Gemworld (10 page)

“What’s a bike?”

“Never mind.”

The twins and the emerald led Sal around the village for the rest of the afternoon, exploring every thoroughfare and back alley until they were satisfied that he could find his way home and to each of their respective dwellings. As they walked, they talked about the similarities and differences between their two worlds.

“Norean,” Reit said, laying a hand upon his own chest. “And Delana, she’s Plainsfolk.”

“Caucasian and Hispanic, respectively,” Sal returned. “But then again, she could also pass for Native American.”

“Ummm… what about Mandiblean?” asked Jaren, indicating Senosh further down the thoroughfare.

“Black, African, or African American, depending on where you live.”

“Then there’s Onatae…” Retzu added, scanning the village briefly before finally settling on a gangly boy in amongst other gangly boys.

“Oriental, or Asian,” said Sal. “Specifically, he looks Japanese, which is kind of a branch off the main race. All of our races are like that. It comes from having the main races spread out over the continents, allowing smaller groups to evolve and adapt to environments and situations that their close cousins might not have to experience. Over time, the differences can accumulate, becoming quite pronounced—almost a new race all by themselves.”

“Absolutely remarkable,” Jaren commented.

“Yeah. Funny though, in America, we’ve got it in reverse. Since ours is a country of immigrants, its like many streams combining to form a single river.”

“Quite like our Valenese,” the emerald nodded, waiting for Sal to continue.

“Yeah, okay. Well, take me for example. My father’s family is Italian, which is somewhere between Norean and Plainsfolk, but my mother’s side is Jewish, which… well... I actually don’t see anyone who looks—wait. Right there!” He pointed out a tight knot of men, huddled off by themselves. They were a stoic bunch, not even offering up a smile for their beloved
el
’
Yatza
.

“Ysreans,” Jaren said. “We don’t get very many of them. A pity, too. They’re a race singularly devoted to the Crafter, and more fiercely opposed to the Highest than any but Reit himself.”

“They find the Highest’s claim of Vicar to be nothing short of blasphemy,” Reit picked up where Jaren left off. “Can’t say I disagree. They believe that they were once the Chosen of the Crafter, but somehow lost His favor long before
Ysra tuk
’
sheol
. That’s why they call themselves Ysrean. It means ‘abandoned’ or ‘forgotten’. The island of Ysre is all that’s left of the land they believe is promised them by the Crafter, and they are loathe to leave it.”

“Well, I can’t think of anyone else. It seems like you really got every color of the rainbow.”

“Yes, we have nearly every intelligent race represented here,” Reit said with some note of accomplishment. “The desire for one’s children to know freedom transcends every barrier.”

Sal’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
Nearly?
By Earth’s standards, the village left no race out. “Who’s missing?” he wondered aloud.

“Well, for one, if we are to believe the legends, we still lack a dragon,” Reit chuckled.

“Dragon? Yeah, right,” he scoffed.

Jaren looked askance at Sal. “You know of the Dragon race in your world?”

“Big lizards? Scales? Wings? Breath fire?”

The emerald laughed. “Yes, that’s them. Or the fire wyrms, anyway—red dragons. The other elemental dragons are said to have different abilities, mundane expressions of the soulgems they resemble. It’s said that the galvanic dragons have even become one with their element, shedding their once-violet scales to become living bolts of electricity. Then there’s the basilisk. They have no wings, as do their cousins. But unlike other dragons, basilisks are able to wield mana to a certain extent, enabling them to turn their enemies to stone.”

“And they’re intelligent?”

“Indeed! The stories say that dragons used to be human. Then long ago, they gave themselves completely to their magic, or some such,” he waved dismissively. “Unfortunately, if they do exist, they’re even more secretive than granites, so we can neither confirm nor disprove. All we have are rumors.”

“Have you ever tried to find them? Get them to help you?”

“Many seek, but few live to tell the tale,” Retzu muttered ominously.

***

The sun was still high in the sky when Reit and Jaren excused themselves to prepare for a council meeting, leaving Sal in Retzu’s capable hands. “We’ve covered about as much ground as we can here. What say we make our introductions to your new employer,” he suggested, setting off across the village without waiting for Sal’s response.

The artisan’s wagon looked just as Sal imagined it might. It was a classic example of ordered chaos. A canopy jutted out to one side of the wagon, shading an open workshop. Lathes, clamps, and precision tools of every sort hung from a pegboard jury-rigged to the side the wagon. At the workbench sat a woman, her back to Sal and Retzu. She was completely oblivious as they approached.

The assassin waved Sal back, and crept up silently behind the artisan. “Marissa,” he said, much louder than necessary.

Startled, the woman dropped her project on the ground. As she bent to retrieve it, her stool swept out from under her, dumping her unceremoniously on the ground. “Confound it, Retzu,” came a muffled protest from the writhing mass of red hair and green velvet as Marissa struggled unsuccessfully to regain her feet. “I’ve told you time and again not to sneak up on me while I’m working. I swear, if you weren’t—well, hello, who do we have here?” she fairly purred as her eyes fell upon the newcomer, her disheveled hair finally pushed back out of her face.

Retzu cleared his throat. “Marissa Loh’tein, may I present James Salvatori. Your new apprentice.” The introduction, though received by both parties, still took moments to register.

The woman was just a bit shorter than Sal, with flowing auburn hair and striking green eyes. Slightly plump, her weight actually complimented her frame, developing divinely in all the proper places. Her smile was eager and inviting, her lips pouty and full, her—

A cough from Retzu broke the spell. Sal was so embarrassed by the lapse that he didn’t even notice the similar lapse that befell Marissa. Both rushed to resume the introduction.

“Umm, just call me Sal,” he said, extending his hand. “A pleasure to meet you,” she said, extending her hand.

Apparently neither was watching what they were doing. Instead of shaking hands, they wound up rapping knuckles. This surprised both and they started giggling like children. Retzu stepped in to try to salvage the situation.

“Marissa, Sal here used to work as an artisan with his uncle.”

“Indeed?” She asked excitedly. “Where is his shop? I might have traded with him before.”

Sal was caught off guard, and bogged down. Before his stammering lips could form an answer, Retzu pressed onward.

“Since you are in need of an apprentice, and he is in need of employment, would you consider hiring him?”

“Oh, of course,” she said, a bit too enthusiastically.

“Settled then. I’m sure you will find him quite useful. He has a very refreshing way of seeing things, and I have no doubt that you’ll find him an asset to your work. I’ll just leave you two now to discuss things, get to know... ah, whatever.” He muttered this last and chuckled hopelessly as he walked off, completely ignored.

For long moments, the two simply stood there, staring at each other until finally the awkwardness of the situation set them both to laughing again.

“So, you’re new to Caravan?” Marissa asked, the first to speak.

“You weren’t at the town meeting in the square this morning?” he asked, feeling a slight twinge of disappointment.

“The questioning? No,” she scoffed. “I may well be the ranking artisan in town, but I have no interest in the Questioning. If I wanted to know if someone is telling me the truth, I’d use one of my artifacts. I don’t have to rely on a mage for that.”

She handed Sal a silver-backed broach from her work bench. It depicted a rose in marvelous detail, with chipped rubies for the petals, emeralds for the stem and leaves, and amethysts and sapphires for ribbons and scroll work. It was captivating. He absently rubbed at his left eye as it started to tingle.

“Nice work,” Sal said lamely. “But how...?”

She took the broach from him, eager to demonstrate her handiwork. “See the runes here?” She indicated on the back. “Those activate the gems when the broach is worn, like this...” She pinned it on the front of Sal’s jerkin, then smoothed the jerkin flat. Sal felt the cold silver of the pin against his chest, and his eye tingled again.

“Okay, now ask me a question. Anything.”

Sal thought for a moment, dispelling the multitude of inappropriate questions he’d very much like to ask. “What’s your full name?”

“Marissa Daune Loh’tein,” she said with a barely noticeable trace of irritation. “You could’ve picked something a bit harder. No matter. Now, what did you feel from the broach?”

“Nothing,” Sal said with a shrug.

“Right, now ask me another question.”

“Are you married?”

“Yes,” she answered with a smirk. As the word fell from her lips (those full, sweet lips), the broach began to vibrate wildly. Sal jumped at the movement.

“Whoa....a magic pocket pager!”

“A what?”

“Never mind.”

“Anyway, do you see? The magic will detect any lie the wearer hears, causing the broach to vibrate. Granted, it doesn’t work that well when the speaker is nervous or feverish or stricken by any of a number of ailments...”

“Hey, any help is better than none,” Sal said appreciatively, unpinning the artifact and raising it to the fading afternoon light. The gems were simply cut, fit into position with obvious care and skill. On the back, the runes, though perfectly shaped, were not so complex that he couldn’t recreate it. In fact, with practice, he was positive he could.

“Show me more,” he said, and Marissa flushed with pleasure at his rapt attention.
As if I could give her any other kind
, Sal mused.

***

They passed the afternoon and much of the evening talking and examining Marissa’s wares. Once Sal almost blew up her wagon when he rubbed the runes on the wrong scepter, sending a fireball streaking across the early evening sky. Erring on the side of caution, they decided to call it a night.
Just as well
, Sal thought.
Burning my boss
’
s house down wouldn
’
t look good on a resume
.

“One moment,” Marissa said as he turned to leave. “I have something that might give you a bit of a leg up.”

She ran into her wagon, emerging moments later with a small, leather-bound notebook. “It’s a book of runes,” she explained. “It’s not as complete as some of my others, but it’ll get you off to a decent start.”

Taking the notebook, he muttered an awkward “good night”, and left for his supply wagon. He didn’t make very good time, walking backwards and waving as he was. Finally, Marissa—such a beautiful name!—passed from his sight, and he was able to turn around and watch where he was going.

His step had a spring to it. And why not? There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Children laughed and played in the street around him, making the best of the quickly fading daylight. And he had a nice, quiet job with a boss who was unbelievably
hot!
Yep. Life was good.

A warm breeze ruffled the pages in his hand, bringing to mind his homework assignment. Sighing, he shook the stars from his eyes and lifted the pages.

…and stopped him dead in his tracks.

***

He detoured past his wagon, instead heading for Reit’s place. Running up, he found Jaren there as well, discussing something or another with the leader of the Resistance.
Good.
Saves time from having to hunt him down
.

“What’s this?” Sal demanded, thrusting the open book forward. Reit shrugged his shoulders, a dumb look on his face.

Jaren glanced at the papers and said simply, “Runes and their definitions. But if you have a specific question about them, perhaps Marissa would be—”

“No, no, no... I mean the language it’s written in,” he said, his hand trembling violently.

“Script,” Jaren said. “Our written language has no real name anymore, but I do recall an ancient text during my days at Bastion where both script and spoken were referred to by another name. I believe it was... umm... Inda-? No, no. Inga. Yes, That’s it. Inga’Lish.”

“English,” Sal said thickly, correcting him.

***

“People, please...one at a time,” Reit boomed through the council tent. Obediently, the conflicting voices died down and the Heads of Order and Guild patiently waited their turn.

“Look, I don’t
know
what it means.” Jaren explained yet again. “But running off on baseless theories will get us nowhere. We’ve got to think about this, people, not chase every rabbit trail that presents itself.”