Slinging ink and Faking names.
“
Please Jacob. Dreams can live. They can eat, they can fuck, they can kill. There are worlds we have dreamed, Jacob, and like us, they are dying.
“
| — | Diego Delverdad |
The Oath of Visions and Blood (Forthcoming)
Breathe.
My right hand found the lever, almost mechanically. With no preamble, I pulled it back, hard. At five different points in my arm, tiny needles drove the various liquids into my body. It was required that some of the tonics mix within the bloodstream. One of the five points bit a touch late. I always wondered if that tonic needed to mix differently.
It burned. It was always hard not to scream. Letting go of the switch was reflex, and the needles retracted. It was a quick; in and out. But the tonics in my body were like molten gold.
The shaking started. I tried to focus before I blacked out, but it was a lost cause. It always was. It was as if the moment it hit your veins, your mind refused to remain awake.
Perhaps that was best.
Besides the stabbing pain in my arm, there was a gentle euphoria. I knew it hurt, but I did not care somehow- only cared about the sweet numbness that rode my veins. When my eyes blinked open, everything was fuzzy. If I tried, REALLY tried, I could catch fragments of the visions the serum had given me. They were slippery, moving out of reach.
It will start at Jaemson’s. He has a problem, a problem he isn’t even aware of. I was inside his club. My quarry is here, somewhere-
The hallway is dark, dusty. A man turns, and sees me. He is dark, unshaven—
The people were mutilated, with strange burns making intricate patterns on their bodies. They are crying out to me, for help. I can’t hear them. No one hears them. They are alone, and lost, and no one hears them.
Some of them have had their eyes removed—
“… Ware the Unreal man.” It’s my friend Willem speaking. He—
“I was paid. Paid for my eyes.” It’s Ely. I can’t see her face, but we are standing in her shop. It is a wreck, more than usual—I am terrified—
It’s a new time for artists and writers. You don’t have to be particularly good anymore. You only have to be loud.
“
| — | JM Guillen, definitely not referencing himself. Loudly |
How to pick a lock.
Hiriam was on his knees, jiggling the lock in that alleyway in Teredon. “Hold on, Guentur. I’ll get us safe.” Down the alley, they could hear their pursuers yelling as they drew closer.
“I wasn’t worried, Hiriam. Just get it done.” His eyes followed every motion of Hiriam’s deft hands.
“Lost gods!” Hiriam swore as he broke a pick. “It’s too late. They’re almost here.”
Guentur sighed.
“Fine. Hold on a moment.” Guentur held out a hand. “And stand up. It won’t do for them to get here and find you in an alleyway, on your knees.” He pulled Hiriam up, just as the thugs rounded the corner.
It was three men, all masked. They slowed as they got closer, and two pulled blades. The largest one spoke.
“We don’t want have to kill you, chum. We get our clink just for retrieving the book.” The man pointed at the journal tucked under Guentur’s arm.
“Hello Benjin.”
“How did… I mean, I’m not Benjin.”
Guentur chuckled. “Of course you are. You have his limp. I noticed it in the oratory. You also pronounce your words with elongated vowels, just as any good Riogiin would. My guess is that your partners here would be Orell, and…” He peered at the third man. “Parvin? Yes. Of course. You have his eyes. Also, I see the place on your knuckles where we slammed your hand in the door yesterday. Does Marcella know that you are in the alley, harassing scriveners?” The man shifted his feet, and then looked at Benjin. “No. Of course she doesn’t. You’ve been paid to keep quiet.”
“You’ll be surprised what we’ve been paid to do.” Benjin stepped forward, trying to sound menacing, but the other two were losing their nerve.
Guentur lent his voice thunder. “You have been paid to retrieve a coded journal, discretely.” He caught the man’s gaze and held it. “You have failed. I know exactly who you are, which means I know who hired you.”
Orell spoke up. “Benjin. Tyw—”
Benjin backhanded him. “You need to shut your meat-hole, right now.”
“You don’t have to be crude, Benjin. He was going to say that your boss, Tywiir Eldermann, wouldn’t want me to know his name. But I do. I saw his sigil inside the journal, and recognized his guildsmen at the fire last night. I already know.” He smiled. “If you attack me, it will be his name that we scream as you kill us. His name will be what leads the judicars to our bodies. That is assuredly not discrete.”
Benjin stared at Guentur. The scrivener stared back, unafraid. Finally, the thug spat on the ground.
“We’re not done.”
“I know.”
The men turned and walked away.
Hiriam was practically gibbering. “That was amazing!”
Guentur shrugged. “Not as amazing as what you were about to do with that lock. Maybe you can show me?”
Hiriam smiled, and pulled another pick from his boot.
