The Scholar's Tale (Original Fantasy)

Book IV, Chapter 2

Finding the Clockwork Court was like finding contentment in life: the closer you got, the more the goal seemed to move.

As I leaned on the steamer's rail, narrowed eyes trained on the horizon, my fingers beat a meaningless rhythm on the dull, bronze-coloured metal. My cane, slung across my back and kept in place by magic alone, quietly nagged me, urging me to take it in hand and rely on it instead.

My magic could not have found a less subtle way of trying to ingluence me if it had tried.

Still, the mental voice was an almost welcome distraction, compared to my own thoughts. I had heard stories about petitioners to the Clockwork King, who had performed this favour or offered this gift in exchange for getting whatever help they had needed. But they, like most Midworlder stories, glossed over the destination.

I could not entirely blame those travellers. With how capricious Midworld's weather and animals were, not to mention other sailors with less than wholesome intentions, it was understandable that one would not want to commit the drudgery, the horrors and the bloodbaths to record.

Not that many Midworlders recorded much, at least not in writing, and not even always in speech. Life was dangerous enough that people did not expect to have any descendants or a legacy, so why leave documentation about something that had happened to them when no one would ever read it? They already knew, and, one way or another, the world as they knew it was likely to end with them.

No, I did not begrudge their choice to focus on the destination over the journey, though I reserved the right to be annoyed by the stories' tendency not to mention what you had to do to successfully approach the Clockwork King. Surely the criteria weren't constantly changing, like the world's endless tides?

Grasping my cane with both hands, I balanced on my heels as the Rainbow Burst rose and fell over white-crested waves that dwarfed it. The ship was in one of its greater shapes, bulky but agile, and the tides dwarfed most mountains I had seen. What must've been billions of tons of water crashed against the steamer, the ship's intelligence and shapeshifting manoeuvres allowing us to ascend to the peak of every tide before speeding down it like a comet.

I pulled my cane apart into my sword and staff, feeling a faint pressure around me as the ship's limbs, moving too fast for me to see, made sure not a drop of saltwater landed on the deck.

Grateful for my magic, and imagining Mharra bouncing up and down like a ball from the ship's scaling of the mountainous tides, I smiled faintly. But, as I looked at my reflection within the blade, I saw, unsurprised, that the expression did not reach my eyes.

I knew that there were more laugh lines around my eyes than wrinkles, and that the bags under my eyes has more to do with stress than the sleep I no longer needed, but I did not like this look on me, not any more than the grey hair I had recently glimpsed in a mirror.

It might have been vanity speaking, but I didn't want the face of a man twice my age, not with how weathered I already looked. The most generous or tasteless of women might have called me ruggedly handsome, but I knew I looked more like a frequent victim of keelhauling.

So, remembering my face from before Three's disappearance, I changed my visage, then stopped.

A thought had struck me. A suggestion for a visual metaphor so blunt it would've been laughable to anyone who knew me: ever since I had set out on the sea, I had never been truly at rest. As a result, I had often been mistaken for being older than I was.

But I had turned a new leaf, thanks to Ib's... assistance...and the attentions of who I still struggled to believe had been three of the Ghyrrians' gods. The Observers had never ventured out of their realm, to my knowledge, for how could such childishly sadistic beings wreak havoc and not leave any trace? Their egos were too fragile for complete obliteration. They would've left something to recognise them by behind, I was sure.

There was, as always, the chance that they had simply acted too far away for any rumours or tales to reach me, but Ib had agreed with my hunch, although that was no longer as reassuring as it had once been. I wanted to believe the grey giant had no reason to lie about those monsters, but they had more or less worked together recently, hadn't they?

Ib had let the Mantlemakers put me and my captain through the wringer, saying only that the changes our suffering had brought would bring about some great change for all there was.

Conveniently, there had been no explanation or description, only insistence that such a thing would defeat the purpose.

I was too paranoid about Ib's intentions to focus on how grateful I was for the chance to reunite with Aina and, maybe, help Mharra reunite with Three. Oh, I knew exactly what it, at least, claimed it wanted: freedom for everyone, whatever that meant. What I was leery of were its methods.

Ib was too good at justifying sacrifices into necessary things after the fact. If it had been a better apologist, we would have been twins. The last thing I wanted on the crew was someone else like me. Desperate bastards like that were as dangerous when pushed as they were adept at convincing themselves they were cornered.

But I would cross that bridge when I came to it, if I ever gained the means to confront Ib about its deeds, and burn it, if it was needed.

The chance of our friendship ending in bitter separation made my shoulders tighten, something, I realised, thinking of Midworld's countless lost stories had also done earlier.

Maybe it was my magic, influencing me just like I changed it in turn, but some part of me was saddened by the gaps that knowledge had left in Midworld's collective memory when it had disappeared along with its only keepers.

Not that Midworld had much of a collective anything.

Maybe I could do something about it. Magic could change, mutate, in response to its wielder's thoughts and desires. Could I enhance my ability to tap into memories and become able to see the past, so I could commit it to memory?

Something to look into. I did not have much to do, these days, anyway, with the day-to-day running of a ship being taken care of by the steamer itself and all the resources we could need being covered by my magic and Ib's powers.

A chuckle escaped my lips. Even as a child, I had not dreamed I would ever live like this: a mage able to strengthen himself at will, sailing on a ship that took care of itself.

The chuckle became sad as I remembered the steamer had only become like this after we had lost Three. It was such a damn shame to be unable to share this bounty and safety with the ghost - it felt almost like a betrayal.

I turned my head slightly, then, on a whim, looked back forward and thought of the seascape I had just seen - and the sights behind me filled my mind as if they were parading before my eyes.

I saw the sea as it was now by remembering it as it had been. Triggered by the connection, the nameless spell showed me every bird and cloud moving lazily across the sky, every behemoth of a fish leaping between giant tides, every drop of water.

I drew myself up, pleasantly surprised. I was growing, too. The ship had competition, I thought with a grin.

I had looked behind me to see if anyone was there, for Mharra could, using the pieces of Ib given to him, hide himself from my arcane sense as easily as the giant itself could.

But I was alone. Doubtlessly, the captain was in his cabin, either trying to find a course to the Court or mourning his lost lover. I wasn't sure what Ib did, nowadays, but I was not in a hurry to meet it.

Midworlders who had only been sailing for a few years would have expected these league-tall waves to only occur during freakish storms, but the truth was that Midworld's sky and its sea collaborated as often as they ignored each other.

That was why, though the sun was bright and the sky a deep, sapphire blue, we were being buffeted by mountains of water. Admittedly, there was also a good chance Midworld was mocking our desire for good weather by giving us these tides alongside it.

It was a spiteful bitch like that. I wasn't sure Midworld was a thinking being, as such, but if it was, its sense of humour was as stupid as it was dangerous. Most ships, relying on wood and sails, without magic or unknowable contraptions to fall back on, would've been reduced to clouds of splinters by the base of the waves alone.

Though I missed Three nearly as much as Mharra, I could not help but be glad his disappearance had been the kick to the rump the steamer had needed. Back when the ghost had been our engineer, I was sure he'd have had to scream himself hoarse (metaphorically speaking) and run himself ragged trying to coax the Burst into the mood necessary to attempt the stunts it was now doing by itself.

How much had our efforts to whip the ship into shape helped? Had they truly done anything, or simply made it look at itself and decide it wanted to change?

In any case, the steamer had changed as much as its body of metal could.

With no one around and nothing better to do, I remembered a chair, then remembered it being still as, upon appearance, it began being tossed around by the force of our movemenents. As the conjured chair stuck to the deck like it had been nailed down, I made my way to it, all the while tapping the deck with the end of my cane, as well as dragging my sword's tip along it.

The cold indignation of the steamer crashed against my mind, filling my spirit with a cautionary, silent noise. Much like poking an elephant with a spear to make it follow your orders, the bursts of magic I had sent into it had annoyed the great ever-changing vessel.

Had I not been a friend, they would've been dangerous, and I would have been fighting for my life now.

I crossed my legs after I sat down, laying my sword across my knees while keeping the staff pressed against the deck. I could maintain the bond with the Rainbow Burst just by touching it, or even through a pure effort of will, but what was the point, when I had a focus to channel through?

I looked up, into Midworld's serene sky, and spoke with the ship.

* * *

Hello, Burst.

Fourth traveller. You are speaking through thought.

I am indeed. Recently, I have touched more minds than I ever thought I would.

You never spoke to me before.

I did not have any good reason to, in my defence. I knew better than to distract our conveyance with my inane ramblings.

Hmph. You are a glib, shameless coward.

Ye-

You talk at me, not with me. You ask me to shape my form into whatever you desire, but you cannot afford to ask how I am doing?

Burst, this is going to sound arrogant, but until recently, I thought you were an object.

I never was. There is only one person here who has been a tool and will likely always remain one, with how awful he is at apologising.

...How about this? I think I have a way to make it up to you. Listen...

* * *

Mharra's hands were in the pockets of his captain's coat as he strode across the deck, whistling.

Though the waves had calmed down, the sea was still in a foul mood. A whirlpool, dark as a vruise and stretching past the horizon, had caught their ship and was not letting go.

Most vessels would have been torn apart by the force, and few of those durable enough to survive would have been able to resist the pull of the vortex.

The Rainbow Burst, however, was as stubborn as it was proud, which was why it was making a point of the fact it wouldn't go anywhere it didn't want to. Adopting a circular shape, as if aping the whirlpool, the steamer remained in place as if on a still sea, construct-limbs batting away everything the whirlpool was throwing at it, from waves to the remains of ships and oceanic monsters that had never seen sunlight before.

At one point, a cluster of Seaworms had converged upon the ship. Each over three kilometres long and weighing thirty-two billion tons of flesh far tougher than still, they had opened their gaping mouths, circular maws with shining fangs, and dashed at the vessel so fast white flames had blazed into existence around their pale forms from friction.

Radiating contempt, the Burst had extended a grasping limb to squeeze a Seaworm in half. The second had been splattered by a bludgeoning fist rising from the ship, while the third had been sliced to ribbons too thin to see by a hail of metallick shards launched from every surface of the steamer, which had moved towards the creature to butcher it even if they'd happened to be flung into the opposite direction.

Ib, who had relayed the confrontation to Mharra, as it had occured in a thousandth of a thousandth of a second - too fast for the captain to perceive without altering his speed through the powers of his skintight, transparent protective suit - had also told him the projectiles had posessed a rudimentary, predatory mind, which had instinctively sought the Seaworm the steamer had marked for death.

The last Seaworm had inadvertently killed itself, crushing its eyeless head against the vessel's defences. The moment the fangs' tips had touched it, but before they had been able to damage anything, the steamer had changed form, covering itself in inviolable shields.

As a final insult, the Rainbow Burst had made the shields flex, launching the monster's corpse thousands of leagues away, a distance it covered in less time than it took Mharra to blink upon hearing the description.

Now, the captain was looking for his mage friend. Knowing Ryzhan was almost as reserved as he was paranoid, traits that had much to do with each other, Mharra did not expect to find him on deck, given the recent attacks. Certainly not in this...position.

Ryzhan was on his stomach, half-buried into the deck, which covered his torso and his limbs up to the knees and elbows. His face, which betrayed no sign of distress, regarded Mharra with the sort of distracted surprise common to those interrupted during meditation or work.

'Yes?' Ryzhan asked, as if he didn't look like the world's strangest prisoner.

'Ryz,' Mharra greeted, by now fully accustomed to the mage's nonsense. 'Did the ship capture you? What did you do?'

'I am being hugged, captain.'

Mharra gave him a deadpan look, but Ryzhan's expression was earnest, and there was a strange intensity in his eyes, as if he were completing some vital task.

'It's...embracing you?'

'Do not be so quick to dismiss it, captain.' Ryzhan raised a finger. 'Just because it did not come into the world with arms, it does not mean it cannot express our friendship this way.'

'I was actually just baffled there's one more person who can stand you, but that's good advice.' Mharra nodded to himself. 'It would make a good lesson if we ever make a play of a fable, or the like.'

Stroking his beard with one hand, Mharra sat down on the mage's back, which was covered by the steamer's substance. Tougher than any mundane material Mharra knew, but as flexible as water, it yielded to his touch, shaping itself to both become comfortable and keep him steady.

Ryzhan bit out a curse. 'What are you doing, sir?'

'Shh.' Mharra waved a dismissive hand. 'I'm thinking.'

'You fat little-'

'Listen, Ryz,' Mharra cut off the slander, a thoughtful look on his face. 'It is good that we met like this. Ib couldn't help but chime in, though I've already talked with it.'

The mage stopped struggling, expression growing more serious. 'About what?'

'Ib believes the Clockwork Court cannot simply be found. It knows where the place is, but we must be invited if we want to enter unscathed. The Clockwork King has the means to both evade pursuers and make any attempt at forcing our way in deeply unpleasant.'

Such things that regretful madman had built...creatures that could drag the grey giant into an eternal stalemate, according to Ib itself, and many other horrors and wonders besides.

'And?' Ryzhan grunted, likely already looking for a solution to this problem as he all but asked for it.

Mharra's storyteller smile would have been barely visible in his dark beard if not for the glint of his teeth. 'As soon as it stopped talking, I suggested we do something to impress the King. It's been a while since we put on a show, anyway. Might as well try to catch his eye.'

'Nonsense, sir. No way you waited until Ib stopped explaining to start talking.'

'Thank you for proving my earlier amazement wasn't unfounded,' Mharra replied. 'After I brought this up, Ib soon told me about three places where our skills would make the greatest impression.' Patting the mage's covered back, Mharra stood up. 'I'm sure it won't feel strange to travel alone again.'

'Why?' Ryzhan asked, quickly rising to his feet as he was freed from the ship's grasp. 'The troupe is too small for us to split up.'

Mharra smiled again, though his eyes indicated something in the distance.

* * *

'It's not that, my friend,' Mharra answered, simultaneously trying to point something out to me. Come to think of it, I had been surprised by Ib's absence. 'Three sailors going to three places, learning and teaching, before reuniting for their true journey. It has symbolic weight.'

Which would increase the chances of either success or failure, depending on fate's whims. Either way the results would be more spectacular than they would have been in the case of a less fateful endeavour.

'Ib has already left, hasn't it?' I asked gruffly, sheathing my sword. Mharra's silence was answer enough, not to mention resounding.

I did not like these secret meetings of theirs (how many had there been?), but he should at least admit it if he wanted to brush me off. I doubted three wanted a spineless paramour.

'Send it my regards,' I said, cane in hand as I turned on my heel, coattails swishing around me. Might as well be dramatic, if I was going to put on a show.

Minutes later, I was standing in a small boat spawned by the steamer, looking up at Mharra. He'd given me no instructions except to be impressive, which had hardly been needed. But having no script to follow can be both liberating and a trap of the mind.

A green entertainer would have worried about what to do, but I did not care enough. According to Mharra, who had been told by Ib, the island I was sailing to had not been visited by anyone in its - allegedly - millennia of existence.

Such a long lifespan for a landmass was even more bizarre than no one happening across it, ever, but isolated cultures like that often reacted in interesting ways. I was as likely to dazzle them with my foreign charm as I was to be attacked for being a filthy outsider.

The captain would sail to what he had called a pleasure fleet on the Rainbow Burst, while Ib had moved towards some strange place on paths only it knew and few could walk.

"It tried to describe it to me for a few minutes before I asked it to stop," Mharra had told me, "because it didn't make sense. From what it told me, even if it wasn't some creature's lair, it would still be eerie. Not being able to see or hear the sea, nor smell it? Having it hidden from you?"

It did indeed sound unnatural. But then, neither my destination, nor Mharra's - a fleet prosperous enough to be dedicated solely to pleasure, which hadn't been snapped up by any of Midworld's covetous powers? - sounded normal.