but they never did what they were expected to do.4 "Which leaves us to time travelling, time manipulating or the Black Magicians," said the Matron. "Black Magicians are co-operative enough, some of them are," the Figurehead suggested. "Some of them, not many, I'm afraid," said the Matron. "I know we have Werdan on our side, and Brys, and Lohan, but not enough to conduct the spell needed, which I think is like feeding time to the ashes?" "Provided we have the ashes?" "The ashes were long gone, Fig. Even if they can fish it out from the Archives and reconstruct it... like I have said, too few people. A feat like that usually need- " "A crowd, and we can't afford to let a crowd know," said the Figurehead. "Yes, but I dislike the notion of time travelling or time manipulating. The black magicians have only started exploring the theories, time-space is a relatively new field to all of us." "Not all, we have the master wanderer of Baracundy." "Who are you talking about? You can't be saying that ratty boy Harrey. He is young and inexperienced - wait," the Figurehead stared at the Matron. "Why are we talking about the Baracundy?" "I have in mind of an artifact that can manipulate time to a certain degree," the Matron confessed. "No, that's not what I have in mind," the Figurehead retorted. The two leaders of the thieves exchanged stares. They rarely outright disagreed with each other, but then, it was essential that the two antagonised each other all the time, such neither got too much power. And now the Figurehead could no longer bury his disagreement. "Then what are you considering, the black magicians?" the Matron sneered. "There are many ways which the black magicians can help, I am sure," said the Figurehead sternly. "And one of them is using an artifact from Baracundy, if you will just listen to me," said the Matron. "To manipulate time is to try and tear the fabrics of space," said the Figurehead. He clenched his fist. "Sure it will be delicious to hold the power to manipulate time, but I do not wish to vapourise myself, or you, for that matter, my dear Matron." A little concerned cooing talk, and he gets all the charm, the Matron thought begrudgingly, but she accepted that the Figurehead knew how to play with words. "Thank you for considering my safety, but I can abstain from using the artifact myself. Harrey can find himself obtaining the artifact," said the Matron. "You must realise the black magicians alone aren't enough." The two held their stare for another long moment. It was the Figurehead who dropped his eyes first. "I cannot deny the black magicians we have are enough, but I will not hesitate to tell you again, time is a delicate matter here. And - what artifact are we talking about exactly?" "The Timerick," said the Matron, pronouncing the word as ti-me-rick. "Timerick, timerick, tickings twine, tocking thimble the limerick of time. It is also called a trickle of the triple, whatever that means, and many more words beginning with t." The Figurehead's smile froze on his lips. He had of course heard the rhymes of Timerick. It was famous for quite sometime when the Timerick was made, and thereafter sealed onto the a graft-wall deep within Baracundy. He instantly understood why the Timerick was chosen. The academical papers about the Timerick was extensive and precise, even when knowledge of Time and Space is new . The resources concerning the Timerick are mostly reliable. There was simply no other better artifacts of time. "But was it not mentioned the Timerick is part of our time? Will it be wise to use the time that is part of the reality?" asked the Figurehead, his frown marring even his bronze mask. The Matron huffed. "You worry too much. Timerick is Time, not just part of the Time itself. If we are dealing with time, we will be dealing with the time in the reality as well. All time is in reality. Of course, we can retrieve the object using the Archives, but I believe we have concluded that the method is too time consuming, and no black magicians like to venture into the Archives." "The idea of using time that is part of the reality does not make it sound any better," the Figurehead said. "Who knows what drastic effect it will have Plailly, or worse, the rest of the world." "No effect the Gods will allow," said the Matron. "They are omnipotent, even in worst case scenario." "And then the possibility of being vapourised from using the Timerick?" The Matron smiled. "I have thought of that," she said. "While we will be the peoples who will steal the Timerick, it doesn't require us to be the person to use the Timerick. There will be a scapegoat, the bearer. He or she can be anyone.. In fact, I have been thinking, surely somebody will try to stop us from our plans. It always happens, in my experience, and they are annoying." "Mmm, using our opponents as our tools, well thought," said the Figurehead, scratching his bronze chin. "What if our opponents turn out to be the Gods' messiah?" "Would the Gods care?" the Matron asked in reply. "I can't imagine how they may care," said the Figurehead, frowning slightly under his mask. "But not anyone can use the Timerick," he went on. "I heard one has to be extremely good in time, space and... a certain amount of creativity. Chaos, even." "There has to be one who can," said the Matron. "What makes you so sure?" "One in a Null Chance, remember?" The Figurehead rubbed his temple - which was also part of the bronze mask - at the impossibility. One in a Null Chance may still be one chance, if not a very tiny, tiny chance. "And even if we cannot find the person, anyone will do," said the Matron. "After all, it is just about reaching into the cache to take the notebook out. At least, that is what the theory says on ten things you can do with Timerick." The Figurehead allowed the idea to sink into his brain, and soon the gears were running. But he could not allow himself to nod. His pride had to match the Matron's. "We need to talk to Harrey. If there is no Timerick, we can do nothing," he concluded. From her clutch bag the Matron took out another sprite. This one had a less complex symbol on it. If the Matron concentrated, she found a name floating in her head. Alhodhrun Arr. She focused on the name, calling the person in her mind for a few times until the sprite glowed in red. The call was then made. When the Matron looked back at the sprite, as usual, she found herself being unable to recall the name, but one which the person was normally referred to: Ludlon Harrey. It always irked her to know Harrey's Ceremonial Name only to forget it again. Her curiosity was clawing her like a cat. The Matron broke off from her daze when the shadows in the room where the green light had not touched moved. He was nothing but a movement only to the sharp eyed, like a very black bat. His eyes darted about like that of a rat's, both just as agile, as it seemed, as his sharp nose. His body frame suggested otherwise, for he was quite fit, sturdy at the girdle and firm at his toes. The Matron glowered at the newcomer. Upon making eye contact with the Matron his shoulders slumped, and the girdle lost half its marrow. "I am sorry, Miss Matron! You told me to, uh, try to sneak up on you, miss." The Matron laughed huskily. Harrey, as expected, acted as was told, word by word. The thief wonder, who could take a walk in the Baracundy like a morning stroll but not understanding between the lines. She supposed he could be forgiven for his naiveté. "Yes, you sneaked up quite finely, very graceful," said the Matron, nodding in an amused approval. "And even on time, I have to credit you for that." Harrey took a polite step backwards. "Good Evening Miss Matron. Good Evening Sir Fig." Nobody liked calling the Figurehead "Figurehead" directly to his face. The Figurehead began to open his mouth, and the Matron's hand shot up. "I would like to see your ideas, Harrey, coming out from a young, fresh and uninfluenced point of view." The Figurehead cocked his head. "Well, do go on. I am interested to know about your answer as well, Harrey." "What is the object?" Harrey asked. "Sir Wrighton wants a notebook written by Hitler," said the Matron. "It was unfortunately burnt away by Bobby Innes 5 few years ago, which I think was probably seven, and the ashes gone." Harrey licked his lips. Impossible was not a word to be expected from him, it seemed, if such question was asked, so he tried again. "Time travelling has been a famous topic for quite some time. But technically time travelling is less practical than manipulating time-axis itself, that is, the time manipulation we are talking about. So Time Travelling is out." "How do you intend to manipulate the time?" "Perhaps there are spells, but we would need a lot of Black Magicians for that kind of spell," said Harrey. "That is not quite practical, so if we can get our hands on an artifact that has time in it already..." Harrey paused. "Do you want me to steal that thing? Or borrow?" The Matron and the Figurehead exchanged glances. "I think borrow will be much better," said the Figurehead in a murmur. "The Tac, perhaps? It can dial time, and it's very stable up to two decades worth of time memory." The senior thieves' face litted up with fresh joy, and fell back under the shadows the next instant. "We haven't put the Tac into consideration, but no, the Tac will be of no use. Bobby Innes locked the Time of anything concerning the notebook, such that nobody can retrieve it using the Tac, or any of the conventional methods of time dialling." Not the Tac? Harrey worked his brain harder. Why would the Matron and the Figurehead call him here? They certainly had a solution in mind already, and that solution somehow involved him. And his specialty was known to break into the Baracundy. Harrey's face darkened. "You can't mean the Timerick." "I am not telling you to guess what we have in mind, we are asking for your personal answer," said the Matron. "But none of the answers I had in mind, including the Timerick, are favourable. The Tac is the best there is," said Harrey. "None of the artifacts are perfect enough for safe time manipulation." "What do you know about the Timerick?" the Figurehead asked the younger thief. "It has a rich store of Time, may even be Time itself, many of the Black Magicians reckons. Its time is by far the most stable and reliable of all, and it is prepared to bind to anything for any use, even humans," said Harrey, but he remained exasperated. "You still can't use Timerick because it is essential the Time from Plailly. It having a form as Timerick was an accident! Simply using it will tear Plailly apart!" "Is the Timerick simple to use?" the Figurehead asked. "Yes, it is relatively simple to use-" "How much time do we have until Plailly breaks apart after removing the Timerick from its graft-wall?" "Probably a day or two, in ideal circumstances-" "And will it be enough to just retrieve a really very small notebook?" said the Figurehead, almost imploring. Harrey slumped his shoulders in defeat. "Technically, ideally, yes," he said. "But many things can happen. And then, who will be using the Timerick exactly?" Because he knew very well the Figurehead and the Matron just weren't the sort of peoples to volunteer in such occassion. "Still in consideration," said the Matron. "This is one of the rare times I hope somebody would try to get in our way, and I doubt there will not be anyone." "It is a gamble," said Harrey. "Everything is a gamble, young man," said the Figurehead. Harrey was uncomfortable at the notion of playing with the Gods, where Baracundy and Time-Space were concerned, but he had no choice. The Figurehead was not only a gambling man but a very demanding one. "What do you think, Harrey?" the Matron asked. Besides, it wasn't only the Figurehead who would not accept no for an answer. "Well..." said Harrey, as he considered. "If things go according to plan, it will turn out to be almost perfect. The Timerick is very potent." "But if things don't go according to plan?" "You are lucky if you are death." The Matron raised her eyebrows. "I thought that was unlucky." "There are fate worse than instant death," said Harrey glumly. "Of course, if we are getting ourselves someone else to use the Timerick in our stead, we will not likely share the same terrible fate. The Timerick is not to hard to use, but who knows? With time and space, the idea of pain and suffering... ah, gets fresh." He shuddered. "Terrible stuffs." The Figurehead considered the fresh ideas of pain and suffering, and wondered if he could get more creative then his usual methods. The same thought was going through the Matron's mind, and the victims-would-be, one would expect, to be each other. "Then it is decided we will go for the Timerick," said the Matron, who was the first to decide stop daydreaming. "We will need Werdan Pallins, or is it Brys Fright?" She turned to regard Harrey. "Werdan, Miss Matron," said Harrey. "And tell him to get me the book on space-time. A concise edition." Footnotes |
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