 
Hail, the Great Magician!

By Todd Miller

Copyright 2016 Todd Miller

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Special thanks: Kathy Faber, Kim Pratt, Lynn Staininger

Cover design by Hal Mangold

For Rob Toth,

Fellow prisoner of the Scribbletorium
Table of Contents

The Preservationist

Sparklings

Magenta Sonata

The Impossible Contraption

Bride of the Monster

The Stain

Chrysalis

Other titles by Todd Miller

The Preservationist

The Red Volcano rumbled and seethed, coughing up thick, dark clouds of ash and smoke, transforming day into night. The ground trembled, the rocks tumbled down, and the sky became a smudgy haze of choking, boiling death.

Down below, the majestic streets of Gizli Sehir were empty, the houses and shops all closed. The good citizens huddled in their cellars, waiting for that terrible moment when the angry volcano would finally explode, and obliterate them all with fire, mud and liquid stones.

But thanks and praise to their mighty god, Kara Kurbaga, the volcano spent its rage and drifted off into another uneasy slumber. And so the good citizens of Gizli Sehir could once again emerge from their underground tombs and live grossly off their borrowed time.

Harlow Jud was just about to step outside his shop and begin the dreary task of sweeping up the powdery ash from the sidewalk when there was a furtive knock on the door. Yes, thought Harlow, the knock was not an apprehensive one, it was definitely furtive.

Most forbiddingly furtive.

Perhaps it was a customer? No, that was ridiculous. Strictly wishful thinking. Why would there be a customer at the door right after an eruption, especially when business had already been dismal for some time?

Could it be someone who was trapped outside when the ash began to fall? Harlow felt a tugging urge to help whoever the poor person may be.

But when he opened the door he immediately regretted it. Instead of some charming, young damsel in soot-covered distress, he was greeted by a large, hulking figure, swathed in scarves and robes, wearing gritty goggles and holding an oozy, dripping burlap sack.

"Are ye Master Jud?" asked this strange person, in a thick, sharp accent.

"I am," said Harlow, as he considered slamming the door.

"Perhaps ye might want to buy this?" said the man, thrusting the bloody sack forward.

"What is it?"

"An animal," said the strange man. "That is what ye do, right? Cut up animals, stuff their insides with bits and sawdust. Ye be a Preservationist, they say."

Harlow looked at the sack and wrinkled his nose.

"What kind of animal is it?" he asked.

"A right droogy weird one, Master. Maybe pig. I know not. Found it in the street, I did."

"I don't want any pigs," said Harlow.

"Oh, ye be wanting this one for sure," said the strange man.

"I'm sorry," said Harlow, trying to shut the door.

"It be purple, Master."

"What is?"

"The animal. It be purple."

The forbidden color. All the purple creatures of the land had been fanatically slaughtered during the Reign of the Zealots. (Thanks to Kara Kurbaga that the Grand Torturer put all those fellows to the sword, even if he probably was one of them in the beginning...)

But, this—this was absurd. A biological impossibility.

The strange man held open the sack for Harlow to peek inside.

One look and Harlow gave the man a fistful of gold coins. The apparition bowed deeply, muttered a few meaningless words and disappeared into the ash-gray streets of the sprawling city.

Harlow hauled the heavy sack downstairs to his workshop, his hands trembling. Droplets of blood dribbled from the saturated burlap, leaving a trail of red dots on the floor. His canary chirped madly, but he ignored it. Harlow quickly lit a fire-lantern, brushed aside the terribly frustrating specimens he had been toiling on before, and dumped the strange carcass onto his workbench.

It wasn't exactly a pig. It sort of looked like a pig, or maybe a very small, deformed man with a long, hideous-looking nose that resembled a snout. But there were simply too many eyes. And instead of hooves, the creature had little paws. Possibly thumbs. There were several extra withered limbs that were once either arms or legs. And its skin, its magnificent skin, was a deep, dark shade of nightmarish purple.

The color of the Great Magician.

Harlow's hands began to shake. Oh, this was wrong. Very, very wrong. Hadn't they taught him so when he was young? The Great Magician was the Corrupter, the Transmuter, the primal being who led fools down the shimmering path to radicalism and mutation. Yield to the ways of the Great Magician and he would rewrite your Equation. Yes, his words were to be ignored, his works to be shunned, and yet...

It was the most beautiful animal that Harlow had ever seen. So unlike anything else that flew, swam or crawled in this miserable world. Every other specimen he'd ever worked on couldn't even begin to compare. Not his screeching rainbow owl with its cacophony of bright feathers. Not his tree pangolin, with its prehensile tongue. This...this _thing_ , was the most perfect addition to his menagerie that he could ever hope to preserve.

The strange man had obviously clubbed the poor creature to death. The skull was in pieces and there was significant damage to the scalp. Still, it was nothing that a Preservationist of his skill couldn't repair. In fact, Harlow felt confident that this particular specimen would be an excellent showcase for his talents and craftsmanship.

Except that no, he couldn't show the creature to anybody, because purple was still forbidden. The Great Magician had tainted everything that color. The Grand Torturer and the Zealots before him were right to ban it. It was a very dangerous color indeed. Never seen anymore.

So rare...so voluptuous...and it was all his.

Bah on the Great Magician, he thought. Just a story to scare disobedient children and gullible adults. He could look after his own Equation, thank you very much.

Yes, this creature was exactly what Harlow needed to turn things around; odd, controversial, and sensational. How the other Preservationists would wring their hands with envy. Business would pick up again, like in the old days. The tax collectors would be satisfied, with interest. His customers would become dizzy with rapture and shower him with heavy purses of gold and silver coins. He'd be a success again, and people would sing his praises to the stars!

Harlow worked feverishly throughout the day, skinning the pig-beast and salting its flesh. He investigated the creature's internal organs and discovered so many revolting, bulbous things that he could scarcely contain his delight. Perhaps one of them could produce a powerful medicine, or even better, an aphrodisiac.

But all of that would have to wait. For now he must pickle the various organs in jars of potent and noxious chemicals. The bones would be placed carefully in a vat of acidic minerals, which would dissolve any remaining organic matter in about a night or two.

The next step was to construct the frame. Harlow wasn't quite sure how to pose the creature, and so he decided to take a stroll, and kick the problem around in his brain. The ash was still piled up around his shop in soft, gray heaps, and he felt foolish for leaving it. Harlow made a few perfunctory motions with his broom, then adjusted his scarf over his face, put on his goggles and set off in the direction of the harbor.

So, where could this forbidden, purple creature have come from? It certainly couldn't have appeared out of thin air. Imagine, the so-called Great Magician, conjuring up pigs! For what purpose? Nature crafted gaggles of strange beasts without the help of an imaginary deity, of that much Harlow was certain.

Still, since he'd never seen anything quite like the pig-beast before, he supposed that perhaps it had come to Gizli Sehir on board a ship. Maybe on one of the many privateers returning from the Jungle Islands. Yes, surely there was an island out there somewhere just crawling with the purple creatures.

It could have been a sailor's pet. Or a crafty stowaway. A scientific specimen, a trophy, a gift for some decadent Physician. As the possibilities became more bothersome, Harlow wondered if he'd be better off knowing as little as possible about the creature after all.

The stevedores were cleaning the docks with large shovels, pushing tremendous piles of ash into the ocean. Offshore in the distance, the great ships were finally coming inland after the Red Volcano's eruption. Harlow made a few meek inquiries amongst the men, but their gruff manner intimidated him and he left the harbor learning nothing at all.

Well, what did it matter where it came from? The creature was his now. He deserved to own it. After all, he was going to preserve it for all eternity. And when the good citizens saw his allegedly blasphemous masterwork, would they squeal in ignorance and fear? Of course not. His brilliant artistry would be certain to overturn decades of superstitious religious dogma.

Would the Grand Torturer hang him in the Heretic's Gibbet? No! He'd proclaim Harlow to be the greatest Preservationist in all of Gizli Sehir!

Of course there were details to be worked out, mustn't be swept away in total fantasy. Minds would have to be won over, after all...and who better to start with than his former apprentice, Lester Dez?

Lester ran an admirable, tidy little shop, even if it was a bit small, and always smelled of over-ripe fruit. The inside of the shop was crowded as usual, and there was a dismal chatter of young Courtesans, with their painted faces, admiring a rather imposing hammerhead shark mounted in what Harlow had to admit was an invigorating action pose. A very beautiful and exotic specimen, to be sure.

But not unique. Not like his.

Lester was at the front counter, smiling and speaking to an older woman as he wrapped up her purchase. The young fool was wearing his beard in the latest style, his chin whiskers waxed to a perfectly ridiculous point.

"Lester?" he said, trying to get his former apprentice's attention. "Lester, a moment, if you please..."

"Now is not a very good time, Master Jud."

"Just a word, only a moment," said Harlow.

Lester hesitated for a moment and sighed.

"How may I be of service, Master?"

"I'm working on a new piece. Something really exciting. Something that could change the very art of Preservation as we know it."

"Oh?" said Lester, raising an eyebrow. "What is it?"

"Can't tell you here. Come by my shop tomorrow morning, and I'll show you."

"I'll try to drop by sometime this week when I get the chance. I'm very busy right now, you know. Can't keep the customers waiting."

Lester was about to walk toward the next customer when Harlow grabbed the sleeve of his robe.

"Please, Lester," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "You've got to come tomorrow! Please, as a favor to your old master and friend."

Lester looked at him, then nodded his head.

Harlow smiled.

"Oh, you're in for a real surprise, you'll see. Your old master hasn't lost his touch yet."

"Until tomorrow, then," said Lester.

"Yes, yes," said Harlow, as he pushed his way through the crowd and back out into the street.

Harlow spent the rest of the day waiting in his shop for customers who never came. No tax collectors, or friends, or secret lovers. But it didn't matter. They would come again soon, hordes of them, until his shop was even more crowded than Lester's with the wealthy and powerful citizens of the city.

That evening he sketched out various poses for his creature. At first he was frustrated because he had no practical information to base his designs upon at all. No idea what the creature did in the wild, how it moved and so forth.

But then he realized that the lack of scientific facts presented him with a blank slate, with which he could create his masterwork. A single piece that would not only be aesthetically beautiful, but also symbolic of his deeply-held philosophical ideas.

He considered posing it with a number of objects; a crown and scepter, a large book, a small hammer. In the end he decided to pose the creature sitting upright and contemplating the eternal elegance of a single white flower, which it would hold carefully between its bloated, hideous paw-fingers.

That night Harlow constructed the frame and the skin fit over it perfectly. He carefully stuffed the beast with straw, then sewed the hide back together with thread. None of the glass eyes in his workshop were purple, but he was able to correct that with some carefully applied paint. He saved all the original teeth, and although they were brutish and sharp, he put them all back where they belonged. It didn't take much work to give the creature a beatific grin, just a few wads of clay putty and some twine.

His fingers moved quickly and with a confidence he hadn't felt in years. The sight of the beast taking shape filled his body with a warm, tingling sensation. He felt as though the top of his skull had been opened and the benign light of the Universe was poured inside. All of his doubts disappeared as Harlow worked deep into the night, constructing his monster.

And who could love such a deformed, hideous animal? They will see its beauty, thought Harlow to himself. I'll make them see it. The outside was fascinatingly grotesque, yes, but the noble pose Harlow had chosen for his brute would surely convince the others that there was something special about this creature, besides its horrible appearance.

It was like us, imperfect, perhaps even disgusting in the flesh. But inside, there was a beautiful mind, a poet, an animal intoxicated with the mysteries of life.

When Harlow had finished, in the still-dark hours before dawn, he poured himself a glass of moon wine and sat before his creation, basking in its sublime magnificence. And after a few generous sips, with his belly glowing, Harlow began to talk to the creature. At first the beast was reserved, but as their conversation went on, it would nod its head, or make a small gesture with its paw.

"And what shall I call you, my friend?" asked Harlow. "I can't call you 'pig-beast,' for that name is far too crude for the likes of you."

"You may call me Zunderrammenapathutra," said the pig-beast. "For I am the Harvester of Fools and the Pilot to the Other Side. Now, shall we talk of your impending fortune and most profitable future?"

They began by speculating on the upcoming material rewards the pig-beast would bring him. A mansion, perhaps a castle, with minarets and singing fountains, a grove of exotic fruit trees, plus three or four nubile young wives and a gleaming chariot pulled by the finest team of horses that ever lived.

But from there the conversation took many ominous and philosophical turns. They discussed the forbidden similarities between mathematics and anatomy. The geometry of thoughts, the movements of stars and the properties of the wind. And something about a door. A very important door that Harlow needed to open...

Harlow began to feel sleepy. Or was it dizzy? He couldn't be sure. He felt himself sinking out of his chair to the floor, the room spinning about him, his thoughts becoming vapor and grime.

The pig-beast loomed over him, the white flower drooping from his purple, taloned hands.

"Blithering old dreamer," said Zunderrammenapathutra. "The Great Magician and all His Works will lead you to ruin, and your brain will sprout the purple blossoms of madness."

Harlow tried to reply but his tongue had become terribly swollen and the words escaped his mind. Darkness came quickly then, as the pig-beast stood watching him, the smile on his face erased.

The next morning Harlow awoke with a groan, his head throbbing, his limbs stiff and numb. Thank goodness I still have my robe on, he thought. Slowly he got up off the floor and surveyed his workshop.

The creature was still on the table. It seemed very dead.

Oh my, thought Harlow. Did I actually give that creature a name? What was it now? Something with a Z.

Harlow put the bottle of moon wine back into the cupboard, behind a few other bottles where it would not be able to tempt him again. He noticed the little door on his canary's birdcage was ajar, and that the bird was missing. Strange. He couldn't remember setting it free last night, but then again, perhaps he was inspired to do so in his drunken stupor.

As he fumbled through his morning routine, he recalled tantalizing, yet fuzzy fragments of their conversation, and marveled at his own imagination. It had been a pleasant dialogue, even if it was only the hallucination of a wine-soaked brain.

And yet...

From the corner of his eye he saw the white flower, laying on the floor.

Had he pulled it out of the creature's hand? He couldn't remember.

No, the pig-beast dropped the flower right before it spoke...right before it warned him about...

The Great Magician.

Could it be true?

What if it was?

Visions of damnation swirled through his head. The pictures he saw in the Sacred Scrolls as a boy. The deranged servants of the Great Magician in all their hideousness. Bloated limbs. Swollen tongues. Gibbering madly about numbers and slime...

Quickly he changed his robes, banged his knee against a table, and washed his face. Then he hurried outside and went to the first open bakery he could find. He purchased a large basket of sweet fruit breads, and made his way through crowded streets to the temple of Kara Kurbaga.

He placed his offering at the feet of the giant, bronze statue of the ravenous deity and fell to his knees in prayer.

Please, Kara Kurbaga, protect me from evil. Protect me from the wily machinations of the Great Magician. I am a coward, I am weak, please give me your strength. Help me to keep my Equation clean for the moment when you devour it in your mighty jaws and I become one with your everlasting omnipotence.

After a while his fear subsided and Harlow felt that perhaps his prayers had been heard. He stood up and looked about the temple. There were many offerings today at the humongous webbed feet of Kara Kurbaga. There was an old woman, in a colorful orange robe, placing a string of flowers about Kara Kurbaga's prodigious neck. Another was nervously rubbing his divine hammer for luck.

He raced home with a sense of purpose. He would chop up the pig-beast, and throw the pieces into the fireplace. It would be painful to do so, but what choice did he have? The integrity of his Equation was at stake. He must take the sensible path, no matter how much it hurt.

But it would certainly be a shame to destroy the creature. All of his hard work, his brilliant work, would be for nothing. Never again would he be able to bask in the glory of the greatest piece he had ever produced.

Perhaps he should wait. Put the monster in a trunk or a large sack, and shove it into some dreary, forgotten corner of his home. Once it was out of sight, he would no longer be under its insidious spell. Yes, surely he was overreacting. The wine was strong, after all...

When Harlow arrived at his shop, he saw Lester standing outside, trying to peer through the dirty window. His gold robe looked especially fine in the mid-morning light. The young man waved to Harlow as he approached, and smiled.

"Good morning, Master Jud," he said. "I'm quite anxious to see your new piece."

His teeth were frothy red from chewing grunch nuts.

Harlow looked at Lester and fumbled with the key to his shop. His mind whirled. Last night? It must have been a hallucination. He had spooked himself, yes, but now, in the daylight, well, the whole encounter was absurd. Too much moon wine and mung beans.

Now was the time to act, to remind Lester of his genius. He was a fellow Preservationist, after all. Someone who would certainly appreciate his pig-beast, and admire the quality of his work. With Lester vouching for his masterpiece, money and respect would surely follow.

"Right this way, Lester," said Harlow.

Harlow led his former apprentice into the store and down the stairs to his workshop. The pig-beast sat on the table, as purple as can be, clutching its white flower and grinning stupidly.

"His name is Zunderrammenapathutra," said Harlow, with a hint of glee. "At least, I think it is."

He smiled at Lester, but something was wrong. The young man did not look surprised, or pleased, or even envious, as Harlow had hoped. The young man looked apprehensive.

"Why is it purple?" asked Lester.

"Purple is a wonderful, maligned color that deserves to be welcomed back into the world."

"How did you make this? Did you mix up a bunch of animal parts?"

"Of course not! This is my masterwork, Lester. Look at the craftsmanship. A finer example you've never seen. And the color, the beautiful purple color! We mustn't hobble our artistic visions with superstitious nonsense, Lester. Surely, an artist such as yourself must understand that? What is wrong with dabbling in the forbidden? By confronting it, by celebrating it, we advance as a society. As a people! Into the great, purple world of tomorrow!"

"Have you gone mad, Master Jud?"

"With your endorsement, the two of us could usher in a grand new age of Preservation. An age of experimentation and discovery. I see three-headed purple goslings and monkeys with insect legs. I see a towering, purple monolith of starfish and zebras, porcupines and snails, thousands of scarabs, ocelots, and peacocks all sewn together in a plethora of mystical and esoteric positions, climbing higher and higher into the sky! There will be no limits, Lester, and nothing will stop us!"

Harlow was laughing. He felt giddy and light-headed. Had he really just said all those strange things?

"But, the Great Magician—"

"The Great Magician doesn't scare me. I am not a child!"

"Get rid of it," said Lester, hurrying up the stairs "Before it opens the Secret Door, before it's all too late. By the hammer of Kara Kurbaga, you must destroy it!"

"Get out of my house," said Harlow. "You sniveling son of a Zealot. Be gone!"

Lester stumbled through his shop and went crashing out the door. Harlow's face was hot, his heart thumped wildly in his chest. He clenched his hands and snorted.

Idiot! Little idiot. Why couldn't he just be astonished by his pig-beast? Why did he have to bring up the Great Magician? Where was his sense of professional camaraderie?

He went back upstairs to his shop, saw that the door was still ajar, and closed it. Then he dug out the bottle of moon wine and poured himself a disturbingly large cup. He took a drink, grimaced, then took another. The wine churned heavily inside his stomach, and his anger was soon abated.

He'd have to get rid of the pig-beast now. That fool Lester couldn't be trusted to keep his mouth shut. No doubt by tomorrow the Grand Torturer would be ordering Harlow's execution. Oh, why did he show the boy anything?

But it was also time to admit that, perhaps, he really wasn't thinking clearly. And that the pig-beast had something to do with it. Yes, the outrageous things he had said before frightened him now, as did the glee with which he pronounced them.

The fireplace poker would do the trick. Harlow picked it up, felt the cold iron against the skin of his palm. He took another sip of moon wine and went back down to the workshop, dragging the tip of the poker across the floor.

"I'm sorry, Zunderrammenapathutra," he said. "There's no other way."

"You must do what your feeble conscience demands," said the pig-beast.

"Do not insult me," said Harlow, the poker feeling heavy in his hand.

The pig-beast looked at him and smiled.

"Put the iron rod down, Master," it said.

"Yes," said Harlow.

"Are my claws not magnificent? Are they not sharp as razors?"

"Yes," said Harlow, feeling the world closing in.

"Shall I scratch you with my claws, Master?"

"If you must," said Harlow.

The pig-beast put down his flower and lumbered off the table. The talons on his feet made scratching noises on the floor.

Harlow held up his hands, spilling his cup of moon wine. There was a hissing sound, he tripped, and found himself on the floor. Merciful darkness rushed over him like a wave.

There was a roiling, dark purple ocean in his dreams. Purple waves groped the shore as purple specks of sand glittered in the moonlight. And there in the dunes above the purple blades of grass floated a wonderful, shimmering door, waiting to be opened...

When Harlow awoke several hours later, there were long, raw scratch marks on his arms, and his fingernails were caked with dried blood. The pig-beast was back on the table, slyly admiring its white flower. It grinned a sinister grin.

Are you enjoying our little game, Master?

The room thundered and swam under Harlow's feet. He looked for the fireplace poker, but it had vanished. Quickly, he emptied a sack of sawdust and shoved the pig-beast inside. Then he staggered upstairs and stumbled out the door.

It was night. The streets were full of people celebrating yet another tepid eruption of the Red Volcano. They were singing and drinking, cavorting about in suggestive costumes. Roving musicians played frantic tunes on their pipes and drums.

Why didn't the Grand Torturer put an end to this sort of pernicious revelry? Why did he have to trouble himself with the work of honorable Preservationists?

As he wound his way through the crowded avenues of Gizli Sehir, the sack would wiggle in his hands and Zunderrammenapathutra would plea to him.

"Free me, Master. Am I not your friend?"

Then Harlow would mutter and bang the sack into a wall a few times until the pig-beast was silent. Those watching his antics thought he was either drunk or insane. Harlow pressed forward, oblivious to everyone around him. Had he not been in such a hurry, he would have noticed that he was being followed.

The only real solution was to throw the creature into the water and let it sink to the bottom of the sea. The docks would be far too crowded, so Harlow headed toward the north side of the city, to a place called the Black Cliffs. It was a forbidding, barren place, where those with the desire to do so could hurl themselves to their doom below.

Harlow dragged the squirming sack to the very edge of the cliff, ignoring the pitiful sobs coming from within, and cast one look down into the crashing waves. Panting with exhaustion, he wiped the grimy sweat from his brow and prepared himself for what must be done.

He was just about the heave the wriggling sack over when a voice called out to him.

"Stay your hands, Master Jud. I believe you have something that belongs to me."

Harlow blinked. The creature in the sack had stopped moving. A man approached him, with greasy, black curls pasted on his pale forehead. His robes were made of silk and extremely fine. There were two other men behind him, large and intimidating. They wore gauntlets studded with iron.

"Who are you?" asked Harlow. "Are you the secret Inquisitors?"

The pale man laughed.

"No, indeed we are not. I am Indigo Basetphat, Third Mathematician for his piousness the Grand Torturer."

A Mathematician!

Surely he was condemned now.

"May I see what you've got there, in that sack?" asked the Mathematician.

Harlow's mind whirled and for a moment he considered leaping off the cliff with the sack clutched in his arms. Then the other two men were upon him, grabbing him roughly and yanking the sack out of his hands.

The Mathematician uncovered the pig-beast, and all of its hideousness was revealed.

"Well, well, well," said Indigo. "This—this is really quite marvelous. Oh, yes, how wonderfully grotesque. Did you put this little flower here? I simply adore it."

Harlow said nothing.

"What an excellent job you've done, Master Preservationist. Really, I applaud your craft."

Harlow winced and nodded once.

"Would you like to see a living one?" asked the Third Mathematician.

"You mean—alive?"

"Oh, yes."

"There's more of them?" asked Harlow.

"Dozens," said the Mathematician.

"I really must get back to my shop."

"You misunderstand me, Master Jud. I wasn't making a request."

One of the large men grabbed Harlow roughly by the back of his neck and pushed him forward. The Third Mathematician waved to a couple of rickshaw drivers, and they scrambled over to meet him.

"You ride with my friend in the first one," said the Mathematician. "My other friend and I will bring up the rear. Don't worry, I'll bring along our little piggy as well."

Harlow was thrust into the cab and the Large Man squeezed in beside him. In a moment they were back in the city, riding as fast as the flat-sandaled feet of their driver could take them. The rickshaw hurdled toward its destination, bouncing violently over every rut and bump in the road.

The Large Man pulled out a sharp, wicked-looking knife, and held the tip a few inches away from Harlow's throat.

"If ye try to be clever, I cut ye," said the man, in a voice that was chillingly familiar. "Ye be good now, and enjoy the ride, Master Jud."

Harlow stared at the Large Man in disbelief.

"It's you, isn't it? You're the man who sold me the pig-beast."

The Large Man looked at Harlow and sighed.

"Mistakes were made. I was led astray by me temper and greed. They be the heavy burdens I must bear, Master Jud. But now, the Third Mathematician, he be setting things right again. Gave me forty lashes with a cowhide whip, aye, but he also gave me a second chance to redeem me honorable reputation."

"Is he going to kill me?" asked Harlow.

"Who knows? He be a most capricious fellow, that Third Mathematician."

"I didn't do anything wrong," said Harlow. "I never gave into temptation. The Great Magician never got a hold of my Equation."

"Does not matter what ye did or did not do. It be what ye _know_ ," said the Large Man.

"I won't tell anyone," said Harlow. "I'll move. Close up my shop and get on the next ship to the Jungle Islands."

"Save yer tongue," said the Large Man.

"Please," said Harlow. "I have money...not a lot, some money..."

The Large Man looked at him again, then turned away.

"Slashed me back to ribbons with that whip, he did. Can barely sit up straight in this blasted ricky rocky-shaw."

Harlow grabbed the Large Man's sleeve and the knife appeared again.

"Be it time to cut ye, then?" asked the Large Man.

The rest of the trip they rode in silence. Harlow contemplated leaping out of the rickshaw and running for his life, but the ruffian would surely catch him. Perhaps he could plea for his life with the Third Mathematician. He seemed like a reasonable man...and yet, clearly there was something sinister about him.

Mathematicians were known to go rogue. So much tampering with the fundamental Equations of the Universe. It drove them mad, gave them dangerous ideas. Harlow had even heard it whispered there were certain arcane and fearsome mathematical formulas that could put one in contact directly with the Great Magician himself.

The pig-beast was purple. The color of the Great Magician. And it belonged to the Third Mathematician...

When they arrived at the Third Mathematician's luxurious mansion, Harlow was shaking so badly he could barely step out of the rickshaw. The Large Man held him by the neck again and steered him toward the colossal double doors through which the Third Mathematician was entering, carrying the sack.

Harlow was dragged through stunning marble hallways, full of risqué statues and urns, tapestries and decorative crystal formations. They hauled him down a large staircase into the lower chambers, then through a kind of secret door.

Torches lit the way now. The hidden staircase was narrow, and the men had to carry Harlow down by his arms and legs. They brought him down to the cellar, which the Third Mathematician had converted into a laboratory. There were bookcases crammed full of solemn tomes, long tables upon which stood many strange, mechanical devices, and shelves full of little jars, bottles and figurines.

But the most shocking sight of all was a dozen or so cavorting, purple pig-beasts, running around the room on all fours, squealing and snorting. Some of the hideous creatures grunted obscenely as they chased one another, while others were biting the furniture or gleefully wallowing in puddles of their own putrid filth.

The Third Mathematician appeared, offering him a cup of wine.

"Would you care for a glass of lava wine? Don't look so surprised. The Zealots didn't destroy every bottle. This particular vintage is over one hundred years old. They say the lava grapes were crushed between the thighs of young, red-headed virgins."

Harlow nodded once, and the large men set him down. He took the cup from the Third Mathematician and stared down into the murky, red depths of the wine. The color seemed to be changing before his eyes into something darker, and he thought about mumbling a prayer to Kara Kurbaga. But it would be a useless gesture. The frog god did not suffer fools.

"What do you think of my little children? Not what you were expecting I bet, hmm?"

"No," said Harlow.

"I happened to be working on a very difficult formula in one of my forbidden books, when I managed to momentarily open a door to the Other Side. And all these wonderful creatures came rushing through. I think they're a gift from the Great Magician. For my constant devotion. Oh, yes. Such nasty little beasts. You can't teach them anything. All they do is squeal, copulate and fight with each other. It's actually quite entertaining."

"Please let me go," said Harlow. "I won't...I won't tell anyone about this..."

"No? You seemed pretty anxious to tell that dirty, little gut-scraper Lester Dez. And who's he going to tell, I wonder? One of his Inquisitor friends at the Temple of Vigilance? Oh, they would love to put my head on stick, Harlow. They've been waiting for an opportunity for many years now."

"I could go away," said Harlow. "The Jungle Islands, Dragostan..."

"Do you like the wine?" asked the Third Mathematician.

Harlow shook his head, then took a tiny sip. His lips burned in a most sensual, revolting manner.

"I know what would be fun," said the Third Mathematician. "Let's show my little children what you did to their cousin. Do you think they'll approve?"

The Third Mathematician casually dumped Harlow's creature out of the sack, and the stuffed pig-beast rolled across the floor, still clutching its little white flower.

The other pig-beasts came trotting over, sniffing and snorting, nudging their dead, straw-filled brother with their snouts. Soon they were crawling on top of each other, fighting and pushing, biting their stuffed cousin by his legs, by his ear and his tail. They began to rip their stuffed cousin into little pieces.

"Do not forsake me, Master," cried Zunderrammenapathutra, through silent lips that did not move.

Oh, the pitiful cry of his creation!

Harlow dropped his cup to the floor and charged into the mob of creatures, violently kicking them away. This drove the pig-beasts into a horrible frenzy and they attacked him, snapping at his ankles.

"I should warn you, they have a voracious appetite," said the Third Mathematician.

One of the pig beasts leapt up and bit Harlow on his forearm, tearing loose a chunk of flesh. Harlow screamed.

The Third Mathematician took a sip of wine and grimaced.

"Please, Zunderrammenapathutra," said Harlow to the stuffed pig-beast cradled in his arms, "Get us out of here. Help us escape!"

"Of course I will help you," said Zunderrammenapathutra.

Another pig-beast sank his sharp teeth into Harlow's foot.

"You must pledge your Equation to my True Master, the Great Magician," said Zunderrammenapathutra. "Then together we will open the Secret Door and be transported to his kingdom on the Other Side, where your hands will turn purple, and your sight will turn purple, and you will toil for the Great Magician creating purple abominations for all Eternity. Your fearsome monstrosities will torment mankind until the Final Breath, and your name will only be spoken of in frightened whispers forever more. Do you pledge?"

In his mind Harlow pictured himself in a purple castle, floating through dark, purple skies, wearing a sumptuous robe the color of pomegranate seeds. His flesh was purple and he did not recognize it. He worked at a long, purple table stitching together demented blasphemies, and he did not recognize them as the work of his own hands. His brain was a purple cauliflower, his tongue was a purple toad, and he whispered in a purple voice that he did not recognize as his own certain strange numbers...zero one zero zero one one zero one...

"What—what kind of a bargain is this?" asked Harlow.

"Do you pledge?" asked the creature.

Harlow looked at the pig-beast, feeling nauseous, blood gushing from his many wounds, turning his robes wet and heavy.

"I do not," he said.

"The Preservationist preserves his Equation after all," said the pig-beast with a sly smile.

And then the creature tumbled from Harlow's grasp as he was pulled down by the snarling pig-beasts to the blood-covered floor.

It was the Large Man who turned away, and felt foolish for doing so, but he had no desire to see what happened next. He put his hands over his ears to muffle the terrible screams.

The Third Mathematician watched in silent fascination, wondering what had possessed the old fool to start babbling to himself in a most cryptic manner. At the time, he dismissed it as fear or perhaps insanity. And when the gruesome feast was over, the Third Mathematician looked for the stuffed pig-beast, but it was nowhere to be found. Perhaps it had been eaten in all of the excitement.

It was only later, when the Third Mathematician was recounting the entire incident in his journal, that he remembered the name Zunderrammenapathutra from one of his books, and realized how unfair it was that some men seemed destined to meet the Great Magician, while others who worked ceaselessly toward that goal perhaps never would.

Harlow Jud's shop was raided the next day by the Inquisitors, who confiscated many of his possessions and burned the rest. Few people seemed to care that the curmudgeonly, middle-aged man had disappeared. Certainly not Lester Dez, who noticed an uptick in his business that he attributed to doing his civic duty.

A group of craftsmen descended on Harlow's abode and changed nearly everything inside. Soon after, the Seventh Florist moved in, and she quickly filled the shop to the brim with colorful and aromatic flowers from all over the Jungle Islands.

And there was not a single trace left of the Master Preservationist.

Outside, the Red Volcano slumbered and boiled.

And the great city of Gizli Sehir staggered ever onward.
Sparklings

The marketplace was hot and crowded that morning. The harsh, briny smell of the ocean mingled there with the stink of sharp spices, curdling milks, and grilled sardines. Merchants shouted while old men haggled, caged beasts grunted and squealed, and urchins darted underfoot, their dirty fingers grasping for gold coins. Gangs of red-robed Inquisitors stalked through the bazaar, searching for signs of blasphemy, always watching, ever wrathful.

Niko strolled through the crammed aisles, brushing past extravagant carpets, ebony chairs, bronze urns and fine wooden spoons, without even a second glance. He was not enthralled by the tremendous, beguiling tangle of devices both useful and extravagant, piled high in towering heaps, on planks, barrel tops and tables, spilling out of their hawker's tents like eager, slithering vipers.

Instead, Niko dug feverishly through old baskets and boxes, shoved under tables and covered with dust. Searching, forever searching, amongst the beaten and forgotten toys of the good citizens of Gizli Sehir for his special, secret treasures. Time and again, he would uncover the same disappointing jumble of maimed metal soldiers, or cracked porcelain rhinoceroses, or a frayed pouch of chipped and dull marbles that resembled the mummified eyes of dead sea creatures.

But these were not the sort of toys Niko was looking for, for they were cheap, common and contemptible.

Sparklings were what Niko was searching for in the market that sweltering morning.

Forbidden children's toys, about the size of a man's thumb, made of paper-thin metal to resemble various odd and whimsical monsters. When you snapped your fingers, they came to life—perhaps trudging slowly forward, spinning in a circle, or flipping over backwards. And while they were moving about in their most astonishing way, the creatures would buzz and vomit a tiny red shower of sparks from their mouths.

The secret of their construction was guarded by a handful of master craftsmen. For a generation their Sparklings were celebrated and enjoyed. But later, during the days of the Zealots, suspicious parents began to whisper that the toys were unnatural, animated by the sinister breath of the Great Magician himself. To play with these toys would surely lead young children down His dark path to madness, mutation, and death.

And so the days of the Sparklings and their creators were numbered. During the Purge, each and every one of them met a particularly gruesome end, and the majority of their Sparklings were confiscated, broken, or simply lost to the cruelties of time. But a few of the forbidden toys survived, now slumbering in attics and old trunks, lurking at the bottom of dingy canisters, waiting to be rescued from the bargain basket of some ignorant merchant.

Niko trembled with the thought of being able to someday add all the missing, phantasmal Sparklings to his collection. If they haven't all been destroyed. If he could only find them...

"Ah, Niko, my friend," said a silky voice. "I was hoping you would come by today. I have something for you. Something I think you'll like."

Jamal the merchant smiled and a mischievous little fire danced in his eyes.

"What is it?" Niko asked.

"Come, come, step into my tent. Ibi, take over for your father while I talk to my good friend here."

The merchant's son sprang to his feet, grateful for something to do, while Jamal gently escorted Niko to the back his stall, away from the pushing crowds.

He's probably got another shiny piece of scrap to show me, thought Niko to himself. Well, I'm not going to be tricked into buying any more junk, may Kara Kurbaga strike me down for a fool.

Jamal nudged him with his elbow.

"Take a look at this, young Scribe."

His hands unfolded to reveal a small, white frog. It stood on two legs and was covered with tiny spikes. Its belly was painted red, its claws were yellow. It was made out of metal, and about two inches tall.

Niko's mind froze. He saw, but could not believe what he was seeing.

It was a Sparkling.

One that he had never seen before. One that wasn't pictured in his tattered copy of the _Murmuration of Sparklings_ , a rare and forbidden book of drawings depicting the many creations of the master craftsmen.

The paint was not chipped, or rubbed. The colors were fresh and vibrant. There was no rust, no soot, or dirt. It was not dented, pitted or bent. It was in the most perfect condition he had ever seen.

"May I?" Niko asked, gesturing toward the frog.

Jamal put the toy in Niko's hands as if he was handing over a tiny, baby bird.

Niko looked for the creator's signature. Sure enough, painted on the bottom of the frog monster's webbed right foot was a small and elaborate letter "Q."

Which was impossible because there were no Sparkling creators with that letter in their name.

So, this...was something _new_.

"Does it work?" he asked Jamal.

"The young lady says it does."

"What young lady?" asked Niko.

But Jamal only smiled, held up his hands, and shrugged.

Niko was about to snap his fingers and bring the Sparkling to life when the merchant quickly stopped him.

"Aht! Not here, my friend. Some things are better enjoyed at home, don't you think?"

"Yes, yes..." said Niko, cursing his eagerness and stupidity. It wouldn't be smart to set off a forbidden toy in the middle of a crowded bazaar full of Inquisitors and their informers.

"How much?" he asked.

"Think of a number," said Jamal. "A very big number. Then double it."

Their transaction finished, Niko walked briskly out of the market, clutching a small brown sack, and was halfway to his home before he realized that he was supposed to go back to his job at the Scribbletorium.

The bell on the door jangled, and his master, Arturo, was on him like a hungry wolf.

"Niko! You idiot! Where have you been? Copy at least twenty more pages of that book for the Sixth Physician before sundown, or I'll dock your pay ten gold coins!"

"Yes, Master," mumbled Niko, tucking the brown sack into one of the pockets of his robe.

The other Scribes snickered at him as he slinked back to his desk. He picked up his quill, dipped the tip into his inkwell, and began to copy down the words from the book he was transcribing, _Catastrophic Infections of the Anus_. This was the type of material you got to work on when you were the Thirteenth Scribe.

He tried not to think about how much money he had just spent, a foolish amount of money that meant eating bread crusts and mung beans again for weeks; but it was worth it. Because there was a brand new Sparkling in that little brown sack—and when he finally got it home, he could make it dance...

Sleepy hours passed as the evening sky turned into a somber, orange haze. The other twelve Scribes had already put away their quills and were shuffling out the door, chatting amongst themselves.

Mara was by his side, touching him on the arm. Her fingertips sent little waves of heat down into his body, all the way down to his toes.

"Some of us are going to get a jug of moon wine and head over to the Black Cliffs to recite poetry about death," she said with a wry grin. "Want to join us?"

Niko looked at her and felt his stomach flutter. Of course he wanted to join them, but why did she have to ask him tonight? He couldn't possibly go to the Black Cliffs, even if Mara was going to be there. From the pocket in his robe the Sparkling demanded his full attention.

"I have to finish these pages," he said, smiling weakly. "Maybe I'll see you there later?"

Her smile faded just a little bit, but she nodded before hurrying to catch up with the others.

Yes, thought Niko to himself, I am a fool.

But, I am a fool with a brand new Sparkling!

Half an hour later Arturo yawned and dismissed Niko with a warning to be more mindful of his duties. Niko quickly put away his quills and bolted out the door. The night was warm and somber music could be heard drifting over from the Square of Vigilance.

For a moment he stood in the center of the crowded street paralyzed by indecision. He knew that he should really go to the Black Cliffs, be friendly with people, talk to Mara. Normal things that normal people do. But the hand in his robe pocket was already fondling the leather sack, feeling the firm, metal toy inside.

There would be other nights for poetry and moon wine.

Besides, her nose was kind of crooked. And her front teeth were kind of large. Yes, Niko had almost convinced himself, why bother?

He scurried through the crowded streets, ignoring the city's persistent call for adventure. Niko stopped only once, spending the last of his money on a few grilled salamanders from a street vendor, and he ate the rubbery, orange meat quickly and without joy as he finished his journey home.

Once he was back in his dismal apartment, Niko locked the door and pulled down the curtains over his window. Then he shuffled over to his battered table and placed the leather sack on top. He carefully pulled open the drawstrings, and dumped the Sparkling into his hand. Yes, it was still there. Yes, it was real. And it was _his_.

Niko put the frog in the center of the table, then took a step back to admire him. Wonderful spikes. Wonderful claws. The paint—so bright. The craftsmanship was superb. But now it was time for the ultimate test.

Niko snapped his fingers.

The Sparkling frog buzzed, the most perfect buzzing sound, and began to jump across the table in short, choppy hops. And then the sparks came, shooting out of its wide-open froggy mouth, fiery red flakes of pure joy.

He watched the Sparkling go and his whole body rippled with the most amazing sensation. The world ceased to exist. There was only this moment, that somehow managed to pull him across time to when he was a child, watching the Sparkling his parents gave him on the floor beside his mother's sick bed. And the sparks were the exactly the same, a thousand flinty arrows of power. A mighty beast at his command!

And then the Sparkling stopped.

Was it supposed to do that? Was it broken?

No, no, they did stop. That's right. Remember now? They could only move for about a minute or so. All you had to do was snap—

Niko snapped his fingers again.

The Sparkling frog buzzed. It jumped forward in a herky jerky way. The sparks flew with reckless abandon. Niko found himself blinking back unexpected tears. But now was not the time to cry. It was time to jump. To smash the city! To rain fire down on all the screaming citizens!

And so he found himself hopping in step with the Sparkling frog, stomping all over his room, setting the world ablaze with his awesome, fiery breath. The breath of a terrible god-monster!

Later, he set up all of his Sparklings in a row on the table. He had one of Brunodotti's shambling ooze monsters _and_ a giant moth princess, a Gustaphluvox super turtle beast, and a Ciceronio flying bird lizard. This was his oldest, and favorite piece, given to him by his parents shortly before his father was executed for indecency and his mother died while under house arrest of blister fever.

None of them worked, of course. They hadn't worked for decades. Whatever spark had brought them to life was long gone, never to return. The Spark was some secret, mechanical trick. Or it was magic. Or a small part of their creator's Equation, inserted like a beating heart into their tiny metal bodies.

First Niko arranged his Sparklings in a straight and formidable line, ready to wreak havoc on the unsuspecting city. Next, he displayed them battling against each other in a titanic brawl, which lasted for several hours. Finally, he resigned himself to going to bed, hid all his Sparklings back in their box, and shoved them underneath his bed.

They had all looked so perfect together. Well, not so much his old ones anymore. There were kind of plain now. Plus, they didn't work. Not like the frog.

And there was still plenty of room left in the box for more...

Yes, if someone out there was making new Sparklings, then it might be possible to get another one...and another after that...an army of Sparklings!

That night he dreamed of his father's arrest.

The next morning Niko decided to swing quickly through the market before going to work. He'd found one last gold coin in his cupboard at home, and shoved it into his robe pocket.

A cool breeze blew off of the ocean, and large, white clouds drifted overhead. The vendors were still preparing their stalls, each one engaged in a rapid and intense series of movements that had been perfected over years of experience. Pots go here, rugs there. Put the prickly nuts in a basket at the front. And so on...

Niko found Jamal's stall, but the merchant was not there. His son, Ibi, was struggling with a large cask, attempting to lift it off its side.

"Pardon me," said Niko. "Where's your father?"

The boy looked at him and squinted his eyes.

"At the docks," said the boy. "Checking on a shipment of urns."

"Uh-huh," said Niko, pacing back and forth. "When's he coming back?"

Ibi shrugged.

"Tell him...tell him I dropped by," said Niko. "The young scribe."

The boy barely nodded, and went back to wrestling with the cask.

Despite running through the streets, Niko was several minutes late for work. Arturo scolded him again, and Niko scraped and bowed, until he reached his desk. He was going to have to watch himself, he thought. He couldn't afford to be docked anymore pay. Especially now, if there was a chance to buy another Sparkling.

It was difficult to concentrate on his work. The passage that he was transcribing was particularly revolting, and his mind was constantly churning over the possibility that soon he would be able to add even more Sparklings to his collection.

Yes, the frog was good, it was very good. But surely, another one will be better...

His thoughts were interrupted by a burst of laughter behind him. He turned to look over his shoulder and saw Mara smiling at something that Mateo, the Fifth Scribe, must have just said. Niko saw the two of them share a secret look, and their gazes lingered on each other for just a bit too long.

And he realized that what he was seeing was a door being closed.

Well, he certainly didn't need _her_.

There were other girls around.

Somewhere.

Hadn't Jamal said something about a young lady the other day? A young lady somehow connected with his Sparkling? Perhaps she was the mysterious "Q" who signed the bottom of the frog's foot.

When the working day was over, Niko barely noticed Mara and Mateo strolling out the door, their arms locked together. And although his stomach rumbled, he strolled as fast as he could back to the market, just in time to see the merchants folding up their tents with the same quick precision they had used in the morning.

But Jamal was still not there.

"Where is your father?" he asked Ibi.

"You just missed him," said the boy, smiling.

Niko muttered to himself and scratched his head.

"Do you—do you remember your father talking to a girl?" he asked the boy.

"Many girls," said Ibi, smiling again.

"This one, she would have sold your father a—a toy. A small frog?"

The boy's face darkened and he frowned.

"No," he said, shaking his head.

"You've seen her?" asked Niko.

"Please," said Ibi. "My father would beat me if I told you."

"How about for a gold coin?" asked Niko, reaching into his pocket.

But Ibi only shook his head again.

"All right," said Niko. "Tell your father—tell your father I'm anxious to buy another one, would you?"

"Another what?" asked the boy.

"He'll know."

Ibi nodded.

Niko wandered away from the stall, and was just about to leave the marketplace, when someone tugged on his sleeve.

"A thousand pardons, young scribe," said a raspy voice. "Perhaps I can be of help?"

Standing before him was a dirty beggar, with a mangy, filthy beard, tattered robes, and blackened, gnarled feet. He smiled at Niko and his teeth were brown and yellow.

Niko pulled his sleeve away from the beggar, but if the man was offended, he did not show it.

"I happened to overhear your conversation with the merchant's son, yes, yes," said the Beggar.

"Oh?" said Niko, taking another step backward.

"The girl you are looking for? I have seen her. Very unusual, she is."

"Really?" said Niko.

"She comes to the market from time to time. Yes, yes, she does. The next time I see her, it would be very simple for me to follow her home, yes? Find out where she lives? And this I would do for you, young scribe, for just a small donation. Just a little coin, and my services are yours."

If I give this man my last gold coin, I will probably never see him again, thought Niko to himself.

Then he handed it over to the Beggar.

The coin quickly disappeared into the shreds of the Beggar's robe.

"Come back tomorrow night, young scribe," said the Beggar with a large grin. "And I will have what you seek. Yes, yes."

When Niko got back to his apartment he threw a handful of dried mung beans into a pot of water and placed them on the stove. He'd eaten more than his share of mung beans over the years, and they still tasted liked dirt.

After cleaning up his dinner, he took out all his Sparklings and lined them up on the table again. He put the frog in front of them all, like a general, and once again admired its beautiful construction. He snapped his fingers, and the Sparkling hopped and blew sparks. Yes, it was good. Maybe not as good as yesterday, but still...

It was clear that his frog needed more friends. Hopefully, this mysterious "Q" was constructing more of them. Perhaps a man with the head of an elephant this time, or a ferocious ape monster, crushing tiny pedal-copters in each hand.

If only _he_ could figure out how to construct them. It was a problem he'd turned around in his mind a hundred times, always resigning himself to being unable to solve the mystery. But now, he had a working Sparkling—something uncorroded by the hands of time, something that ran on whatever secret machinery was necessary to give it life.

This was his chance to learn the secret, the one that had been teasing him for years. He would observe how it was done, learn the trick, and replicate it on his own.

But if he opened up the frog, would he be able to put it back together again?

Probably? Maybe?

If he was careful...

He took out a small, flat knife and a wooden mallet, then set the Sparkling down on the table on its side. He found the seam where the two sides of the frog's body were welded together, and placed the tip of the knife on it. He tapped the top of the knife with the mallet and the tip went into the body of the Sparkling with a cracking sound.

The frog barfed up a blazing volley of red sparks.

Niko jumped back from the table and stared at the Sparkling in surprise.

Nothing else happened. The frog's mouth gaped in silent rage. The knife stuck out of its side like a harpoon.

That probably wasn't good, Niko thought to himself. But now the frog's got a hole in it. I might as well see this through to the end.

Niko tapped the knife with the mallet again, harder this time, and split the Sparkling in two. There was a sound, like a cough, and a small cloud of purplish smoke rose up through the air before quickly dissipating.

Painted on the inside of the frog were little numbers, all zeroes and ones, in a pattern that repeated itself over and over.

"Zero one zero zero one one zero one?" said Niko aloud.

For a moment, everything went purple. Niko's tongue tingled and his fingertips shook. His forehead was split apart by a gigantic, spectral finger that touched his brain. Thoughts heaved. He saw his father hanging in the Heretic's Gibbet, the citizens pelting his body with rotten fruit. He saw the blisters on the flesh of his mother swell and burst while she screamed obscenities in delirium.

He saw a roiling purple mass at the center of everything and then he was gone.

Back to his apartment. Everything in its proper place. The empty cooking pot drying on the rack. His bed. The chairs. His table with all the Sparklings upon it.

The broken frog Sparkling. In pieces. By his hand.

That's done it, thought Niko. I killed it. Stupid idiot! I killed it!

And even worse...I—I may have come to the attention of the Great Magician. The transmuter. The mischievous corrupter. May Kara Kurbaga have mercy on me!

He noticed that his fingers were covered with a purple soot and rushed to the basin to wash them. Niko dipped his hands in the cool water, watching purple swirls fill the white, porcelain bowl. He rubbed the water into his eyes and on his face. His forehead felt hot.

He put the pieces of his broken frog back into its box with the other Sparklings and lay awake in bed pondering his destruction.

The next morning he took out the box and placed it on his bed. He stared at the lid with dread, unable to open it.

They were in there, waiting for him. Waiting for his touch.

How depressing it was that his favorite toys were somehow connected to an omnipresent, cosmic malevolence, bent upon corrupting humanity.

It simply wasn't fair.

He had to get rid of them now. There was no other option. If he wanted to save the integrity of his Equation, he would throw them all into the sea first thing this morning.

Or maybe later. Tonight.

Niko thought about going to the temple to pray, but he had no money to buy an offering for Kara Kurbaga, so what was the point? Kara Kurbaga cared not for freeloaders. His pleas would fall on deaf ears.

Instead he shuffled to work in a daze, cursing the sunshine, cursing the good citizens who crowded the streets on their way to happier things. The thought of getting rid of his Sparklings pressed down on his brain like a fist and twisted his stomach in knots.

How could he get rid of them? He loved them. They were so important to his life. They practically _were_ his life. And the Sparklings had never betrayed him before. Until last night, until he learned their secret...

At the Scribbletorium even his master, Arturo, was in a good mood, and everyone went about their transcribing with vigor and zest. Except Niko, who couldn't help noticing that Mara and the Fifth Scribe seemed even closer than ever, their bodies sharing some kind of confident, new connection. Fingers on a shoulder, a hand on a thigh...

The rest of the morning he spent in a trance, barely noticing the complicated and technical words he was transcribing from the medical book. It was with surprise when he looked down and saw what he had really been writing all that time.

Rows of numbers, zeroes and ones, all in that same horrible pattern.

He cried out and fell backward off his stool.

Before Master Arturo could trot over and clobber him on the head, Niko sprang to his feet and quickly crumpled up the piece of paper he had been working on.

"Sorry, everyone," he said. "Sorry."

Master Arturo scowled at him, but did not come over for a closer look.

For the next several hours Niko's hand shook as he very slowly and deliberately copied every word, being careful to make sure that he was writing what he intended, and not some numerical gibberish being stuffed into his head by the Great Magician.

By the end of the day his fingers were cramped and his vision blurry. He'd decided that he could stand no more, that watching himself go mad or mutate into some hideous thing would not be tolerable. And so he was resigned to throw himself off the Black Cliffs and into the raging sea below.

He said no goodbyes, not even to Mara, as he watched them all leave the Scribbletorium at the end of the day.

"You've been looking very glum lately, Niko," said Master Arturo. "Go out and have some fun. Meet new people. Some girls, perhaps? A man your age should be thinking about marriage."

Niko mumbled something to him, then slunk out of the store.

Waiting for him across the street was the Beggar. Niko stared at the man in astonishment, and felt for a moment as if the ground was suddenly rolling underneath him.

"Yes, yes," said the Beggar. "I did not see you in the marketplace today, young scribe. So I thought I might find you here, yes, yes?"

Niko said nothing.

"I have the information you seek," said the Beggar, smiling. "The girl. I know where she lives. Oh, yes, I do, I do. Shall we go find her?"

"I can't," said Niko. "I'm going to throw myself off the Black Cliffs."

"Whatever for?"

"It's complicated."

The Beggar nodded, and gestured for Niko to continue.

"I'm...I'm in a spot of trouble."

"Ah, yes yes," said the Beggar. "What kind of trouble?"

"I think I've come to the attention of the Great Magician," said Niko.

The Beggar's eyes went wide.

"Oh, misfortune and calamity," he said. "How did this terrible thing come to pass?

"There was this toy. And I wanted to see how it worked. But when I opened it, something happened. I had visions. And there were numbers."

"Sorcery!" said the Beggar.

Niko nodded.

"This toy, was it the little frog you bought from the merchant Jamal?"

"It was."

"The one from the girl?"

Niko nodded again.

"Then we must find her at once," said the Beggar. "Confront her! Demand that she put an end to this diabolical witchcraft!"

"Do you think she can do that?" asked Niko.

"There is only one way to find out, yes yes?"

Niko gestured for the Beggar to lead them.

They walked quickly through the busy streets, heading northward. The good citizens of Gizli Sehir were in a festive mood, parading about in their expensive robes, swilling moon wine and singing nonsensical songs.

The Beggar moved with a speed Niko thought impossible for his age. At some point during their walk he had grabbed Niko by the collar of his robe and pulled him along with an even greater urgency. Niko's own legs began to throb, and his side felt like someone was poking it with a knife. All those years sitting on a stool were catching up with him at last.

It was dark when they finally reached their destination. Up in the wealthy part of the city, where the homes were opulent and large. The Beggar pointed with a particularly bony finger at the largest house on the street.

"There is the place, yes yes," he said. "Her name is Qamra. Our girl is an artisan. Most lovely. Her patron is the Third Mathematician. That is his home, yes, yes."

Niko felt his knees wobble.

"Now," said the Beggar, "You must go inside, yes yes."

"How?" asked Niko, his mouth suddenly dry.

"Who amongst us can enter all homes freely and without permission?" asked the Beggar. "Who may ask questions when others must hold their tongues?"

Niko thought for a moment.

"An Inquisitor?"

The Beggar smiled. Then he pulled forth from the tatters of his being an Inquisitor's gold mask and crimson robe.

"Put these on."

Niko felt a strange chill go down his back.

"Where did you get those?" he asked.

"I am a very resourceful person," said the Beggar. "You might say I am something of a conjurer myself, yes yes. Now, put them on, Niko."

For a moment, Niko considered running. But what would be the point? The Beggar would surely catch him. If he was really a beggar at all. Or even a man. More likely the creature was an agent of the Great Magician, if not the deity himself in disguise. Niko knew that his path only went in one direction now. Forward, into the house, for whatever was waiting there.

Niko trembled as he reached out for the mask and the robe. He put the robe on first, and was not quite surprised that it fit him exactly. The mask slid over his face and he felt the cold metal pushing up against his lips and nose.

He looked out through the eye slits at the Beggar in the darkness and the dirty man seemed to grow, to spread out like the wings of a gigantic bat, and there was a darkness in his presence that caused Niko to shudder.

"Go now, young scribe," said the Beggar.

"Must I?" asked Niko, his voice sounding small.

"Go and meet your fate."

Niko turned away from the apparition, and hurried toward the mansion. He knocked sternly on the door and waited for it to open. He noticed there was a truncheon in his hand.

Yes, of course there was.

Yes, yes.

Run away, he screamed to himself. Run away, you silly fool!

But still he stood and waited.

A servant opened the door, a bald man, who blanched when he saw the Inquisitor on the other side.

"Is the Third Mathematician at home?" Niko asked the servant.

"He is not," said the man.

"Does Qamra live here?" Niko asked.

The bald servant tried to shut the door. Niko pushed his way inside.

Move quickly, he told himself. Before they figure out you're not a real Inquisitor. Before they call for help.

The bald servant put his hands on Niko's robes. He tried to push Niko back through the door. Niko knocked him over the head with the club and cracked open his skull.

Other servants appeared now, running about anxiously through the marble corridors.

"Where is Qamra?" he asked them.

"Upstairs," said a servant girl. "In the minaret."

She gestured with her hand toward a circular staircase that went upward. Niko took the stairs quickly, trying to ignore the commotion behind him. How long could he keep up this deception? How long until the real Inquisitors arrived?

At the top of the tower there was a door. Foul odors drifted from behind it. Niko reached forward and pushed it open.

Inside was a workshop, cramped and small, full of books and preserved animals, bottles and jars, parchment and paint bottles. Strange vapors clung to the ceiling.

A young girl was standing there in front of a workbench. She had a deformed head far too large for her little body. Her skin was so pale it was almost translucent, with just a hint of purple. On her misshapen body she wore a shiny, purple apron made of leather. From a belt around the apron hung tiny scissors and knives, all of unusual shapes and functions.

"My Master said you would come."

Niko nodded, and pulled off the Inquisitor mask.

"Are those...what I think they are?" he asked.

She nodded.

The girl stepped to one side. Behind her on the table were a dozen little Sparklings. All of them exciting new creatures no one had ever constructed before; a ferocious kraken, a nine-headed snake monster, a pig with the face of a man, a sinister-looking mushroom person. Niko took in the entire menagerie of strange toys and despite being terribly afraid, he felt his heart beat with excitement.

One of the Sparklings reminded him of his first, the gift from his parents. It was a flying lizard monster, brown and red. Its wings were outstretched, ready to soar, and its beak wide open, ready to breathe fire.

"You must bring this Sparkling to life," said Qamra, pointing toward the flying lizard monster.

Niko heard a faint commotion from somewhere in the mansion. Voices shouting. Footsteps on the stairs.

He snapped his fingers, but nothing happened.

The girl put her fingers on his hand. They felt like ice.

"The Great Magician has sent you here to speak the Words," she said.

"What words?"

"Think, young scribe."

More shouting. Footsteps coming up the staircase.

"You mean the numbers?" asked Niko. "The zeroes and ones, painted on the inside?"

Qamra nodded again.

"Is it not dangerous to speak the words?" he asked.

Qamra shrugged.

Niko picked up the Sparkling in his hands.

"Zero one zero zero one one zero one," he said.

There was a flash of light, inside became outside. And then he was someplace else.

The door burst open and Niko saw his old body melting. He saw people falling down the stairs in horror, and he was blasting upward through the top of the minaret, up into the night sky.

He was flying. His wings were like a hurricane, and he soared above the city, above the puny buildings and the people who would soon be screaming for their lives. He opened his mighty beak and breathed fire on the citizens of Gizli Sehir.

Tiny sparks snapped and popped from his mouth.

Die, he screamed.

Then his time was over.

And he plummeted back to the ground.

A boy found him in the trash, scuffed and bent. The boy took him home and placed him inside a wooden box. For the time being, the box went under his bed.

Perhaps tomorrow he would take the broken toy down to the marketplace and trade it for something better.
Magenta Sonata

Thereza was murdering her flute with a meandering tune, oblivious to the sighs and snorts of her instructor, Basildorfala Incoopabla, the esteemed Ninth Composer.

"I think we've heard enough," he said at last.

Thereza stopped, at once relieved and full of dread for what was coming next.

"What do you call that composition?" asked the Ninth Composer.

"Sunrise on the Alfalfa Collective," she said.

"The squealing of stuck pigs would have been preferable to the atrocious sounds that just assaulted my ears," said the Ninth Composer. "I suggest, Fifth Apprentice, that when we meet again you bring me something worthy of my precious time, or we will need to discuss your future here at the Obelisk of Sound in very severe terms. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Ninth Composer," said Thereza.

The Ninth Composer cracked a grunch nut between a pair of metal tongs and popped the moist, dark insides into his mouth. He looked at the gathered Apprentices with barely concealed hostility, before finally dismissing them with a bark and a wave of his hand.

As Thereza prepared to leave, she felt a bony hand gripping her shoulder. It was Madame Skeck, her Patron and wife of the Fourth Mathematician.

"Courage, my dear," she said. "Inspiration will come to you soon, I'm sure."

Thereza bowed and thanked the old woman. The Ninth Composer was cracking apart another grunch nut as she left the Chamber of Sonorities and hurried outside. A few of the other Apprentices were loitering there, smoking their pipes and complaining bitterly about their instructor.

The Ninth Composer's warning was grim. Thereza would have to do better next time, come up with something really brilliant. She had promised herself that she was never going back to the Alfalfa Collective ever again.

No more sprouts. No more dirt and mud. And no more getting pelted with cow piles by those vicious, idiot children she was forced to work with on the Collective. If she returned a failure, they'd never let her forget it. Especially Havelina Luundesgrunt, with her strawberry curls and iron thighs. Just imagining her taunting face made Thereza squirm. She'd rather jump off the Black Cliffs.

"What did Madame Skeck want with you, Thereza?" asked Stephan, flipping his unruly bangs out of his eyes.

"Apparently, I just need to find inspiration," said Thereza. "Whatever that is. Got any ideas?"

"There's this little shop down in Seaside District with lots of interesting, old music stuff," said Stephan, clenching the stem of his pipe between his teeth. "Librettos, folios, manuscripts, foreign instruments, things like that. The owner is this weird, old blind man. Want to go check it out?"

Soon Thereza, Stephan and Melanie were walking through the crowded streets of the Seaside District, hunting for the little store. The air there was thick with the stench of brine, fish and bubbling tar. Grubby urchins hawked baby turtles and eels from wheelbarrows to leathery, tanned sailors from all over the Islands.

Thereza tried not to gawk at the strange tide of humanity that jostled and jabbered in harsh tongues through the cramped, meandering streets. Perhaps her parents were right about Gizli Sehir after all. It was crawling with pirates and foreigners, fanatics with their strange gods, everything so different from the sensible ways of the Alfalfa Collective.

Mother had been quite vocal with her disapproval. And Father was indifferent about her Apprenticeship at the Obelisk. He'd only warned her to keep her flute clean and polished, in case she ever had to sell it back.

Well, she wouldn't be doing that. She was going to become a famous composer. After all, she had talent. Lots of talent. Didn't she?

"This is the place," said Stephan, pointing to a small, tumbledown building. On the ground floor was an old door, its paint crumbling away in gritty bits. A grimy window displayed a jumbled mish-mash of dusty books, nautical objects and petrified sea life. Mummified starfish, sponges and tiny, bloated puffers—an army of dead and shriveled sentries to stand guard over the secret treasures buried inside, for those brave enough to go in there and find them.

Someone in the shop was playing an ancient, melancholy sea chantey on the Wot pipes. Thereza listened to the tune for a moment and felt a strange chill crawl over her flesh.

"They say the Zealots plucked out his eyes with a red hot knife," said Stephan. "Watch out, Zurt can be kind of grumpy..."

Stephan opened the door to the shop and a little bell rang. The air inside was damp and smelled like boiled cabbage and wet leaves. There were shelves stuffed with books and scrolls, wooden boxes and statues. Crates of canvas scraps and other papers were scattered all over the floor, along with weather-beaten oars and rusty lanterns. An old anchor leaned against the far wall, and the skull of some giant sea-creature hung from the ceiling.

The Wot pipe music came to an abrupt stop.

"Whozzat?" said a thin, gravelly voice.

Someone sniffed the air. A dog growled.

"Bah! More penniless Apprentices! From the Obelisk, by the smell of you. Miserable mist leaf-smoking little tapeworms. Fleas! Cockroaches!"

Thereza saw an old man sitting on a wobbly stool. In his hands were the Wot pipes. There was a red scarf tied over his eyes. A ragged-looking Dragostani hound lounged at his feet, rumbling ominously.

"Browsers and thieves are not welcome here," said the old man. "Be gone!"

"You got us all wrong, Master Zurt," said Stephan. "We have money, see?"

He held up his purse and jangled the coins inside.

"Hmph. In that case, feel free to look around. But don't mess anything up, hear me?"

"Our friend here is looking for inspiration," said Melanie. "Do you have anything really interesting or unusual?"

"Open your eyes, girly," said Zurt. "You don't have to wander too far in this place for something to find you. Question is, if you really _want_ it to."

The Apprentices split up, each one wandering toward some object that was already piquing their curiosity. The hound stopped grumbling and yawned.

Thereza examined the books and manuscripts stacked in moldering piles on the dark, wooden shelves. These weren't pristine, luxury copies, like you'd find at the Scribbletorium. These books were tattered and stained, abused and forgotten. Still, Thereza couldn't help but feel amazed again by the sheer amount of music that had been composed over the centuries. How did she stand a chance of competing against all of these great composers? Who needed any more symphonies anyway?

A fat, somber book on the topmost shelf caught her eye and she pulled it down. _The Funeral Dirges of Gregodorius_. Thereza flipped through a few pages, hearing the notes in her mind. Heavy, severe and monotonous. Maybe they'll perform one at her own funeral when she dies of despair after flunking out of the Obelisk.

She stood on her tiptoes and shoved the heavy tome back upon the dusty shelf, knocking something off in the process. It fell to the floor with a soft clank and Thereza was surprised to see that it was a flute. It was short, and made of some dusky wood that was unfamiliar to her. In the poor light of the dingy store, it looked like a snake.

Thereza gingerly picked the flute up off the floor. It was covered with a fine layer of dust, and when she rubbed some of it away with her fingertips, the dark wood underneath seemed to throb. For a moment, Thereza nearly dropped it.

She cleaned off the rest of the dust with a corner of her robe, and examined the flute more closely. Was it old? Perhaps. She couldn't recall ever seeing a flute quite like this before. How long had it been laying neglected on that shelf up there, waiting for someone to discover it? Perhaps waiting for _her_ to discover it?

It was quite beautiful, in an austere sort of way. Thereza was surprised at how simple it looked, without any filigree or etchings. But it was certainly well made; the wood had been polished so smoothly it almost felt like touching a river rock or the smooth skin of a salamander.

She wondered how much it cost. Was it an incredibly rare instrument that would command more money than she had ever dreamed of? Oh, sure, her other flute was pretty good, but it didn't make her feel like this one did. This one made her feel strangely confident...

It was like a slumbering animal in the palm of her hand, and she found herself slowly lifting the mouthpiece to her trembling lips, her heart thumping, preparing her breath, preparing to awaken the sleeping beast—

"Thereza! Look what I found!"

It was Melanie. She was holding out some kind of doll. Oh, no, not a doll at all.

"It's a Twig Mother, right?" she asked. "Like on the Collective where you grew up? Like for the Harvest, right? For the sacrifices and the orgies?"

"Yes," said Thereza, hiding the flute behind her back and looking briefly at the tiny, black kernel corn eyes on the effigy.

"Want it?" asked Melanie, holding it out for her to receive.

"I never want to see another one of those things for as long as I live," said Thereza.

"Oh," said Melanie, slinking away.

Thereza took up the flute again, but the mood was gone. It probably wasn't a good idea to play it in the store anyway. No telling what crazy Zurt would do.

She'd have to play it at home, back in her dormitory. Would the first notes sound as sweet as a birdsong? Yes, of course they would. They must. And with this new flute, the compositions were sure to come easier. No more struggling. Just one sharp, brilliant note after the other, until she had her new piece, a great Opus that would make her a sensation.

Perhaps she could trade her old flute for this one...but, no. Nobody would ever accept a common Apprentice flute for this fine instrument. Better to just purchase the new flute outright.

Except she hardly had any money. Five gold coins and a button. Any halfway decent hollow stick with holes carved in it costs more than five gold coins. Maybe she could borrow some money from Stephan or Melanie? But, no, then she'd have to show them the flute, maybe even let them play it, and that was unacceptable. Nobody else gets to play it but her.

She'd have to steal it. Yes, why not? She found it. Crazy, old Zurt probably forgot the flute was even up there on that shelf. If he's so careless with his inventory, well, then...

Thereza stuck the flute inside her robe.

She walked stiffly toward the exit, her strides brisk and sharp.

"Find what you were looking for, mud girl?" asked Zurt.

Thereza stiffened.

"I can smell the Collective on you from a mile away, sweetheart," said Zurt, with a grin.

She almost screamed. Instead she smiled thinly and bowed her head.

"Going already?" asked Melanie.

But Thereza was already out the door.

On their walk back to the Obelisk, Stephan and Melanie teased her about Zurt's remark, but she ignored them. She also refused their offer of a picnic at the Black Cliffs, citing the need to return to her studies.

The dormitory was empty. Thereza went into her small room and shut the door. She put her old flute away in the bottom of her storage trunk, intending never to look at it again.

Sitting cross-legged on her cot, she pulled out the strange instrument from the inside pocket of her robe.

Yes, she thought. Here it is. Still real.

Still mine.

She placed her fingertips over the holes one by one. Then she lifted the mouthpiece to her lips and prepared to play.

All was ready.

She surprised herself by playing a rustic tune she'd learned on the Alfalfa Collective as a little girl. Something all the workers used to dance to, after a long day in the fields. She thought of her mother's twirling ponytail, her father stomping around in his muddy boots. And the others, with their tired, dirty bodies heaving around together in a giant, spinning circle.

The first few notes were as beautiful as she expected and seemed to fill the room with strange vibrations. As Thereza continued to play, she closed her eyes and let the music speak to her Equation. If she had kept them open, she might have noticed the small, corner shadows in the room were quivering and twitching in syncopation with the music.

The small shadows seemed to grow little appendages—plump, doughy arms that reached, struggled, and reached some more. Then came a pair of stubby legs, a round, bloated belly and an oddly-shaped little head that sprouted a pair of vacant, anxious little holes that possibly resembled eyeballs.

The shadow creatures cavorted strangely to the music of the flute.

At that moment, Thereza chanced to look upon the swelling mob of shivering, black shadow blobs. She dropped the flute and screamed.

In an instant, the wriggling shadows were gone. The room returned to normal.

Thereza stared at the floor in amazement. She could hear her own breathing, the sound of her heartbeat thundering in her eardrums.

Someone was at the door, peering inside.

"Was that _you_ playing?"

It was Melanie, holding a couple jugs of wine.

"Yes," Thereza managed to say.

"That was _amazing_ ," said Melanie. "I thought you didn't like those Collective songs."

"No," said Thereza. "I don't."

"Sure you don't want to come to the picnic?"

Thereza shook her head. Melanie nodded, then left.

Thereza inched over to the edge of her cot and slid off. She crept carefully along the floor, gingerly sticking her hand into the various shadows cast by her meager furniture.

Nothing happened.

Did she imagine those shadow creatures? Her mind had drifted while she played. What was it she had been thinking of? Was it something to do with...hunger? How odd...

Perhaps she put herself into some kind of trance? She'd seen it happen to people before, although usually there was some kind of intoxicants involved. Or religious ecstasy.

Maybe it was just her nerves.

She looked down at the black flute on her cot and shivered. She should start over. She should play it again. This time, with her eyes open.

Go on. There's nothing to be afraid of...

Thereza lifted the flute to her lips. Nothing bad was going to happen. Stop being a superstitious mud girl. You're an Apprentice at the Obelisk of Sound in Gizli Sehir. You're not a child afraid of shadows and night sprites.

She blew the first note.

This time she saw the shadows moving. Her hands shook, but she continued to play, watching the dark, cavorting shapes as they jumped to life.

I should stop, she thought to herself.

And yet...look what I can do. I can make the shadows dance.

One of the portly little shadow creatures drifted closer, and stood before Thereza slowly waving its arms and head in some strange sort of dance.

Thereza watched the shadow for a moment, and then quickly reached out and grabbed it. The shadow creature felt like a handful of cold, squishy river mud, and it wiggled in her hand like a trout in a net. It looked at her with its empty eye sockets and perhaps it even peeped...

She was suddenly overcome with a bizarre and horribly compelling desire to eat the creature. And so she stuffed it into her mouth, the whole oozing, jiggling mass of black goo, felt it struggle, felt its smooth, cold flesh sliding down her throat, and then she swallowed and it was over.

The other shadow creatures quickly disappeared into the corners and cracks of the room.

Sweet Twig Mother!

Why did she just do that?

Her stomach suddenly turned upside down and in a moment she was doubled-over and heaving. And yet, hurl as she might, nothing came up, and after a few more seconds she felt strangely better.

The black flute was waiting for her on the cot.

Come and play, it seemed to suggest.

No, no, thought Thereza.

She stumbled out of her room, slamming the door, and rushed out of the dormitory.

The sun was harsh, and white dots danced across her eyes. Why was it so damn bright outside? Thereza shielded her face with her hands and made her way north through the crowded streets to the Black Cliffs.

What was that thing she just ate? Some kind of shadow. A shadow come to life. A night sprite, perhaps? Some kind of goblin?

Oh, why did she do that? Why did she act on that strange impulse? She wondered what was going to happen to her now. Something horrible? And yet, her stomach felt fine now...

She met the other Apprentices at the Black Cliffs. They were already somewhat drunk and behaving foolishly. They mocked the various despondent citizens gathered at the cliff's edge, taunting their lack of courage to jump.

Thereza refused the wine, and turned down a basket of pastries that seemed to resemble slime-covered brown slugs. Even the smell of the assorted picnic goods was revolting. She debated telling Melanie about the incident, but decided against it. There would be questions, and she'd have to divulge that she stole the flute. Better to remain silent.

So she brooded, gazing at the dark, roiling waters of the great and furious ocean.

She contemplated what would happen if she turned into a bug, or some other horrible thing because she ate the fat, gelatinous little shadow creature.

She contemplated dying in her sleep...

And yet, while her sour thoughts festered, Thereza would sometimes find herself whistling a sharp fragment of some new, slippery tune. But if she concentrated too hard, the tune would vanish, only to stalk back a little later and catch her imagination off guard.

Nothing, she thought. A nonsense song. And yet...perhaps a seed of promise?

Eventually she excused herself from the picnic and meandered back to the dormitory.

Her room was darker now, the shadows larger, and she hugged her knees against her chest in the twilight gloom, wondering what was going to become of her.

The black flute seemed to gleam in the fading light.

Come and play.

Yes, thought Thereza. Why not?

Waiting for her doom had grown tiresome. Perhaps she could get that itchy little tune out of her mind for good.

The flute was cold and solid to the touch. Still real, she thought.

She lifted the mouthpiece to her lips and blew. A jumble of notes. At first, something familiar, and then suddenly the tune was going off in a different direction, a new direction, something Thereza had never played before.

She was improvising now, growing more and more excited, her body moving to the music. Whatever she was playing, it was good. Better than anything she'd ever written before. Which wasn't saying much, but still. Maybe this tune was better than a lot of other songs, too.

Thereza waited for the shadow creatures to appear, and they did, furtively at first, then bolder and more numerous. The shadow creatures jiggled their amorphous bodies to the music, twisting and reaching, lost in their hypnotic revelry.

I've got to write this down, thought Thereza. It would be an excellent composition. This would surely impress the Ninth Composer, yes, and many others, too.

She finished the piece on a high note and grinned. The gathering of small shadows quickly disappeared, but Thereza didn't mind. She put a candle in her lantern, grabbed a stack of blank manuscript papers, her quill and ink bottle, and prepared to go to work.

Now, how did it begin again?

She scribbled down the first few notes, frowned, and started over.

More suspicious scribblings.

This doesn't sound right, she thought. Well, forge ahead and fix it later.

But each new stanza became more frustrating to compose than the last, as the fragments of the song swiftly faded from her memory.

Why was it so hard to remember what she had just played? It was hers, wasn't it? She dreamed it up. Moments ago it was the surest song she'd ever known. And yet now the whole thing had vanished from her mind completely, leaving only the dim recollection of having played something incredible.

Thereza crumpled up the page in frustration and cursed. She tried a few more times to put something substantial down on paper, but all was lost. Exhausted and depressed, she climbed into her cot and stared at the ceiling, watching the poor light from the lantern struggle against the darkness of her room.

Her hand searched the cot for the black flute, and when she found it she played just a few random notes, scales, fragments of old children's songs from the collective. The shadow creatures appeared again, watching her intently with their vacant eyes. Their bodies swayed to a secret wind. The shadow creatures were waiting...

Thereza's stomach growled. She licked her lips, felt how dry and cracked they had become. She played a quick succession of notes, sending the shadow creatures into spasms of ecstasy. And as they wriggled, Thereza felt the urge coming over her again. A powerful, disgusting urge to devour the icky blobs, to obtain their strange power...

Their power, yes, she realized.

That's how I did it...

That magnificent song came to her right after she ate the first one...

And if she were to eat another? To eat more?

Ugh. And yet...

She desperately needed to write _something_ if she wanted to stay at the Obelisk. Something like that song from before. And she needed to do it right away, the hours were passing quickly and soon she'd have to perform for the Ninth Composer again.

And so...

Why not?

Thereza snatched up one of the shadow creatures and violently stuffed it down her open mouth. It squirmed and struggled, but with two hands she was able to shove it down without choking. She could feel it wiggling down her throat, down into her body, slippery and cold.

For good measure she grabbed another, and a third, cramming each one into her mouth as fast as she could. The taste was unbearable, and the shadows fought, but at last she was able to consume them. The other gathered shadow creatures scattered in a panic, disappearing into sharp corners and fading away into the darkness.

Her insides felt warm, like after drinking too much moon wine, Her blood surged, her mind glowed, and she picked up her flute and began to play.

It was marvelous.

Even better than before.

And this time, when she was finished, she scribbled the entire piece down by memory in the flicking light of her gutted candle. Her hand was shaking, and writing quickly, ink landing on the page like raindrops of blood. When her composition was complete, she collapsed onto her cot, shivering, smiling, blinking rapidly in the near total darkness of her room.

That night Thereza dreamed of black shapes moving silently inside the walls, like insects or snakes, slithering beneath the cobblestones in the streets, in chimneys and dark dungeons, under the wheels of the slumbering rickshaws, and somehow she knew that a few of the shadows were missing, but there were others. So many others.

The next morning she awoke on the floor, her blanket haphazardly wrapped around her like an unfinished cocoon.

The other Apprentices were downstairs in the common room, slurping up their bowls of mung beans with goat milk. No one spoke. Most of them looked a bit washed out, moving slowly and with exaggerated efforts. It was just another typical morning after a late night, moon wine infused jamboree.

The light stabbing through the window was too bright this morning. And the smell of the warm, mushy mung beans was almost too much for Thereza to take. She covered her nose with her sleeve and suppressed a small gag.

"Guess you found your inspiration, huh, Thereza?" said Stephan.

"I heard you playing, too," said Melanie. "It was brilliant!"

Even the other Apprentices had to acknowledge that, nodding their heads and mumbling compliments. Thereza smiled, her stomach feeling queasy.

"Mung beans?" asked Stephan, holding up a pot and spoon.

"No, thanks," said Thereza. "I think I'll just jog on down to the Obelisk and play my new piece for the Ninth Composer this morning. Won't he be surprised?"

The other Apprentices stared at her with a mixture of shock and horror. Thereza grinned and left the common room. She could hear them whispering amongst themselves, and she smiled again. Quickly she picked up the black flute and the scattered pages of her composition. Then she was out the door without another word.

The sun was even brighter outside, and Thereza had to shield her eyes with the front of her hand. It made her dizzy for a moment, shooting white, shivery dots all over her field of vision.

Down amongst the cobblestones she watched her shadow lurch forward with her every hurried step. It somehow seemed bigger this morning. Or maybe it was longer? And the edges were sharp, like pieces of glass. Could she cut herself on the edge of her own shadow?

No, the sun's playing tricks with her eyes, that's all. And she was still a bit tired after last night. Thereza did her best to ignore her odd shadow as she pushed her way through the bustling streets of the city to the Obelisk of Sound.

She found the Ninth Composer chatting with Madame Skeck in his office, a dreary and tidy room full of neatly stacked folios and dusty instruments. After some heated protests, and at the urging of Madame Skeck, the Ninth Composer eventually agreed to hear Thereza's new composition. He fiddled with his bowl of grunch nuts while Thereza prepared to play.

As she assembled the pages of her composition on the music stand, Thereza couldn't help but notice how deplorable her handwriting had been last night. The notes were practically stabbed into the page, bleeding ink all over the staff.

In fact, she noticed with a growing sense of unease that there were many places in the staff where she couldn't tell exactly what line the notes were supposed to be on. How had she gotten so sloppy? She had been excited, yes, she had been writing quickly, but this looked like the deranged scribblings of a mad woman.

Why hadn't she noticed this before?

"Any time you're ready," said the Ninth Composer, cracking open another grunch nut.

Thereza smiled and bowed her head.

"Does this new piece have a name?" asked Madam Skeck.

"Um," said Thereza. "It's called 'Shadow Song.'"

She brought the mouthpiece to her lips and began to play.

The tune was promising, but not great. Nothing like how it sounded the night before. Thereza tried to improvise over the parts of the composition that were illegible, but staying on a steady, coherent course proved too difficult. It didn't help that her fingers felt clumsy and sore, like they were sticks instead of flesh and blood.

After one too many stumbles, the Ninth Composer interrupted her.

"Fifth Apprentice, you have once again wasted my time, thank you very much. I believe this half-cooked, ill-conceived mess is proof that you don't really belong here, and so I'd suggest—"

"I heard potential there," said Madame Skeck. "Didn't you hear just a glimmer of potential there too, Basildorfala?"

The Ninth Composer grimaced, and shifted in his seat.

"Perhaps a trifle," he finally said, wiping red froth from his lips with a napkin.

"I think you're on the verge of a breakthrough, my dear," said Madame Skeck. "Keep at it, don't give up yet. I'm sure Basildorfala would be willing to give you one last chance."

"Of course," said the Ninth Composer.

Madame Skeck beamed, and Thereza bowed her head again.

Tears and black thoughts accompanied her home. Her shadow wriggled and twitched like some restless, caged beast, trying to break away from her. Several times Thereza stopped in the street and watched her shadow continue to move forward just ever so slightly. She stomped the rest of the way back home to the dormitory.

Patronizing old coots. She'll show them a breakthrough! This time, she'd be more careful. Write more slowly. Pace herself.

Thereza's stomach growled.

She took out the black flute and played again, the same rustic song as the day before. The shadow creatures appeared, their empty eyes quivering winsomely as they danced. Thereza grabbed them easily, one, two, two more, and shoved them all down her throat. She waited a moment, her stomach roiling, her tongue tingling, and felt a moment of sudden dizziness.

When it passed, she began to play again, but something was wrong. There was no inspiration. No feeling of joy, no incredible confidence or energy. Her insides groaned, her hands were fat potatoes, her lips dead and numb.

Where was the music?

Why couldn't she make it come again?

In desperation she quickly played a few more notes, summoned a handful of shadow creatures, and ate them all. Her eyes began to water as she shoved the eighth or ninth squirming, black mass into her mouth, but Thereza was determined to go on.

And still the music did not come.

Over and over again, there was nothing.

Eventually Thereza crawled into her cot, her stomach churning, and lay there staring up at the ceiling. She felt like she had swallowed a large, heavy stone, and every part of her body throbbed with pain.

The day passed. Thereza listened to the sounds of the street outside. A few of the other Apprentices knocked on her door, and called out her name, but she refused to acknowledge them. Shadows crawled across the floor, and the room grew dark. Thereza lit the candle in her little lantern and watched the gloomy, flickering flame.

Come and play me now, the black flute seemed to suggest.

Come, Fifth Apprentice.

This time, she did not play the rustic dancing song. Instead she played the Funeral Dirge of Terrible Sorrow, one she had heard often at the Collective, where life can be cut short in a variety of spectacular and discouraging ways.

The small shadow creatures did not materialize. Perhaps the song was too sad for them. Exactly how many had she eaten? She couldn't remember. Well, it didn't matter. The pathetic little blobs were useless to her now.

But then she noticed on the floor that something was stirring. It was her own elongated shadow, moving, shaking in different directions, lengthening and stretching. It struggled to free itself from the gravity of the floor, sticking and tugging, until finally Her Shadow broke loose and stood before her, vibrating slightly.

Thereza trembled, the mouthpiece slipping away from her cold lips.

Her Shadow had eyes. Or something like eyes. Two smoldering, darkly purple orbs that reflected the shivering candlelight.

"I am the Touch of Fire," said Her Shadow, in a hollow voice. "I am the Fever Seed, the Cauldron of the Everlasting Hand. I can help you, Fifth Apprentice."

There was something about purple, something the lunatics who lived in this city believed, but what was it now? Something important...

"How can you help me?" she asked.

"By planting within your Equation the gift of the Magenta Sonata," said Her Shadow.

"What is that? I've never heard of that," said Thereza.

"It is only the greatest piece of music ever composed by man or any other being."

"And you're going to teach me how to play it?" asked Thereza.

"Not exactly," said Her Shadow. "You must devour me, like you did the others. Once inside you I will open the door to your Equation and let the Magenta Sonata enter your mind. And then, you will play. You will play better than any mortal has in quite a long time..."

"If I play this sonata, I'll get to stay at the Obelisk?" Thereza asked.

"For a time," said Her Shadow.

"And then what?"

"And then...you will become famous," said Her Shadow.

I probably shouldn't do this, thought Thereza, as she grabbed her shadow with both hands and drew it toward her mouth.

"Please," said Her Shadow. "You must save my head for last. It is my duty to make sure that you eat every last part of me, even if you become terribly sick or afraid."

Thereza nodded.

She tore off a chunk of her shadow and took a bite. It was awful, like chewing on a clod of wet mud and ash. She nearly gagged trying to swallow it.

"There, there," said Her Shadow. "Perhaps you should cut me up into more manageable pieces. Better get a knife. And a small mallet for the hard parts. You will thank me, later."

Thereza stalked down to the kitchen. Melanie was there, having a late night snack of salamander chunks and boiled rice.

"Thereza?" she said. "Are you all right?"

Thereza grunted, as she searched through the cabinets for something to chop up her shadow. She found the mallet and banged it loudly on the table top several times.

"We're kind of worried about you," said Melanie.

Thereza pulled out a large cleaver and waved it in the air.

"Don't be," she said.

Back in her room, Thereza began to dismember Her Shadow. It was tough work, like sawing through molasses, except that every so often she would hit something hard and have to break it up with the mallet. And then Her Shadow would scream, a thin, pitiful wail that made the flesh on her arms crawl and sent shivers down her spine.

"Must you do that?" she asked.

"I am sorry," said Her Shadow. "It is just so gloriously painful."

It took several days for Thereza to finish the job. She ate nothing else but Her Shadow, barely slept, and stalked about her room, muttering constantly. She was sweating and belching profusely and her hair became a tangled, dirty web of nests and knots.

Her Shadow would encourage her to go on, praising her fortitude and dedication to her noble goal. It would spin glorious tales of her impending celebrity, assuring Thereza that soon her name would be spoken all over the city of Gizli Sehir and even beyond. To the Collective, to the Wastelands, to the Dome of the Pleasure People and even across the dark ocean to Dragostan, and the Jungle Islands...

At some point, the other Apprentices knocked on her door and demanded to see her. Thereza shouted at them, and they threatened to bring someone from the Obelisk, or maybe even an Inquisitor, to check up on her. So Thereza apologized, but still refused to come out or explain what she was doing. The Apprentices finally left, clinging to odd promises and a sharp feeling of unease.

On the final day, as the morning sunlight struggled to work its way into her room, Thereza held the head of Her Shadow and listened carefully to its final whispers. The eyes of Her Shadow burned brightly with a secret, purple flame.

"Well done, Fifth Apprentice," it said. "All that remains is to devour my splendid head. Then you shall go forth and play the Magenta Sonata at the Obelisk of Sound. Do not forget your flute, for you will be needing it. Oh, they are anxiously waiting for you now. This is your moment, Fifth Apprentice. And it shall take you very far, my dear. Very far indeed..."

Thereza used the mallet to smash apart the head of her shadow. Like a skull, the outer bits were hard and crunchy, the insides soft and disturbingly insubstantial. She ate the glowing, purple orbs last, and they burned going all the way down.

There was a warmth in her stomach that spread all across her body, down to her toes, down to her fingertips, and when that warmth reached her brain, she fell to the floor. At that moment the Magenta Sonata filled her mind, a thundering swirl of music that lifted her Equation into the sky, into the realm of the stars, where she saw the planets roar and the galaxies tumble in an incandescent field of roiling, purple clouds.

It was the most wonderful feeling she had ever known.

And when she gathered herself up off the ground, she was grinning. She quickly grabbed the black flute and charged out the door. Out on the city streets the sun was shining brightly and the rickshaw drivers were hollering their morning prayers to Kara Kurbaga. Thereza strolled down the boulevard, grinning happily.

The Magenta Sonata was great. No, it was brilliant. Mother-crunching brilliant! Every bone vibrated in her body now with the certainty of impending success.

Soon she would play the Magenta Sonata for the Ninth Composer and he would regret all the nasty things he said to her. Oh, and he would sorely regret underestimating her talents. They all would. Mother, Father, the other Apprentices, and the roughnecks on the Collective. She would show them all!

She'd graduate early from the Obelisk. And then, then she'd have her Composership, and be performing the Magenta Sonata at Torturer's Hall by next spring. Of course, the Grand Torturer would love it. And the people will love it, too. The critics will fall over themselves declaring her to be the greatest new Composer since Xignerboxus!

She raced through the great double-doors of the Obelisk and up the winding stairs. Waiting for her in the Chamber of Sonorities was the Ninth Composer, along with Madame Skeck, a handful of other Apprentices, and another portly gentleman with a severely waxed and pointed beard.

"You're late," said the Ninth Composer.

"My apologies," said Thereza, as she set up her music stand.

Melanie and Stephan came stumbling into the room. They were, however, obliged to sit quietly for the recital and confront Thereza later about her strange behavior over the past few days.

"Fifth Apprentice," said the Ninth Composer, "This gentleman is Pufferdoderous Mink, the Third Critic for his piousness the Grand Torturer and a good friend of Madame Skeck and myself. He happened to be visiting this morning and I asked him to join us for this recital. You're not intimidated, I hope?"

"No, Ninth Composer," said Melanie, smiling.

"Are you well, dear?" asked Madame Skeck. "You seem a bit disheveled this morning."

"I was working late," said Thereza, awkwardly running her fingers through her tangled hair. She did her best to fix her robes and look a bit more presentable.

The Ninth Composer snorted and cracked open a grunch nut.

"Any time you're ready to begin," he said, through frothy, red teeth.

"This piece is called 'The Magenta Sonata'," said Thereza.

There was a murmuring in the room.

Before anyone could challenge her questionable composition title, Thereza lifted the flute up to her lips and began to play.

Immediately the first disembodied, discordant notes cast their strange spell upon the listeners. The Ninth Composer stopped cracking his grunch nuts and held them idly between his fingers. Madame Skeck sank blissfully into her luxurious, golden divan. Even the Third Critic sat at attention, his head cocked to one side, paying careful attention to the music.

And as the strange, lilting tune played on, the gathered listeners grew even more stupefied. One would utter an exclamation of surprise, while another would simply sigh. There were helpless groans and other, stranger sounds, perhaps made in fear or ecstasy.

The Third Critic shouted, and leapt up from his chair.

"I know this piece!" he said, his eyes going wide. "I know this piece. The Magenta Sonata is the prelude to the Symphony of the Great Magician. Oh, damnable Heresy! Oh, Forbidden Fruit of Evil! You must stop, for the sake of your Equation, stop performing this music!"

But Thereza only smiled and played on.

The Third Critic sprang to the door, crashing over music stands and instruments.

"The Inquisitors will stop you!" he said, before flinging himself out the door.

If the other listeners were alarmed, they were in no position to act upon their fright. The music had conquered them all and they were unable to move or think coherently. As Thereza played, the room turned purple and purpler still, as the light began to bend and twist in disorienting, kaleidoscopic patterns.

Thereza thought she heard a distant drum join in the song, then an army of Wot pipes and rattle-shake cups, and a thundering of flump trumpets and tambourines. The phantom orchestra accompanied her in perfect harmony now, carrying the song of the Great Magician to soaring, exquisite new heights of delirium.

Some of the gathered listeners were screaming. Visions assaulted their Equations. Dragon fruits, pomegranates, starfish and viscera. Jellies and snails, lavender mists and polychromatic pinwheels, leathery talons and blood, a phantasmagoria of disturbing images and ideas violently pushing their way into every corner of their minds.

The music was like a hammer, mercilessly pounding their feeble minds into so much glorious, darkly purple slime. And then came a hellish chorus of bewildering voices chanting a set of hideous numbers over and over again—Zero one zero zero one one zero one! Zero one zero zero one one zero one! Zero one zero zero one one zero one!

The symphony reached its final, delirious crescendo, then suddenly collapsed, the last notes reverberating through the Chamber of Sonorities like the roar of a dying volcano.

All was quiet and still.

"Are you not delighted?" asked Thereza. "Is my sonata not marvelous?"

And then she began to fade away, still grinning, her body becoming transparent and dissipating into the air. Perhaps she made some sort of gesture of surprise at the end, but it was too difficult to tell. She vanished completely, and the black flute fell to the floor with a sharp clatter.

Moments later a squad of masked Inquisitors burst into the room, swinging their censers and hammers. And how they trembled before the terrible work of the Great Magician!

The audience had become hideously deformed. Shriveled appendages had sprouted all over their violently twisted bodies. Snorting and wailing incoherently, the Inquisitors clubbed them all to death, and the floor of the chamber was drenched with their hideous purple blood. In the terrible, swirling excitement and confusion of the raid, the black flute was lost.

Word of Thereza's shocking deed spread quickly to every corner of the city. Every good citizen was talking about her, from the lowliest beggar to the most respected Mathematician. The news even reached the Alfalfa Collective, where Thereza's parents, in darkest shame, retreated inside their cabin and poisoned themselves with a strong cup of grimroot tea.

After a hasty investigation, the Inquisitors arrested old Zurt and his hound, locked them inside an iron cage and hurled the diabolical pair into the ocean with the Catapult of Might. The waters turned purple for three days, and the creatures of the sea flung themselves upon the shore to escape the terrible tide. And under the waves, old Zurt was transformed into something monstrous...

The Obelisk of Sound was purified by the monks of Kara Kurbaga, and although extra special measures were taken to purify the Chamber of Sonorities, there still remained on the stone floor a dark, ambiguous and very sinister stain. It was a blob of uncertain proportions, perhaps resembling a crumpled shadow that resisted all attempts to be removed.

The Chamber of Sonorities is locked now, forbidden to everyone except the most senior Administrators. Once, a foolhardy young Apprentice snuck inside and discovered there amongst the dusty bins and boxes, a small and curious doll made of sticks and corn husks. But before she could steal it, she confessed to hearing strange flute music and fled from the Obelisk in terror, vowing never to return to the city of Gizli Sehir again.
The Impossible Contraption

The raid on the mansion of the Third Mathematician had gone well. The early morning assault came as a complete surprise to the heretics within, and the Inquisitors were able to quickly storm the building and get to their bloody, righteous work.

The degenerate Indigo Basetphat had been captured while trying to sneak out a concealed door dressed as a scullery maid, along with his bodyguards and a small handful of loyal servants. Most of them were clubbed to death, and it also became necessary to severely beat the Third Mathematician for resisting arrest.

There was some confusion about the identity of the man, if he could, in fact, be some actor or imposter. But after stripping him of his robes and identifying several grotesque purple marks of the Great Magician across his back and buttocks, Duggan Jones, Seventh Inquisitor for his piousness the Grand Torturer, was positive they had apprehended the true culprit behind so many of the recent manifestations of the sinister, trickster god.

But the raid turned out to present more ominous challenges. The Seventh Inquisitor's men encountered frightening monstrosities in a secret, underground chamber beneath the mansion, some sort of corrupted pig-creatures that fought viciously and were quite terrible to behold. The terrified cries of his men, mingled with the lusty, outrageous squeals of the beasts, had momentarily unsettled Duggan, and when the basement was finally purified, he excused himself to search the rest of the unholy dwelling alone, and let his underlings take care of the mess.

It was when the initial chaos was winding down, with only the occasional, pitiful shriek or crash to interrupt his brooding thoughts, that Duggan encountered the strange girl by the staircase to the minaret.

Her head was large, far too large for a girl her age. Her clothes were odd, decorated with provocative baubles and other objects. Clearly, Duggan had caught her in the act of slinking away, like all the other craven degenerates in this house of depravity. Oh, yes, there was something wrong about this girl, something unclean, a glimpse of purple in the pupils of her eyes, and yet—she looked so young, so impossibly young, to be of any kind of real threat.

How could blasphemy possibly lurk in the heart of this strange, deformed little girl?

Perhaps she was only a victim of cruel misfortune. Although to entertain such a slippery concept was against the core of his education. Hadn't Kara Kurbaga decreed in the Sacred Texts that everyone gets what they deserve?

The strange girl held his gaze, standing frozen like an animal that knows the hunter is prowling nearby. Then she smiled at him, thinly at first, then showing her teeth, rows of shiny, white little knives.

"Do I know you, child?" he asked.

The strange girl silently nodded, yes.

"Qamra," she said.

Duggan became confused, felt a disorienting sense of emptiness, and, although the sensible part of his mind was commanding him to smite her, the Seventh Inquisitor only watched as the strange little girl slunk quietly out of his reach and down the marbled hall.

She was glimpsed momentarily by a group of his men, blood-spattered and frantic, before leaping through an astonishingly high window and vanishing into the night. Several of them rushed to pursue her, while the Twelfth Inquisitor confronted him angrily.

"You let one of them get away," he said. "She's bewitched you. The First Inquisitor will not be pleased."

Duggan nodded slowly in agreement. Somehow, he had made a terrible mistake.

The following morning he was escorted to the chamber of the Second Inquisitor and interrogated for several hours. When the questioning was finished, the Second Inquisitor fixed Duggan with a cold, merciless stare.

"You allowed sentiment to impair your judgment, Seventh Inquisitor."

"Yes, Second Inquisitor."

"The Enemy can be anyone, be anywhere, and if you are not ever vigilant, the Enemy can even be inside your own mind."

The Second Inquisitor sighed, took off his golden mask, and cleaned it with the edge of his sleeve.

"Consider yourself lucky that the First is preoccupied with all this Mathematician business," he said. "He wanted to hang you in the Heretic's Gibbet, but I convinced him that you could still be redeemed."

Duggan nodded.

"I'm sending you to the Monastery of the Agonizing Wheel. For purification and reflection. You leave tomorrow. The Twelfth Inquisitor will accompany you to your home, help you collect your belongings, and see you off on the Road of Peril at dawn."

Duggan felt his stomach sinking.

"No one's ever come back from the Monastery of the Agonizing Wheel."

"Perhaps you shall be the first, Jones," said the Second Inquisitor, already distracted by a stack of papers on his desk.

"Please, Second Inquisitor, you must reconsider. Up until now my record was perfect—"

"The matter is closed. Go and wait in the vestibule for your escort, he'll be here shortly. And Jones? May Kara Kurbaga have mercy on your Equation."

Duggan shuffled out of the Second Inquisitor's chamber, feeling slightly dizzy and sick to his stomach. He'd heard plenty about the Monastery of the Agonizing Wheel over the years. The daily whippings, the marathons, the dietary purges and the grueling hours spent in penitence and isolation—not to mention the actual wheel from which the monastery got its name. A giant contraption of wrought iron and grinding gears...men had screamed until their vocal chords burst on that wheel...

Perhaps they should just hang me tomorrow instead and be done with it, thought Duggan.

No, I won't be hanged, damn them. And I'm not going to any death monastery, either. All my years of service, this is how they thank me...

Duggan's escort had not yet arrived, and after glancing quickly up and down the grand corridors of the Temple, he decided to slip away. He casually acknowledged the sentries with a small nod, and stepped out into the bright sunlight of the busy street.

Nothing wrong here, fellows. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just a random Inquisitor going out on his daily patrol, nothing to be concerned about.

Already Duggan was sweating under his gold mask. He hurried out of the shadow of the Temple, pushing himself into the surging crowds that trod their way through the city.

He'd have to leave the island for good, now. Catch a ship by the docks. That was the way to go. But to where? There probably wasn't going to be much choice in the matter. Was there time to stop by the apartment, grab all his stuff? No, better not. Bunch of junk, anyway.

All his years of service, tossed aside like so many dirty mung beans!

Duggan stopped for a moment to remove his mask and wipe the sweat from his brow. The docks were close now, just a few more blocks up ahead. His heart was thumping madly in his chest. It was all so stupid, so stupid and insane. Would he get away with it? Could he?

Duggan glanced up the street to look for pursuers, but there were none. So far, he reminded himself. So far....

A man slunk up next to Duggan, wearing tatty robes and a dirty cap. His teeth were yellow, his lips cracked. When he removed his cap and bowed before the Inquisitor, oily, black hair tumbled into his stubble-covered face.

"A thousand greetings, Master Inquisitor," he said. "I am pious man and therefore must report to you that a most vile heresy is afoot on Barnacle Street, down by the water. It is happening right now, in the house of Pavel the Fisherman. You must come quickly! Come, and I will show you. Come, come..."

Duggan stared at the filthy beggar, beckoning him forward with dirty hands.

His feet would not move. He could not shake his head, or find words to speak, or drive the informant away. The beggar looked quizzically at him for a moment, uncertain.

"Are you all right, Master Inquisitor?"

Get out of here. Get on the boat, you fool. They're coming for you, right now. Run away. Run away...

Duggan shifted his feet, feeling the sweat run down his neck.

Heresy, the beggar said. The work of the Great Magician. His work never stops, does it? The city was in danger. There were people in trouble...heads to smash...

"Barnacle Street, you said?"

"Yes, Master Inquisitor. This way, just over here."

Duggan pulled out his heavy truncheon, felt the grooves for his fingers in the wood.

"Let's go," he said.

He followed the Informant down into the stinking alleys of the Seaside District, where animals and naked children ran together in filthy packs, and the sullen residents quickly disappeared into their dark doorways as the Inquisitor walked by, muttering and hiding their knives.

Up ahead was a dilapidated building, covered with grime and stains. From inside a woman could be heard shrieking and cursing. The Informant pointed to a window on the second floor and bowed again. Duggan gave him a handful of silver coins, and the man quickly left, as if his very heels were on fire.

Duggan entered the building and went up the ramshackle stairs. The apartment was down the hall, the door open, frantic shouting continuing to pour forth from inside. There was a dead dog in the hallway, laying on its side. The stomach of the dog was horribly bloated, its tongue plump and slimy, and a dark froth oozed from its gaping maw.

I probably shouldn't be doing this alone, thought Duggan, breathing hard.

He stepped over the wretched, dead hound, and charged into the apartment. There was a woman in a drab frock, who screamed in fright when he appeared. Duggan smashed the woman over the head, sending her to the floor.

Pavel the Fisherman was slumped over a dingy table. It looked like there was something wrong with his hands. Pavel tried to hide them under the table, but it was too late.

"Put them up," said Duggan.

Pavel began to weep. He pitifully held up his deformed appendages, and shook his head.

"Is not my fault," he said. "Is the fish. The purple fish from the bay. I touch them, and this is what happen. I swear, I no do anything!"

Duggan took a closer look at Pavel's fingers. They were hideously swollen and fusing together. And it appeared that his flesh was peeling off, revealing something hard and purple underneath. Something that looked a lot like the shell of a lobster or crab. Bumpy and tough.

"That your wife?" asked Duggan.

"Yes, Master Inquisitor," said Pavel.

"Are there any of the purple fish here now? In your apartment?"

"The dog, she ate them" said the Fisherman.

The Fisherman's Wife struggled to sit up, holding her head, blood trickling through her fingers.

"What are you going to do with us?" she asked.

"You're under arrest," said Duggan. "Consorting with the Great Magician, harboring a mutant, tampering with evidence, disturbing the peace—I could go on, but what's the point? You've committed at least a dozen serious crimes, and the two of you will most likely be sentenced to death."

The woman began to wail. Pavel protested again, standing up so forcefully from his chair that it toppled over. Duggan began shouting at them, and brandishing his club, when the dead dog trotted into the room, and growled.

Everyone stopped.

"Call off your hound, Pavel," said Duggan.

"Please, no arrest us," said the Fisherman. "Have mercy. Mercy, please."

The dog wobbled toward them, foam dribbling from its open mouth. A small puff of purple smoke rose from its oozing nostrils.

"Zero one zero zero one one zero one," said the Dog.

The world turned upside down.

Duggan was blinded by a terrible light. The room turned purple, the air turned purple, his own thoughts, for one horrible moment, squirmed like a jellyfish and turned purple. He heard a tremendous thunderclap, and fell to the floor covering his head. The others were sprawled out on the ground, flailing around and screaming.

Duggan struggled to stand up. The Fisherman and his Wife were crawling toward the window. The Dog was going to speak again. Duggan covered his ears with the palms of his hands.

Kara Kurbaga no baga tu baga, he prayed. Kara Kurbaga no baga tu baga!

There was another disorienting moment, but nothing like before, a sort of feeling of nausea and dizziness that passed quickly. The Dog cocked its head and regarded him curiously. Then it sniffed the air, turned around, and strutted out the door, wagging its tail.

"Hurry," he heard Pavel saying to his wife. "Open the window, we jump."

"Don't move!" said Duggan. "Stay right there or I'll see you boiled in oil! Understand?"

He didn't wait for their reply.

Duggan ran out of the apartment just in time to see the Dog scrambling through the front door. There were men outside shouting in surprise, and other cries of alarm. When Duggan finally reached the street, the citizens babbled at him and pointed out the direction where the beast had ran.

He gave chase, his boots pounding the ground, his thoughts churning.

Kara Kurbaga had answered his prayer. That meant his Equation must still be righteous. Didn't it? Perhaps he was not doomed to perish in the Monastery after all. Perhaps he wouldn't even have to go, if he could atone in some other way...

Duggan caught up with the monstrous Dog in a dirty, dead end alley.

"Your magic numbers won't work on me now, beast," he said. "I order you to submit to your immediate destruction in the name of Kara Kurbaga."

The Dog snarled and leapt at him. Before it could close its sharp, corrupted teeth around his arm, Duggan felled the monstrosity with one swift blow of his heavy club. The Dog collapsed on the ground, apparently dead once more.

Duggan poked at it a few times, then braced himself against the wall to catch his breath. The body of the Dog twitched for a moment. Its belly grew large, and larger still, until it finally burst open, and a dozen strange, purple fish came crawling out.

They made terrible, meeping sounds as they struggled to creep forward on their tiny flippers. Their eyes were overly large and moist. Duggan quickly set to work stomping on them with his boots, feeling them squish beneath his feet like rotten fruit.

One of the fish sprouted legs, and made a break for the open street. Duggan threw his club and knocked the fish over. When he bent down to examine it, he saw the creature had also grown a pair of arms, with tiny hands and fingers. He decided to step on it a few more times to make sure the fish was dead.

At that moment, he had an odd feeling that someone was watching him. He looked around, and then up, to catch a fleeting glimpse of a small, purple cloak fluttering across the rooftop.

"Is that you, young Witchling?" he asked.

The rooftops crowded over him, drowning him in shadow. Nothing moved. He heard the faint sounds of the city, the dull roar that never stopped. Perhaps she had left...

Duggan made his way back to the ramshackle building, hoping to arrest the two suspects. But when he arrived he saw the tenement was already swarming with Inquisitors, drawn there by the anxious shouting of the good citizens.

He stood for a moment, watching them from across the street. Another gang of Inquisitors emerged from the building, dragging the bodies of the Fisherman and his Wife. Their heads drooped, their limbs were slack, and sticky blood dribbled from their slick, matted hair. Duggan had no doubt that both of them were dead.

He looked at the terrible purple claws where the Fisherman's hands had once been. Poor, dumb fool, is that what you get for touching forbidden sea creatures? He idly wondered if the Fisherman's damnation could actually have been some kind of terrible, random accident.

No, no, of course not. Some internal defect in the Fisherman made him susceptible to corruption, that was all.

The Great Magician worked in mysterious and aggressive ways. Crawling inside your mind, looking for signs of weakness, flaws to twist and exploit. Maybe getting clubbed to death was for the best. Probably better than being roasted alive in a metal cage, anyway. Or was that, too, another sentimental thought? No, no, this was truly better.

But, enough thinking. It was time for action again.

The Fisherman hadn't mentioned _where_ exactly in the bay he caught those purple fish. But something was out there. If he could find it, maybe he could stop whatever it was doing. He'd just need a boat...

Several of the Inquisitors in front of the building were looking at him now. One gestured toward another, and Duggan moved quickly, ducking back through the alley to a different street. He was running now, certain they were behind him, ready to throw him in irons.

At the docks he approached a pair of men in a small dinghy, who were repairing an eel trap.

"I'm commandeering your boat in the name of the Grand Torturer," he told them, brandishing his club. "Get out."

The fishermen scowled at him, and slowly climbed out of the boat. He poked one of them with the end of his truncheon.

"Where's the monster?" he asked.

The fishermen looked at each other. One of them shrugged. The other finally pointed to a stretch of the bay to the left of the Red Volcano. A hazy, dark spot could be seen underneath the waves.

Duggan was halfway into the boat when the Twelfth Inquisitor arrived, alone and panting for breath. His truncheon was already drawn.

"Stop!" he said. "Throw down your club and get out of the boat, Seventh Inquisitor."

"There's a manifestation out there in the bay," said Duggan. "Something big. The whole city's in danger. We have to investigate...we have to..."

Duggan gestured toward the dark waters. The Twelfth Inquisitor stared at him, but said nothing.

"It's true, Master Inquisitor," said one of the fishermen. "The monster is out there. Large and purple. With a single, gigantic eyeball the size of my boat."

"It prowls below the waves, giving birth to horrible creatures," said the other fisherman. "The brood, they try to swim to shore, all slippery and slithering. There are so many..."

Duggan waited, the dinghy bobbing under his feet. At last the Twelfth Inquisitor holstered his club and climbed down the ladder into the boat.

"All right," he said. "You row."

"I outrank you, Hodgson."

"Not anymore. And consider yourself my prisoner, Seventh Inquisitor."

Duggan took the oars, while the Twelfth Inquisitor sat in the prow. The little rowboat heaved furiously on the waves.

"Why are you doing this, Jones?" asked the Twelfth Inquisitor, sunlight bouncing off his golden mask.

Duggan said nothing.

"This isn't going to commute your sentence, you know," said the Twelfth Inquisitor. "No matter what, you're destined for a change of scenery, be it the Monastery, or the Gibbet."

Duggan contemplated pushing him off the boat, but, no. Inquisitors did not attack each other. To do so would be worse than dishonorable. The Twelfth Inquisitor had to be wrong. Duggan would prove to them all that he was still worthy, that they still needed him...

He rowed to the left of the slumbering Red Volcano. The dark waters churned and frothed. The air was rank with the foul stench of corruption. The two Inquisitors peered over the side of their little boat into the vast waters of the ocean, looking for signs of blasphemy.

"We're approaching the spot," said Duggan.

"Are you sure this is the place?" asked the Twelfth Inquisitor.

"I think so," said Duggan. "The ocean is pretty big, yes?"

The Twelfth Inquisitor grunted.

"Perhaps we should go back," he said. "Get a few more men to help us with our search."

"Over there," said Duggan, pointing.

There was an incredibly large patch of sickly, translucent seaweed floating on top of the water. It seemed to be drifting in their direction.

"Is that what we're looking for?" asked the Twelfth Inquisitor.

Duggan nodded.

A small detachment of objects broke free from the seaweed patch and began swimming under the water toward the boat. Duggan squinted. They were fish. Little purple fish, like the ones that sprang out of the stomach of that dead dog.

As the fish swam closer, they lifted their shiny, scaly heads out of the water and spoke.

"Zero," said the fish. "Zero zero..."

The ocean rippled and the Inquisitors noticed that the sinister seaweed was coming closer. They could see now that there was something else lurking underneath all that strangely noxious vegetation, just below the surface of the water. It was difficult to tell what exactly was under there, but it was huge, and it was purple. A deep, dark shade of nightmarish purple.

"Turn us around," said the Twelfth Inquisitor.

"No," said Duggan.

"Turn us around, you crazy fool!"

The Twelfth Inquisitor reached for the oars, wrestling them out of Duggan's grip. But it was too late. The gigantic, putrescent tangle of stinking weeds collided with the boat, knocking the two men to the bottom. They felt the boat lifting up out of the water, and heard a low and ominous gurgling sound.

Duggan expected to be plunged screaming into the water, but nothing further happened. The rowboat was stuck upon whatever was underneath the seaweed.

"What do we do now?" asked the Twelfth Inquisitor.

The seaweed pile gurgled again.

Duggan looked around. The boat was not too far out of the water. They might be able to push off somehow, but then what? Would this abomination pursue them all the way to the shore?

"Be on your guard," said Duggan.

He brandished his truncheon and stepped forward into the prow. Below him lay the disgusting, stinking mass of bloated sea vegetation. And below that...well, he was about to find out. Duggan stepped gingerly into the squishy mass, feeling the cold water soak quickly through his boots.

Underneath the weeds his foot met with a spongy, slippery surface. It felt vaguely alive. For the first time in years, Duggan began to tremble. This was probably a bad idea. He should really get off this thing and get back into the boat. He should go home, pack up, and get his tired bones to the Monastery of the Agonizing Wheel as soon as possible.

And yet, he swore an oath to protect...

"Seen enough?" asked the Twelfth Inquisitor. "Can we go back now?"

Duggan frowned, and poked the ground a few times with the tip of his club. The tangle trembled, and Duggan stumbled, falling into the slimy, cold fronds. Their touch made him shiver and he struggled to get up.

The tangle trembled again, and the sea grass began to fall away, slipping into the bubbling waters. A huge, purple and fleshy lump was revealed, which slowly began to split apart and expose a shiny, hideous white orb, at the center of which was a loathsome, darkly purple pupil.

"The eye!" screamed the Twelfth Inquisitor.

There was nowhere to run. The boat began to tumble over. The Twelfth Inquisitor was falling into the water.

And then a terrible voice spoke, cracking the sky in half, and ripping apart his mind.

ZERO ONE ZERO ZERO ONE ONE ZERO ONE

ZERO ONE ZERO ZERO ZERO ZERO ZERO ONE

ZERO ONE ZERO ZERO ZERO ONE ONE ONE

ZERO ONE ZERO ZERO ONE ZERO ZERO ONE

ZERO ONE ZERO ZERO ZERO ZERO ONE ONE

Everything went purple.

Everything went black.

He was a boy again. In his home, with his mother and father. The family was gathered together at the table. There was a roasted pheasant to eat, with golden brown skin, surrounded by many joyous potatoes. Duggan went to find his seat at the table. But someone else was sitting there.

A stranger.

A person wearing a red robe and a gold mask.

Where have I seen that before? wondered Duggan.

He came closer to the figure, who did not move or speak. His own parents seemed indifferent to his dilemma. And so Duggan approached the sitting figure and reached out his small hand to touch the mask, to touch his fingertips on the brilliant, beautiful gold mask and discover who was hiding under there. He grabbed the edge of the mask and began to pull it away...

"Are you dead, Master Inquisitor?" asked a croaking voice.

He opened his eyes. There were men all around him. Dirty, sunburned. Above them was the sky. He was on a boat. His robes were soaking wet. His mask was gone. One of his boots was missing.

"Where's the other Inquisitor?" he asked.

"No other Inquisitor, Master. Just you."

Duggan sat up. It felt like someone had stabbed him in the forehead.

"Where's my mask?" he asked.

"No mask," said one of the men.

Duggan struggled to his feet and leaned against the rail, trying not to throw up. Far out in the distance, he could see the terrible seaweed patch.

"Take me to shore," he said.

The fisherman let him off at the docks. As he staggered back through the Seaside District to the Temple of Vigilance, he decided to take his other boot off, and walk barefoot the rest of the way. His vision began to blur. Faces appeared before him, bored, anxious, hostile. He saw secret heretics lurking everywhere, slipping through dark shadows. But was too dizzy to stop them from slinking away.

Finally he collapsed just outside the Temple, where a couple of fellow Inquisitors dragged him inside. They stripped off his wet robe, and strapped him into a bed. The orderlies washed his body with acrid soaps and scrubbed his skin until it was raw and red. Then he drank water from a small, silver ladle, carefully held above his cracked and bleeding lips.

Duggan drifted in and out of consciousness for some time. Sometimes it was day when he opened his eyes, and sometimes it was night. Once, he opened them to see the young witchling standing beside him. She looked at him knowingly, and placed a cold finger on his forehead, above his brow. Duggan squeezed his eyes shut and when he opened them again she was gone.

Another time he distinctly remembered seeing a cluster of people surrounding his bed. There were mathematicians there, along with the First and Second Inquisitors, and even the Grand Torturer, looking very tall and splendid in his mighty golden mask and majestic gold robe.

"So, this is our volunteer?" asked the Grand Torturer. "Will he survive the mission?"

"It makes no difference," said the Second Inquisitor.

"Can he hear us?" asked the Grand Torturer, with a hesitant gesture.

"No, he's delirious, Your Piousness."

The Grand Torturer nodded, and looked at Duggan. He could see the Grand Torturer's dark black pupils behind the eye holes of his mask.

But perhaps that, too, was only a fever vision or a dream.

The Third Physician performed a very thorough examination of Duggan's body, checking for any signs of supernatural corruption. He checked inside Duggan's mouth, under his tongue, inside his nose, his scalp, ears and anus. Nothing was found.

Next, the Third Physician asked him a series of questions. What was his name? Where did he live? What was the oath he swore to protect the city of Gizli Sehir?

"Tell me, Master Jones," said the Third Physician. "What is it you are thinking about, right at this very moment?"

"I was thinking—I was thinking that no one has come to visit me."

"That's because you are under quarantine," said the Third Physician. "Have you been thinking about anything else? Anything unnatural or disturbing?"

"No," he said.

In fact, he had been thinking about the witchling. Of course, it was impossible that she had been here. In the Temple of Vigilance, the most secure building on the entire island. So...he had imagined her. Or maybe she was a hallucination. But if he mentioned the witchling now, would they think he'd lost his mind? That his usefulness was at an end?

What would happen to him if it was?

The Second Inquisitor arrived, and asked Duggan the same questions all over again, although his demeanor was far more stern and suspicious. However, by the end of their conversation his tone had softened, and he paused for a moment to remove his mask and rub his eyes.

"Even after everything you have said, Jones, it remains very difficult to trust you," said the Second Inquisitor. "The other Inquisitors suspect your thoughts are impure. They're clamoring for your head. I don't know how much longer I can keep them at bay."

"I am devoted to Kara Kurbaga, and to our oath," said Duggan.

"Your little adventure cost us a good man," said the Second Inquisitor.

"But, the leviathan—"

"Yes, the leviathan. That devil beast roams the bay at will now. Sinking our ships. Devouring sailors. All of our forces are unable to slay it. Harpoons, flaming oil, nothing seems to work. Citizens are dying. The situation is getting desperate. One of our Mathematicians has created an unusual new weapon, but it is untested, and quite risky..."

"Please, Second Inquisitor, let me take this weapon and slay the purple leviathan. Give me one more chance to protect my city in the holy name of Kara Kurbaga."

The Second Inquisitor eyed him sternly.

"It will be dangerous. You may not survive."

"But if I succeed, then I will be pardoned? The Grand Torturer will forgive my crimes?"

"Perhaps," said the Second Inquisitor. "But I promise nothing."

The following morning before dawn Duggan was escorted to the chambers of the Second Inquisitor. When he arrived, he was introduced to Ivo Skeck, the Fourth Mathematician. Skeck looked perpetually outraged, his hair standing up in wild tufts, and he seemed to be quivering all the time. Duggan recalled that the man had lost his wife recently to another foul bit of sorcery involving a follower of the Great Magician, at the Obelisk of Sound.

The Fourth Mathematician was standing before a strange box, which rested atop the Second Inquisitor's desk. It was roughly the size of a small coffin, covered with odd knobs and dials, an assortment of dull buttons, slithering tubes, vents and antennas. It seemed to be radiating some sort of invisible energy that made Duggan feel strangely oppressed.

"Changed your mind?" asked the Second Inquisitor. "Ready to go to the Monastery after all?"

"No, Second Inquisitor," said Duggan.

The Fourth Mathematician was asked to explain the nature of the ominous device to Duggan.

"This is the Impossible Contraption," said Ivo. "A magnificent breakthrough in Applied Hostile Mathematics. With the Impossible Contraption, I am confident that you will be able to utterly and totally destroy that blasphemous purple abomination that currently pollutes our fair ocean."

"How does it work?" asked Duggan, eyeing the Contraption dubiously.

"When activated, the Impossible Contraption will create a shift in the fabric of reality, that will violently propel any and all foreign entities that do not belong in our world straight into an extra-dimensional abyss," said the Fourth Mathematician. "Oh, the Great Magician thinks we are all helpless lambs to be led by the nose to our slaughter, but we'll show him that some of us have teeth, and he will learn to fear our bite!"

"Is it dangerous?" asked Duggan.

"That depends," said the Fourth Mathematician. "Is your Equation pure?"

Ivo's eyes gleamed. Duggan hesitated.

"Is it?" asked the Second Inquisitor.

"Yes," said Duggan.

"Then you will be safe from harm," said the Fourth Mathematician, smiling.

"You are to take the Impossible Contraption by boat and deliver it to the leviathan," said the Second Inquisitor. "Once there, you will activate the Contraption and remain with the device until its function has been fulfilled, for good or ill. Do you understand?"

Duggan nodded, feeling his legs begin to wobble.

"This is just the beginning, Master Inquisitors," said the Fourth Mathematician. "I predict that someday soon, we will be able to rain down Impossible Contraptions from the sky, and obliterate our unholy enemy once and for all. And all without risking a single one of our brave Inquisitors."

Ivo clapped Duggan on the back, grinning. Duggan tried to smile, but could not.

"Prepare yourself, Jones" said the Second Inquisitor. "Fortify your Equation and chant your prayers to the almighty Kara Kurbaga. You leave in one hour."

A large wagon transported both Duggan and the Impossible Contraption to the harbor. The box was covered with a dark tarp, and bundled securely. Sitting next to it, Duggan still felt the eerie vibrations of the thing, a worrisome tingling in his joints, and wondered if this feeling was normal. Perhaps he should've mentioned it to the Fourth Mathematician?

Then again, perhaps it was better that he didn't. Could these strange sensations somehow mean that his Equation was tarnished? He'd been struggling with sentimental, even maudlin thoughts again. Feelings of sorrow over the loss of Hodgson. Guilt over clubbing the Fisherman's wife. And a highly disturbing notion that his vocation was hopelessly incorrect, and that better, more fulfilling opportunities at happiness had somehow been lost forever.

How many heretics had he brought to justice? Dozens, at least. And what did it matter? They seemed to spring up like rank mushrooms no matter where you looked. For this he had sacrificed having a normal life? A family? A son of his own?

At least Kara Kurbaga was still protecting him. Twice the frog god had saved his Equation from the grasping minions of the Great Magician. That had to count for something. Perhaps he was favored? Perhaps Kara Kurbaga had some grand future plan for his humble servant?

To dwell on the alternative, to imagine that he had only survived this long due to pure, dumb luck, was almost too much for Duggan to contemplate. Would anything really be different, he wondered, if it was Hodgson on this terrible errand, and his own body lost at sea?

The sky was overcast as Duggan made his way in a large rowboat out into the ocean. A chill wind blew from the east, and he wrapped his cloak around himself more tightly before grabbing the oars and pulling. The Impossible Contraption sat in the prow like something alive, with a secret, beating heart that thumped ominously.

The seaweed patch stood out against the waters like a giant shadow. As he rowed toward it, the small, purple fish surrounded his boat again, and they lifted their heads out of the water and whispered to him.

"Jones," said the purple fish. "Jones, Jones, Jonesssss..."

He collided with the seaweed patch, and hopped quickly out of the boat. The terrible, gigantic eye of the leviathan was closed, perhaps slumbering. As his stiff, new boots squished through the gelatinous muck, he hauled the Impossible Contraption off the rowboat and placed it atop the pernicious, floating mound.

Next, he pushed a sequence of buttons, turned a small crank handle, and pulled a lever on the side of the Impossible Contraption to bring it to life. Something inside the box began to clunk rhythmically. The machine began to hum, and vibrate ever so slightly. The back of Duggan's neck tingled.

Kara Kurbaga protect me from the perils of Mathematics, he thought to himself.

For several minutes he stood there, waiting for something to happen. He began to wonder if the device was going to explode somehow, obliterating the purple sea monster and himself as well. Was this what the Fourth Mathematician actually meant? That soon his Equation was going to be sent to Kara Kurbaga for judgment?

One of the purple fish crawled out of the water and onto the tangled seaweed patch.

"Jonessss," said the purple fish. "Turn off the Contraption, Jonessss..."

He kicked it back into the ocean.

Stupid fish. Nobody showed me how to turn it off.

The Impossible Contraption began to clunk loudly. The purple monster underneath the seaweed began to stir. The giant eye quivered, flinched and shook.

Too late to row back to shore now, thought Duggan.

There was a sharp clank, a hiss, and then nothing. The seaweed turned brown, the creature underneath gargled and sighed, then began to sink down into the dark waters. Scores of purple fish were floating around him now, their slick, white bellies shining dully, their lavender scales shriveling and turning the color of mud.

It had worked. Duggan had expected something a little more spectacular, but whatever happened had done the trick. He placed his gloved hand over his chest to feel for his heartbeat. It was still there. He took a deep breath, felt his shoulders rise and fall. Wiggled his fingers. Did he feel any different? He did not...

The water was up to Duggan's knees. He sloshed back into the rowboat and climbed inside. The gargantuan seaweed patch and the beast underneath had sunk just out of sight now, small bubbles breaking the surface of the water where the abomination had once been. The Contraption, too, had disappeared under the waves, and Duggan panicked for a moment. There was no way to retrieve it now. The device was gone. But, surely, the Fourth Mathematician could just build another one, couldn't he?

As he rowed back to shore he permitted himself to smile. His task was a success. Perhaps he wouldn't have to go to the Monastery now after all. He could stay in the city, yes, and he could perhaps visit his mother, see some old friends, take up the watercolor brush again...

There was a group of Inquisitors waiting for him on the docks. They were holding their truncheons as the wind tugged at the tops of their hoods. A small crowd of fisherman and costermongers had gathered around them, and they watched Duggan with apprehension in their eyes. When he finally docked, multiple hands helped to pull him ashore.

"You should have died out there with the beast," said one of the Inquisitors.

He didn't recognize the voice.

"Who are you?" he asked, leaning toward the man.

"You're under arrest for consorting with witchlings, conjuring abominations, and murder," said the hostile Inquisitor.

"I did not—"

The Inquisitors grabbed him with their many hands.

"I demand to speak with the Second Inquisitor!" said Duggan, pulling away from their grasp.

"Hang the Second Inquisitor," said one of the hooded men.

A club smashed Duggan's forehead. White dots swam before his eyes.

"Let's not make this difficult," said the hostile Inquisitor.

"My Equation is pure, all right? Kara Kurbaga—Kara Kurbaga has plans for me."

The Inquisitors fell upon him, beating him with their clubs and kicking him to the ground. He struggled, kicked at their stomachs and knees, but another sharp blow to his head knocked Duggan down. The ground became the ocean again, unsteady and mischievous, sneaking out from under him so that he could not stand up.

The red-robed men surrounded him, picking Duggan up off his feet and carrying him away. They marched through the streets of the city like some grim, blood-drenched parade, and the good citizens would point at Duggan and make curious remarks, but none lifted a finger to help the Seventh Inquisitor.

He thought he saw glimpses of the Witchling, her purple cloak fluttering just out of sight, through the crowds, over the rooftops and into the shadows. Curse her, he thought. This is all her fault. She had somehow put all these...these notions into his head. For surely, they were never there before...

The Inquisitors stripped off his crimson robe and golden mask, stripped him down to shredded rags. They placed him in the Heretic's Gibbet, and hoisted him above the Square of Vigilance. A prayer was chanted, and their deep voices sang out in triumph. When the Inquisitors were finished, the crowd threw rocks and rotten cabbages at Duggan, who screamed and jumped about his cage like a dog on fire.

"I served my city with distinction!" he shouted, until his throat burned and the words would no longer come.

"Liar!" cried several voices from the crowd.

Days passed. The sun soon cooked his brains. His lips were cracked, and Duggan begged for water which never came. On the seventh night, he saw the little Witchling, drifting through the square, passing through the good citizens like a phantom. She tilted her bloated head up toward him, and regarded Duggan with her purple eyes. And she spoke to him in twisting whispers that no one else could hear.

"Duggan Jones? Are you prepared to journey to the Other Side, to dwell with the Great Magician in purple kaleidoscopes of forbidden ecstasy?"

"I am," he said at last.

"Then proceed, for you are welcome..."

The locks on the Gibbet popped apart, and the door swung slowly open. It was a long way down to the ground, but Duggan managed to stand up and take his first step out of the cage.

The good citizens below watched in amazement as the Seventh Inquisitor began to walk upwards, up into the air, up above their heads, one step after the other, up above their buildings and temples, up into the sky. And the good citizens screamed, and were transformed into snakes, or clawed out their eyes, and the poor Inquisitors were powerless to help them.

Further and further Duggan climbed, walking higher and higher until at last he was a just a small dot that disappeared amongst the millions of cold and twinkling stars in the dark night sky.
Bride of the Monster

The Seventh Florist took up a large pin to fix the pink gardenia flowers to the bridal crown.

"Stop trembling," she said, a second pin dangling from her lips.

Nalani could barely stand up. The family of the groom had plied her with succulent foods and wine, dishes that Nalani never even dreamed existed. Broiled duck skin with lizard eggs, roasted coney paws with sea anemones, bitter chocolates and jellied fruits, all washed down with glass after glass of exotic wines that burned her lips and slurred her words.

Perhaps I should have run away from home, she thought miserably. Before father sold me to that ghastly old Bridefinder, with the long, red nails and the powdered face. And for only forty gold coins? Surely she was worth more than that? Forty gold coins?

Nalani hoped her father choked on them.

Hadn't she been good daughter? She contributed her fair share of gold to the family coffers. Every day she fixed broken sandals with hoof glue and scavenged nails in the marketplace until her fingers ached. And when there wasn't enough food on the table, did she not steal turtles and slippery eels from the costermongers by the docks?

What about the mornings when the burly feet of her father were too bloody and cracked to stand on? Didn't she try with all her might to pull passengers around town in his wobbly rickshaw through the bumpy, busy streets of the Gizli Sehir?

Mother hadn't said a word. She only stared at the floor while Father and the Bridefinder haggled over the price. One less mouth to feed, he said. A better future for his only daughter. A bright future. Plus a sturdy, new iron axle for his rickshaw. Yes, it was a happy occasion.

Her mother had simply walked out of the room.

And now this. She was finally a bride. A ridiculous, spangled puffer fish, wobbling around in this luxurious mansion, pawned off to some mysterious stranger. The son of the Ninth Banker, whoever that was. She hadn't been permitted to see her future husband before the ceremony. She didn't even know his proper name.

Was this really going to be better than her old life of toil and grime?

It better be.

The Seventh Florist yanked on her hair.

"Hold still, you clumsy girl," she said.

The Bridefinder entered the room and began fussing with Nalani's bridal gown.

"Yes, oh yes, the groom will be very pleased with you," she said. "Very pleased."

"Will I get to meet him soon?" asked Nalani.

"Have another glass of moon wine," said the Bridefinder. "And stand up straight, or your dress will wrinkle and the groom will be very angry."

Nalani took another sip of moon wine. It was sweet, and very light, so much more delicious than the bitter turnip beer she used to drink at home.

Home?

Good riddance.

They were pinning the outrageous gardenia flowers to her gown now, an explosion of colored petals traveling over her shoulders and sleeves, down her back and thighs, and Nalani imagined for a moment being swarmed by a kaleidoscope of giant butterflies. Fragile, doomed things, beating their wings and searching desperately for nectar with their long, strange tongues, flopping over her skin...

"You gave her too much moon wine," said the Seventh Florist. "I need her to stand still."

The Bridefinder helped Nalani to steady herself, then began to paint her face, small red dots on her cheeks and across her forehead. Another henchwoman was painting her nails a deep shade of blue.

"Ecch," said the Henchwoman. "Your fingernails are horrible. What am I to do with these?"

Where had she come from? It was getting hard to keep up with all the excitement.

"Am I beautiful now?" Nalani asked.

The Bridefinder grinned and held up a small, round mirror. The girl on the other side of the glass was a magnificent imposter, and yet, when she looked more closely, Nalani could see faint traces of herself. Yes, the girl in the mirror had Nalani's eyes, for those never really change, do they?

Her stomach gurgled. The fabric across her breasts felt suddenly tight. Almost shockingly tight.

"Almost ready," said the Seventh Florist.

"Drink, drink," urged the Bridefinder.

Nalani drained the glass, and found herself being led out of the dressing room and into a large, marble-tiled corridor, with a high, curved ceiling. Exotic statues and tapestries lined the hall, along with gaudy plants resting in decorative urns, gilded sconces and braziers burning sweet incense with smoke that tickled her nose.

She remembered bringing a fare up to a mansion like this once, an opulent lady in her exquisite robe, trimmed with the soft, black fur of some fearsome jungle beast. The woman had yelled at Nalani the entire way, calling her all sorts of terrible names.

As the Bridefinder and the others dragged Nalani down the corridor, one of her slippers fell off. The gathered women struggled to squeeze the tiny, bejeweled black slipper back onto her foot, cursing the obstinate fatness of her toes.

Nalani marveled at how one moment her feet could feel like heavy stones, while the next they were like feathers.

"Is my groom very handsome?" she asked.

The procession of helpers said nothing as they shuffled precisely down the corridor, holding Nalani by the elbows.

"Is he very rich?" she asked.

"Indeed he is," said the Bridefinder.

"How does he make his money?" Nalani asked.

"Banking, of course," said the Bridefinder. "You stupid girl."

"And is my groom very kind?" Nalani asked.

"Stop shaking," said the Seventh Florist. "You're upsetting the flowers."

Soon they were joined by the groom's side of the family, a gang of plump, greasy men wearing exquisitely fine robes, and an old bald man who resembled a moldy, brown peach. Behind the men there stood a rather ugly-looking boy, blowing odd notes on a small piccolo.

"You are a vision of loveliness, dear Nalani," said the Ninth Banker, taking her hands.

"Forgive me, Ninth Banker, for I feel a little nervous."

"Of course," said the Ninth Banker. "That's only natural."

"I look forward to being a part of your family," said Nalani.

"As do we," said the Ninth Banker.

"Can you tell me now the name of my future husband?" she asked.

"Why don't you ask him yourself?" said the Ninth Banker. "When you finally meet him at last."

The Ninth Banker and his brothers smiled at her once again, nodding their heads and murmuring agreements. But...where are all the women? Nalani wondered. The mothers, sisters and aunts? The family suddenly became far more sinister for its lack of females.

The Bridefinder was quietly dismissed, along with the Seventh Florist and her henchwoman, and they quickly scurried away, clasping their bags of gold.

"Are my husband and I going to live here, in this incredible house?" she asked.

"Indeed, you shall," said the Ninth Banker.

The old man hobbled forward and frowned. He reached for Nalani with a shaking, trembling hand, and pinched her small, flat stomach.

"You are too scrawny," he said. "Like a starving dog."

Nalani fought the urge to strike the old man, fearing an unpleasant commotion. A dismal realization struck her that she was quite drunk, and that control was slipping stealthily away.

"Now, Grandfather," said the Ninth Banker. "Let's not be impolite. Look at how young and fresh our bride is today, hmm? The very picture of beauty and grace."

The ugly boy placed the piccolo to his lips and blew a single, rude note.

Nalani considered breaking away, dashing down the stairs somehow without breaking her neck, thousands upon thousands of stairs leading down to the foyer and out the front door, back to the sun, to the ocean, to the swirling streets.

Except the corridor was tilting now, and the stairs wobbled and trembled, and she found her elbows being gripped by strong, hard fingers that dug into her flesh and dragged her entire body forward.

"Where is the Monk?" she asked. "Shouldn't there be a Monk?"

"Have no fear, my dear" said the Ninth Banker. "I will officiate the ceremony."

They glided down the grand staircase and through a maze of fancy corridors, one fabulous tapestry blurring into the next, until suddenly they were in a rather plain-looking pantry room, full of dishes and goblets in a cabinet that suddenly spun on secret hinges, revealing a dark, spiraling staircase that led downward into the gloom.

Nalani found herself in a dank, drippy tunnel that smelled of stale wine and earth. The Ninth Banker carried a sputtering torch that cast harsh shadows on the members of the wedding procession. The ugly boy played a jaunty tune on his piccolo, while the gathered men dragged Nalani through the tunnels, past alcoves filled with rotting tumbles of broken barrels, cobwebs and dust.

"Of course, our family used to make wine down here," said the Ninth Banker. "But that was many, many years ago, before our fortunes turned for the better. Now we let others do that sort of work."

"I don't understand," said Nalani, her head slowly spinning. "Are we having the wedding down here?"

"Indeed, we are," said the Ninth Banker. "Step this way, please."

At the end of the tunnel, the feeble torchlight illuminated an exceptionally dilapidated alcove, with brick pieces and clumps of earth scattered about the floor in front of it. However, inside the alcove there were no husks of rotting wine barrels, only an ominous, gaping hole in the wall at the opposite end. The hole was just big enough for a person to climb inside.

The ugly boy ended his tune with a high, little flourish, then solemnly tucked the piccolo away in a pocket of his robe. The gathered men were close now, leering at Nalani with their red teeth, quivering with a barely suppressed excitement.

"Your groom awaits," said the Ninth Banker, gesturing toward the hole.

The torchlight dared not to shine inside that strange, pitch dark opening.

Nalani shook her head, and tried to back away. The men caught her in their grasp and thrust her body forward. She was helpless, her limbs refused to obey, refused to fight. A scream welled up from her throat, long and terrible. The gathered men laughed.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife," said the Ninth Banker, shoving her into the dark hole.

She fell forward, her gown in tatters, flowers rending apart in explosions of fragile petals. Darkness enveloped her. Frantic fingers clawed at the damp, dirt floor. Behind her, she saw the Ninth Banker and the others peering inside. The Ninth Banker held up something that glinted in the faint light, something wicked and sharp.

"No turning back now, sweetness," he said. "Go on, crawl up that way. Your husband is waiting for you."

But Nalani refused to move. Her body was limp, her vision swirling.

"You gave the dirty gutter tramp too much wine," said one of the greasy men. "You'll have to drag her to his lair."

The Ninth Banker crawled inside the hole, brandishing his little knife.

"Get moving," he said. "Or I will cut your throat."

He jabbed her once, in the thigh, and Nalani scurried forward with a cry. One hand over the other, she crawled on her stomach through the darkness.

"That's right," said the Ninth Banker. "Keep going. Just move along..."

She slithered along, tears streaming down her face. She did not want to die. The Ninth Banker would surely kill her if she stopped. She saw that in his gleaming, deranged eyes. Whatever was up there could not be as bad as death, could it?

If she could only get her thoughts together...if she could have just a little more time, somehow she would get out of this...

After crawling for a while, Nalani realized the Ninth Banker was no longer behind her. She was alone in the strange tunnel. Could she go back now? Would they be gone?

Don't be stupid, girl. The only way out of here is forward. So go on, then. Go forward.

Her hand fell on something smooth and hard. She pulled away at first, then gingerly, carefully, let her fingers examine the object in the dark. It felt like a skull.

Quickly, she drew her hand back.

Her foot jostled something else, and there was a soft clatter. She crunched herself up into a small ball and collapsed against the side of the tunnel, trying not to make a sound, trying not to scream or go stark, raving mad.

Her body began to tremble and she thought it best to put her hand over her mouth because she felt certain that any moment now she would shriek. The dulling effects of the moon wine were gone now, leaving only cold, clear terror in their wake. Somehow Nalani managed to stay quiet, listening to the sound of her anxious breathing and the muffled crinkling noises made by the fabric of her wedding gown.

There was a sound in the darkness up ahead.

An unexpected sound.

Someone was weeping.

Soft and secret little sobs, followed by some odd grunting sounds and sniffling.

Just stay quiet, Nalani thought to herself. Do not move, do not blink, do not breathe.

The pitiful blubbering continued, drifting through the dark tunnel.

Nalani couldn't help but wonder who it was, crying out alone in the dark. Was _this_ her husband? Was he also some kind of captive down here? Perhaps he was deformed. Or insane. Perhaps he was a maniac with jagged fingernails and bloody teeth.

Or maybe...maybe he was lonely? Terribly, painfully lonely, in this wretched dark tunnel below the ground?

Nalani could not restrain herself any longer.

"Hello?" she said.

There was an abrupt sniffling sound.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

Something in the darkness of the tunnel shifted and moved.

"Leave me alone," said a voice like midnight.

"My name is Nalani," she said. "I think I'm supposed to be your bride..."

"Go away, foolish girl," said the voice.

"If I go back, they'll kill me," said Nalani.

"Remain here and I shall kill you," said the voice. "Then I shall twist your pulpy and red organs into precious jewels; your heart into a fistful of rubies, your lungs into sapphires, and your womanly parts into piles of dark emeralds. For it is my burden to pulverize each and every one of my lovely brides into a bounty of glittering gemstones for the benefit of the Ninth Banker and all his brothers."

"You—you turn your brides into jewels?"

Nalani felt herself swooning.

"Indeed, I do. How else do you think the Ninth Banker obtains his mighty wealth?"

"Banking?" asked Nalani.

The creature let out a booming laugh. The walls of the tunnel trembled with mirth.

"Very good, little bride. You are quite amusing."

"What is your name, my husband?" asked Nalani.

"I am Aabbappatathosphemet," said the voice. "Formerly the Herald of Destruction, the Servant of the Door, the Crash of Thunder, King Earthquake and Master of the Cleansing Hand..."

"Formerly?" asked Nalani. "What are you now?"

Aabbappatathosphemet said nothing, only snorting in reply.

"I think you're a prisoner," said Nalani. "Like me."

"What of it?" said Aabbappatathosphemet.

Nalani hesitated. Her body was trembling. Whatever she was talking to, it surely wasn't human. More likely some kind of spirit or goblin. Or something worse. It could be a servant of the Great Magician, ready to trick her...

"Perhaps it is time to kill you now," said Aabbappatathosphemet. "Shall I show you my claws?"

She sensed something large moving toward her in the dark tunnel, a slow shuffling of many feet.

"Wait," said Nalani. "Let me—let me help you. Let me set you free."

Again there was silence. At last, Aabbappatathosphemet spoke.

"Why would you do that for me?"

"Because you're suffering," said Nalani. "Like I'm suffering."

"I do not suffer," said Aabbappatathosphemet.

"Then why do you cry?" she asked.

Aabbappatathosphemet made no reply.

Nalani felt her heart thumping in her chest. Had she made a mistake? Insulted the creature somehow? Stupid, stupid girl, she thought to herself. This whole conversation is a mistake. Hadn't her mother told her that nothing good ever comes from conversing with otherworldly powers?

But I will not just surrender and die, thought Nalani.

The creature still did not speak. Was it going to kill her? Could it be creeping up on her right now, his wicked talons ready to strike...?

Push the offer and damn the consequences, thought Nalani.

Her body trembling, she took one step forward into the darkness, closer to the beast.

"Have you decided?" she asked. "Are we going to help each other, or not?"

The monster snorted.

"There is a room at the top of this mansion full of old books and other mortal vanities," said Aabbappatathosphemet, at last. "In this room you will find a bright and shiny silver bell. Ring the bell once, and I shall be released."

"How am I going to do that without getting captured?" asked Nalani.

"There are ways," said Aabbappatathosphemet. "Little bride, you are quite brave and foolish. Are you sure you want to do this?"

"My future options are regretfully limited, my dear husband."

"Very well," said Aabbappatathosphemet, almost certainly with a smile. "I shall transform you now into something quite small. A rat, perhaps? No, a mouse. A steadfast, little mouse. Once changed, you must go to the library at the top of the house, but take care to tread lightly, my beautiful, little Nalani. Do not resist now, this should only hurt a moment..."

She felt a tremendous, crushing hand, pushing down on the top of her head. The darkness turned to a brilliant, bright shade of purple, and Nalani was afraid. Her jaw unhinged and fell forward, elongating, sprouting whiskers. She felt her teeth shrinking, her hands and feet shriveling into tiny, pink claws. Something yanked the base of her spine and pulled out a smooth, wriggling tail, which twitched fearfully as she diminished in size.

Her tattered and muddy wedding gown crumpled into a murmuring heap on the tunnel floor, and she furtively crawled forth from its tarnished remains. There was fur all over her body now, short and brown, smooth and warm. Nalani wiggled her stubby, pale nose. Everything smelled, great waves of intoxicating stench that were somehow both repulsive and alluring.

She could sense Aabbappatathosphemet in the darkness, towering over her, trembling and smoking like a night-colored bonfire, a mass of blue and black flames. And he smelled like glorious corruption, like a rotten, burrowing and disintegrating foulness.

Nalani tried to speak but her mouth could form no words.

"Go, now," rumbled Aabbappatathosphemet. "Run, little mouse!"

Nalani quickly turned tail and ran. She scampered down the dark passage, back toward the flickering torchlight in the cellar of the Ninth Banker. For a moment she feared what would happen if she ran into any of the family, but the alcove at the end of the tunnel was empty.

However, the Ninth Banker and his brothers had left their stench behind. The tang of soft, old flesh, grunch nuts and sharp wine, mingled with the stink of harsh soap, onions and fried oysters, stale sweat, leather and cologne. Nalani followed the stench through the maze of winding, underground corridors. Eventually she discovered the spiral staircase, scurried her way up, squeezed underneath the secret door and found herself back in the pantry.

Her little heart was beating furiously.

Must be careful, she thought to herself. Must be quiet. Don't want to get stepped on. Don't want to get squashed under a tremendous, luxuriously sandaled-foot.

Skittering through the gigantic house, the proportions of somewhat familiar objects became frightening. Fancy chairs and tables, carved from expensive, exotic woods, became impassable mountains. Gold statuettes became brilliant, gleaming monuments. Fine rugs were like soft, rolling meadows of moss, stretching out in every direction for as far as the eye could see.

She kept to the secret, hidden places on the fringes of the house. The dark corners, the tight spaces between plush furniture and the marble walls. The places where the dust still lived and multiplied into dirty, cotton-like tufts.

In one of the drawing rooms Nalani saw the brothers gathered about an ornate, round table, playing cards and smoking their long-stemmed pipes. Greenish-gray smoke swirled around their sweaty foreheads, as they shuffled their cards and threw coins into a heaping pile in the center of the table. Only the old man was absent from the game, dozing in an enormous upholstered chair with his mouth hanging open, pink and dark.

Nalani crouched behind the tall, slender leg of a sideboard table, waiting for her moment to dash across the room undetected. The men ate monkey hands and the glazed wings of small birds, washing them down with prodigious gulps of fiery red wine and wiping their sticky fingers on the hems of their robes. A trick of the wobbling candlelight made it difficult to tell if the men were actually brothers at all, or just random demons in some hidden den of gluttony and vice.

The smell of the food was making her delirious. Her tiny stomach rumbled, her mouth watered, and for a desperate moment all she could think about was getting something, anything to eat. All of that hiding and running around on her tiny, little legs had worked up a punishing appetite. But even though she trembled with hunger, fear kept her firmly in place.

Her chance finally came when the brothers began to argue over a card, the six of wands or perhaps the eight of cups. There were accusations of cheating and the dealer took umbrage. Nalani suspected they were all cheating. So while the men all shouted and swore, the little mouse burst across the floor in a mad dash to complete her secret mission.

The rest of the mansion was gloomy and quiet. Candles flickered pitifully in ornate gold sconces, unable to compete with the luxuriousness of their surroundings. Through the marble corridors she crept, stopping every once and awhile to sniff the air, or let a haggard servant go stumbling past, arms full of laundry, or porcelain bowls of filth.

The young boy with the piccolo drifted by, arms drooping, head tilted indolently to the side. Before Nalani could hide, the boy noticed her and sprang quickly to life. He chased her down the hall, and cornered Nalani behind a potted lemon tree. Small, tender hands grabbed her and squeezed. Nalani twisted her neck to bite him, but the boy now had a firm, suffocating grip on her body, his thumbs pushing into her tiny throat.

He stared at Nalani for a moment, turning her around for a full inspection. Her tail thrashed madly and she gulped for breath. Then the young boy roughly rubbed his thumb over the top of her head.

"Shall we go play in my room?" he asked.

Holding her tightly, the young boy padded up the grand staircase to the second floor. He hurried to his room and furtively opened the door, checking to see if anyone was watching. Once inside, the young boy brought the little mouse to a table covered with various toys and dolls.

"If you bite me," said the young boy, "I will feed you to the one-eyed cat who lurks behind my house. Understand?"

Nalani debated whether or not to nod. Instead she decided to scrunch herself up into a small ball. The boy slowly took his hands off her.

"We're going to have some fun now, my friend," he said. "Hold still, this won't hurt."

He fiddled with a stack of colorful objects on the table, and selected from it a tiny, blue outfit. It was superbly tailored, with a little black leather belt and a silver buckle, a gleaming scabbard, gold epaulets, rows of historically accurate medals and insignias, and a miniature baton.

The boy grabbed Nalani and slowly wrestled her into the magnificent little uniform. She squirmed furiously, but it was no use. At the end, he shoved a tiny helmet onto her head, the chin strap cutting into her neck.

"Presenting First General Günter Von Crumbsplatt!" said the young boy. Then he blew a few hasty notes on his piccolo, a jittery fanfare.

"First General, the wolf troops are assembled! Shall we cleanse the Pearl Fortress of heathen scum today, my lord? Our blades will drink deep their pagan blood! Aye, no mercy! May Kara Kurbaga grow fat on their miserable Equations!"

The boy scooped up a handful of other dolls, all dressed in fine, military splendor, and proceeded to smash them together with brutal glee. The dying screamed horribly, as the mangled dead were tossed casually to the lower depths, their twisted bodies resting at last under the table. Nalani quivered with terror through it all, the helmet slipping down to cover her eyes.

"Victory!" said the boy at last, leaping up and knocking over his chair.

Panting, eyes gleaming, the young boy scurried across his room and reached for something on the top of his massive, gilded bureau.

"And now, a celebration! Cheese! Fresh cheese for General Von Crumbsplatt!"

He came close now, a small piece of fragrant white cheese between his fingers. Tenderly he presented it to her, waiting for the little mouse to come and pluck it from his generous hand. Nalani pulled the helmet off of her head, and sniffed. The scent of the cheese caused her stomach to grumble and her mind went dizzy.

She approached him cautiously, her nose quivering. Each inhalation brought further turmoil, and Nalani found herself leaning forward anxiously to nibble on the delicious, little chunk of cheese.

No, she thought to herself. No, no, no!

You are not a real mouse. You don't need any thrice-cursed cheese. You must escape!

Nalani bit the boy on his thumb and drew blood. The boy shouted, pulling his hand back, and Nalani jumped off the table and ran for the gap in the door. Then she scurried down the hallway toward another staircase, one that surely must lead up to the mysterious third floor.

The young boy charged out of his room, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks, his mouth twisted into an angry snarl. He stomped after her, up the stairs, into a darkened chamber at the top of the house. Nalani glimpsed a faint, ghostly light coming from behind a heavy door, and wriggled underneath it, her toy uniform popping apart.

The room was dark, except for the gleaming flame of a single purple candle, which stood beside a small silver bell atop a tall workbench. In the pale candlelight she saw other items on the work bench; large books and scrolls, glass jars, an assortment of odd, small objects with dubious and malevolent purposes.

The young boy pounded his fist against the door, a pitiful, muffled sound.

"You're not allowed in there," he said. "You're not allowed!"

Nalani determined that the door must be locked, and ignored his feeble protests.

Up the leg of the workbench she scampered, through the bottles and over the pieces of rough parchment, covered with strange, repeating numbers, until she stood before the silver bell in the flickering light of the purple candle. She could see herself reflected in the bright, shiny metal of the silver bell, a distorted, furry little creature with beady eyes and a quivering mouth.

Is that really me? she wondered.

Nalani reached out to touch her reflection, then hesitated.

Instead she quickly rubbed her paws over her face and whiskers. Then, pushing her entire tiny body up against the silver bell, she managed to budge it just enough to send it toppling off the workbench. The silver bell floated through the darkness for a moment like a heavy, furious star, then fell onto the floor with a small, dull clang.

And the world was plunged into a perfect purple darkness.

For a moment, all was cold silence.

Then there was a tremendous rumbling sound. The mansion began to tremble and shake. The floor jumped and the walls shuddered. Everywhere Nalani heard the sounds of things breaking, snapping, and crashing. There was nowhere to hide. Total disaster was imminent.

But then the quaking stopped, and everything was quiet again. The riotous explosion of purple light slowly faded away, leaving only the washed out darkness of a common night in its place. The mansion did not stir.

In the darkness Nalani could feel her legs again, the abundance of her fingers, and the chilly smoothness of the table top on her naked bottom. Carefully she tiptoed across the room, being mindful of the silver bell, and felt her way to the massive door. The key turned easily and the door swung open.

In the hallway the torches sputtered. There was no destruction to witness, everything was unmoved. The urns and the potted plants, the paintings and small tables covered with busts and flower vases were all perfectly in their places, apparently unmolested by the powerful tremors.

The young boy was utterly gone. A large, dark smear of blood hissed and bubbled on the marble floor where perhaps he had just been standing moments before. At the far end of the corridor Nalani saw a head on the floor that belonged to one of the servants.

She shivered and turned away from it.

Standing beside her was Aabbappatathosphemet.

Something not quite like a man, not quite like a pig. Far too tall, the top of his head brushing up against the ceiling, and far too many eyes, too many appendages altogether, in fact, with a darkly purple flesh that smoldered and smoked.

"It feels good to stretch my legs," said Aabbappatathosphemet, with a pleasant grin.

Nalani could only nod.

"Tell me, my clever girl, how would you like to be my Queen?" he asked.

Aabbappatathosphemet regarded her with his many unblinking eyes.

"No," she said. "No, thank you."

Aabbappatathosphemet grinned again.

"You must be rewarded for your courage, my dear. How about this? Come closer, have a look."

He held toward her two of his bloated fists, and unfurled them to reveal a pile of glimmering jewels.

"Rubies, my dear. Emeralds and sapphires! All yours for the taking. Go on now, take them. Take them all and be merry."

The precious stones gleamed in the purple palms of the mighty Aabbappatathosphemet. Nalani stared at the shiny jewels and wondered if they were the insides of the young boy and all the other people from the mansion. The spleen of the Ninth Banker, the entrails of his brothers, the livers and hearts of the poor servants...

"Your skin is purple," said Nalani, beginning to tremble.

"Of course."

"Are you the Great Magician?" she asked.

"Me? Thankfully not! I am only his servant, my dear. We are all His servants around here, whether we know it or not, hmm?"

"Are you going to corrupt me?" asked Nalani.

"Should I?" asked Aabbappatathosphemet.

Nalani shook her head, no.

"Then I shall not," said Aabbappatathosphemet, with a flourish of his mighty hands.

"Are we all doomed now?" she asked.

"Most of you," said Aabbappatathosphemet, with an indifferent shrug. "The fortunate ones will die early, for sure. You see, Nalani, the Vigil has been Extinguished, and now the Wheel of Transformation is back in Motion. Consequences are afoot! The Hidden Hand will open the Door, from which the Divine Wind will Howl. Surely, my dear, sweet Nalani, you knew this was going to happen, when you first proposed to set me loose?"

Did I? she wondered.

"Do you cry for Gizli Sehir?" asked Aabbappatathosphemet.

Nalani hesitated.

No, thought Nalani. No, Kara Kurbaga help me, I don't cry for them at all.

What has happened to me? Have I been tricked? No, I was forced into this position. There was nothing else to be done. No other alternative...

Let them all burn. Good riddance...

Right?

Yes, surely...

Nalani shivered, rubbing her fingertips over the goose bumps on her arms. A tapestry hanging on the wall caught her eye, full of leaping tigers and other strange beasts, and Nalani pulled it down and wrapped it around her naked, trembling body. The rough fabric scratched her skin, but warmth came slowly, from the outside to her core.

"Goodbye, Aabbappatathosphemet," she said. "I really must be going now."

"Going?" asked Aabbappatathosphemet, smiling again. "Going where?"

"A boat ride, perhaps?" said Nalani. "Somewhere very far away..."

"Splendid, my dear. Best of luck."

And so Nalani glided through the empty, blood-stained hallways of the marble mansion, down the flowing stairs and out through the mighty door, out into the crowded, hustling streets of the city of Gizli Sehir, where she disappeared into the swirling, bursting faces and quickly vanished from sight.

Down in the harbor, the tall ships slept restlessly, eager to leave at the first light of dawn.
The Stain

The Eleventh Fuller examined the dark, pernicious stain, and rubbed his thumbs across the soft fabric. It still had not come out. All of his tricks, all of his treatments, the long hours spent stamping and beating the robe, none of it had worked. The Fourth Mathematician was going to be displeased.

Again, Klemzo wondered just what, exactly, had created the stain in the first place. It was not wine, nor blood, nor grease or dung. It was suspiciously toned, near black and yet, when studied closely, under probing lights, the stain appeared to be almost purple in color.

Which was ridiculous, of course.

There was some other explanation for what it was, something as yet out of the realm of his experience. His wife, Ephelba, had a violent dislike of the stain, and urged Klemzo to inform on the Fourth Mathematician immediately. In her opinion, only the Inquisitors were capable of dealing with the sinister smudge now.

But, no. First of all, the Fourth Mathematician was a good customer. A repeat customer, who always paid his bill on time and tipped very generously. He could take his dirty robes to any fuller in the city, even the First Fuller, probably, if he really wanted to. But the Fourth Mathematician appreciated Klemzo's hard work, his remarkable skill with the wire comb and iron press.

He would not betray the man's loyalty over something as pitiful as a stubborn spot on an expensive robe. It was shameful, even scornful, to be afraid of the little smudge. In fact, the uncertain color of the stain was unimportant. What mattered was fulfilling his obligation as a fuller to remove it, once and for all.

If he failed at this, then all was lost. His reputation would be forever marked. Penalties and fines would be levied, and his business would surely suffer. More seriously, he would disappoint a man whom he considered a friend, even if they never really socialized beyond the walls of his own fullery, discussing in lofty terms the general, harmless topics of the day.

It was no secret that the Fourth Mathematician had been on edge since the tragic death of his wife at the hands of a deranged fanatic.

So why should he cause the man more aggravation?

Klemzo appreciated the fact that in this life, his position was to perform the common drudgeries of greater men, so that they may focus on the more essential matters of existence. Like, whatever it was Mathematicians actually did.

After putting the stained robe safely away in a hidden basket, Klemzo made his way to his apartment above the fullery and opened his safe. He removed a fair number of gold coins, and then pulled out a few extra, just in case. Better to not be caught short.

Ephelba was in the yard, hanging robes and linens to dry with a couple of their apprentices. One of them he did not recognize. In the distance there was the Red Volcano, blowing a lazy plume of smoke up into the sky.

"Who is this?" Klemzo asked, pointing toward a scrawny boy.

"Name be Rufus," she said. "Replacement for Gerta. Stabbed by her husband last night. Dead as can be. They say he snapped, dreaming about them horrible numbers again."

Klemzo grunted, then frowned.

Lots of people were dreaming about those strange numbers. They complained of a chaotic splattering of ones and zeroes, swirling about in their minds, trying to coalesce into some kind of unknown pattern or formula.

Some of these dreamers went spectacularly mad, throwing themselves off the Black Cliffs, or worse, attacking good citizens in the streets with cleavers and sharp knives. The Grand Inquisitor was looking into the matter, promising a solution soon.

Couple that with all the recent tremors and rumbles from the Red Volcano, including a particularly sharp one last night, and it was difficult to keep fear from bubbling and boiling in the thoughts of every good citizen in the city.

"You're brushing too hard," Klemzo said to the boy. "Like this, this, gently, see?"

Rufus nodded, and went back to work.

"I'm going to the market today," said Klemzo. "To find some ozel kir."

Ephelba's eyes went wide.

"Foolish husband," she said. "There be no more ozel kir in this world. Ye'd have better luck catching moonbeams with a butterfly net."

Klemzo bristled. He took his wife by the arm and led her away from Rufus and the others.

"Do not contradict me in front of the apprentices," he said.

"Ye be wasting yer time on that blasted stain" said Ephelba. "It will never come out. Like a damned mark of evil it be."

"Nonsense," said Klemzo. "It's just a blot. Nothing some good elbow grease and the right materials won't scrub out."

"Be careful, Klemzo. Something bad be brewing, ye mark me words."

The streets of Gizli Sehir were packed, good citizens wearing hostile or worried expressions, hurrying to and fro with desperate urgency. People dropped packages, cursed at their fortunes, or dashed into the street before swerving rickshaws, shaking their clenched fists. It seemed like the entire city was consumed with a terrible, nervous energy, quivering and uncoiling like snakes in a dark hole filling up with rain.

I could use a grunch nut, Klemzo thought to himself, as he pushed and shoved his way toward the Marketplace. Sour and soft, juicy and bitter. Fiddling with the tiny pieces of broken shells. Yes, thought Klemzo, I'll buy a bag of them on the way home, even if they do turn my fingers red.

At the Marketplace Klemzo was surprised to discover that many of the vendors were absent, their booths empty and bare. Mostly it seemed as if the foreigners had gone, the Dragostanis, some of the Island people, a few farmers from the Alfalfa Collective.

Not a big loss, a shifty bunch of thieves and perverts, anyway. Still, the market seemed even more subdued for their absence, and Klemzo noticed that several of the local merchants were talking urgently amongst themselves while gesturing to the empty stalls.

"Good morning, Jamal," he said to the tall man behind his cluttered tables of pots, bowls and jars. "But what is this? Surely you're not leaving us as well?"

"Aah, Klemzo, my good friend," said Jamal, shaking his hand. "Yes, yes, I have been called back home on a very urgent matter, and alas, I must go at once."

"Of course," said Klemzo.

Jamal barked a few word in a strange language to his son, while gesturing toward a large pile of bamboo baskets. Ibi mumbled some reply, and began to nest the baskets together for easier transport.

"Well," said Klemzo, "I'm sorry to see you go."

"And I am sorry we must be parted," said Jamal, with a flourish of his hand.

"Before you leave, my friend, do you happen to have any ozel kir?"

Jamal looked at him coolly, then nodded. He held up one finger, then ducked below his table and rummaged through a small pile of trunks and locked boxes. At last he pulled one out, selected a key from amongst many on a silver chain, and opened up the case.

His son stopped tossing baskets and moved in for a closer look. Inside the case was a folded cloth, which Jamal proceeded to unwrap slowly and with a whiff of ceremony. At last a small, phosphorescent blue lump of soft putty was revealed.

"From the far off mountains of Uzuhar," said Jamal. "A fortuitous combination of prehistoric sludge and precious minerals, fortified by the crystal blue tears of the lonely Moon Maiden, who cries out to the heavens on her ivory throne. Very potent, and very rare. They say ozel kir can remove any stain known to man, and many others that are not..."

"Spare me the sales pitch, Jamal," said Klemzo. "We both know it's just a lump of clay."

Ibi could not resist trying to touch the ozel kir. Jamal swatted the boy's foolish young hand away. For his insolence, he was sent back to stacking baskets.

Klemzo leaned forward and sniffed. It certainly smelled like ozel kir, a pungent mixture of flower blossoms and rotten vegetables. And the color was right...although it had been a long time since he had seen it last. That was many years ago, when he was an apprentice working for the belligerent, old Sixth Fuller.

A price was asked, haggled, and settled.

Klemzo handed over the pouch of gold coins. Jamal wrapped up the precious lump, locked the box and handed Klemzo the key. For a moment, he held onto Klemzo's hand.

"My friend," he began, then paused. "Perhaps it would be better for your health if you moved away from this place. Immediately. Take your wife and find another home somewhere safer..."

Klemzo was astonished. He wanted to laugh, but then he realized that Jamal was being absolutely serious. The merchant leaned in closer and whispered in his ear.

"They say the Door is going to Open, Klemzo. They say He is coming..."

Klemzo shivered for a moment.

He?

The Great Magician?

Coming at last?

"Look at the signs, my friend. Bad numbers. Nightmares and visions. Heretics springing up like vipers. Not to mention that great purple beast in the bay..."

Klemzo patted Jamal on the shoulder and broke away.

"I will consider your advice," he said. "But first, the laundry. Always the laundry, Jamal."

He smiled, and Jamal smiled weakly in return. He gave Klemzo a short nod, then turned to berate his son for his willful sloppiness and sour attitude. Klemzo clutched the wooden box, inside which rested his secret weapon against the stain. Or so he hoped.

Cloudy thoughts muddled his mind as he walked back to the fullery. Jamal was a practical man, and it was disconcerting to see him surrendering to...to what, exactly? To fear? To religious mania?

The Opening of the Door.

Well, that was just a story, wasn't it?

These vague, theological predictions annoyed him. Surely, whatever was going on, the Grand Inquisitor would protect them. And if not him, then Kara Kurbaga would shelter his children from the coming storm in his gigantic frog mouth.

If there even _was_ a coming storm.

It troubled Klemzo that he couldn't remember the last time he had actually made an offering to Kara Kurbaga. Could it really be as long ago as last winter? Well, he'd make sure to attend to it, right after this business with the Mathematician's robe was finished.

He picked up a bag of hot, roasted grunch nuts from a sidewalk vender. The iron pans sizzled and steamed on the vendor's little cart. After handing over his coins, Klemzo pulled out one of the grunch nuts and cracked it open against the side of the cart.

The roasted nut flesh was almost too hot to touch, but he eagerly plopped a few tingling pieces of it into greedy mouth. Chewing happily, he walked down the rest of the street feeling the warm rush of the juices throughout his body, down into his toes.

Turning the corner, he walked another block before he began to feel strangely dizzy. Disoriented and nauseous, he leaned up against a wall for a moment, staring down at the slimy cobblestones in the street and trying to catch his breath.

How odd...had he eaten too quickly?

From the corner of his eye he noticed other good citizens looking both queasy and confused. There were frightened murmurings and curses, nervous glances and frowns. And then Klemzo heard the screams, far away at first, coming closer as other voices shouted or shrieked in alarm.

Heads turned upward, and fingers pointed. Klemzo followed their gaze and looked.

A great and terrible mass of dark, roiling purple clouds were galloping across the sky, swallowing the blue heavens and blotting out the sun. They charged rapidly and soon all above was purple, deep purple with no end in sight, a monstrous, smothering, heavy purple miasma spreading outward in every direction.

A sharp gust of wind clawed through the city, whispering a mighty invocation...

Zero one zero zero one one zero one, it sighed.

The good citizens panicked and began to run. The streets were an explosion of fear and chaos, as frightened bodies pushed passed Klemzo, pushing him up against the wall. Their mad rush thundered in his ears like a stampede of animals, and he was amazed to see abandoned sandals and bloody footprints in the street.

Klemzo stared up at the new purple sky and trembled. It was changed, thoroughly changed forever more. Already the light was different now, a lavender sort of twilight that cast strange shadows and conjured up fearful shapes.

The nausea had passed, and Klemzo trotted down the street, trying not to listen to the cries and yelps of terror coming from all sides. He heard crashing sounds, windows slamming shut, the clatter of a seafood cart being knocked over, spilling fresh white squids and slithery eels all over the street.

Thoughts tumbled through his mind, over and over again. He had to get home. Right away. He had to get home right away, get to safety and find his wife.

Turning the corner he discovered that he was lost.

No, not lost.

He knew the way back to the fullery. He had been headed in the right direction.

But something had changed. Things were different now.

The street was totally different. Unrecognizable. The apartments, the little shops, all of them were not supposed to be here. They belonged on some other street, not this one.

This street, Mollusk Street, was supposed to have a goulash bar. And a cobbler. There was supposed to be this slender row house, with light blue shutters and a green door, wedged in-between those two old apartment buildings...but they were all gone now. All of it.

This new street was alien to him. He stumbled through it, hoping to find Pilchard Avenue at the corner, and was dismayed to see yet another unfamiliar block of scenery spiraling out before him. That sign was not supposed to be there. And that tea shop belonged somewhere else.

He ran past them all, one street to the next, confused and full of despair. His city was a jumble now. Rearranged, like a puzzle, into a million broken pieces, tossed together haphazardly by a madman.

No, not by a madman. By the Great Magician...

The Door was Open.

Terrible transformations were coming...

He fell and scraped his knee. A man shook him, shouting gibberish. In the distance, he thought he saw a tremendous fire, but the color of the smoke and the flames were all wrong. The good citizens in the street wailed around him, all of them lost, all of them searching for something familiar.

A squad of Inquisitors ran past him, boots pounding the street, waving their clubs. Klemzo had no idea where they were going, perhaps they didn't either. He clutched the wooden box of ozel kir closer to his chest and hurried onward, because sheltering in place seemed like a poor option. It didn't matter where he was going, Klemzo was simply running now, running to get away from the horror unfolding all around him.

Through a dark, narrow alley he thought he glimpsed the front of a familiar building, and with a quick breath, he charged into it. The alley seemed to become more narrow as he progressed, the damp walls brushing up against his arms. The further edge seemed to be shrinking, collapsing, and Klemzo turned his body sideways like a crab and desperately shuffled through.

He was back home. Before him stood the fullery, silent and dark. No one was about. The entire street seemed deserted. Where had all the people gone?

Did they flee?

Were they in hiding?

Maybe...something got to them...?

He heard a tiny crash and a snort, just down at the end of the block. Klemzo dashed across the empty street and up to the front door, which he noticed was ajar.

The inside of the fullery was dark. The lanterns stood mute, extinguished. There was no sign of his apprentices, or his wife. Every post had been deserted. Soggy clothing floated in the abandoned wash tubs. Broken jars of powder and wire brushes were scattered about the floor, amongst heaps of linen in haphazard piles. Part of a fancy robe was sticking out of the large iron press, like an exhausted, wilted leaf.

"Ephelba?" Klemzo called out nervously.

There was someone in the yard out back. Laying on the ground, perhaps staring up at the sky. When Klemzo crept closer to look, he saw it was the boy, the new apprentice from earlier this morning.

What was his name again?

It didn't really matter now, because the boy was clearly dead. His skin was cold to the touch, his eyes open wide and frightened. Klemzo could find no marks on the body, no outward sign or clue revealing how he had expired.

A loathsome purple fly crawled out of the boy's nose.

"All hail the Great Magician!" it said.

Klemzo fell backward, and ran quickly into the fullery.

Somewhere water was dripping. Shadows danced and slithered. He felt his heart thudding in his chest, his sweaty hands still gripping the wooden box. He gazed around the fullery, not really certain just what he was looking for.

Upstairs there was a crash. Then, all was quiet.

Perhaps that was Ephelba up there, thought Klemzo. She is hiding. She's too scared to come out.

"Ephelba?" he said again.

There was no reply.

Klemzo grabbed a washing bat with one hand and inched up the staircase, one creaking step at a time. There were no further sounds from the apartment, and Klemzo began to consider just turning around and going back downstairs.

But at the top of the steps, in the dim room down at the end of the hall, Klemzo could see a cloaked figure, crouching furtively behind his bed.

Klemzo lifted up the bat, clutching his wooden box tight.

"Who goes there?" he asked the darkness.

There was a fearful pause.

"Klemzo?" asked a voice. "Is that you?"

"Master Skeck?"

The cloaked figure raised up off the floor, hands spread apart. A hood shadowed his face.

"Yes, it is I," said the Fourth Mathematician. "I was...I was looking for my robe."

"It's not ready yet," said Klemzo.

"Oh," said the Fourth Mathematician. "Pity. I could certainly use it now."

Klemzo studied the man more carefully. Something strange was going on with Ivo Skeck, but whatever it was, he couldn't tell. The light was tricky, and made conclusions difficult to reach.

"Is that a purple cloak you are wearing?" he asked the Fourth Mathematician.

"Is it? Yes, I suppose it would be, ha, of course. A chameleon indeed!"

The Fourth Mathematician laughed desperately, and wrung his pale hands together.

"It wasn't meant to happen this way," he said. "The Nigh-Impossible Contraption was our perfect weapon against the Great Magician. After we opened the Door and shoved it through, well, that was supposed to be the End of Him. But, ah, I guess we made a miscalculation. A slight error. Or maybe a series of errors. Too many variables, I can see that now. Too many unknowns."

"What are you talking about?" asked Klemzo. "Who opened the Door?"

"Do you have anything else I can wear? Please?"

Klemzo nodded, and gestured toward a wardrobe in the corner. The Fourth Mathematician rummaged inside until he pulled out a plain, fraying robe of white cloth. He looked hesitantly at Klemzo, then quickly stripped off his cloak.

His flesh was lavender, and covered with boils. There was a lazy, gooey eyeball sprouting from between his shoulder blades. A small leg, with a tiny webbed foot at the end, was growing out of his stomach.

"I know it looks bad," said the Fourth Mathematician. "But really, it's not a big deal."

He slithered into the old robe, and ran his fingers through his unruly white hair.

"Much better," said the Fourth Mathematician. "Now, it's time for us to escape, Klemzo."

"Escape to where? The whole city has gone mad."

"Off the island," said the Fourth Mathematician. "We must find a boat, and sail away."

"But—my wife..." said Klemzo.

"We'll look for her along the way, I promise."

Klemzo adjusted his grip on the handle of the washing bat. It felt very heavy in his hand.

"So you are responsible for all this?" he asked.

"We were just trying to protect our city..." said the Fourth Mathematician.

"Surely, the Grand Inquisitor—"

"The Grand Inquisitor is dead," said the Fourth Mathematician. "Listen to me, Klemzo. This is just the beginning. Worse things are coming. If the corruption should spread—! That is why we must go, quickly, if we wish to survive. Come now, come..."

The Fourth Mathematician shuffled to the staircase and gestured for Klemzo to follow. Klemzo looked about the disheveled room. This was his whole life. The apartment, the fullery below. The iron press, the basins, the bags of washing minerals and brushes.

They had purchased it with Ephelba's dowry from the venerable Thirteenth Fuller. Klemzo scrubbed the old wash basins until his hands were red, while she painted the walls with comical figures drinking wine and hanging linens to dry. Kara Kurbaga had not seen fit to provide them with a child, so the fullery was all they had. To leave it all behind was almost too painful to even consider.

But Ephelba was gone. Her small mirror lay broken on the floor. Next to it was a pair of scissors. She must have fled, she must have run in terror for her life. But why? What had happened? Conjuring forth the image of Ephelba, fleeing, helpless, afraid—it was a thought that pierced his trembling heart.

She was out there somewhere, in those mad streets...

He would find her.

"Klemzo, we must hurry," said the Fourth Mathematician. "Look for signs of the harbor. The tall masts, the great sails. If we can make our way to the harbor, then we can escape."

"Why should I help you?" he asked.

"I have no other friends to turn to. Please, you must help me, Klemzo, I know you are a good man. We're friends, are we not, Klemzo? A good man helps his friends..."

Klemzo regarded him coldly. It was tempting to strike him with the washing bat.

"Can you fix all this?" asked Klemzo. "Undo this madness?"

The Fourth Mathematician blinked. Then he tried to smile, his lips wriggling like worms.

"It may be possible, yes, there are promising formulas, theoretical machines that can alter the flow of time, very dangerous, but Klemzo, I swear to you, I will do everything in my power to correct this horrible predicament. Oh yes, yes, but safety first, my friend..."

Once Klemzo and the Fourth Mathematician had left their familiar street, they were plunged again into the nonsensical, disorienting maze of boulevards and avenues. Known landmarks would insidiously appear, yet always in the wrong place. And occasionally the men would catch a fleeting glimpse of the harbor, before it vanished again in the nightmare cityscape.

Meanwhile the sky was curdling into a darker shade of purple. Flames and strange smoke could been seen in the distance, over the silhouettes of rooftops and minarets. Screams of fright and random bursts of angry shouting carried through the city. Somewhere a flute played a deranged little tune. But worst of all were the faint, sinister whisperings that came from every direction, repeating those horrible numbers over and over again.

Klemzo did not want to think about the numbers...

And so they traveled for many blocks, becoming further lost and making no progress at all.

"Ephelba!" Klemzo would cry out. "Ephelba, I am here!"

"Please don't do that," said the Fourth Mathematician, clutching Klemzo's robe. "We don't want to draw any unwanted attention to ourselves, do we?"

"Shut up," said Klemzo. "If you don't like it, go along on your own."

"Forgive me," said the Fourth Mathematician. "Safer to travel together, of course."

Klemzo sighed. Was it madness to think he could find Ephelba in this catastrophe? One little Equation among many?

The wooden box slipped from his grasp and fell to the cobblestones. As he picked it up, Klemzo wondered why he still bothered to carry it. And yet he wedged the box firmly under his arm as the Fourth Mathematician pulled him to the next street, which led into a courtyard with a small fountain.

"There's one of the bastards," shouted a voice. "Arrest that man!"

The Fourth Mathematician shrieked.

A group of Inquisitors were charging toward them, clubs raised, with fury in their movements. They surrounded the Fourth Mathematician and pummeled him to the ground. One of the Inquisitors struck Klemzo over the head with his club and he crumpled, dropping the wooden box.

"Mercy!" howled the Fourth Mathematician.

"We trusted you," said one the Inquisitors.

"You mathematicians have doomed us all," said another.

"Ugh," said a third Inquisitor. "He's been corrupted. Look!"

The gathered Inquisitors stripped the Fourth Mathematician of his robe, revealing his naked and deformed body to all. Klemzo looked, and saw even more lolling eyeballs and shriveled limbs had sprung forth from the cold flesh of the Fourth Mathematician.

"Vouch for me, Klemzo," he said. "Vouch for me!"

The Inquisitors turned their masked gaze toward Klemzo. He shivered, his head throbbed, and blood ran down behind his right ear.

"I—I cannot," said Klemzo, at last.

"Kill them both," said one of the Inquisitors, waving his club.

"What about justice?" asked another Inquisitor. "A trial for their crimes?"

A large Inquisitor stepped forward, holding a bloody scimitar.

"I will show you justice," he said.

"No! No, no no!" said the Fourth Mathematician.

The gathered Inquisitors seized the man and dragged him toward the waiting blade. Another was reaching for Klemzo, grabbing his sleeve, pulling—

A cacophonous trilling filled the air. Everyone in the courtyard felt a heavy shadow fall over them, and looked up. In the sky was a gigantic, floating monstrosity; a tremendous, bloated, darkly purple mountain of a creature with tendrils and stalks, fangs and claws. It hovered above them, squawking mindlessly and screeching.

The Inquisitors shouted in alarm, some fell to their knees. In the confusion, Klemzo grabbed his wooden box, and quickly ran away.

Ephelba, he thought. My sweet Ephelba, I must find you before the world ends!

But where could she have gone? Her parents were dead, her sister fled to the Alfalfa Collective years ago...there was a cousin who lived near the Obelisk, but no, she never liked him. Perhaps she had gone to the Temple of Kara Kurbaga?

Yes, it was as good a place as any to look. He just had to look for the great, golden dome, such an easy feature to spot in the sprawling cityscape.

But the treacherous streets continued to thwart him. He passed odd tableaus of violence, panic and desperation. Bodies leaping out of windows. Groups of people carrying wounded individuals like sacks of heavy flour. Children crying. All to the piping of that sinister flute which continued to play with increasing speed and excitement, a frenzy of disturbing sounds.

In the shadows and underfoot he saw frightful forms, snouts, fish heads and hooves. The cries of human beings were joined by other sounds now, grunts and squeals, giggling howls and always the low, insidious whispering of those terrible numbers, over and over again, ones and zeroes...

"Ephelba!" he would call out.

"I am here," he heard her reply.

But Klemzo could not see her.

He called out to her again.

"Husband, where are you? I am frightened!"

"Ephelba, I am coming!"

"Help me, Klemzo! Help me..."

He stumbled in every direction, rooftops swirling overhead, darkness reaching.

Her words grew thin and became like the cries of a ghost. At last they disappeared like tattered paper in the wind.

Quite suddenly Klemzo found himself standing before the Temple of Kara Kurbaga. The temple, too, seemed strangely empty. Outside there were crushed flowers and tiny gongs laying in the street, along with trampled fruit breads and prayer beads. A vendor's box of lucky trinkets had been knocked the ground, covering the courtyard with little animal paws and ceremonial brass coins.

Inside the Temple, the colossal statue of Kara Kurbaga had been cracked in half. The top part had fallen to the temple floor, crushing several monks beneath it. Klemzo saw their bloody, rigid arms and legs protruding from underneath the broken piece of the heavy idol. Kara Kurbaga's gigantic frog mouth was still gaping open, but perhaps it was now in indignant agony, or even impotent helplessness.

Cavorting about the temple was a pack of horrible, purple pig beasts that appeared to be some blasphemous mixture of both man and swine.

"Greetings, fleshy one!" said one of the pig beasts.

"Greetings, Klemzo the Eleventh Fuller," said another pig beast.

"All hail the Great Magician," said a third, his snout covered with gore.

The pig beasts quickly surrounded him, closing in on every side.

"Your wife is doomed," said one.

"You will never find her," said another.

"Have you seen her?" asked Klemzo. "Do you know where she is?"

"She is a tadpole now, a starfish, a slug covered with slime..."

The pig beasts all barked, a burst of horrible, grunting guffaws.

"Tell us, what's in the box, Klemzo?" asked one of the pig beasts.

"Is it special? Is it precious?" asked another.

Klemzo nearly fainted. Up close, the pig beasts were even more horrific, covered with eyeballs and stunted limbs, their snouts smeared with blood, their ghastly, fetid breath curdling the very air with its foulness. He was suddenly reminded of the Fourth Mathematician, and he shuddered.

They began to paw the box away from him, their sharp claws digging into his flesh. Klemzo tried to hug the box closer to his chest, but it was no use. The pig beasts knocked it out of his grip, and the wooden box fell to the floor. When it stuck the ground, the lid burst open, spilling out the luminous blue lump of mysterious clay.

"Ozel kir!" shrieked one of the pig beasts, covering his eyes.

"Oh! Oh! Ozel kir!" shrieked the others, quickly turning away.

The foul pig creatures scattered in every direction, snorting and squealing in frightful agony.

Klemzo listened to them clomp rapidly out of the temple, and away into the street. He could hear his own breathing then, his heart thumping, and his hands shook as they gathered up the lump of ozel kir and placed it back inside the wooden box.

He stared at the ozel kir for a moment, glowing softly blue, and peered into its tranquil phosphorescence for some clue or sign that would reveal its secret intentions. But no further insights were gained.

There was a shuffling noise nearby and Klemzo quickly shut the lid.

"Who's there?" he asked. "More monsters?"

From the shadows crept a worried man, soon followed by others, all of them bedraggled and covered with grime. Their faces were pinched with fear, their movements nervous and uncertain.

"You drove them away," said the man.

"Did I?" asked Klemzo.

"Please help us," said the man. "Please lead us out of here."

A woman holding a baby in her arms approached him.

"Please, Master Fuller, lead us to safety with your magic box, won't you?"

Klemzo considered for a moment.

"All right," he said. "Stay together. Follow me."

They skulked out of the ruined temple, Klemzo and about a dozen others, treading carefully across the courtyard. The corpulent floating monstrosity could be seen in the distance, still gurgling and shimmering, as purple jets of fire gushed forth from its many horrible mouths and burned the city.

The good citizens trembled and gasped, covering their ears and wailing. Klemzo urged them forward, told them to look for the masts of the tall ships. Purple flames and shadows danced and flickered over the buildings, melting the city into dark, smoldering block of hostile slag.

The Great Magician summoned his corrupted legions to stop the little group. There were gurgling sturgeons nipping their ankles, and leathery bats plucking at their ears. The pig beasts and the eloquent dogs charged forth from the dark corners to grab the unwary, gnashing their teeth and brandishing their sharp and terrible claws.

But each time the creatures approached, Klemzo would open the lid of his box and the ozel kir would be revealed.

"Ozel kir!" cursed the horrible beasts, as they flapped away in terror.

Klemzo decided not question the exact nature of the ozel kir, or how it functioned. He accepted its mystery, and put the object to good use.

And so it went, street by street. Klemzo led the good citizens through the purple chaos of the Great Magician, and as they traveled, others joined them, until the group was over one hundred strong. Many of the Inquisitors, upon seeing the group, threw away their fearful gold masks and their bloodied clubs, and slipped quietly into the growing throng.

At last they found the harbor, where the fishermen were waiting in their humble boats.

"Will you take these people to sanctuary?" Klemzo asked the gathered fishermen.

"Aye, we would," said one of the fisherman. "But the waters are full of purple sea monsters, all manner of tentacles and sharp beaks, long teeth like harpoons, and they conspire to drag us down to a watery death. It is quite impossible to cross this hostile ocean, Master Fuller."

Klemzo looked, and saw that the waves did indeed churn and boil with many frightful leviathans. And the dark clouds above the ocean swelled with fire and thundered.

"Do you have any lanterns?" he asked the fishermen. When they nodded, he ordered them to bring them forth.

Klemzo tore a small piece from the lump of ozel kir and placed it inside the first lantern. It began to glow a brilliant blue, illuminating their curious faces.

"Hurry, now," he said. "Into the boat."

"Is this really going to work?" asked one of the incredulous fishermen.

"It should," said Klemzo, and the good citizens behind him shouted their encouragement.

Once the first boat was loaded with anxious passengers, the fisherman pushed away from the dock and bobbled forth into the unruly sea. Immediately the tentacled beasts moved toward the little ship, and the good citizens onboard began to shout and scream. But once the monsters reached the piercing light of the ozel kir from the prow, they wriggled furiously and disappeared below the waves.

A great cheer went up, and the other boats were quickly loaded with people. Klemzo gave each fisherman a chunk of the ozel kir to take with him, to ward off the purple abominations that were eager for their blood.

One by one the little ships left the dock, and the lump of ozel kir became smaller and smaller, until there was only a tiny piece left, the size of a pea.

The last boat was ready to depart. There was just enough room left for Klemzo to board. The good citizens urged him on, waving their hands and calling to him. The deck was full of people; Cobblers and Scribes, Preservationists and Florists, Butchers, Servants, Apprentices and Rickshaw drivers. Babies, mothers, little girls and boys. Men who had glimpsed into the abyss.

But Ephelba was not among them. Nor had she been on any of the other boats that left before. She was somewhere back in the city, alone, perhaps hurt or in danger...

"You go on ahead," Klemzo said to them. "Perhaps I will see you later."

They cried out in dismay and begged him to board the ship. Klemzo only shook his head, and smiled weakly. He did not watch the final boat as it sailed away, a hazy, shimmering sapphire dot that vanished into the swirling, purple night.

In the palm of his dirty hand he held the last, insignificant piece of luminescent blue ozel kir. He carried it before him, like a torch or a beacon, and walked back into the burning city to find his magnificent love.
Chrysalis

The stranger arrived late in the morning. A heavy coat hung on his shoulders, nearly touching the ground. His fur hat was brown, his whiskers white and closely cropped. Under his arm he held a small package, flat, rectangular, wrapped in plain brown paper.

Sasha could not focus on her geometry lesson, knowing that the stranger was downstairs in the parlor, talking with her great aunt Lucia. She had glimpsed the stranger from the top of the landing, and he looked up at her, his lips thin and frowning. He seemed to know her great aunt well enough, although she certainly seemed surprised to see him.

Their muted voices drifted upward to the second floor, where she struggled with isosceles triangles and other annoying shapes, six and eight and twelve-sided monstrosities with vexing angles. At least the rectangle was sensible enough to look like a door.

Sasha struggled to hear what they were talking about, but it was no use. They did not laugh, or raise their voices, and Sasha wondered if their conversation concerned very serious things. The tutor, observing her distracted behavior, threatened to withhold Sasha's afternoon tea break if she didn't focus on the problems at hand.

And so the sunlight crept slowly across the room, and the hours dragged. She heard the heavy front door being opened, and her great aunt bidding the old stranger farewell. Moments later a carriage wobbled away from the house, to the steady clip clop of hoof beats. From the swish of her dress and the creaking of floorboards, Sasha knew her great aunt had returned to the parlor.

Tea time finally arrived and Sasha shot down the stairs. Great aunt Lucia was sitting opposite the fire, which was a smoldering, red heap. There were two tumblers for vodka, artful triangles of toast, black caviar and pickled herrings. Sasha felt her skin prickle when she spotted the small, still-wrapped package resting anxiously on the sideboard.

"Aunt Lucia, who was that man?" she asked, hoping not to sound too eager.

Great Aunt Lucia stared into the fire.

"An acquaintance," she finally said.

Sasha fiddled with a piece of toast, poking it with her finger.

"What's in the package?" she asked.

"A book."

"Oh," said Sasha, slightly disappointed. "May I see it?"

"I think not," said her Great Aunt.

She stood up, and smoothed the wrinkles in her dress across her waist. Then Aunt Lucia picked up the wrapped book, contemplated the twine which snarled around it, and tossed it into the fire. The flames quickly ate the brown paper, and consumed the hidden tome within. It curled up like a blackened worm retreating from the sunlight.

After a few minutes, Aunt Lucia rang a small silver bell and the maid quickly appeared. She was instructed to sweep the fireplace and dispose of the ashes once the fire had burned down. Then Aunt Lucia declared she was going for a walk, and scolded Sasha for not returning to her studies right away.

As she trudged back up the stairs to her waiting lessons, Sasha realized that nothing was going to change her opinion of Great Aunt Lucia one little bit.

She was a miserable old harpy, and her presence in the house was like a heavy shadow lurking about, spreading apprehension and fear.

That night at supper, Sasha couldn't resist mentioning the old stranger to her parents. Great Aunt Lucia regarded her coolly, but no real expression crossed her face.

The woman is a gargoyle, thought Sasha to herself.

"A gentleman caller? At your age?" teased her mother. But Aunt Lucia would not take the bait.

"It was Inspector Umsky," said Aunt Lucia, between bites of potato with dill.

Her parents paused, and glanced at one another.

"He brought Aunt Lucia a book, but I didn't get to see it," said Sasha. "She threw it in the fire."

This time both her parents looked at Aunt Lucia curiously. Father frowned, then resumed mangling his goose wing. Mother's eyes darted nervously to her plate. Sasha sat up straight, leaning over the table. Finally, the conversation was getting interesting.

"Uncle Vasily?" her mother asked.

Aunt Lucia nodded.

"Another copy of _Chrysalis_?"

Aunt Lucia nodded again.

"I thought they'd all been destroyed," said Father.

"Apparently, like mushrooms and fleas, we will never be rid of the damned things," said Aunt Lucia, taking a sip from her glass.

"Who's Uncle Vasily?"

The three adults stared at her for a moment. Father took a bite of goose and chewed theatrically.

"None of your concern, Sasha. Bit of a black sheep. Dead for, oh, for some time. Now, let's talk of more pleasant things. Fedor tells me the Prince may be coming to visit the factory next week."

"Wonderful news," said mother. "Which prince, did he say?"

"Alexi," said her father.

"Oh," said mother. "Well, that's still very exciting, isn't it, Sasha?

Great Aunt Lucia looked at Sasha for a moment. Sasha felt her chills run down along her spine.

That evening, Sasha tiptoed to her mother's room. Great Aunt Lucia was still downstairs, brooding in the parlor, but Sasha closed the door, just in case.

"How come I've never heard of Uncle Vasily before?" she asked.

"It's a bit of a tragedy, my dear. Better to let some things stay in the past, don't you think?"

"But how did he die?" asked Sasha.

Her mother fretted for a moment, fingers dancing over the teeth of her comb.

"Blister fever," she finally said. "Now, run along to bed. Tomorrow's going to be quite busy."

The next morning Great Aunt Lucia ordered the carriage brought around and left, with her black fur coat and heavy walking stick, for what turned out to be the better part of the day. Sasha continued to struggle with her mathematics, her thoughts drifting toward the Prince, and his rather fearsome eyebrows, which resembled a fat, fuzzy caterpillar. Other girls found him rather fancy; Sasha thought he was repellent.

Mother was in charge of organizing the reception, which promised to be a grand occasion with fine food, drinking, and dancing. It was very important to make sure the Prince had a pleasant visit, and that he was pleased with the factory. It could mean big things for her father and his business partner, Fedor.

Her thoughts turned idly to her Great Aunt, wondering where she had gone, and why she had been gone for so long. Since she came to stay a little over a year ago, all she ever did was glower around the house, and occasionally walk to the market to buy fresh eels for pickling and pies.

And now, in just two days, she had a mystery visitor and an even more mysterious errand. Mysteries that nibbled on the corners of Sasha's thoughts, demanding her devotion.

Exactly why did Aunt Lucia burn that book, presumably written by her heretofore unknown, and somehow conveniently deceased Uncle Vasily? And where could all the other copies be hiding, out there in the world somewhere? Could she get her hands on one?

Later that evening, Aunt Lucia finally returned. She limped into the parlor, ignoring Sasha, and poured herself a glass of vodka, which she quickly drank. Snowflakes melted and dripped off her great, fearsome coat, leaving dots on the floor.

"Mooning about the parlor again, Sasha?" she asked.

Sasha shrugged, refusing to look up from the pages of her book.

Great Aunt Lucia poured herself another glass of vodka and took a small sip. Sasha was startled for a moment by how suddenly tired Great Aunt Lucia looked. Tired and old. Her eyes were red and wandered about uncertainly around the room.

"Do you think _this_ is what I intended for my life?" asked Aunt Lucia.

"I—I'm sorry?" said Sasha, not quite understanding the question.

"How I loathe it all," she said. "The plots and schemes, the sorcerers and the night terrors, the tremors that refuse to stop. Endless, drowning dreams and the secret webs we spin..."

She gazed into the flames, the firelight shimmering in her drooping eyes, fantastic and mad. Sasha felt herself curling into the chair and hoping to disappear, like a little bug. At last, her Great Aunt turned away from the flames and studied her grandniece for a few terrible, silent moments.

"Is it satisfactory? Your little book?" she finally asked.

"I guess so," said Sasha. "Prostak's searching for a ghost inside a haunted castle."

"A ghost?" said Aunt Lucia. "Ah, yes, a ghost..."

Great Aunt Lucia swallowed the rest of her vodka and contemplated a painting on the wall. At last, she took a step toward Sasha, leaning on her cane.

"I'm leaving, Sasha. Tomorrow, I think. It's getting too crowded around here. Time for me to journey onward. South, like the birds. The Callagapresian Islands, perhaps. I always found the jungle invigorating. I'm sure you won't miss me very much."

"Oh, that's not true at all," said Sasha.

Later that night, after an awkward supper with the rest of the family, Sasha hid in her room, unamused by Prostak's juvenile escapades. Her mother, of course, protested, and did her best to convince Aunt Lucia to stay. Father, however, was already distracted and probably felt as relieved as Sasha did that the strange, disagreeable woman was moving along.

It was no wonder she never married, thought Sasha. Who'd want to spend the rest of their life with that sour, old plum? Still, Sasha supposed she'd never learn her Aunt's secrets now. If they were even worth the trouble...

That night, while in the middle of a rather ordinary dream, Sasha felt a hand shake her awake. Through bleary eyes she saw the silhouette of her Great Aunt, looming above her.

"Sasha," she said. "It is of the upmost importance that you listen to me. Are you listening to me?"

Her breath reeked of vodka and salted eels.

"Yes, Aunt Lucia," said Sasha, feeling a little frightened.

"A young lady your age must become like an Immutable Stone. Resist Transmutation. Think not of cocoons, of starfish, of things that swell with Malevolence. The Door must stay shut. Beware the Men with Spiral Thoughts. Pray to Kara Kurbaga for the Integrity of your Soul. Do you understand?"

Sasha was too afraid to speak or even move. She wondered if Aunt Lucia was going to throttle her. Instead, the old woman pressed something into her hand, a hard, flat object, metal and cool.

"Keep this with you, always. Promise me that. Do you promise?"

"I do," Sasha finally said.

The room was silent for a moment, while the silhouette swayed.

"I'm—I'm not running away," said Great Aunt Lucia.

The silhouette moved, shook, then began to retreat into the darkness.

"Until we meet again, Sasha, on the distant, sandy shores of Gizli Sehir..."

The bedroom door opened, and the figure of her Great Aunt slipped through. All was quiet and dark again. Sasha lay in her bed, listening to her breath.

She's crazy, thought Sasha. Completely mad!

Oh, the horrible, horrible woman. What on Earth was wrong with her?

After her panic subsided a bit, and she was fairly certain Great Aunt Lucia would not return, Sasha lit the candle by her bedside for a closer examination of the metal object in her hand.

It was a coin.

Weathered and worn, its irregular size and shape like no other coin she was familiar with. On one side there was some sort of toad, or frog-like creature. On the reverse was a figure wearing a hood and a robe, holding two fingers aloft on his right hand. There was some writing around the edges, but it was nonsense, just random scribbles that meant nothing to her.

Was it real? Where had it come from? Maybe it was just some sort of novelty coin, minted for amusement. But, no, there was nothing amusing about figures on each side, both of them sinister and somewhat pagan. Who was it Great Aunt Lucia told her to pray to? Kara Kurbaga? And where, exactly, was this place called Gizli Sehir?

Poor Aunt Lucia.

I'm never going to end up like her, thought Sasha to herself.

With a shiver, she put the coin away in her bureau, and went back to sleep. By the time she woke up the following morning, Great Aunt Lucia was already gone, without even a proper goodbye.

The next several days were full of activity. Her father spent most of his time at the factory, struggling to reveal its best possible façade, while mother was either out consulting various bakers, tradesmen and the like, or hosting large meetings with equally eager ladies from the city to plan and prepare for the arrival of the Prince, even if he was only Prince Alexi, fourth in line to the royal throne of the Tsar.

In spite of herself, Sasha's thoughts constantly returned to the mysterious doings of her Great Aunt Lucia. Her aunt had dropped quite a few strange and exciting hints of some other, previous life of adventure and danger. Somehow it was connected with that book, and her dead uncle...

Of course, there was no copy of _Chrysalis_ at the local bookseller's shop, or the Imperial Library. And her parents brushed off every attempt to learn more about old Uncle Vasily. That left trying to figure out where Aunt Lucia had gone on her sudden errand, after she threw the book into the fireplace. And there was only one person who could answer that question.

She confronted Dmitri, the family valet, in the dining room the next morning. He was hunched over a newspaper, and drinking something black. The newspaper headline boldly stated: BREAD PRICES RISING! WORKERS DEMAND RELIEF!

After some idle conversation, Sasha worked up to the courage to ask him where he took her Great Aunt in the carriage the other day. Grimsby, he told her.

The asylum!

What could Aunt Lucia have possibly been doing there?

Visiting someone? Consulting with the alienists? Preparing herself to be admitted?

There was a train that stopped near there. It would be quite a long ride—how could she concoct a way to be absent from her lessons for so long? The tutor was here every day except Sunday, which was reserved for Church and quiet contemplation...

At her lesson that afternoon, while conjugating endless verbs in Latin, Sasha took a chance to interrupt the tutor with an unusual question.

"Mr. Pleshivy, have you ever heard of Gizli Sehir?"

"Indeed I have," said Mr. Pleshivy. "It is a mythical island, from the ancient writings of the blind philosopher Kalim Umquartos. A beacon of rational thought and scientific inquiry. Sunk into the sea, thousands of years ago. The reasons for the catastrophe are unclear. Was it their own hubris that doomed the tiny island? Or some other, relentless, inevitable evil? Every scholar has his own opinion, of course. Overall, a romantic, but fairly muddled metaphor."

"Oh."

"Why do you ask?" said Mr. Pleshivy.

"Great Aunt Lucia mentioned it one night..."

The tutor polished his monocle.

"Gizli Sehir is a concept well-known for attracting...eccentrics," he said, with a sly look in her direction.

Sasha thought of the coin tucked away under her clothes in the bureau.

"And Kara Kurbaga? Who's he?"

"I'm pretty sure he's one of those bizarre, nonsensical deities allegedly worshipped over a millennia ago but various secret cults and so-called sorcerers. My goodness, that must have been some conversation you and your great aunt had before she left!"

"It was," said Sasha, feeling her stomach tighten.

"Well, enough whimsy for now. Back to the intractable solidity of Latin. Repeat after me, please. _Somnio_ , _somnias_ , _somniat_ , _somniamus_ , _somniatis_ , _somniant_ ..."

The rest of the week passed quickly, with Sasha helping her mother in the construction of decorations and the like. The factory floors were scrubbed clean of blood and toil, colorful banners were draped and hung over the machinery, and flower arrangements were artfully placed at various locations to create a more festive atmosphere.

The many splendid rifles, with their gleaming bayonets, were proudly assembled in long display racks for the Prince's inspection. Soon they would be on their way around the world, to strengthen the grip of the Tsar over all his many fruitful territories.

All of the most important families of the city were at the party, along with various government officials and minor celebrities. The sheer amount of food prepared for the party was staggering, and it was joked that not a single pig or goat still lived within twenty miles of the town, for they were all being served on elegantly engraved platters of silver and gold.

Alas, it was well into the night before the celebrants were informed by messenger that Prince Alexi would not be able to attend, although he did send his most sincere apologies along with a forty pound egg made of chocolate and filled with white doves.

Sasha wandered through the still jovial crowd, fuming to herself because stupid Tamara and Irina were nurturing some special secret they saw fit to exclude her from, giggling and whispering to each other whenever Sasha happened by. While she attempted to find their latest hiding place, she happened to spot Inspector Umsky, the man who had come to visit her aunt, talking in the corner with a pair of uniformed policemen. They spoke with their heads down, although at one point Inspector Umsky glanced up and looked right at Sasha. But if he recognized her, he did not reveal so.

The party wasn't a total loss, as a cousin of Fedor's was able to procure the talents of famed pianist Edgar DeBruggles, who promised to play several of his more experimental concertos. The women of the town fluttered about him, and their faces grew bright as they talked of the pianist, and shared stories of his exciting career on the continent.

Even her own mother, much to Sasha's horror, seemed pulled into the pianists orbit, laughing much too gaily and touching his shoulder frequently. But when the pianist finally did play, it was difficult for many of the society ladies to fully appreciate DeBruggles' strange compositions, which were both meditative, solemn, and slightly disturbing, all at the same time.

Sasha slumped in her chair, trying to stay awake as the music crept around the great factory like a smothering fog. The concertos were inductive to daydreaming, although the visions that filled her mind were unexpectedly odd and unpleasant. Frothy creatures wriggling under the dark ocean waves. Crimson butterflies bursting forth from metallic cocoons. Luscious flowers blooming in the tropical jungle, dripping with rainwater...

Later, while moping about all alone and cursing Tamara and Irina, Sasha was surprised to see Edgar DeBruggles approaching her.

"Ah, _bonsoir_ , _ma petite fleur_. You are Sasha Sokolov, are you not?"

"Yes," she said.

The man was wearing what looked like a suit made of luxuriously dark, purple velvet. His shirt was lavender, his boots the color of a bleeding pomegranate, and he wore an outrageous string of glimmering, purple pearls about his slender neck, which swung like a drunken pendulum.

His long, black hair was tucked behind his ears, his moustache impossibly thin. The rest of his features were both handsome and severe. But his pale eyes were the worst; amused, knowing and uncomfortably eager.

"Are you familiar with the poetry of your Great Uncle Vasily Petrovich?" he asked.

"No," said Sasha, trying not to slouch. "Are you, Mr. DeBruggles?"

"I am fortunate to have a copy of his _Chrysalis_ ," he said, leaning in closer. "They're quite difficult to find, you know. Somebody keeps destroying them."

He smiled.

"I wonder why?" asked Sasha.

"Indeed," said the pianist, taking a delicate sip of his frothing champagne. "Some people think his poems are a bit... _risqué_."

The pianist raised his skinny eyebrows and shrugged.

From the corner of her eye, Sasha could see the jealous looks of her friends, Tamara and Irina. She moved a little closer to pianist, and touched him gently on the arm. His velvet sleeve collapsed, like dried, dead leaves.

"Perhaps, if I may be so bold, you could lend me your copy?" she asked.

"I'd be delighted."

She smiled at him. Imagine, all these ladies at the party, and _she_ was the one he was paying the most attention to. She took another sip of champagne and felt the bubbles go straight to her head.

"Do you like to write poetry, Sasha?" asked the pianist.

"It never really occurred to me before..."

"You have the look of a poet," said Edgar DeBruggles. "A dreamer, yes? What do you dream about, at night under the covers in your little, warm bed? Colors, Sasha? Do they swirl? Purple pinwheels, turning and turning? Starfish, caterpillars, strutting peacocks with their eye-covered feathers erect?"

"I don't remember my dreams," she said.

"You must dig into those fertile earths, _ma petite fleur_ ," said the pianist. "Consider the unfurling of your somnambulant inhibitions..."

"Sasha!" called another voice. It was her father. He weaved toward them, holding a champagne glass and looking cross.

"Mother needs you right away," he said to her, before turning to the pianist. "Good evening, _sir_."

As Father pulled her arm, leading her away from the oily man, the pianist raised his hand farewell.

" _Bonsoir_ , Sasha," he said, with the hint of a smile. "Until we meet again."

Father dragged her roughly into the swirling crowd. Sweat glistened on his forehead.

"What were you and that odious little dandy talking about?" he asked.

"Nothing," said Sasha, with a shrug. "Just the party, that's all."

A group of young soldiers, resplendent in their sharp uniforms, raised their giant mugs of turnip beer and began to sing a popular folk song.

Later that night, when the party was finally over, they rode home in their carriage through dark streets. Mother and Father both looked miserable, stuffed into their finest clothes, perspiring, smudged, and exhausted. Mother complained bitterly about the behavior of many of the guests, including Mr. DeBruggles, while Father grumbled over the mysterious disappearance of Prince Alexi's tremendous chocolate egg.

That night, Sasha found it difficult to sleep. The words of Mr. DeBruggles teased her thoughts. They were so arch, as if he was saying two different things at once. Tonight, she thought, I shall make a concerted effort to remember everything I dream about. She even placed a sheet of paper and pen on her bureau, to write down her remembrances as quickly as possible. Perhaps she'd even try to write a poem about them...

But when morning arrived, Sasha remembered nothing. Perhaps she hadn't dreamt at all. Had there been a door? A man wearing a purple cloak? It seemed possible, but frustratingly vague. To make matters worse, her head ached like someone was trying to pull apart her brain.

Getting dressed, she noticed the strange coin her aunt gave her laying on the floor, like the shield of a fallen warrior. Odd, it should've been in the bottom of her drawer. Did it fall out somehow last night, when she was putting on her nightgown? That was the only reasonable explanation.

Sasha picked up the coin, cool and heavy in the palm of her hand, and decided to place it inside an old music box, which she then locked with a tiny key. There now, she thought, let's see you escape that!

At breakfast the family was morose and ate their meal sullenly. Father held a small towel filled with ice against his head, and sipped bitter coffee. Mother was already writing cards, her hair fraying about in unruly wisps.

Thankfully, the daily mail arrived after her parents had already left the house. There was a small packet wrapped in brown paper, with her name written on it in beautiful, flowery letters. Sasha unwrapped the package to reveal a slender book, bound in a rich, dark purple leather with a golden spiral in the center. The title, _Chrysalis_ , was embossed in gold at the top. Her uncle's name was embossed in gold at the bottom.

Her hands tingled as she traced the pattern of the gold swirl with her fingertip. _Risqué_ , she thought to herself. Forbidden. At last, something that was going to reveal the mysteries of, what exactly? Passion, yes. That must be it. The things that lovers do to one another...

She opened the book, trembling, and glanced at the words inside. There were flowers, and undulating sea mollusks, intertwined, covered with slime. Sasha felt repulsion, and yet her cheeks were turning red and warm.

"Sasha," called a voice. "Time for your lessons now."

"Yes, Mr. Pleshivy," she said, closing the book and exhaling.

It was difficult to concentrate that morning. Mr. Pleshivy seemed distracted as well, rubbing his forehead and scratching a red sore on his forearm.

"Is everything all right, Mr. Pleshivy?" she asked, after completing her geometry assignment.

"I feel a bit unwell," he said. "Probably nothing more than a little cold. But, well, one more lesson before we end your instruction. Geography, I think. Here on this map are the colonies of the Tsar. The ones colored red are currently in a state of rebellion..."

That night, once she was sure that mother and father were asleep, and the servants were all in their quarters, she lit a small candle in her room and pulled the book out from under her pillow.

_Chrysalis_.

Mr. Pleshivy told her that was another word for cocoon, more or less. A shell, to protect the transformation of a caterpillar into a butterfly. Or a moth. Wriggling around inside the brown womb, slowly changing, growing slick and shiny wings.

She read late into the night, and although she found some of the imagery very puzzling, overall it was a highly stimulating experience. Her body quivered and throbbed in ways that, while not totally unfamiliar, were certainly stronger than she had ever felt before. And when she was finished reading, she took great care to hide the book someplace where her parents and the servants would never find it.

She dreamt that night of Mr. DeBruggles, leaning forward to kiss her, the velvet suit crunching, his fingers on her hipbone, drawing her near. Then she saw the churning waves of a great purple ocean were washing over the city, filling the streets and rushing into her home. The dark water rose higher and higher, sloshing against the walls, knocking over furniture, and it seemed there would be no stopping the tremendous, anxious flood.

From the top of the stairs, Sasha watched the waters inch upward. She saw _things_ swimming about in the briny swirls, tiny purple and pink starfishes, along with some other lazy, one-eyed creature that slowly moved its jellied mass through the sloshing sea inside her home.

Soon all the familiar objects inside her house were swallowed up by the rising purple waters, and the frothy, slapping waves were reaching for her, reaching and stroking her pink, naked feet...

Sasha awoke, trembling. Her body was covered with perspiration, and it tingled all over in a shockingly delicious way. She could feel her heart beating, and felt for a terrible moment unable to compose herself, lost on tiny waves of pure sensation.

What an odd and wonderful dream, she thought.

Did _Chrysalis_ inspire that nocturnal revelry? It must have, for she had never dreamed that way before...

Sasha marveled at her Uncle Vasily's talent for creating such provocative imagery. Was that why her Great Aunt insisted on burning every copy of his book? Certainly _Chrysalis_ could be interpreted as lewd, possibly even pornographic, and Sasha knew it was the sort of writing that society frowned upon.

Was Aunt Lucia ashamed of the product of her uncle's ribald imagination? Perhaps she was ashamed of him as well? Or afraid of the scandal such a book would create for her family?

Sasha had heard once of a Frenchman imprisoned for his savage imagination. She recalled her Aunt's visit to the asylum, and a suspicion grew inside her mind. A persistent suspicion that demanded to be satisfied.

First, she asked her mother to send Mr. Pleshivy home for the day. The man looked worse than ever, glassy-eyed, tipsy with fever, and furiously scratching yet another red sore on his arm. Gratefully, her tutor excused himself for the day, promising to return soon.

Next, she convinced her parents to let her take the train to Gorkovo, to see the Imperial Gardens. This, of course, was a misdirection, for the train she intended to catch went to an entirely different destination her parents would not approve of.

Mother insisted that Dmitri at least take her to the station, and she acquiesced. After he drove off, she went inside the station and purchased a ticket to Pripyat, the closest town to the Grimsby Asylum.

While she sat at the café eating cherry pirozhkis and feeling quite pleased with herself, she watched the soldiers rushing to and fro, boarding trains for various provinces and ports, on their way to grand adventures. A particularly handsome one stopped to wink at her, and though she turned away to discourage such behavior, she secretly smiled into her napkin.

Once again she spotted Inspector Umsky, walking through the station with a valise under his arm. This time he was about to go right past Sasha when he stopped, looked right at her, and paused for a moment.

Perhaps he was going to approach her, but instead he only nodded, and continued on his way. Sasha felt a stab of panic for a moment, and a confusing feeling of guilt, which only passed when the old Inspector was well on his way to who knows where, vanished in the swirling crowd.

The train ride was long and dismal, but at least the passing countryside was diverting. The snow was melting and spring was on its way. Sasha could feel the buds and seeds underneath the muddy earth, unrolling and groping in the darkness. These thoughts led to remembering certain poems in the book, which made her feel suddenly self-conscious.

Better to pack those thoughts away until later. Until tonight.

It was a bit improper for Mr. DeBruggles to gift her with a book like _that_. Still, she wasn't a girl anymore. She was becoming a sophisticate, a lady adept in the world of, well, _avant-garde_ art and other grown-up things.

She was certain there was some sort of philosophy being insidiously promoted in _Chrysalis_. Something about perhaps the transformation of the spirit through unrestrained carnality, which would, somehow, lead to a global cosmic awakening involving some force known as the Great Magician. At least, that's how she understood it. She admitted to herself that her interpretation of the text could be faulty. Still, the whole idea seemed wonderfully impossible, liberating and yet also oddly frightening.

The velvet of Mr. DeBruggles sleeve had been so soft and lush...

From Pripyat it was an hour's walk to the Grimsby Asylum. Sasha half-expected to see Inspector Umsky get off the train with her, but there was no sign of him at the station. Her boots clod through the muddy road, until finally the Asylum appeared, looming atop a brooding hill.

Surrounded by a forbidding iron fence, the grounds looked pleasant enough, neatly manicured and populated with various trees and shrubs. Gardeners toiled about, preparing the grounds for the arrival of the new season.

The building itself was rather drab. Tall, made of weathered bricks covered in some parts with thick ivy, it projected authority and calm. After being admitted inside, Sasha strode to the front desk, remembering to keep her spine straight and her chin thrust forward.

It was time to take a chance on her intuition. She spoke brusquely to the clerk.

"My Great Aunt Lucia Petrovich has asked me to check on the health of her brother Vasily. She's traveling at the moment, but I'm to send her a letter right after I've seen my Great Uncle, and can testify on his current condition."

Sasha's heart thudded heavily. She tried to use the look, the imperious one that her Aunt Lucia had used on the servants, and, occasionally, on Sasha as well.

The clerk stared at her for moment, then shrugged.

"Very well," he said. "Follow me, please."

The clerk led her through a series of passages inside the stone asylum. The smell became gradually worse, although the man seemed not to notice. They stopped at a large, wooden door, and the clerk produced a key to open it.

"This way," he said. "Watch the steps going down."

Sasha was led into a cavernous, poorly lit room. The stench of unwashed bodies assaulted her senses, and for a terrified moment, she thought she was going to be ill. Mustn't vomit in front of the clerk, she told herself. Somehow, she imagined such an action would foil her impulsive plan.

The patients were scattered about, wearing white shirts and crumpled, dirty pants. A few were hiding in the shadows, while others muttered or rubbed their hands together. Several patients were locked inside an iron cage. Others paced, or crawled, or just quivered quietly, apparently oblivious to Sasha's presence.

"There's your uncle," said the clerk, pointing to a skeleton of a man with wild, ragged hair. "Vasily Petrovich, you have a visitor!"

The patients stirred.

"A visitor..."

Her Great Uncle turned away from staring at the wall and shuffled toward her. He was ragged and bruised, a shuffling man of sticks and whispers. Sasha trembled, and a great feeling of pity, mingled with revulsion, rose up in her throat.

He stopped before her, blinking, his mouth slack. His eyes were cloudy and wandering. His breath smelled like something dead.

"Hello, Uncle Vasily," said Sasha. "I'm your Grand Niece, Sasha Sokolov. I—I've been wanting to meet you. Are they treating you well?"

Great Uncle Vasily looked at her blankly, his mouth moving slowly up and down.

"I've read some of your poems," she said. "I found them quite interesting."

"Poems?"

"Yes," said Sasha. "From _Chrysalis_. Your book with the little spiral?"

"Spiral?"

Sasha took a step back from her Great Uncle, but he staggered toward her, grinning an awful, yellow grin.

"Are you the Harlot of the Great Magician?" he asked.

"No, Uncle Vasily, I'm Sasha Sokolov. Your Grand Niece."

"Ah, but you're going to meet him soon, aren't you?"

"Who?"

"The Great Magician," said Uncle Vasily. " You've been Touched by the Purple Hand. I can see that now, oh yes, ah-ha! Soon, your insides will Uncoil and Flower, like a tremendous Red Blossom. And then you will receive His Gift. The Seeds will be Fertilized! The Transmutation will Begin Again! There will be Rivers of Blood!"

"Rivers!" shouted one of patients.

"I think you'd better leave," the clerk said to Sasha.

"The Earth shall be Scorched! The Dead will be Trod beneath Our Boots!"

"Boots!" shouted one of the patients.

They all began to howl and scream. Several made a rush for the door, and the clerk had to fight them back while blowing on a silver whistle around his neck.

"Time to go," said the clerk, ushering Sasha out the door while a gang of tidy orderlies arrived, swinging batons.

A bony hand grabbed her wrist.

"You must Consume the Offering," said Uncle Vasily, leering before her. "Prepare your Succulent Vital Parts for His Gift!"

The clerk brought his club down on Uncle Vasily's head, sending the deranged man to the ground. Sasha quickly left, her hands over her mouth, fighting back tears.

Her mind was a whirl of confusion for the entire train ride home. Uncle Vasily was clearly insane. Delusional. Maybe even dangerous. Stupid girl, what did you expect? They don't put people in an asylum for no bloody reason. But, what had happened to him? What had caused his talented, artistic mind to snap?

Perhaps it was from trading in radical, slippery ideas? Like the ones you are so eager to learn...

Her Great Aunt Lucia would know. And maybe her parents. But she couldn't ask them. She'd have to confess her subterfuge, and there'd be a punishment for that. Perhaps Mr. DeBruggles would know, or be able to puzzle it out...

Arriving at her house, Sasha was surprised to find her mother crying, while Father patted her on the shoulder, looking solemn.

"It's a telegram," said her father. "From the physician aboard _The Vigilance_. Your Great Aunt Lucia is dead. Bitten by a poisonous snake during the voyage. The crew searched the ship, but they weren't able to find it..."

"But, how?" asked Sasha, feeling tears well up in her eyes. How strange, she thought, I'm actually crying for that old, detestable hag...

"The physician suspects the snake was in someone's luggage and got loose somehow. The authorities are shipping the body back to Dragostan. It'll be here in two weeks. Your mother and I are making the funeral arrangements."

Sasha took her mother's hand and squeezed it.

That night, she unlocked the little music box and pulled out the strange coin Great Aunt Lucia had given her. She studied the frog creature—Kara Kurbaga, wasn't it? An ugly thing, who would worship something so hideous? And the man on the other side, who was he? Some sort of king, she supposed.

She fell asleep with the coin clutched in her hand. In her dreams, the purple ocean waters sloshed and beat furiously against the door to her home, but they could not seep their way inside. And the shadow of Mr. DeBruggles lurked anxiously outside the window...

The next day was Sunday, and after church services Sasha was left alone to wrestle with her churning thoughts. The world seemed especially dismal this morning, with catastrophe and death lurking around every corner.

Images drifted through her mind. Stains on the floor of the asylum. Uncle Vasily's wild eyes and ragged fingers. A ship on the ocean, tossed about by violent waves. Aunt Lucia discovering the slender, purple viper in her cabin...yes, it was purple, she knew that, she knew there were two puncture marks on her Aunt's ankle, oozing blood...

Up in her room, she removed the copy of _Chrysalis_ from its hiding spot. She didn't want to read the book, hadn't even meant to be thinking about it...and yet the cover felt comfortably warm in her hands, and the golden spiral began to rotate, around and around, in slow, deliberate motions.

The pages danced open and words slithered before her eyes. Yes, the Transformation. Yes, the squishy, pulpy Offering, the Consumption of the Host, going down her throat, smooth, wriggling and quick, Blossoming inside her quivering Succulent Parts and—

No! Oh, no no no...

She threw the book across her bed and ran from the room, her collar much too tight, her clothing suspiciously disheveled, her fingers slick, the walls roiling. Downstairs in the parlor, she wiped the sweat from her forehead with a kerchief and felt her stomach churn.

Sasha poured herself a trembling cup of tea and sat down very deliberately. What had just happened?

The book.

The book had lured her into...into what? Some sort of terrible, hypnotic flight of ecstasy...

She should burn it. Yes, there really _was_ something evil about it. The strange power it had over her was not natural...

And _Chrysalis_ was waiting for her, upstairs. Whispering her name. Waiting for her to touch it again, to run her fingertips over its smooth cover and sigh.

She couldn't go up there. If she did, the book would get her again, drowning her in forbidden fantasies, damp flower petals and slithering crustaceans...

She needed help. Great Aunt Lucia was dead, Mr. DeBruggles was no longer above suspicion, and her preoccupied parents would only scold her. That left only one person, and she trembled at the thought of meeting him.

The Headquarters of the Imperial Police was a dingy building, sooty and unpleasant. Officers rushed back and forth, shoving hungry and unruly factory workers into darkened rooms. A few policemen were discussing the death of a sailor in a flophouse by the docks. It looked like blister fever all right; the red, angry sores were a dead giveaway...

She inquired about Inspector Umsky, and was led to a tiny, windowless office near the rear of the building. Trapped inside, the Inspector reminded Sasha of a great bear chained up inside a little cage. He still wore his bushy fur hat indoors, and smoked a stubbly, brown cigarillo. The office reeked of tobacco smoke and salted fish.

"Ah, the lovely Miss Sokolov," he said without smiling. "My dear, you look perturbed. How may I help you today?"

"I—I think I'm in trouble," she said at last.

"Indeed you are," said the Inspector, grinding out the cigarillo. "Come, take a walk with me outside. The sun is out for now, but dark clouds are gathering."

Inspector Umsky led her toward the park, and they strolled along the river bank, where the children were playing with their nannies. The people of the city walked past them, going about their daily business and apparently untroubled by burdensome thoughts.

The Inspector wore a pair of tinted spectacles, his eyes round, dark orbs.

"How was your little outing yesterday?"

For a moment, Sasha considered denial. But the way the inspector looked at her changed her mind.

"It was not what I had hoped," she said.

"And your Great Aunt Lucia? Very tragic, is it not?"

"Father said the snake escaped from someone's luggage, but—"

"But you suspect something else?" asked the Inspector.

Sasha nodded.

"Murder," said the Inspector, the sunlight bouncing off his dark orbs.

Sasha nodded again.

"What do you think of the book your Great Uncle Vasily wrote? The one Mr. DeBruggles sent you after the party?"

"It frightens me," she said.

The Inspector looked at her, the orbs silent and still. At last, he nodded.

"Good," he said.

"But how did you know—"

"I am a policeman. It is our business to know these things."

They reached the end of the promenade, and the Inspector stopped for a moment to observe the river as its currents swelled and mingled with the bay. A seagull squawked. The wind rustled. He looked weary to Sasha, plodding and slow.

"Since before you, or even I, were ever born there has been a group of people who consider themselves to be sorcerers, tasked with the responsibility of bringing about the catastrophic disruption of our world. Of course, they don't quite view it as such. These people believe they're helping mankind achieve a sort of divinity through transmutation, which is just another word for destruction, is it not?"

Sasha was unsure if she was supposed to agree.

"Your Great Uncle Vasily was seduced by their philosophies. Many years ago he and his fellows attempted something quite...profane. But your Aunt Lucia and I were able to stop them, before it was too late. Now, his compatriots grow confident and restless again, eager to strike out, to make another mark. They took revenge upon your aunt, and they have certain special designs for you, my dear Sasha."

"What kind of designs?" she asked.

The Inspector shrugged.

"Your grandparents own a farm up in Bladistock, yes? I will talk to your parents, you will pack. Ah, burn the book first, of course. We will send you there by the train tonight, with an armed escort, and you will stay there and not return until you've been summoned. Come now, it is time for you to prepare."

"I don't want to go."

"Hmm?"

"Can't I help you catch them somehow? Please? For Aunt Lucia's sake?"

"No. It would be too dangerous," said the Inspector.

"I know."

"Much too dangerous," he said again, looking out at the waters.

"I'm not afraid."

"Very well. You mustn't say a word about this to your parents, they would only complicate the investigation...."

That night she carried out her preliminary orders from the Inspector.

First, she burned the book. It was a greater struggle than she had anticipated, fighting to remain in her trembling hands. At last, she closed her eyes and cast it into the fire, watching the purple boards and papers quickly ignite.

The book seethed and curled in silent agony, calling to her, screaming betrayal, screaming for a savior. Sasha held herself very firmly, feeling both disturbed and relieved at the same time.

When the book was nothing more than smoking ashes, she wrote Mr. DeBruggles a panting, florid letter, confessing her adoration of _Chrysalis_ and her strong desire to learn more about the secrets contained therein, including cryptic references to a being known as the Great Magician.

Afterwards, she sprayed a little of her perfume on the letter, before folding and securing it in a cream-colored envelope. The Inspector had been very insistent that she leave her scent on the letter. The better to trap the wolves, he said.

Mr. DeBruggles responded quickly and eagerly, inviting her to a social gathering at a somewhat disreputable address, at a notorious hour, with pleasant assurances that such timing and lodgings were purely theatrical, and not in the least bit sinister.

On the night of her secret rendezvous, Sasha spoke kindly to her parents at dinner, and gave them enthusiastic hugs and kisses at bedtime, the kind she hadn't given since she was a little girl. With the lights out, waiting in the darkness of her room, Sasha trembled. The time had come, and she was afraid. The danger had coalesced, become real, and it was banging on her chest like a hammer.

Then she remembered Great Aunt Lucia's coin, and removed it from her dresser.

Kara Kurbaga? That is your name, isn't it, toad?

I'm not going to pray to some imaginary frog god for strength, she thought to herself.

But then again, bringing along this little token couldn't hurt. For luck. Yes, for luck.

We're going to catch your killers, Aunt Lucia...

She tucked the coin in the pocket of her long coat, then tread quietly downstairs and out the door. Inspector Umsky was waiting for her across the street, silent and motionless, like an ancient statue carved from stone.

He took her elbow as they boarded a black carriage, which sped them down the dark streets toward the industrial part of the city.

"No retreat now, Sasha. Thanks to your letter, we know the exact location of their next convocation. And all the bastards are going to be together in one place! Even their chief madman, the guru Emil Spotislav, is supposed to be there tonight. He has eluded our capture for many years. Centuries, if you believe the rumors. Don't be nervous now, just play along like a good girl. Once all the fanatics are present, we commence the attack. Do you understand?"

"I'm frightened," she said.

"Keep your thoughts pure, and don't be fooled by their fancy, empty words."

A choking mist had crept in from the harbor, dismal and cloying. The carriage stopped two blocks away from the address where Sasha was supposed to go. The Inspector clapped her on the shoulder as she stepped out onto the gloomy, dirty boulevard.

Factories crowded the street—looming, windowless boxes topped with assorted chimney stacks, sticking up like porcupine quills or horns. They were quiet now, girding themselves for the morning crush of machinery and man.

Sasha walked quickly to the meeting place, the heels of her boots clacking against the bumpy cobblestones.

There was an alley between two large, sooty brick buildings, filled with oily puddles and garbage. A dingy, smudged green door, with rusted hinges and dents, appeared to match the address she had been given. Sasha knocked twice, and waited. Faintly, she could hear the ocean slapping against the pilings by the docks.

A small peephole slid open, revealing a pair of runny, yellow eyes.

"All Hail the Great Magician," said Sasha, trying not to look away.

The peephole closed, and she heard the sound of locks clunking and clinking in protest. At last the door swung open, into a dark hallway. A figure in some sort of robe crouched by the wall, waiting for her to enter.

Run, now, Sasha, she thought to herself. Run and don't look back.

She stepped over the threshold and heard the door shut heavily behind her. The robed figure was busy snapping all the locks back into place.

"This way," he said, his face in hooded shadows, gesturing with a shriveled, pale hand.

Sasha was certain the man in the robe wasn't Mr. DeBruggles. She kept a discreet distance from him as they walked toward a flickering light, which came from some other room to the left. She could smell incense burning, sickly sweet and slightly revolting. The smoke scratched at the back of her throat.

The chamber was cramped, the ceiling low. The walls were plain and white. She counted twelve other women seated on short benches, arranged in aisles like the pews in a church. At the far end of the room was a lectern, behind which hung a pair of lush, deeply purple curtains. A pair of copper braziers flanked the lectern, pouring out their sticky smoke.

Another hooded figure stood behind the lectern, wearing an incredibly bizarre mask, shaped like a starfish with one gigantic eye in the center. His hands were folded across his chest, his body perfectly still.

"Sit here, if you please," said her escort, indicating one of the benches.

Sasha took her seat and waited. From the corner of her eye she observed the other women. Obviously, they were factory girls, or some other kind of slop worker, their clothes plain and fraying, their faces harsh and desperate. Some leaned forward, eagerly, other wrung their hands or simply closed their eyes.

The vapors were making her dizzy. Sasha began to wonder if they were burning something else in those braziers besides pellets of frankincense. One of the women on her right began to swoon to some sort of silent music, her lips curled in a secret smile.

Please hurry, Inspector Umsky, she thought, while trying to covertly cover her nose.

Odd, that there weren't any other men seated on the benches. And, had there always been a purple altar cloth draped over the lectern, depicting a golden spiral? She didn't recall seeing that before...

Now her escort was wearing a similar starfish mask, and he cradled a silver bell in his hands. The men began to chant.

"Zero one Zero Zero one one Zero one..."

The hooded figured slowly lifted the bell and rang it once, a delicate chime that pierced the jumbled thoughts of Sasha's mind.

He is coming!

And as the chime faded away, Sasha gripped her throat and turned to look for the door, but the walls were covered with slowly swirling spirals that turned and obscured and mystified her senses.

Where was Inspector Umsky?

"Zero one Zero Zero one one Zero one..."

The hooded figure chimed the bell again.

At once she saw her city in purple flames, the wriggling of translucent creatures in purple pools, the grinning features of Mr. DeBruggles, peacocks locked in furious copulation, the edge of a slumbering volcano...

This was like before, in her room, she had to control herself, order her thoughts, remember the danger...but it was stifling hot in here, her collar practically choking her...

"Zero one Zero Zero one one Zero one..."

A third chime.

The woman next to her exhaled. Sasha heard a ripping sound. Behind the lectern, the purple curtains parted like storm clouds, folding and unfolding, sinking, slinking, heaving...

A figure emerged from behind the curtain. Clad in a robe of flowering, purple verbena, wearing a gleaming gold mask covered with sea shells and howling eyes, the creature floated before the lectern, its hands raised upward in supplication.

"A New Day is Upon Us, Brothers and Sisters! Time has exhausted itself Once Again. The Hour of Transformation is at Hand. My Vessel has grown fragile and so, I must be Born once again to Conquer this Land, for I am the Great Magician. This time I shall have many Vessels, to Confuse and Astound my Enemy. And if he should smite one, another shall spring forth in its place, and another and another. All Hail the Great Magician!"

The participants responded in kind.

"Hail the Great Magician!"

Sasha struggled not to speak. The words, _those_ words, had nearly bubbled up through her lips. She felt incredibly dizzy and warm, her skin slick and swollen.

"The Succulent Harem is assembled, and my Concubines await! I present to them my Offering, the Holy Seed of his Majesty, to propagate my Mighty Will upon this Wasted Planet of Rot and Ruin. All Hail the Great Magician!"

"Hail the Great Magician!"

The Starfish Men were wheeling forward a tremendous crystal bowl, carved with intertwined sea creatures, inside which bubbled some sort of noxious, purple slime. Steam rose from the cauldron to mingle with the intoxicating fumes of the braziers.

The women were on their feet. Hair disheveled, gloves removed, their lips open and shouting. The floor swirled, Sasha fought to compose herself, gripping the bench, resisting the urge to stand up and worship the Great and Terrible Magician, to offer herself willingly to his mighty touch...

Oh, where was the Inspector?

There were other men here now, more hooded figures, drifting out from behind the curtain, taking their places in the hideous procession as it heaved toward the eager congregation.

"Come, my fleshy Child," said the Many-Eyed One to a fair lady. "Accept my Offering and become Transformed."

The woman swooned before the Many-Eyed One, as he reached into the crystal cauldron and pulled forth a squirming, wriggling translucent _thing_ in his clenched fist. Then his ichor dripping hand found her anxious, open mouth, and slid the jellied beast carefully down her throat. At once the woman flushed, and fell to the ground, making awful, wanton sounds.

The robed figures descended around her, pulling off her boots...

The cauldron smoked and churned, bubbles popped and liquids sloshed, spirals twirled, flesh perspired and clawed—up became down, every direction moved all at once, and everything was purple, purple forever and ever, and one by tender one the quivering women accepted the squishy Offering, shivered in hideous ecstasy, and collapsed into the waiting arms of the dancing purple minions in their masks of twirling starfish.

At last they were before Sasha, reeking of abundant flowers, hands upon her shoulders, masks before her vision, so many eyes, regarding her with hunger. A hand reaching into the bowl, a wet, white object pulsating before her eyes...

"Do not fear, Little One. Seek the Transformation. Follow in the footsteps of your Uncle Vasily and Open your Mind to the power of the Great Magician. Accept my Offer and be Transformed. Accept my Offer and be Transformed, Accept, Accept Accept..."

Sasha turned away from the Many-Eyed One.

"I will not!" she said.

"Open her mouth at once," said the Many-Eyed One.

There was a tremendous crash, the sound of splintering wood. Whistles blew, piercing shrieks that split the decadent miasma of the room. Policemen charged inside, swinging their batons, striking men and women alike, charging toward the lectern, toward the figures in the masks.

Sasha fell to the floor, gagging. Someone stepped on her hand. She jerked upward, and staggered out the door, pushing past the bodies, desperate for air, for space, for sanity. Tumbling down the street, with no idea where she was running, Sasha found herself in another alleyway somewhere in the maze of streets around the factories.

She fell against a brick wall, gasping and retching. The ocean assaulted her nostrils and chased the violet haze from her mind. In the distance she heard shouting and a woman scream. A figure came running toward her, tall, indistinct, robes flapping with fury. Sasha struggled to get up as the figure drew near, the hood flying off to reveal the crazed face of Mr. DeBruggles.

"You little trollop!" he said, kicking her in the side.

Sasha cried out in surprise.

"You've ruined everything," said Mr. DeBruggles. "Now the world is doomed, don't you see? Strangled by war, famine and disease. The Great Magician was going to Transform us all into Perfect Creatures, rotating around His Cosmic Significance in Peace and Harmony for all Eternity. And now you've wrecked it!"

Mr. DeBruggles was holding a strangely curved little knife. In his other hand, something pale and soft...

"You're our only hope now," he said. "So take your damn offering!"

Sasha reached into her pocket and pulled out the strange coin. Trembling, she held it before her like a totem.

"Kara Kurbaga protect me," she said.

The pianist knocked the coin out of her hand. Sasha heard it bounce several times before disappearing into the shadows of the street.

Mr. DeBruggles set his knife down on the cobblestones and grabbed her jaw, forcing it open, pushing his fingers into her mouth.

"Take it like a good, little girl," he said. "Come on now, open wide..."

He shoved her to the ground. Sasha struggled to push him off, but DeBruggles was too strong. Her mouth was opening, and she watched in horror as the deranged pianist brought the translucent, slimy creature toward her lips...

Desperately she reached out and found the knife. With one quick thrust, she stabbed the blade into his back, just underneath his arm. DeBruggles howled, and scrambled to pull it out. Sasha knocked the pale thing out of his other hand, and it disappeared into the wet and crumpled refuse on the ground.

The policemen were charging down the street now, blowing their whistles. DeBruggles saw them coming, his eyes going wide with fear. But he quickly snatched Sasha by her collar, and pulled her toward him.

"This is not over, my Sasha. One day, I will collect you for my Master, and the Great Magician will have your Succulent Parts for His Own."

He tossed her away and lurched down the street, the knife still protruding from his back. The pianist hobbled with incredible speed, ducked into another alley, and was gone. A gang of policeman chased after him, and soon their footfalls, too, were just distant echoes.

Shaking, she walked around in circles, staring at the ground. Where had that little creature gone? Had it slithered away? Was it destroyed?

Inspector Umsky appeared by her side.

"Are you all right, child?"

"I've lost something..." she said, gesturing weakly.

Inspector Umsky looked down at the cobblestones and walked deliberately about in silence. At last, he reached for something in the muck and picked it up.

"Is this it?" he asked, opening his hand.

Resting in the palm of his black leather glove was the old metal coin. The frog god stared up at her, dumb and mute.

"No," she said. "There was a _thing_ —"

"A thing?"

"Like a little jellyfish," she said. "White and horrible..."

Sasha began to shake. The Inspector put his heavy coat around her shoulders, and led her toward the main street, away from the dark shadows of the alley.

"They were burning hallucinogens in those braziers. Do you understand? Like opium. Special concoctions to trick the mind, and create visions. Part of their deranged service. Most likely, a great deal of what you saw in there wasn't real. It never happened. Do you understand?"

"Not real?" asked Sasha.

"Just phantoms and smoke."

The next morning, Inspector Umsky confessed everything to Sasha's parents, except for certain specific details, and praised Sasha's cooperation in the investigation. Twenty of the anarchists had been arrested, and their organization had been crushed. Their ringleader Emil Spotislav had been shot while resisting arrest, and perished at the scene of the crime.

But the deranged piano player Edgar DeBruggles had eluded their capture and escaped. For now. The Inspector calmly assured Sasha's parents that his apprehension was indeed very imminent.

It was decided that Sasha would spend the rest of the season on her grandparent's farm in far off Bladistock, to recuperate from her ordeal. Of course, there were a number of funerals to attend to first, that being her Great Aunt Lucia, whose body had finally arrived from _The Vigilance_ , and also of Mr. Pleshivy, who had succumbed to a suspicious malady rather quickly the previous day.

The night before she left, after packing all her luggage, Sasha had troubling thoughts. What if it wasn't all a hallucination, like the Inspector said? What if it was real? It felt real. The bruises were real.

Mr. DeBruggles was real, and he was still out there, somewhere...

And what happened to those other women, the ones who took the offering? Perhaps some of them escaped? Would they soon give birth to a wriggling baby Emil Spotislav in some dark, disgusting den of vice and filth? Inspector Umsky had told her not to worry, but how could she not?

Sasha wondered if the minions of the Great Magician could ever be stopped. Could she help to put an end to them, once and for all? Perhaps she really would end up like Great Aunt Lucia. Waiting for the purple serpent to strike in the night...

Like mushrooms and fleas, All Hail the Great Magician!

That morning the train station was jammed full of people. Trains heading toward the front-line. Trains to escape the bread riots. And in the station swirled wild rumors of another blister fever outbreak. Certainly, the authorities had everything under control. Unless they didn't. Soon there would be bodies in the street...

Sasha leaned out the window of the train, waving to her parents. Her body shook.

"Goodbye, Mother and Father," she told them.

They waved sadly and nodded their heads.

"I'm—I'm not running away," said Sasha, as the train pulled out of the station, clanging down the tracks, out of the quaking city and into the constant, sprawling wilderness.

####

Other titles by Todd Miller

A Silence of Spiders

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