“Most catastrophes begin with a decision. A remarkable number begin with somebody insisting that nothing could possibly go wrong.”
— From The Collected Misfortunes of Inventors
Still approaching Vos on the wings he had deployed above the river, Khepri had nothing to complain about for three magnificent seconds.
The wind lifted beneath the metal wings mounted across his back. Vos spread below him, all terraced roofs, bright awnings and streets crowded with Festival processions. The river curved beyond the city walls, catching the afternoon sun. He adjusted his angle and let the machine take a little more of his weight.
Then the left wing shuddered.
“Oh, don’t be dramatic.”
A vibration travelled through the frame to his shoulder. The neck interface transmitted a warning before he could feel the second tremor: uneven load, third coupling.
Khepri engaged the accelerator at the base of his neck.
Thoughts arranged themselves with startling clarity. The device could multiply the speed at which he assessed the problem; it could not give his body more strength or make metal obey an impossible command. He still had to choose a correction the mechanism could perform.
A slipped pin, not a broken strut.
Manageable.
He angled the wing to reduce its load, released two locking teeth and drew the loose plates back into alignment. A small jolt ran through his shoulder. The teeth seated properly.
The shudder stopped. Khepri checked the alignment twice before trusting the repaired wing again.
“There. We can have a sensible conversation when we’re on the ground.”
He turned towards a clear landing field near the outer avenues.
A horn sounded from the watchtower ahead.
Khepri glanced up. Two guards were pointing at him. Below their platform, painted in letters large enough for even a careless inventor to notice, was a sign.
RESTRICTED AERIAL APPROACH.
He banked away.
Another horn followed him.
“Noted,” he muttered. “Enthusiastically.”
* * *
The marshal waiting at the landing field had a magnificent moustache and no apparent interest in Khepri’s engineering achievements.
“Name?”
“Khepri Elune.”
“Reason for entering Vos?”
“The Festival.”
“Reason for flying across a restricted approach?”
“That wasn’t my reason for entering Vos.”
The marshal did not blink.
Khepri reconsidered.
“I saw the sign and turned away.”
“After alarming the watchtower.”
“One guard was waving.”
“He was signalling an unauthorised aircraft.”
“And his message was received.”
The marshal inspected the folded wings, the small tools fixed near their joints and the interface at Khepri’s neck.
“Are those things safe?”
“When properly maintained.”
“Were they properly maintained today?”
Khepri glanced at the left coupling.
“Eventually.”
The marshal wrote something with great deliberation.
“Keep them folded inside the city. Land at authorised fields. Use the roads like everyone else.”
“Even if the roads are significantly slower?”
“Especially then.”
Khepri accepted the warning slip.
“An admirable commitment to consistency.”
“Move along.”
He did, before the man discovered a regulation concerning sarcasm.
* * *
Vos was louder on foot.
Drums answered one another across the avenues. Children wove between dancers and families carrying baskets of food. A craftsman’s little Chi-driven bird circled his stall shouting a phrase that made adults wince and children howl with laughter.
Khepri stopped beside a strength-testing apparatus where a boy had just struck the padded target. Its indicator flashed yellow.
His friends cheered.
The boy hit it again. This time it turned red.
“It’s broken!” he protested.
Khepri looked at the exposed receiver. Poor insulation around the sensing plate, an unfortunate placement of the return channel and a calibration method that had been flawed even in the catalogue where he’d first seen the design.
Please note, this reproduction came from the author's page without consent; the official posting is where readers support them.
He could tell the owner. He could perhaps repair it.
He imagined the ensuing argument and continued walking.
At a workshop stall, he slowed again. A woman had fitted a heat regulator to an ordinary cooking vessel, allowing it to simmer without a constant flow of Chi. Elegant. Economical. Far more useful than the expensive ceremonial gadgets being advertised farther down the street.
“Good design,” he told her.
She looked up from adjusting the valve.
“Are you buying?”
“Not today.”
“Then admire it without blocking my customers.”
“Also fair.”
He moved on, grinning. This story is hosted at g.com.
There were better inventions here than some academy showcases Khepri had paid to enter. He made a note of the little heat regulator’s design before hunger drew him onwards.
A nearby stall smelled of roast meat and fresh bread. Another offered bean cakes. Beside them stood a small tamarind counter, staffed by a woman who looked suspiciously like she had better things to do.
He approached.
* * *
Omotoyosi had prepared chilled tamarind three different ways and was beginning to hate all three.
The stall owner had allowed her behind the counter in exchange for money, help with customers and a promise not to disturb his stock.
She had already failed the final condition twice.
“Those are the used cups,” he told her from the storeroom.
“Then they’re in a very misleading location.”
“I put the clean ones where I showed you.”
“An excellent system, obviously.”
She reached for the clean cups. Something damp brushed her wrist: the protective case in her satchel had pressed against a cracked ice flask, and condensation was seeping through the bag. She pulled the case free with a curse.
The second writ.
Its clasp had bent against the counter’s stone support. She needed to know whether the relic was dry before handing it to a reviewer. That was the explanation she offered herself.
She eased the writ out with two fingers.
The surface was dry. She laid it on a folded cloth beside the cup trays and turned the damaged case in her hands, trying to straighten the clasp.
“Can you help with this crate?” the stall owner called.
“One moment.” She reached for the paper, but a customer spoke before she could put it away.
She looked up.
“Excuse me. Are you actually serving anything, or is this an exhibition?”
A young man stood opposite her. Travelling clothes. Glasses. A device fixed at the back of his neck. Across his shoulders rested a folded arrangement of metal plates and articulated supports.
Omotoyosi took a moment to look away from the wings.
“Tamarind,” she said. “Chilled.”
“Promising. How sweet?”
“As sweet as you like.”
“Not very. A little salt. Lime, if you have it.”
She prepared the drink.
“Those wings,” she said. “Are they decorative?”
“Yes. They make it easier for strangers to start conversations.”
“Do they work?”
“I got here, didn’t I?”
“You might have walked.”
“Across the river?”
“People do.”
“Not usually from that height.”
She laughed despite herself. The boy accepted the cup and tried it.
His eyebrows rose.
“Oh. That’s good.”
“Your surprise is insulting.”
“Then take it as praise for exceeding expectations.”
“Much better.”
He reached into his pocket for payment.
A child sprinted past, pursued by another carrying a ribbon. The first clipped the stall’s corner.
The counter shook.
A jar slid towards the edge.
Khepri caught it with his left hand. His right palm pressed onto the countertop to steady his weight.
The sheet under his palm flared gold. Khepri jerked his hand back so quickly that the jar nearly slipped from his other fingers.
Omotoyosi turned.
“No.”
Lines of light spread across the exposed writ. Cup trays rattled. The old inscription deepened until a name appeared where the boy’s hand rested.
KHEPRI ELUNE.
She stared.
The second writ.
Again.
A strangled cry escaped her.
Several customers turned their heads. The stall owner emerged from the storeroom holding his crate.
“What have you broken?”
“Nothing!” she said.
The writing continued to glow.
Khepri lowered the rescued jar to the counter without taking his eyes off the writing. “Tell me that’s some kind of receipt.”
Omotoyosi’s eyes moved from his name to the mechanical wings, then back to the document.
She had gone looking for one prince and bound another. Now, while attempting to correct the first disaster, she had managed to bind an inventor she’d never met.
The stall owner inspected the jar.
“Is it damaged?”
“No,” Khepri said. “I caught it. The other problem is on your counter.”
“What other problem?”
Omotoyosi grabbed a clean tray and set it over the writ before more customers noticed.
“Close the stall,” she told the owner.
“It’s the busiest hour!”
“I’ll pay you for the hour.”
He thought about that.
“Two hours.” Find the original chapter at g.com.
“Fine!”
He began ushering the waiting customers towards the next stall.
Khepri reclaimed his cup.
“I’d very much like to hear why my name is glowing under a tray of drinking vessels.”
Omotoyosi put both hands on the counter.
“Believe me,” she said, “so would I.”
* * *
The last customer left, protesting that he’d been waiting for tamarind.
Khepri moved the tray aside with one finger, taking care not to touch the marked centre again. The pattern beneath his name was elaborate. Some elements resembled obsolete Chi-binding notation; others were concealed by the activated layers.
He remembered diagrams of forbidden Guild membership writs from an old legal debate. The illustrations had been poor; the arguments, considerably more interesting.
“That’s not a sales licence,” he said.
“No.”
“An institutional binding?”
Omotoyosi stared at him.
“You recognise it?”
“Enough to dislike where this conversation is going.”
He followed the lines without touching them.
“Service registration. Claimant institution. Personal identification.” His finger stopped above a faded symbol. “That last mark is difficult to read. What does it say?”
She didn’t answer.
He glanced at her.
“Is the bad news especially bad, or are you searching for an elegant way to phrase it?”
“Both.”
“Start with accurate.”
She explained that the writ had made him a Golden Baobab member for three months without asking his permission. Using one was prohibited. Khepri interrupted her twice to ask how a binding could register a person against their will. She could explain the mechanism, but not defend it.
He opened his device and wrote down the legal terms as she named them.
“So,” he said at last, “you left an illegal binding relic on a drinks counter.”
Omotoyosi winced.
“Yes.”
“And I touched it while preventing your wares from decorating the street.”
“Yes.”
“I came for a drink,” he said, turning the cup between his fingers. “I didn’t expect to leave with an obligation I never agreed to.” He looked from his name to her. “You understand why that needs fixing.”
“I know,” she said.
“Can it be released?”
“There are procedures for challenging it. A specialist will need to examine the pattern and the activation.”
Khepri put down his cup. “Nobody takes this out of my sight until I have a copy and the name of somebody qualified to challenge it.”
Omotoyosi looked towards the street, wondering who had seen the gold. She hated that it had been her first thought.
“Which Guild have I apparently joined?”
“Golden Baobab.”
Khepri paused.
“Golden Baobab?”
“That’s right.”
He stared at the lettering.
A short, incredulous laugh escaped Khepri. He looked at the Guild’s name again.
Omotoyosi watched him warily, uncertain what the laugh meant.
“What’s funny?”
“I’ve read about you.”
“On Tavern?”
“Among other places.”
“Our reputation isn’t as bad as people say.”
“I haven’t said it is.”
“We still have experienced hunters. Resources. Contracts.”
“And apparently an unusual approach to refreshments.”
“Please don’t tell anyone about the refreshments.”
Golden Baobab. He had read about its expeditions and the materials its hunters brought back from the wild roads. Its reputation had seen better days, but its work interested him far more than another round of academy demonstrations. He would challenge the unlawful binding; that didn't make the opportunity any less interesting.
He slid the activated sheet a little farther from her side of the counter.
“First,” he said, “we find out what can be done about this registration.”
“Of course.”
“After that, tell me what Golden Baobab actually does. I came here hoping to speak with scouts. I hadn’t expected one to find me.”
Omotoyosi blinked.
“Why?”
“Because whatever brought us to this counter, I still want to hear what your Guild can offer. And I have a few ideas of my own.”
He took another sip of tamarind.
“And because,” he added, “this is still a very good drink.”
Omotoyosi tried to produce the opening line of a recruitment pitch. Nothing came.
She set both hands flat against the counter to stop herself reaching for the writ.
“Very well,” she said. “What do you want to know?”
Khepri set his cup down and turned to face her properly.
“Let’s begin with your resources.”