Chapter 4 Hat

        Conley surveyed the scene from their vantage point, a hillock near the riverside road where they'd stopped at a stall for a munch-pack. Roween had paid, gold. Conley didn't know whether to believe her excuse that it was weight she'd rather be without when they hit CBT; she had more than a hunch that if Roween was around when someone used a click-well, the traders would go red-eyed crazy...
        Before them lay the expanse of Cala Bay Town. The White River was still visible way to the north, and beyond it the spires and towers of Cala, place of her birth. Cala. Murak's great coastal port, with its palaces, its docks, its markets, its warehouses, its sprawling cosmopolitan vitality; she smiled to herself. What city was there in Soat to match its majesty? Or in Svala, or Galur? None! Only Cala was fit to be the capital of Justan's four-nation kingdom. A sense of pride rose within her.
        Yet between her and home lay Cala Bay Town. It was curious, she thought, that she'd lived so close to this place for so long, yet never visited it - despite temptation enough. A ferry-ride away but a world apart, it looked so completely different from its namesake. The streets were narrow, the buildings either old and ramshackle or new and even worse. Smoke poured from a thousand factory chimneys, to hang over the houses, lend an oppressive, grimy half-light to the twisting roads and unending alleyways.
        She'd heard of the town - who hadn't? Never favourably. Where Cala had large, domed halls of commerce, Cala Bay Town had dingy, stench-filled taverns. Cala's modern schools were Bay Town's cramped prisons. Where on the left bank might be a surgery or hospital, on the right would be a tiny garret in a decaying tenement. Cala Bay Town had a diseased reputation; even from here, it looked deserved.
        "We'll have to be very careful when we reach the centre," said Roween, her voice thin. "It can be dangerous..." Conley looked over to her. Roween had turned to face away.
        "You've been there before?"
        "It's where I went when I left home. Awful place. Awful. `Specially for anyone like me." She drew her greatcoat tight about her.
        "And we're meeting someone called Medreph? So what's he look like?"
        Roween gazed steadily towards the bay. "Tall, fair-skinned, ginger hair, he's losing it, about fifty. He's from Elet."
        "Elet?" Conley was a little surprised. "What's someone from Elet doing this far East?"
        "Collecting books, taking them back with him." Roween shrugged.
        "What do barbarians need with books? I thought the Elets were wild? Disorganised savages..."
        "Elet is strange. The people are not wild, they are free." Roween's voice faltered. "They have the biggest library in the world. Bigger even than the Academy's. Medreph procures books from Murak, fixes up a caravan every couple of years to take them back." She pressed a finger against her bottom lip.
        "This library, it contains sealed books?"
        Roween nodded.
        Conley paused a moment, phrasing her final question. "And Medreph, he wouldn't also smuggle passengers to Elet with him if he thought their lives were in danger, would he?"
        Roween turned her head and looked towards Conley. Her attempts to hold back tears had almost been successful. "On occasion," she said, quietly.

* * *


        By the time they reached the outskirts of Cala Bay Town, Roween was no longer visibly upset, but she did look worried. Already, the sky was shadowcast with smoke - dark smoke, fuming perpetually from the foundries and smithies that massed near the river, writhing southwards carried by the magically prevailing winds. Conley could feel despair and fear all about her, the grey-black, soot-ingrained walls of nearby houses howling with the echo of horsehooves passing by.
        "These are the poorer areas, Medreph will be in the uptown. It's normally real dangerous here, but they'll peg you as an expert and won't bother us, maybe just chuck a stone or two. Uptown, there'll be magic."
        "So what happens if anyone uses spells on us?"
        Roween clicked her teeth, grimly.

* * *


        They'd dismounted, were leading their horses. It was evening, mist-black. The uptown streets were teeming with people, animals, barrows. Customers in pavement cafés chatted, bickered, watched as others spilled out into the throng. Carts were hauled slowly along busy, swarming roads, crowds milled around stalls. Conley had never seen such a vibrant mass of disparate individuals. Everyone was moving, hurrying, calling. In a shadowed passage, a man was arguing with an elderly woman all in velvet. Three sailors were peering through the window of a brightly-lit tavern. She heard the smack of a hand across a boy's head, saw him drop the apple he'd stolen from a fruitmonger's basket. This place was so - so alive! She glanced at Roween, seeking to share her wonder with her.
        Roween looked to be in pain, one eye closed, face bracing like she was listening to something so loud it would burst her head. She signalled to Conley, head for that alley.
        When they reached it, Roween slumped against the wall, breathed out, deeply, relief written into her every motion. She smiled, weakly, at Conley. "There's a lot of magic out there, lot more than there used to be. Maybe one in four have some kind of zip on them. Weapons, cosmetics, shots, even prosthetics. Hot, I can't take much more of this, it's making me ill."
        "How far do we have to go?" asked Conley.
        "Medreph will be either at his place, or at The Essence, it's a club, he knows the owner." She gulped back air. "Give me a moment, you mind?"
        "No, it's clear by me, nobody seems to be paying us much attention." Maybe people collapse in alleyways all the time hereabouts... She studied Roween closely. Her face was flushed red, she was sweating heavily, maybe the greatcoat? No, she looked exhausted, like she'd been running up steps, even a little feverish.
        "What is this? What's happening? Should I try find a doctor?"
        Roween shook her head. "I'll be fine, fine. It's just this smell, the magic, I have to hold back, can't let it get to me out here, too many people..."
        "You're saying you have some kind of allergy to magic?"
        Again, Roween shook her head, her hair matting to her cheek in wet strands. "No, not an allergy, more of a, a dislike, like you mightn't like the taste of fish, the smell of sulphur. Not all magic, some of it feels good, but the mixture here, it's so sickly..."
        "Why can't I feel it? Why isn't it doing this to me?"
        "You will feel it, yes; I have to teach you. Not yet, there're other things to learn first." She rose to her feet, unsteadily, still the colour of cherries but breathing better. "I'm good enough, now, we'll make for The Essence. It's maybe fifteen minutes from here, but we have to pass through some territory."
        "You said `territory' like it meant something special."
        Roween smiled again, her ironic smile. "It's special to some folk, yes. Most of CBT, it's run by gangs. The ones who deal with the outskirts, they're mean, you cross them and they rip your arm off. The ones who handle the uptown, they're real mean, you cross them and they make you rip your own arm off. Territory is where one group pulls complete control, you better be real clean if they catch you violating their space."
        "In the middle of town? You can't walk from one area to another?"
        Roween was straightening up her greatcoat, unconcerned by its conspicuousness in the sticky heat of the evening. "Course you can, just don't look like you mean trouble, that's all."
        "So it's safe?" Not that she believed it was.
        Roween laughed. "Conley, these are not nice people. Someone with your looks, they'd think nothing of husking you up and slamming you in a brothel for the next fifteen years. Hot, nothing is ever truly safe here, despite their efforts! You can keep - " She stopped as a youth turned into the alley, slid between their horses, strode off arrogantly towards the darkness.
        "What do you mean, husking me up?"
        "Like the shell spell they use in Cala." Roween was still following the youth with her eyes, or one of them, watching until he was out of sight. "Someone makes a focus, you hit them with a shell. Personality, willpower, all gone until it wears off next day. Except before the next day, you have them make a focus again and loose another shell, and so on, long as you like."
        "But that's only meant to be used as a replacement to the death penalty, isn't it? More humane, and reversible. Only the courts can order it."
        "Maybe in Cala, yes, but here it has other uses. People who've been done that way, they're husks. Do anything anyone tells them, long as it's simple enough they don't need to think. Prettiest are had for sex, but the main use is in factories. Old or injured are used for surgicals or spell tests. None can cast spells themselves, though, wonder why?" She grinned.
        Conley was aghast. "That's just deplorable! Don't they have any laws at all here?" She realised immediately the plain stupidity of the remark.
        "They have laws, yes, but it's the ones who make the laws that are the ones who make the husks." She grunted. "Come on, we better go."
        They stepped back into the bustle of the night. Roween led them down worming streets, lit by the candles and light-sets of the shops and houses that lined the way. There were people everywhere, strange faces with furtive looks, confident sneers. A man walked past wearing a spangled robe straight out of Hease and Eller's. Two others were touching comspheres in a doorway. Where did they all live? What did they all do? Conley could feel the energy of the place, almost tangible, but always tainted, curdled with an omnipresent menace.
        Roween paused at a T-junction, under a glitzy blue Magicorp advertising display. "I think it's this way," she pointed, "haven't been here awhile. There's a black-fac we pass, makes unsound cleanser, sells it to others to put in soap, shampoo, detergent, that kind of stuff. Can burn blondes."
        "Should we ride? Or would that make us noticeable?"
        Roween didn't answer. She set off walking left, then stopped. The blue glare from the hoarding washed her face undead. "Conley, for how long can you hold a gesture? Say a wrist?"
        Conley frowned, puzzled. "How long? Normally I'm asked how short. I don't know, I guess maybe five, ten minutes for a wrist, it doesn't ache too much with repetition." She stepped aside as a pair of hollow-eyed adolescents pushed past.
        "Good, a wrist will look less odd. If we do meet trouble, chances are it'll be toting magic. Best thing if that happens is for you to hit me with a spell, that'll likely kill half of them when their prosthetics revert. Only if I give the word, though - it's not everyone who'll be trying to do us."
        Conley wasn't sure. "You mean I run the gestures for a spell now, and hold the penultimate one. Then, if we're jumped, I finish it?" She scoffed. "That'll never work!"
        "It will, try it, give the first twenty-two gestures of a 23 light- prime, see if you can hold it. Long as you don't use it on me, it should spark."
        Conley deftly completed the necessary movements in under five seconds. Roween still found her speed and fluidity breathtaking. The best prosthetic hands would be pushed to match that rate, and she wasn't even trying any.
        Conley held the final wrist while they crossed the road to a dimly-lit office doorway out of the way. "Gestures can't influence a matrix this long, it's been tried, I'm sure. The effect is like clapping out, kills the spell, total." She regarded her hand warily. "Or does it cause a backfire?"
        "It's a new technique, but there's no problem, believe me, just - just believe me."
        "I guess you'd just snuff any feedback bang anyway, right?" The window next to the door was dark, the office empty.
        "It's only going to be a 23, and that won't kick me." She smiled. "Go on, then, do it!"
        Conley threw the final palm; there was an immediate flash of light. She blinked. A green after-image danced wherever her eyes rested. Should have closed them, had forgotten she didn't have her lenses now.
        "We better make a move, people are giving us looks," Roween placed her hand on Conley's back. "Start a pain sequence, short one, if you keep it at the itch level I shouldn't have to make a focus. Second-last is a wrist."
        Conley glared at her as she flicked out the gestures. The green spot danced on converging eyes.

* * *


        The vigorous, dynamic street-life they'd seen earlier was absent here, at least on the surface. There were far fewer people, but they were better dressed, richer. Roween knew this area, why it was territory. CBT Investments controlled it, a holding company fronting for Magicorp. They provided "secure accommodation" for corporate personnel. The looming apartment blocks were occupied by Magicorp's black-fac people, cold types, high-fliers who spent their days styling spell plans, their nights shotted out. Some employees would prove and manufacture, but the real gold, those who Magicorp cared enough about to pay for this protection, were the designers: risk-takers, the cutting edge of the magic business, here in CBT because its bureaucratic safety and misuse regulations were unenforceable, meant toss. Roween felt uncomfortable. She found herself wondering if, had Conley been here alone, she'd have been able to take one of the production casters, face-to-face. She thought back to Conley's light- prime, smiled to herself. Hot, she could roast anyone at that speed!
        The narrow street was deserted, and little light filtered down; Conley was probably missing her lenses again. Her right hand was motionless, fixed in the four hundred and thirteenth gesture of an itcher. Roween tried not to look at it, fearing she'd make Conley nervous. No, it's because I'm edgy myself. She glanced at her companion. No worry, Conley was living this, her eyes raking with fire. She had power, concealed, hidden, just waiting to be freed. Roween could sense her bridled excitement, waiting - hoping?
        There were four of them, three male, one female, emerging from the shadows as if they were formed from them. All wore a basic leather uniform, add-ons idiosyncratic and personal. Professionals. The man who twinked on the light-set was in charge.
        "Nice horses," he said. "They've been ridden a long way."
        "We're meeting someone at The Essence," Roween stated. "What do you want?"
        "Horses like that, they need money to keep them, you got money?"
        "So, what do you want?" repeated Roween.
        The leader was about to answer when the woman beside him whispered in his ear. He nodded, smiled, and pointed at Conley.
        "The lady here, she got a click-well?"
        "Sure, I have a click-well," replied Conley, pulling it out. "You want it? Go fetch!" She hurled it over her shoulder, shelling it against a wall, into the dirt.
        Roween was horrified, stared at her in hazed disbelief. Conley's reply was to afford her a glance of such contempt she could only interpret it as wimp!
        The man looked at his colleagues, hooked his thumbs into his belt. "That wasn't very bright, lady." He nodded in her direction, and the other three walked forward, slowly, self-assured.
        "Neither was was that!" Conley's right hand whipped up, pointed at Roween, and dropped.
        Three of them were on the floor, screaming, moaning, spurting blood. Binders fell from doors either side, half-light returned. She jeered at the remaining assailant. He snatched a comsphere-2 from his jacket pocket, tapped it, nothing happened. Angrily, he threw it at Conley, wide. Turning, he leapt down a side-alley, his running footsteps echoing as he made his escape.
        Roween called after Conley as she raced for her click-well. "You damned fool, they only wanted ten clicks to let us through, why'd you have to do that?" Conley ignored her. "You idiot, idiot! You killed three people!" She looked down. Crawling along the rutted cobbles towards her was the woman, eyes missing, right hand gone, agony carved into her face. Roween froze a moment: life, what have I done? She twisted, fell to her knees, threw up.
        Conley was astride her mount, ashen hair falling about her shoulders. "He'll be back with reinforcements - we ride?"
        Roween stood, pulled herself into her saddle. She was shaking - rage, fear, nauseousness. She kicked the horse into motion, leaning forward as it sped off. Conley followed the blur.

* * *


        The Essence was brick-built and damp-coursed, one of the few buildings in Cala Bay Town that didn't look to be crumbling to rubble. Conley was surprised by the club's facilities - there was even an ostler to stable the horses. Roween had tipped him a coin, walked to the revolving door. Conley herself hadn't much experience of tipping as a custom, disagreed with it anyhow - was why she'd confronted those tollsters, she told herself. She followed Roween into the lobby; Roween had probably given enough for two...
        Inside, The Essence was classy, even by Cala standards. Conley soon found it to her taste. She felt out of place herself some, but more so for Roween in her oversized coat. She decided Roween was probably used to stares, though, having those skewy eyes of hers. At the moment, she was talking to a thin-faced man at the desk. He was looking through a large, flat book, running his finger down the left side of the page. Roween pointed at an entry. He stopped, consulted a panel to one side, and tapped at it. Roween slid him something, probably more money, and returned to Conley.
        "Medreph is in his room, I've had the receptionist call him."
        "What's he got there, a bank of comspheres? Must have cost a megaclick..."
        "Not quite, those are rejects from a black factory, one that specialises in lookalikes, even engraves the Porett logo on the base. They had some problem upgrading to a comsphere-2, the new sort with the priority lights on calls and stuff. These glow, but don't fade out, you can't see who you're talking to. Manager got them as a job lot."
        "Roween! So it is you!" A man's voice, his accent unusual to Conley's ears.
        The tall, slightly overweight figure descending the staircase was grinning widely. Roween span round, her face a sudden picture of unqualified joy. She'd reached Medreph before he'd taken another two steps, hugging him, laughing, like a small girl greeting her grandfather. Conley supposed that perhaps, in a way, the simile wasn't far from the truth.
        "Medreph, you have to come and meet my friend." Roween was alive with excitement, her guilt and anger temporarily forgotten. She walked coyly to Conley, leading Medreph by the wrist. "Medreph, meet Dr Conley of Malith."
        Conley shook his other hand. "Pleased to meet you," she said. It seemed appropriate.
        Medreph smiled, kissed her middle finger, and then, without changing his expression, said, "Ro, I don't have to do anything."

* * *


        Conley was bored. Medreph had taken `Ro' up to his room, so she was left on her own in the lobby. Private conversations, not for an outsider... What was it Roween had come all this way for, anyway? A fat, balding bookbuyer - what did he know?
        She wandered around. Nice place, well fitted out - maybe she should go for a stroll in the grounds? She sighed. Maybe she should stay where she wouldn't have to kill anyone. Roween was right, she had been stupid. Too keyed up. The regret was beginning to gnaw her. She'd deliberately provoked four people just so she could blow them away. How could she have done that? She became aware that she'd drifted into the bar, and remembered the click-well in her pocket. No use to her with `Ro' around, she may as well spend some of it while she had the chance.
        There was a good selection of shots on view. Conley went for the Evergreen Lites, not as strong as her old brand, but well able to happy her up, take her mind off things. The barman handed her a pack of six, enough for a couple of days, taken singly; only the foolish or the lost doubled them up. She passed him her click-well. The till's was chained to the underside of the bar; he pulled it out, and locked the pointed, conical end of hers into the funnel end of his. Conley always found that mildly erotic at times like this, though she'd seen the action thousands of times. He turned ... click, click, click, click, click, click, click. Only seven clicks for a pack of happies? Half the price of the ones in Cala. She began to doubt the authenticity of the MedSpell insignia stamped on the packet side.
        Click-well and happy shots in hand, Conley left the barstool and looked around the room. There were only a few people, mostly paired up, some alone with a drink or their own shots. She chose the seat furthest from the door, no table, room to sprawl. The pack flipped open in her hand, a motion still easily familiar even after all this time. A tear formed in each eye. Three people, bleeding to death, her fault, and she'd enjoyed it. What kind of monster was she? She pulled out a shot. Why did she get that way? How come she couldn't control it, didn't realise she was like it? Why did it have to happen again? A tear rolled. She slapped the shot to her temple.
        Bliss!

* * *


        "How many has she used?" asked a voice.
        "There are two left in the packet," answered another. That sounded like her friend, Roween. She opened her eyes, dreamily. She was so peaceful, so content, everything was just perfect. The palace was decorated pastel shades of pink and blue and lemon, and she could smell fresh-cut flowers. She was so happy.
        "If she wants to get that way, it's her own affair."
        "I can't leave her like this, she's almost vacant."
        "Let me have a look at those shots."
        Another wave of euphoria washed over. She drank it, arching her back, stretching, letting it flow through every nerve. It felt so good, so good, was she naked? She didn't care.
        "They look genuine to me, you think she'd fix four at once?"
        "I don't know, I don't know why she did it, oh life, what's that? This is her second packet!"
        Second packet? She didn't remember, she didn't remember anything, why remember when you have rapture surging through your veins? What memories could outshine such total joy? Who was the girl with the crossy eyes?
        "I've seen people get shot up like this before; ten at once, it's bad. They can stay that way, permanently. Mindless with ecstasy, soulless."
        "Well help me move her to your room. Hot, we can't afford that to happen, too much depends on her, our plans..."
        "Your plans, not mine. If she wants to go that way, let her."
        "She doesn't, I mean, she can't, this isn't deliberate, oh please no, she's fading..."
        Floating, floating in a cool fire of delight, caressing her, sensuously, licking her body with tongues of tingling flame. This was so delicious, satisfying, balmy...
        "For my sake, Medreph, please, she's my friend, I can't watch her burn away like this."
        "You'd do it here? Yes, yes, I believe you would... Very well, Ro, for you."
        Hands gripped her.
        There was a place, in her mind, did it exist? It sang to her. Her pleasure was everywhere, all about her now, enfolding her, it was everything. She heard voices, were those words? They had no meaning. Meaningless in her secret world, her secret self. Alone, safe. Happiness, blissful happiness...
        "Take the click-well, the comsphere, anything else in here that's zipped."
        "What will you use for a trigger? Oh an Evergreen, of course! Apt."
        "Hold tight, Conley, this is going to hurt..."
        Loss!
        All gone, everything, fallen away, pity me, what did I do? Emptiness, no, no, please, I want it back... I couldn't have done it, not to her...

* * *


        Roween held Conley's head against her breast, gently rocking as she listened to the uncontrollable sobs. Medreph stayed outside; no Elet would want to witness this. Conley was in torment, total, all-encompassing, suffering the misery of memory. She wept, repeating but one word over and over in her blabberings: "Mother".


Copyright © Richard A. Bartle (richard@mud.co.uk)
21st January 1999: isif4.htm